#now back to regular programming of one post a year

[aetherograph]

I grew up in Southern California. Normal weather includes fire, ash raining from the sky, earthquakes. I've lived in Tornado Alley, Hurricane Country, and Blizzard Country. I've seen dry lightning and had Zeus gutter his bowling ball right over my fucking roof, thunder crack so loud everything JUMPED.

Most Americans live somewhere there are BIBLICAL natural disasters as regular weather. And this is before climate change, this is just what it's like here. We have EXTREME weather here. People have also lived here for millions of years, most of them without the technology we enjoy today that increases safety and the ability to survive more injury and disaster than ever before.

Let me tell you something else. It's a number.

369

That's how many California Condors are flying free in the skies of my home region as of last year's count. Do you want to know how many there were when I was born, nearly forty years ago?

0

We did that. Scientists and politicians and regular people all did that together. In 1979 the scientists said they had to try and capture and breed the 27 remaining condors in captivity. People said it was impossible. people said what was the use, they'd be extinct in a few years anyway. But enough people said, "I want my grandchildren to see them. Let them try. What do you need, scientists?"

"But that's too expensive" said the haters.

"We're going to try anyway," said local politicians, said regular joes, and got what they could. And the scientists tried. They made puppets of adult condors to make sure the babies didn't get raised tame. They tried. And tried. And tried.

And now there are 369 of them flying free in their natural home again. There are over 500 if you count the ones in captivity--the breeding program is still going!

So remember that number. 369. Tell their story to yourself like a rosary against losing hope. And look at this picture of where my mom grew up (Los Angeles):

My mom was 13 in the picture on the left. She tells me stories about how back then, the air was sometimes so poisonous that they kept the children indoors for days on end. She had to have recess inside. In 2005, she was 50, and her children had never lived a day having to know what it was to be told, "the air is too dangerous to breathe, stay inside today". People did that. People cleaned up the air.

here's a post where lots more people chime in with conservation success stories. @reasonsforhope is a blog worth going through and watching so you know what good things are happening because people are standing up for our little blue spaceship in the big sky.

It's going to be okay.

We can fix it.

We ARE fixing it.

Ok, loves, so we've all got the message that joking about suicide is bad for your mental health. Now we need to get on "joking that the planet/all of humanity has no future" is bad for societal health/encouraging resistance to bad shit."

[yothatshitgas]

The Dress

Pairing: Paige x Azzi Word Count: 3.2k

Note: Work of fiction. This was meant to be a quick one shot, but it went beyond the length I expected. So I'm splitting it into two parts. Song is The Dress by Dijon. AU of Paige never recruiting Azzi to UConn.

Part 2

__

“Well, it's official,” Nika said without looking up from her phone, “we just got the best damn shooter in the country.”

Paige turned her head slowly toward Nika, who tilted her phone just enough for her to see the screen. It was an Instagram post, bold UConn Blue letters across the top: Committed. Behind the text was a photo of a girl with curly hair styled in two french braids, she donned a Blue University of Connecticut varsity jacket over the program’s uniform. She wore a bright smile with two dimples accompanying. Azzi Fudd. Her transfer announcement had gone live, nearly a month after she’d blown up the internet by entering the portal, just a week after UCLA’s Elite Eight loss. 

“You played with her before, right?” Nika asked, chewing her gum as she leaned back against the wall. They were both sitting cross legged on the training room floor, their post practice routine.

Paige nodded, a slow smirk forming on her lips. She couldn’t help it. For the first time in a long time, it felt like everything was finally aligning. The team was healthy again, anchored by three of the most dangerous juniors in the country. And Paige was right at the center of it. Now? They were adding her, the same player Steph Curry once called an ‘automatic bucket.’ They were going to bring the championship back to Storrs, a feat that the program has been chasing for over five years now.

Although, if Paige was being honest, it wasn’t the championship that had her grinning like a fool in her seat. It was Azzi. 

They’d played together for two summers on Team USA, their chemistry unmistakable and from the moment she met Azzi that first summer, she’d had a crush. Immediate. Electric. It was the way Azzi moved, fluid and fearless, every shot slipping through the net like it belonged there. She made it look effortless, like her body was made for basketball. Paige couldn’t look away, she was impressed. Maybe even addicted, not that she’d ever admit it out loud. 

And then there was the smile. God, the smile. Bright and dangerous, framed by dimples so deep they looked carved into her cheeks by some mischievous higher power, as if they were invitations for Paige she wasn’t so sure she should take. She’d never known desire to take shape of something as deceptively innocent as a smile, but with Azzi, it was right there in the curl of her lips and the light in her eyes.

Paige tried to flirt. Or, well, her awkward approximation of flirting. She teased. She poked. She pressed buttons she had no business touching, all under the guise of playful annoyance. But Azzi never flinched. She didn’t shy away or shut it down. If anything, she leaned in. Snapped back with her own witty jabs, turning every interaction into a game of verbal tug of war. There was a rhythm to it, a cadence only they seemed to understand. Push, pull. Give, take. 

They never said they wanted more. But the signs were there, quiet and consistent. The way Paige’s hand would linger on Azzi’s shoulder during a huddle, her thumb brushing lightly along the seam of her jersey. The way Azzi would find her way to Paige’s room on nights when the rest of the girls gathered in the hotel lobby, chasing gossip and late night snacks. Yet, it was fleeting. Always understood to be temporary, wrapped in the golden haze of summer. When the final buzzer of their last game sounded and Team USA disbanded for the year, they returned to their regular lives. Back to high school, back to expectations, back to reality.

They followed each other on social media, of course. Swapped numbers. Left the door cracked open, just enough to peek through from time to time. A like there. An emoji reaction there. A birthday message. A ‘Merry Christmas’ that never turned into more. It was a quiet kind of closeness. One that never asked for anything, never dared to define what they’d shared.

And then came their second year on Team USA.

Whatever simple, harmless crush Paige thought she’d had the summer before had evolved into something far less manageable. Azzi had changed. In all the right, most unfair way. She still had that same soft smile, still flashed those killer dimples like they were jokes only Paige got to understand. But now she was taller. Leaner. Stronger. More confident, both grounded and untouchable. And she had gotten better on the court, it was like watching magic refined into muscle memory. Her shots weren’t just good, they were lethal. And Paige, elite as she was, found herself staring more than she should have.

Just like that, all the fleeting, fluttering feelings Paige thought she’d neatly boxed up and shelved from the year before came crashing back with the subtlety of a freight train. No warning. No mercy.

Paige was obsessed.

And this time, she knew it. She couldn’t hide it, didn’t even try, to be honest. Not when Azzi laughed in that low, breathy way that made Paige’s chest tighten. Not when she pulled her hair back into a puff and wiped sweat off her brow mid-practice, looking entirely unbothered by the way the blonde stared at the other side of the court. Not when she threw an arm around Paige’s shoulder like it meant nothing and everything all at once.

Lines were crossed on their last night of the world cup. 

One minute, they were just talking, curled up in the dim hush of Paige’s hotel room. The glow of a single bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The air between them had been warm with something unspoken, humming with the energy of everything they refused to name. They talked about everything and nothing at all - inside jokes, music, the future, what home even meant when you were always on the move. In between their words, there was laughter. The kind that couldn’t exist anywhere else but inside those four walls.

Paige’s hand brushed against Azzi’s, just the slightest graze. Azzi, true to herself, didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift away, instead her fingers stayed right there, resting against Paige’s like she’d been waiting for that exact moment to happen. So Paige took it. She laced their fingers together slowly, and without thinking too hard, Paige leaned in and kissed Azzi.

Quick. Gentle. Barely more than a breath.

But it was real. 

And by cruel design of the universe, they flew home the very next day. One moment, they were curled up in the safety of each other’s silence, hands still remembering the weight of that first kiss. And the next, they were separated by thousands of miles and the divergent paths of two girls chasing greatness. Their lives, so full of promise, were equally full of obligations. Training schedules, family responsibilities and looming seasons, all conspiring to keep them apart.

But they tried. This time, they really tried.

Late night calls that stretched until one of them drifted off mid-sentence, the quiet hum of breath on the line more comforting than any lullaby. Text messages layered with longing, little confessions wrapped in emojis and inside jokes. Wish you were here sent from gyms and bedrooms, from the backseats of carpools and early morning flights. For a while, it was enough. For a while, it felt like they were still tethered by that final night.

Fall came and with it, the return to school and structure. Paige threw herself into her senior year, laser focused on getting her team their first state championship. Azzi, on the other hand, was already a legend in her own right. She led her squad to dominate the DMV circuit, her name whispered across courts and hallways with equal reverence. Their training regimens didn’t align. Their free time evaporated. Slowly, inevitably, the tether stretched thin.

Hour long conversations became missed calls. Quick replies turned into half read messages, then long gaps followed by apologetic explanations: sorry, been slammed with practice. Didn’t mean to ghost, just tired. And even though neither of them said it, both could feel the shift. A subtle, aching distance growing between them like a bruise they didn’t want to press on.

But how could they be upset? They hadn’t labeled what they were. No promises. No commitments. Just a summer and a kiss and a lingering thread of connection that neither of them had the language to define. They were temporary constants, steady for a while then they faded, slowly. Like sunlight slipping out of a room.

By the time the new year came, they’d had the conversation. It made sense, they told themselves. Best to focus on the year ahead. College, basketball, the future. There was no big heartbreak. No blowout fight. Just a quiet understanding that they were living parallel lives that couldn’t quite overlap.

Paige graduated that spring and slipped into a UConn jersey like she was born to wear it. She dove headfirst into a new world of expectation and cameras and team dynamics. Meanwhile, Azzi earned her spot on the USA U18 team for a third year, one again disappearing into the blur of red, white and blue.

They became what ifs in lives that had no choice but to embrace what is.

And Paige came to terms with it. She didn’t reach out. Didn’t push, she offered her support the only way she knew how: from a distance. She liked Azzi’s posts, watched her interviews. Caught clips of her games when she could, always with a small, private smile tugging at her lips. Azzi was thriving, just like everyone knew she would. She only grew brighter with every passing season.

It hadn’t come as a surprise when Azzi announced her commitment to UCLA for her 18th birthday. It was expected. She’d spoked about being a Bruin for as long as they’ve known each other, her dream school etched into her like gospel. The announcement had felt more like a formality than news - the rest of the world finally catching up to what Azzi had always known. She belonged out west and she made sure the entire country knew. Within weeks of stepping on campus, Azzi had the Big Ten on notice. Her name already being whispered in the same breath as legends.

Meanwhile, Paige was learning how quickly everything you love can be taken away.

The injury happened during an early pre-season game. One awkward step, one wrong pivot and her world shifted. A torn ACL. Just like that. It was cruel in its simplicity, the way her body betrayed her before her sophomore season even began. Surgery followed. Then the slow, grueling climb of recovery. She became a permanent fixture on the bench, forced to watch her teammates chase a season she couldn’t be part of.

She tried to be supportive. She cheered, clapped, smiled for the cameras. But there were nights she’d go home and cry into her pillow, the pain in her knee dull compared to the ache in her chest. She was used to leading from the court, not the sidelines. By the time she finally cleared - after months of rehab, doctor visits and mental battles - UConn’s season was already winding down. They’d fought hard. Won regionals. Took home the Big East Championship. But the goal had never been just conference titles, it had always been the Final Four and they hadn’t made it. Their battle cut short at the Sweet 16.

Now, Paige sat shoulder to shoulder with Nika on the training room floor, backs pressed to the cool wall, a silence settling between them that felt more like recovery than rest. It had only been a couple months since their season ended in heartbreak, an early exit no one had seen coming, especially not a program like UConn and yet, somehow, despite all the disappointment, all the bruised egos and quiet tears behind closed doors, they’d managed to pull off a miracle.

Paige let out a quiet huff, still a little dazed, “I honestly don’t know how we pulled that off,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Nika glanced over, arching a brow, “I’m telling you, it’s Geno and CD, voodoo magic. Mind tricks.”

Paige chuckled under her breath, shaking her head, “that, or we’ve just gotten really good at begging.”

“Speak for yourself, I’m quite the charmer,” Nika shot back, popping her gum with a grin, “but really, she’s coming. Two weeks.”

Paige didn’t hesitate, her smirk returning, “ready as I’ll ever be.”

__

Azzi’s arrival on campus was the calm before the storm. 

One minute, the whole team was crowding into her new room, helping her unpack boxes and making jokes about who would steal her snacks first. The next, they were back in the gym, running full-speed scrimmages with brand new plays. Sets tailored for a starting lineup that now included one of the most dangerous scorers in the country.

There was no easing into it. No breathers. Not when every single girl on that court knew exactly what was at stake. This season wasn’t just about redemption, it was about destiny. Everyone could feel it in their bones. But destiny didn’t come without sweat. Without bruises, arguments, late night film sessions and early morning lifts. That was the plan, grind now, win later. Work until their body ached and their chemistry became second nature. Until everything led to one singular moment: holding up that trophy, giving Geno his twelfth national title.

And giving themselves their first.

There hadn’t been a quiet moment for Paige and Azzi to officially acknowledge their reunion. No catching up beyond polite smiles and half-spoken words in between drills. They were cordial, professional, even. But the court told a different story. Their chemistry ignited the second the ball hit the hardwood. Every movement flowed like muscle memory. Every pass, every glance, every instinctive pivot fell into place with the kind of synchronicity that couldn't be taught. 

One play, in particular, turned heads.

It started with Paige dribbling near the left wing, her eyes scanning the floor like time had slowed specifically for that moment. Azzi lingered near the baseline, then took off on a sharp, lightning fast cut up the lane. The timing was perfect. Nika and Aaliyah closed in to set an elevator screen at the free throw line, bodies colliding like doors slamming shut behind her. Azzi squeezed through the seam just as Paige shifted her weight and fired a crisp chest pass to the top of the key.

Azzi caught it in rhythm, feet set and shoulders squared.

Splash.

Three points. Nothing but net. Textbook shooting form, a quick release and an arch even Steph Curry would be jealous of.

The gym erupted, not in chaos but in that stunned, respectful silence that happens when everyone recognizes perfection in motion. Even the practice players look rattled, exchanging glances like they’d just seen something unfair. 

Geno blew his whistle, but not to stop the drill. Just to nod.

“Run it again,” he barked, barely masking the satisfaction in his tone.

__

“Finally caught you,” Paige called out, her voice echoing through the mostly empty gym as she stepped inside, hair damp from a shower. Her sneakers squeaked lightly against the hardwood as she walked in, “you know we don’t hand out gold stars for being the last one in the gym, right?”

Azzi glanced over from the free throw line, her expression unreadable at first until that familiar smile crept across her face. The same one that had lived in the back of Paige’s mind far longer than she’d like to admit. “You’re acting like I’ve been hiding.”

“You have,” Paige said easily, striding toward her without breaking eye contact. On her way, she snagged a loose ball that had rolled toward the baseline and gave it a sharp bounce pass back to Azzi, “I tried to give you a ride to practice this morning and you practically dragged Caroline out of the room with the way you rushed her.”

Azzi caught the ball, but didn’t respond. Not with words, anyway. She turned back toward the line, dribbled twice, bounced the ball with a spin that landed it back in her hands and planted her feet. The gym fell quiet again, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights and rhythmic creak of the old backboard as her shot sailed through the air and dropped clean the net. No rim. No hesitation. 

Swish.

Paige walked beneath the hoop, casually plucking the ball as it came down through the net. She didn’t say anything right away. Just held the ball in her hands, then bounced it back to Azzi with a soft thud that echoed in the silence between them. 

“Same routine,” Paige said, softer now.

Azzi caught the ball, effortlessly but didn’t lift it for another shot. Instead, she stood at the line, cradling it against her hip, her thumbs slowly brushing the textured grooves. Her gaze dipped toward the floor, then traced a path back up to Paige, lingering a second too long.

“How’s your knee?” she asked softly, then her eyes dropped again, trailing down Paige’s legs, “did you stick to the recovery regimen? No shortcuts?”

Paige smirked, the corner of her mouth twitching upward, “yes, mom.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but it didn’t hide the flicker of concern behind them.

“I’m serious,” she said, her tone firmer now, “people cut corners all the time. Especially when they’re trying to get back to something that matters.”

Paige leaned against the padded base of the basket, arms crossed loosely over her chest, “I didn’t cheat the process, Az,” she said, drifting at the nickname that she’d used from the moment they’d met, “not once.”

They stood in silence for a beat, then Paige pushed herself off the padded base, each step toward Azzi slow and deliberate. She didn’t leave much space for the unspoken. Didn’t want to. When she reached her, she let her fingers gently trail along Azzi’s arm until they reached her hand. She let them linger there, light but present. 

“Why did you transfer, Az?” Paige asked, her voice low and quiet, she was trying to protect the moment from the rest of the world, “you were doing so good in Cali. It's not your parents, they’d fly to the other side of the world just to see you play. So what is it?”

A pause.

“Is it me?”

Azzi turned her head just slightly, “you’re giving yourself way too much credit, Paige,” she said, her voice playful.

“Want to play for the truth?” Paige asked, jerking her chin toward the hoop, her tone dipped flirtatiously, like she already knew the answer, “horse?”

Azzi quirked a brow, intrigued, “that your idea of an interrogation tactic now?”

“No,” Paige replied, already walking back toward the top of the key, “its my idea of foreplay.”

Azzi let out a laugh, but she followed, slowly walking to the free throw line, “fine,” she said, looking over at Paige with narrowed eyes and a teasing grin, “every missed shot a is a letter and a question, don’t want to answer? Another letter.”

Paige grinned, “game on.”

[rochichan]

thank you for the love on 0700!

[thenightisland]

i think there should be a secret knock or password speakeasy-style to convey to healthcare people "i am one of you i am not some rando with webmd who thinks antibiotics will treat the flu if i am requesting antibiotics i have already tried all the other measures and have read the clinical practice standards for the condition in question to determine if antibiotics are indicated" anyway a pox upon the temp doctor i dealt with last week who immediately gave me a condescending "it's viralllllll" as i'm reciting all the clinical indicators that it is not in fact viral and all the blessings on my pcp who's known me for twenty years and was like amoxicillin be upon ye!

[chahnniesroom]

coming up roses

pairing: bang chan x female reader

summary: most of the time, you're grateful to have such a good relationship with your older brother, minho. but when you find yourself falling for his best friend, chan, you can't help but be worried how he'll react when he finds out. you soon find yourself struggling with the unexpected consequences of keeping your feelings a secret.

word count: 10.2k

tags/warnings: hanahaki!au (read a/n), brother's best friend!au, hurt/comfort, angst, lots of fluffy sibling dynamics between minho and y/n, bad communication by the reader, mentions of: coughing, blood, and vomiting

read it on ao3 | masterlist

a/n: i have finally written my hanahaki au!!! this took me ages, but i really really wanted to write a fic based on how this post describes hanahaki because i love this interpretation (hanahaki is from supressing feelings instead of unrequited love) a lot more than how it's usually written (not that that version is bad!). i actually wish i could have drawn this out more, but didn't have it in me haha

the phrase "it's all coming up roses" means that everything is going well with someone and i thought it was so perfectly ironic for a hanahaki fic where a character actually has roses coming up in the literal sense.

Minho has always been protective. You had felt cool and invincible as a child, having an older brother that was willing to have your back and scare away anybody that teased you. 

You’re grateful that he cares enough to be so involved in your life, but now that you’re in university, you can’t help but feel a little stifled. Minho takes his role as an older brother very seriously, especially since the two of you have moved out of your family home and are sharing an apartment closer to campus. It's a mixture of doting and enough teasing to drive you crazy.

Growing up, your family home had been the regular haunt of Minho and his friends. It was more common than not to get home from cram school and find the boys either lingering in the nearest convenience store or hanging out in your apartment. You wouldn't say that you were friends with the boys, but you were at least familiar enough that you would say hi to them if you saw them in the hallways and they would offer to walk home with you if you were ever leaving school at the same time.

Starting university had been hard for you, most of your friends had ended up moving to other cities or even going abroad. You, however, had decided to stick closer to home. Your program had a good reputation and your parents had promised that they would help you and Minho get an apartment close to campus as long as you lived together. Minho had readily agreed, he had commuted for his first year and had always complained about how long it took.

It was a difficult adjustment, moving out of your family home, balancing your course load, and making friends. Unlike Minho, who had used dance to find his close group of friends, you didn't have any hobbies that you were particularly passionate about and you weren't naturally outgoing or charismatic.

Especially in the first few weeks of classes, it feels like such a relief whenever you see one of Minho's friends that you latch onto them. It’s kind of awkward at first, especially because you don’t know his friends well enough to speak with them casually, but they get used to your presence. You would even consider some of them to be your friend, especially Seungmin, who shares a class with you, and Chan who usually has his lunch break at the same time as you.

You make your own friends eventually, slowly getting to know some of the people that share your program, but you’re definitely a lot closer to the boys than you were prior to university. While you spent most of your childhood calling Minho and his friends lame, you can now admit that you enjoy spending time with them, although you’d never say it to Minho’s face.

Still, Minho doesn’t always approve of who or where you hang out. Sometimes he’s even nosier than your parents were, always asking you about your schedule and calling when you’re out late. He warns you about spending time one-on-one with men and makes sure that you always have your location shared with him. You tolerate it for the most part, knowing that it’s his way of showing that he cares about you, but sometimes you just find him overbearing.

—

“I’m going out next Saturday,” Minho tells you one evening as you step out of your room to get a glass of water. “You’ll have to figure out something for dinner on your own.”

“Oh,” you say, suddenly a little nervous. “I uh- I also have plans that night.”

“Sure,” he agrees easily. “What are you going to be doing?”

“There’s a party that I was invited to,” you say, biting your lip when you see Minho freeze. You turn your gaze to the ground, but you can still feel Minho's stare intensify. 

“What party,” he demands, not even bothering to frame it as a question.

“Does it matter?” you whine, annoyed by how protective Minho is. It’s even worse that you have an audience, Chan is over and you can see out of the corner of your eye that he’s watching your conversation curiously.

“Yes.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

“I think it's at Taehoon's,” your voice is barely a whisper. Minho hears you anyway.

“Taehoon?” He repeats in disbelief. You glance up briefly. Minho's ears are flushed bright red and the tendons in his neck are standing out. He's furious. “Taehoon, who is four years older than you? Taehoon, who holds off-campus parties?”

You grimace and don't respond. There’s no way that he’s going to let you go, you resign yourself to a weekend stuck in your room watching dramas while your friends enjoy themselves. 

It’s bad enough that you had to mention Taehoon, who doesn’t have the best reputation, but you’ve forgotten that Minho would easily be able to recognize the type of party that he throws. You haven’t been to many university parties, but even you know that without the dorm restrictions, off-campus parties are often the wildest and were harder to get invited to. It’s not that you particularly care to attend this party in specific, you just don’t want to miss out since all of your friends will be there.

“Minho,” Chan steps in, clasping a heavy hand on your brother's shoulder.

“Who invited you,” Minho seethes, shaking Chan off.

“Just one of my friends,” you deflect.

“Minho,” Chan says again, this time jostling Minho enough that he turns his attention away from you finally. Your body sags in relief. “Chill, we're going to Taehoon's next weekend. It's just a party.”

“Yes, we are going. Not my baby sister! Y/n-ah, the answer is no.”

“Oppa!” you complain. “I'm not a baby anymore!”

“You don't know anything,” Minho hisses at you. 

“We were going to way crazier parties when we were Y/n's age,” Chan interrupts one more time. “Come on, at least we'd be able to keep an eye on her.”

Minho is about to reply when he stops and tilts his head in thought.

“Okay,” he says slowly, turning back to you with a gleam in his eye. “You can go, Y/n.”

“Really?” you brighten instantly even though you’re a little bit suspicious of his sudden change in heart.

Your breath catches in your throat as you excitedly make eye contact with Chan. He winks at you teasingly before turning his full attention back to Minho, who thankfully hadn’t noticed.

“You're coming with us,” Minho says, nodding decisively.

“Are you kidding me,” you reply flatly, all enthusiasm vanishing instantly.

“Yes. I'll make sure that everybody knows not to mess with you and you still can have fun with your silly little friends. Unless you don't want to go anymore?” Minho raises an eyebrow at you.

“Fine, I'll go with you,” you grumble.

“It'll be fun, Y/n! I promise that I won’t let Minho embarrass you,” Chan says, slinging an arm around your shoulder. You try not to shiver as he leans in to whisper to you, close enough that you can almost feel his lips touching your ear. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to find something or someone to distract him enough that he’ll forget you’re even there.”

“Okay,” you breathe shakily.

“Hey!” Minho pulls Chan off of you and into a headlock. “Whatever you’re scheming, cut it out. Y/nnie, don’t listen to a single thing this idiot tells you.”

“I try not to listen to idiots,” you say. “That’s why I never follow any of the advice that you give me!”

“Y/n-ah-” Minho starts.

You stick out your tongue at him childishly then dart to your room, slamming the door and locking it behind you so that Minho can’t follow you. The sound of Chan’s resulting laugh echoes through your head for the rest of the day.

—

By the time the weekend rolls around, you're a little worried that you’ve caught a cold. Your throat is achy and talking too much makes you cough, but you're not feeling any other symptoms so you don't think you're actually sick. Minho wasn't exactly pleased when you told him you were still planning on going, but he kept his word and didn't try to convince you otherwise.

Your friends are all getting ready together at one of their dorms, but your brother was adamant that he wanted you to go to the party with him and his friends. You're more comfortable getting changed and doing your makeup at home anyway, so it's not a big deal, but it's still not the same. 

Conversation pauses when you finally exit your room. Only Chan, Hyunjin, and Minho are still in the living area since most of Minho's friends are crowded around your apartment's entryway, shuffling to get their jackets and put on their shoes. Their eyes widen and you see Hyunjin choke on the drink he had just taken a sip of. You tug at the hem of your skirt slightly, suddenly feeling self conscious. 

You've worn this outfit before with friends and while it's definitely not the most conservative option in your closet, it's nowhere near as revealing as what you expect other girls will be wearing. It's just that you're not used to being around Minho's friends when you've put so much effort into your appearance and are showing off a bit of skin. They’ve seen you at your worst and are most familiar with the comfortable sweats and hoodies that you usually wear around your home.

Minho recovers the fastest. In a flash, he's made his way to you and has a death grip on your arm, trying to drag you back into your room. You resist, digging your heels in to try and make it harder for him, but it barely even slows him down.

“Oppa!”

“You are not leaving looking like this,” Minho huffs through gritted teeth.

“Minho-ya, come on. We're going to be late if you make her change,” Chan calls out. It draws the attention of the rest of the boys, who turn to look at the commotion. You hear Jisung wolf-whistle teasingly which only makes things worse. Minho's hand tightens even more around you, hard enough that you're sure it's going to bruise, and he whips around to glare at Jisung.

“Hyung, it's fine. Y/n-ah looks good,” Seungmin chimes in, before winking at you. You groan internally, knowing from the look in his eye that you're not going to like what he says next. “Is there a boy that you're trying to impress tonight?”

“No!” you deny immediately, still trying to pull your arm from your brother's grip to no avail. Your chest tightens at the idea of being forced to stay at home. Minho immediately latches onto the idea that Seungmin has thrown out, his expression darkening even further.

“Is it true?” he questions you.

“Oppa, I promise, I'm just matching with my friends. Which you would know if we actually go to the party!”

“If there is, you better tell me,” he warns.

“Yes, yes,” you groan. “If there was, which there isn't! You're just wasting time now.”

“At least put on a jacket, you’re going to be cold.”

“Fine.” You wrench your arm out of Minho's grasp and stalk to your room. You grab the first jacket you see, intent on ditching it the second that you get to the party, then head straight to the door, breezing past Minho on your way. “Happy now?”

“Thrilled,” he says in a flat voice that says he is anything but.

—

Your apartment is not too far away from the party, so it’s not long before everyone is unloading from their cars and approaching the party. You can hear the bass pounding even from outside the building and you’re sure that there will be a number of neighbours that file noise complaints by the end of the night.

When you make it in, your friends greet you enthusiastically, but are all a little bit weird, fixing their hair more than usual and giggling nervously. You’re not close with all of the girls that are in the group, some of them you can’t even recall if you’ve met before, but you can still tell that everyone is acting strangely. 

It's not until you turn around that you realise that Minho has practically stationed himself behind you and is glowering at anybody who looks your way too long. After years of being on the receiving end of his glares, you’ve grown immune, but everybody else is clearly at least a little intimidated.

“Oppa,” you hiss. He barely spares you a glance. “You're not seriously going to babysit me all night, are you?”

“I'm letting you do what you want so you should let me do whatever I want,” he replies primly. 

You know there's no convincing him on your own. From across the room, you manage to catch Chan's eye and nod your head in Minho's direction. Luckily, he knows exactly what you're trying to say and makes his way over quickly to stand beside Minho.

“Minho-ya, you don't have a drink yet?” he asks, before pointedly taking a sip of his own cup.

“I asked Yongbokkie and Seungmin to make me one,” he replies, unphased.

“And you trust them that much?”

At the same time, the two of them glance over to the kitchen. You follow their gaze to find Felix, Seungmin, as well as Jisung mixing together a concoction that looks not only toxic, but also disgusting. You want to gag when you see them add in soju, hot sauce, milk, and maraschino cherries in quick succession. That’s not even considering whatever they’ve already put into the cup before you looked over. There's no way they actually think the combination could taste good and Minho must agree because he stands up and starts stalking towards them, swearing to himself the whole time.

After Minho leaves, Chan wanders a bit closer to you and brushes a hand against your shoulder lightly. You have to fight the urge to lean into his touch.

“I told you, I got you tonight. Don't worry about your brother breathing down your neck,” he says lowly. Just like when he first promised to distract your brother, Chan winks at you, then follows after Minho.

You force yourself not to stare after him, cheeks flushing as the rest of the girls squeal. Some of your friends have met Minho in passing a couple times, but not any of his friends. Your brother's dance crew has become wildly popular this year, but luckily it's not widely known that you are close with them. You prefer to keep it that way, but it seems like revealing your relation to them is unavoidable tonight. It's just your luck that some of these girls are among the ‘fans’ that your brother has somehow amassed.

“Y/nnie,” a girl beside you pouts. “How come you've never mentioned you know Lee Minho and Bang Chan before? I can't believe you've never introduced him to us!”

“I-” you splutter, still flustered by how close Chan was to you.

“I saw you show up with all eight of them,” another girl interupts. Someone else gasps as if you've committed a serious crime. “You actually know them?”

“Well, yeah-”

“I heard that you called Minho oppa, are you two dating?” the first girl asks.

“What? No!” you quickly deny, disgusted by the very thought of that.

“Oh come on, you don't think that they're ridiculously attractive?” someone else chimes in. The whole group murmurs in agreement. They have more and more questions for you and start to talk over each other.

“Minho's my brother! As in, we share the same parents, that’s why I call him oppa.” you exclaim, before things can spiral further. “And ew, he is definitely not attractive!”

The group is stunned into silence for a moment before exploding in noise. There are girls offended on Minho’s behalf, some asking what him and his friends are like, and others who beg you to introduce them.

Your best friend chooses that moment to speak up, reminding you why she is one of your favourite people in the world.

“Let’s play a drinking game!” she exclaims loudly. She holds up a couple bottles of soju that you’re not sure where she’s been hiding and starts filling up everyone’s cup. Luckily the girls are easily distracted by alcohol, enough that the topic is changed without too much of a fuss. You breathe out a sigh of relief.

—

After a few drinks, you eventually excuse yourself to the bathroom. You’re definitely on your way to being tipsy, but not enough that you feel unsteady on your feet. The loud music makes it a bit difficult to focus and people have filled every corner of the house, but you’re somehow able to find an unoccupied bathroom.

You take an extra moment to splash yourself with water before you leave, you’re feeling a bit sticky from sweating and when one of your friends spilled a bit of their drink on you. When you finish, you swing open the door and immediately apologise when you narrowly miss hitting a guy who has been waiting in the hall. He waves it off, but doesn’t make a move to enter the bathroom, instead stepping a bit closer to you. 

“What’s a pretty little girl like you doing here all on her own?” he slurs, crowding further into your personal space. It’s dark, but you can still tell that his eyes are red and unfocused and hair is matted to his forehead. He's drunk. 

You swallow hard, trying not to panic. You have to treat this situation delicately and somehow make your disinterest clear without provoking or offending him.

“I’m not alone.” You can’t help but laugh nervously, taking a step back. Your stomach churns when your shoulder knocks into the wall behind you and you realise you have nowhere else to go. “My friends are actually probably wondering what’s taking me so long, I’ll just-”

“S’okay, I’m sure they wouldn’t notice if you were gone a little longer.” He leans in until he’s close enough that you can smell the sourness of his sweat and the alcohol on his breath. “I just wanna get t’know you a bit better.”

He smiles down at you in a way that he must think is attractive. It makes you want to vomit.

“No thanks, I’m just going to head-” Your voice is shrill with panic, you can barely recognize it.

You try to shuffle to the side, but the guy slaps his hand against the wall, trapping you even more. Your heartbeat pounds in your chest. He reaches out and traces one of your cheeks with a clumsy hand, ignoring the way that you cringe away.

“Aww c’mon darling, don’t be like that. I can promise you a good time.”

You know a bit of self defense, but this is far from a fair fight. This guy is significantly taller than you and probably double your weight. Even drunk, he can likely overpower you without even trying.

Before you can make a move, an arm slings around the drunk guy’s shoulder, jostling him to the side. Your heart sinks. There was a small chance that you’d have been able to escape, but not if you’re outnumbered.

“Hey mate,” the new person says. Your head shoots up at the familiar voice. Chan. “You seem pretty sloshed.”

Chan nudges the guy again, this time creating a little space that makes you feel less trapped. His body language is loose and relaxed, but the expression on his face is another story. His gaze is intense as he scans you, softening by a fraction when you nod that you’re fine.

“M’not,” the guy argues. He squints up at Chan. “Do I even know you? Get lost, I’m busy right now.”

“Why don’t you go outside and get some air? It’s gotten pretty stuffy in here.” It’s not a suggestion. Chan’s words are friendly, but the tone of his voice sends shivers down your spine.

The guy opens his mouth, likely to protest, but promptly shuts it when he sees the look on Chan’s face. The two of you watch as he stumbles away without a fight, bumping into a few other people in his haste to leave. Now that you’re alone, Chan backs up, giving you more space to breathe.

“Sorry about that,” Chan says, hand scratching at the back of his neck nervously. “Didn't want to be too aggressive. It just- you looked like you needed some help.”

“Some people just don’t know how to take no for an answer,” you say quietly. It’s just another thing to be grateful for when Chan doesn’t comment on the shakiness of your voice. Instead, his expression darkens further before he composes himself.

“Are you okay?” he asks tentatively. 

“Yeah, you came at just the right time.” You look away, a bit embarrassed that he had to step in and rescue you, but he puts a finger under your chin and uses it to turn your face back to him. It feels so different from when the drunk guy touched you that you don’t want him to stop. His eyes search yours for a moment and whatever he finds must satisfy him.

“You should probably rejoin your friends.” Chan starts to step away, but you reach out and snag his sleeve before he can go. 

“Chan-oppa.”

He pauses, turning back to look at you again.

“Yeah?” There’s a hopeful lilt to his voice, although you’re not sure what he’s hoping you say.

“Please don’t tell my brother about this,” you plead. Chan’s expression drops a little, clearly that’s not what he wanted to hear, but he’s still quick to reassure you.

“No, yeah, of course. I won’t say anything.”

“I don’t want him to worry about me.”

“Of course,” Chan repeats.

“And… thank you.” You rise up on your toes and kiss his cheek quickly, then slip away towards where your friends are before you can see what his reaction is. 

—

It takes a few days for you to recover from the party. You hadn’t drunk enough to be hungover, but just remembering your interaction with Chan makes you want to bury yourself in your bed and never leave. Luckily Minho hasn't questioned your change in behaviour much, but you can tell that he's getting sick of your wallowing, even if he doesn't know the reason behind it. 

“Yah, Y/n-ah!” Minho bangs on your door. “We’re heading out for gukbap in 5 minutes, are you coming?”

He doesn’t specify who the ‘we’ is, you know who to expect. Of course, Chan is included. It’s easy to make a decision.

“Go without me!” you yell back.

“Eh? Open up.”

“Just come in, it’s unlocked.”

You hear the door open and Minho approaches. He prods at your prone form with one of his feet.

“What’s up with you? You never say no to gukbap.”

“Nothing!” you groan.

“You’ve been acting strange since that stupid party, what are you hiding?” He pokes at you again, this time a bit harder.

“Oppa,” you complain, lifting yourself out of your blankets to swat at his foot. “I promise that I have nothing to hide, I just don’t feel like hanging out with your friends today.”

“They haven’t done anything, have they?” Minho asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Channie-hyung asked me if you were doing okay.”

“No! I-” you choke on your spit in your haste to answer, leading to a coughing fit that leaves you with tears gathering in your eyes. You clear your throat roughly then continue. “No, Chan-oppa and the rest of your friends have all been nice to me.”

“Oppa?” 

Whoops, you hadn’t meant for that to slip out.

“What?” you whine. “You’re the one who forces me to hang out with them all the time! You told me to stop being so formal around them. They kept telling me too, it got really annoying.”

“Hmm,” Minho huffs, not quite convinced.

“Really,” you insist. “I just don’t want to go out today, I promise.”

“Okay,” Minho says reluctantly before he gets uncharacteristically serious. “But you know, you're my little sister, you can always come to me if something or someone is bothering you right?”

“I- yeah of course, oppa.” You feel kind of touched, not used to Minho openly showing that he cares about you, even though you know he does. It's enough that your throat feels tight with emotion, but you force yourself to speak through it. “Thank you. I always know that I can count on you.”

“I'm the only one allowed to mess with you,” he says sweetly, ruffling your hair so that it sticks up the way he knows you hate. “If anyone else does, I'll make sure that they regret the day that they were born.”

You try to ignore the guilt that curls in your stomach as you watch Minho leave. You hate hiding things from him, but you're still confused by your own emotions and you're worried by how he'll react.  Minho has always been your biggest supporter in everything except for your love life, which he is strictly against no matter how much you try to reason with him. 

You can’t imagine how much worse it would be if he found out that the person you’re interested in is one of his friends. You’ve heard him warn the whole group that you were off limits. He’d use a joking tone, but everyone knew that he was actually serious about it.

In the end, it doesn’t even matter because you’re almost certain that nothing will ever come of your feelings, Chan is way out of your league so there’s no point in even imagining a relationship together.

—

Unsurprisingly, your attempts to avoid Chan fail pretty much instantly. You're not sure how the stars aligned exactly opposite to what you were hoping, but the studio that Minho's (and therefore Chan's) dance crew uses had a schedule conflict that ended up shifting their practice times.

To your dismay, it works out so that multiple times a week, you're leaving campus at the exact same time as your brother. That in itself is not much of an issue, it's the fact that Chan lives close enough to you that the three of you commute back together. To make matters worse, Minho always invites Chan over to have dinner and Chan always accepts.

You can't fault Minho though, you know that he invites him over partly because he wants to hang out with Chan and partly because he knows that Chan might end up working throughout the night in an empty apartment and completely forget to eat. It does also bring you comfort, knowing that Chan is being cared for, that he's eating well and taking time in his day to not worry about school or dance. It's also nice for you, you've grown so used to preparing and eating dinner on your own that it's started to feel more like a chore than something to look forward to.

It's just hard. You haven't had a private conversation with Chan since the party, but you know that he wants to talk to you. 

You were so sure that he would never reciprocate your feelings, but now, you're starting to doubt yourself.

While you're on the bus home, listening to your music, you sometimes glance over to find Chan staring at you, though he's quick to look away. When the three of you are cooking in the kitchen, he's more affectionate, resting a light hand on your waist or back when he passes behind you or nudging your shoulder playfully after he makes a joke. During dinner, he makes sure that you're also engaged in conversation, asking about your classes or the few clubs that you're involved in. He sometimes brings you and Minho little treats from the convenience store and they're always in your favourite flavours.

The thing is, Chan is friendly and generous to everyone that he meets. It's hard to tell if you're reading too much into your interactions with him or if he's actually paying you more interest than usual. You've never heard of Chan dating, actually you can't recall if any of the boys in Minho's dance crew have ever had partners, but it's not for a lack of interested parties.

At times, it feels so impossible that you're embarrassed to even admit to yourself how much you like Chan. You're not blind, you know that there's a fair share of girls who are just as delusional as you are, giggling when he looks over and insisting to their friends that he's interested in them because he helped open the door for them or waved as he walked past.

In fact, some of the very moments that you keep closest to your heart sound so similar to experiences that you've heard other girls gushing about that you hate yourself for having hope that Chan would be interested in you of all people.

It's easier to pretend that there's nothing going on between the two of you. You know that if you were to confess your feelings to Chan, something you would never do, that he would be nice about it. You can almost imagine it, how flustered he would be, making up some kind of excuse about not being interested in dating because he was too devoted to school and dance. He would promise not to tell your brother about it and assure you that it wouldn't change the way that he treats you.

You've run through this hypothetical situation so many times that not only have you experienced enough mortification for a lifetime, but you've convinced yourself even further to lock your feelings up inside of you. There's no point in confessing when you're so sure that nothing will ever come from it.

—

One day, Chan is over as usual and the three of you are cooking in your tiny kitchen, elbows bumping and arms reaching over as everyone tries to make do with the small space available. 

The food is almost ready when Minho's phone rings, the special song that he has saved for Jisung. He picks it up instantly, shoving the pair of chopsticks that he's using into your hands in his haste. You can't hear what Jisung says, but Minho rolls his eyes and leaves to his bedroom, lecturing Jisung about something the whole way there.

“Hey,” Chan says softly. You try to keep yourself busy, picking up dishes and putting them into the sink for washing, but he tugs at your wrist lightly so that you face him. “Is everything good with you?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding quickly. 

“You just seem, I don't know, distracted or something these days.”

“No, it's-” You take a deep breath to collect yourself. “Thank you for asking, really. But I'm fine.”

“Okay,” Chan says, still looking concerned. “Listen, I know we haven't-”

You've never been so glad to hear Minho re-enter the room. 

“Eh? You guys haven't even finished with the food?” he complains in a whiny voice that he only really uses around Chan. “What have you guys been doing this whole time? Come on, Y/n-ah, go set the table. Hyung, I know you can't cook to save your life, but at least scoop out the rice into our bowls. I'm hungry!”

Chan drops the subject for the rest of the night, but you know that you’ve only delayed the conversation. 

—

The next day, you wake up to a dry and achy throat. This isn’t that unusual, you suffer from seasonal allergies that sometimes block your nose and force you to breathe through your mouth as you sleep. This time, it feels different. Your throat has been bothering you more than usual the past couple of weeks and while drinking a glass of water does help you wake up, it doesn’t dull the pain that persists. 

You shuffle out of bed to wash up, then head straight to the kitchen, brewing yourself a steaming mug of yuja tea. The taste is comforting, but doesn't help as much as you hoped it would. 

You get ready for school quickly, hoping to leave before Minho wakes up. You know that your classes start before him today, but he's always been an early riser, preferring to work out or spend time in the dance studio before it gets too busy.

“Y/n-ah,” Minho calls out, right as you're starting to put on your shoes. “You were going to leave without saying bye?”

“I didn’t know if you were awake,” you say, wincing when your voice still sounds rough.

“You didn’t even check.” Minho steps out of his room and unlocks the front door for you as you pull on your backpack.

“I was in a rush-” you start to say, but the rest of your sentence doesn’t manage to make its way out. Clearing your throat only irritates it further, triggering a cough that you can’t contain.

“Y/n,” Minho says, genuine concern shining in his eyes. “Are you feeling okay?”

He raises a hand to your forehead, but you slap it away weakly before he can check your temperature.

“I'm fine, I just have this stupid sore throat that won’t go away,” you reassure him. “I don’t think I’m sick though. The air has been so dry lately, I think I need a humidifier in my room while I sleep.”

“Aww.” Minho pinches your cheek and goes straight back to teasing you. “My delicate baby sister.”

“Ugh, forget I said anything.” You push your brother away. “Now let me go, I'm going to be late for class.”

Minho doesn't say anything in response, but the next night when you go to sleep, a new humidifier has been installed on your bedside table. 

—

In the next few weeks you find that the discomfort in your throat that has been plaguing you has evolved into something else. There’s a persistent feeling of something caught in your throat and you find yourself with a lingering dry cough that no amount of tea or medication can relieve.

One night, you wake up feeling like you can't breathe. In a panic, you untangle yourself from your sheets and get yourself into a sitting position. The change in position allows a deep cough to rattle through you, enough that you’re finally able to suck in a breath. 

Instead of phlegm or maybe a piece of food that could have been stuck in your throat, you feel something velvety in your mouth. You blindly reach for your bedside table to turn on your lamp and wonder if you’re still asleep when you find a single, dark red rose petal in the palm of your hand.

You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch yourself, hard, but when your eyes open, nothing has changed.

Suddenly, you’re wide awake and a cold sweat starts to form, making your pyjamas stick to your back.

You’ve heard of hanahaki disease, of course you have, but you’ve never known someone who has suffered from it. 

It makes sense, you’ve had a sore, scratchy throat and dry cough for weeks now with no other cold symptoms.

You can’t believe it though. 

Hanahaki disease was almost like an urban legend at this point, having been exaggerated and twisted so much in media that you’ve almost forgotten the reality of it. While most of the shows and books that cover this have a somewhat romantic take on it, declaring that it's caused by unrequited love, you know the real cause is your refusal to admit your feelings.

You knew that lying, to Chan, to your brother, to yourself, would have consequences. You had heard stories about how people who kept their feelings a secret were slowly choked by them, petals and leaves representing every time you had held yourself back. 

You just never thought it would happen to you.

Sure, you were interested in Chan. You found him kind, hard-working, funny, and attractive, but it's not like you were in love with him.

You crumple the petal in your hand and throw it into your garbage can. If this is your first time finding petals, you still have months until things progress to be more serious. A part of you hopes that this was some sort of one-off, that this would be the first and last time your body creates any flowers.

You turn off the light and pull the covers tightly over your body, praying that you'll wake up in the morning and find that this was all some crazy stress-related dream.

You don’t fall asleep for the rest of the night.

—

You had thought that you were pretty good at covering up your tracks, but it doesn’t take long before Minho starts piecing things together. It doesn't help over the past few days, your symptoms have steadily worsened. You’ve found yourself coughing up petals every day, enough that you're starting to grow concerned about how quickly things are progressing.

It starts when he calls you into your shared bathroom one evening. You don’t think much of it, until you find him staring at something on the ground.

“What’s this?” he asks. 

“It’s a rose petal,” you say easily, stooping down to pinch it between two fingers and dangle it in front of his face. “You’ve never seen one before?”

Minho rolls his eyes at that, swatting at you half-heartedly. You manage to dodge out of the way, but lose your grip on the petal. It flutters to the floor, but Minho swipes it out of the air.

“What’s it from? Is a boy giving you flowers?” he asks warningly, crushing the petal in his grip.

“Oppa, stop jumping to conclusions!” you groan. “It’s from a bath bomb that I tried out, I guess I missed this one when I was cleaning up.”

“Since when do you take baths?” 

“Since I got a bunch of bath bombs on sale. I thought it would be relaxing.” This time you’re the one rolling your eyes. “But if I knew that it would lead to you interrogating me, I wouldn’t have bothered buying them in the first place.”

“Fine, sorry, just- just clean up next time you’re going to make a mess in the bathroom,” Minho says, before throwing the petal at you and leaving you alone.

You watch as the petal falls onto the tiles, crumpled into a little ball from being in Minho’s fist. When you reach out to pick it up, your fingers are trembling. You’ve never been a good liar, but it seems that at least this time, your acting skills have been good enough to fool Minho.

You hear the front door close and you finally give in to the cough that you've been trying to suppress the whole conversation. 

Tears spring to your eyes, but you can't stop the coughs that wrack your body. This time, even after you spit out a couple of petals, it still feels like there’s something stuck in your throat. After what feels like forever, that something dislodges and you find yourself holding a tiny rosebud complete with a short stem.

You stare at it in horror, you haven’t had more than petals until now. There’s a deep sense of dread that fills you. You thought that you’d have more time, it hasn’t even been a month since you had started coughing up anything.

You throw the flower into the toilet, flushing quickly so that the red petals swirl out of sight. Even after you rinse your mouth, there’s a tinge of iron that lingers.

—

You don't often visit the boys when they're at dance practice, in fact you actively avoid going to the studio. It's one thing to know that their dance crew is quite popular and another to experience it yourself.

But today you don't have much of a choice, in your rush to leave for an early lab, you completely forgot to pack an assignment that was due the same morning and had begged Minho to bring it to campus for you. You were lucky that he hadn't left the apartment yet, but he only brought it on the condition that you brought him coffee and picked your assignment up from him directly. 

It's just before 10am when you head over, which means that there's a lot of students waiting for their dance class to start, but it still surprises you to find a fairly significant crowd outside of the studio that Minho had texted you to go to. You can hear music faintly from the closed door and, as you push your way closer, find that there's a large horizontal window that has caught everyone's attention.

You get more than a fair share of dirty looks as you squeeze through the crowd and one girl even stops you as you move to open the door. 

“Sorry, excuse me,” you say politely.

“You're not allowed in,” she says in a haughty voice. Her acrylic nails bite into your arm, surprisingly strong for how thin she is. “Their practice isn't over.”

“You're not allowed in, I don’t need an invitation,” you say under your breath, rolling your eyes. You must not have said it quietly enough because she gasps dramatically.

“Please, you think you're special?” She looks you up and down dismissively. “You wish any of the boys would talk to someone like you.”

“You must be referring to yourself, they would never want to have to associate with someone as desperate and pathetic as you,” you snap, shouldering your way past her. She squeals, but finally lets go of you, maybe hoping that you'll get in trouble for interrupting.

You open the door just enough to slide through and carefully close it behind you so that you don’t disturb them. It’s mesmerizing, watching them all dance. They’ve been together for so long that it looks so natural for them to move in sync, although you know it’s more to do with long hours of practice and Minho’s eagle eyes pointing out any mistakes. 

None of the boys notice you at first, caught up in the chorus of the song that they're practicing, but Jeongin catches sight of you after a moment.

“Noona!” he says excitedly, abandoning the dance to run over to you. “Is that coffee for me?”

“Innie if you drink that coffee you will not survive long enough for the caffeine to make it into your bloodstream,” your brother warns from across the room. 

Jeongin falters at that, but when you shake the cup enticingly in front of him, he throws caution to the wind and takes a sip.

“Yah! What did I say, Yang Jeongin?” Is the only warning Jeongin gets before he’s chased around the room by an angry Minho. The familiar chaos is almost enough to lift your mood and make you forget about the terrible interaction you had outside.

“You look annoyed, did something happen?” Chan asks, approaching you from where he had gone to turn off the music on his laptop. You curse how observant he is, you thought you had done a pretty good job of hiding how you felt.

“Nothing, just had a weird encounter with a defensive fan out there. It's like you guys are idols or something” you joke, nodding your head towards the window where people are watching curiously. You can still feel the sting from the girl’s nails digging into your wrist and when you lift it up to examine it more closely, see a little bit of blood beading at the deepest crescents.

“They’re not fans,” Chan says in disgust, before he does a double take. “I- you’re bleeding?”

“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, wiping at the wounds but only succeeding at smudging the blood so that it looks even worse. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“Come here, we have a first aid kit somewhere. We don’t want it to get infected.” 

Chan takes your hand delicately, making sure to avoid the inflamed areas, and leads you over to the bench closest to where all their bags are piled up. You sneak a glance over to the girl that stopped you and can’t help but feel smug when you find her, pale and slack-jawed. Chan sits you down, only leaving your side to pull the blinds down on the window and dig around until he finds the first aid kit.

“Sorry, it might sting a bit,” Chan apologises as he pulls out the disinfectant wipes.

You peek at Chan and your breath catches in your throat at how concentrated he looks, brows slightly furrowed as he tries to gently dab at the scratches. Most of his hair is hidden under a baseball cap, but you can see a little duck tail forming at the base of his neck which draws attention to the trails of sweat that disappear under the collar of his shirt. You must make some kind of noise, because Chan looks up, eyes wide with concern.

“Sorry, does it hurt a lot?”

“No, you're good,” you say, cheeks flushing.

“I’m almost done,” he says, searching around for a bandage. He’s just finished applying it, tongue sticking out in concentration, when you hear someone else approach.

“What's going on here?” Minho asks.

“Nothing!” you say at the same time that Chan says, “I was just helping Y/n put on a bandage.”

“Did you hurt yourself?” Minho's eyes widen and he reaches out to take a look at your wrist, even though he won't be able to see anything under the bandage. You pull your sleeve down and stand up in a rush.

“It’s nothing, really oppa! I'm sorry, I have to go, my class is starting soon!” you call out, lying through your teeth as you run out of the room, clutching your assignment. “Thank you, Channie-oppa!”

You rush into the nearest bathroom, not even caring that there are people in the other stalls, and throw up an explosion of petals. By the time that you finally make it to class, just in time, your throat stings more than the wound on your wrist.

—

You start trying to avoid Minho and well, you never really stopped in your attempts to avoid Chan.

You leave early in the morning, only come back well after the sun has set, and do everything in your power to contain your cough when you're at home.

You know you're not solving the problem, only prolonging it, but every conversation, every lie, seems to accelerate the growth of the roses that have taken up residence in your lungs. You know that it's not helping, that keeping this secret is just strengthening the flowers that are slowly choking you. It's just that no matter how many conversations you've rehearsed in your head or texts that you've drafted, something seems to stop you.

You're just so so scared that waking up with a mouthful of petals and thorns, bloody coughing fits that you can't prevent, and the raspy tone of your voice that has developed is preferrable. 

As much as you hate him sometimes, you've looked up to your brother for your whole life. You don't know what you would do without him and the thought of losing him terrifies you beyond belief.

You don't always get what you want, though. It's not long until Minho confronts you again.

It's not really a surprise, when you look in the mirror these days, you're shocked by your appearance. Your face is pale and drawn, you have deep bags from not being able to sleep at night, and you've lost weight since most solid food irritates your throat enough to trigger a coughing fit. Add that to the fact that you know your apartment's walls are paper thin which means it's impossible that your brother can't hear you coughing at all hours of the day.

“Y/n-ah. I know that you're not doing well right now. Don't even try to deny it,” Minho says. He closes his eyes for a moment before seemingly deciding something. “I- you don't have to tell me what it is. I would prefer it if you did, but just- what can I do to help?”

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself to reassure him that you're fine, but regret it when you start choking instead. You lurch upright and head directly to the bathroom, Minho trailing behind you worriedly. 

“I-” Trying to talk just makes it worse. You're used to it now, the way that the thorns seem to claw at your throat on their way up, how even the brush of soft petals against the raw flesh hurts, the metallic taste that you can't seem to get rid of no matter how many times you wash your mouth. Still, it doesn't make it easier.

Minho watches in silence as you heave over the toilet. He puts a hand on your back, rubbing slow circles to try and soothe some of your pain. Your eyes water, partially from coughing and partly because you're mortified that your brother is finally witnessing this.

You throw up finally, mostly petals and blood, which is a relief. The stems have been the most painful by far, each thorn digging into the already abused flesh of your throat.

When you finally finish rinsing your mouth, he's holding out a tissue which you accept gratefully. Minho doesn't comment until you've finally caught your breath.

“Y/n-ah-”

“Yeah,” you say miserably, tearing at the leftover tissue in your hand. Your voice both sounds and feels like you've been swallowing gravel. “Hanahaki, who would have guessed that I'd be a romantic at heart?”

You laugh weakly. Minho doesn't.

“I knew it. All those times you locked yourself in the bathroom with the water running… That stupid bath bomb story you told me… I hear you up at all hours, coughing your lungs out… You’ve been hiding it this whole time, haven’t you?” he accuses you.

“I can explain-”

“Go on then,” Minho says impatiently.

“I- It's-” You bury your face in your hands, unable to get the words out. “It's stupid.”

“Y/n-ah, it's obviously not stupid. Whatever it is, it's bothering you enough that it's hurting you physically.”

“I like someone,” you say in a small voice. “Okay? That's it.”

“Why won't you tell them?” Minho demands. “Why won't you tell me who it is?”

“No, I can't. There’s no point, it wouldn't work out,” you insist, shaking your head.

“What are you talking about? No point? Y/n, can't you see it's killing you.” You've never heard Minho sound so desperate. He's angry, he's frustrated, but most of all, he's scared, you realise.

“Oppa-” you say cautiously, but you're interrupted by yet another coughing fit. You can't hide it from your brother when the tissue that you've used to cover your mouth is tinged red by the time you're done. You can feel there's still something lodged in your throat, it takes everything in you to ignore the urge to continue coughing to try and get it out.

“I can't lose you, Y/n,” he whispers. Your eyes widen when you realise his are filled with tears. You don't think you've ever seen Minho cry. “I can't let you do this to yourself, please.”

“I need more time-”

“You don’t have time!” Minho interrupts frantically. “Have you even seen a doctor about this?”

You look away guiltily at the question.

“No, but-”

“Are you kidding me?” Minho says exasperatedly. “We’re booking you an appointment right now.”

“Is it going to make a difference? I know what’s wrong-” As if to prove your point, you can’t stop yourself from coughing again. “It's not that bad yet, oppa,” you lie, the croakiness of your voice giving you away.

“Y/n-”

“I promise! I promise that I am trying my best. I- if it doesn't get better, I'll see a doctor in two weeks.” 

“Not good enough, Y/n-ah. If you can't tell me, at least talk to whoever you like,” he pleads. 

“Fine,” you say. “I- I'll talk to him in the next few days. And if the flowers don't go away, then I will see a doctor.”

Minho lets out a heavy sigh of relief, pulling you into his arms for a tight hug. You try your best to sink into his embrace, but just can't ignore the guilt that seems to consume you.

—

Chan catches you outside your last lecture that night. You're not sure how exactly he found out your schedule, but you exit the lecture hall to find him leaning against the wall directly across from the doors.

It could just be that he knows someone else taking this course or that he has a class in the same room, but somehow you know that he's waiting for you. Not ready for this conversation, you try to keep your head down to pass by unnoticed, but you know that he's spotted you when he calls out your name.

“Hey.” Chan reaches out, tugging on your sleeve without actually touching you. You turn around, stomach sinking slightly. Yes, you had promised your brother that you'd confess to Chan, but you didn't think it would happen so soon. “You're heading home right?”

“Yeah,” you say warily. “What's up?”

“I'm going back too, can we walk together?”

“Sure,” you agree slowly, not able to think of a way to get out of this situation. 

The two of you walk in silence towards your bus stop. Chan's being uncharacteristically awkward and you're not sure what to expect.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says suddenly.

“Okay?”

Chan stays quiet for so long that you’re about to ask if he’s okay.

“I like you,” he blurts out, right as you open your mouth to speak.

“What?” Of everything he could have said, this is what you're expecting the least. There’s no way that you heard him correctly, you must need to get your ears checked.

“I like you,” Chan repeats. You blink up at him, stunned. “But if you don't feel the same way, it's- don't worry about it. I promise that I'll respect it. I'll back off and everything will stay the same. I just wanted to get it off my chest. And maybe, I don't know if I was just making things up, but I thought that you liked me too?”

“You can't,” is all that escapes your mouth.

“I… can't like you?” Chan asks, baffled.

“No, it's- you can't- we can't,” you stammer. “My brother-"

“What, you think I'm afraid of Minho-ya?” Chan asks cockily, raising an eyebrow in a way that you can't help but find attractive.

“I just- he always said-”

“Y/n-ah,” Chan says gently. “I like you and I don't care what your dumb brother thinks. He can complain all he wants, but as long as you're happy, I'm happy. And-”

“You actually like me?” you interrupt.

“Yes, is it really so hard to believe?”

“I just always thought, you only saw me as Minho-oppa's baby sister,” you say glumly, kicking at the ground.

“I did when you were younger for sure,” Chan laughs. “But since university, I feel like I've actually gotten to know the real you, to see how funny, talented, kind, and thoughtful you are. I like you for you, not because I'm friends with your brother.” 

“But there's so many other girls you could choose from that are much prettier or smarter than me,” you argue, still not wanting to get your hopes up.

“Y/n-ah, are you actually trying to convince me not to like you?” Chan pouts. “If you don't feel the same way, just say so, it's okay.”

“No! I-” you trail off, suddenly feeling incredibly shy.

“You what?” Chan prompts you gently.

“I like you too.” Your voice is barely a whisper, but you know that he's heard you from the smile that grows on his face.

“What was that?” Chan asks cheekily.

“I said I like you too!” you say louder this time, before hiding your face in your hands so that you don't have to look at Chan. 

Even though you're beyond embarrassed, you feel better than you have in a long time, giddy with the idea that Chan actually reciprocates your feelings.

But when you breathe in, instead of relief, there's still that familiar tightness in your chest. 

You have to talk to Minho, you realise. As much as you've been keeping it a secret from Chan, you know that a majority of your inner turmoil stems from hiding our feelings from the closest person in your life. You had hoped that talking to Chan would instantly cure your hanahaki, but clearly you were wrong.

—

For the first time in weeks, you purposely seek out Minho. Luckily, you don't have to look far, when you get home, Minho is stretched out on the couch watching anime.

“I told him,” you say. Minho immediately sits upright, turning his attention to you. “The guy I like. But it didn’t help, the flowers are still-”

“And he feels the same way?” Minho interrupts you.

“I- yes, he’s the one that confessed first.”

“Wow,” Minho whistles. “Who’s crazy enough to have feelings for you?”

You had already made up your mind that you had to tell your brother, but his reaction makes you even more confident in your decision. Maybe it's the way that Minho is treating this so lightly, but you’re no longer nervous to say it out loud.

“It's Chan-oppa,” you say, bracing yourself. 

“Chan?” Minho repeats, shell shocked.

“Channie-hyung? Like-” he takes out his phone and pulls up the photo he has of Chan in his contacts.

Chan has the craziest bedhead and his face is puffy from sleep in the photo. He's squinting up at the camera, a hand coming up to try and block his face. He looks adorable.

Minho watches your face carefully as you visibly melt a bit looking at the picture.

“You really do like him, huh,” he says in a quiet voice, no longer joking around. “This whole time?”

“Yeah.” You look down. “I'm sorry.”

“That's it? That's the person you've been so scared of telling me that you liked?"

“I- yes? You don't think it's weird?” you ask tentatively, looking back up at your brother. “The two of us being together? He's one of your best friends.”

“Oh no, it’s definitely weird.” Minho laughs. “I do not understand it at all. But Y/n, Channie-hyung is one of the few people in my life that I trust. Do I want him to be dating my baby sister? Of course not! I don't want you to be dating anyone. Do I think he’s out of his mind for being interested in you? Definitely.”

“Hey!” you interject. Minho carries on like he can’t hear you.

“Do I think he fully understands that if he hurts you in any way, directly or indirectly, on purpose or on accident, that I will hunt him down and make him regret the fact that he ever existed in the first place? Yes, I think he knows.”

“Oppa,” you say in horror. “You will not give your best friend the shovel talk.”

“I don’t have to.” Minho smiles brightly, a picture of innocence if you didn’t know him. “My reputation precedes me. Channie-hyung's one of my closest friends, he would never expect anything less from me.”

“Oppa-”

“Y/n-ah,” Minho softens his voice. “I also know that of all the people that I've ever met, Channie-hyung is one that is least likely to ever hurt you. I trust him, but I also want you to know that I trust your judgement.”

You look away, sniffing. You never could have imagined that Minho would accept your relationship so easily that it's making you feel emotional.

“Aigoo, Y/nnie,” Minho coos. He pulls you into a tight hug, ignoring the way that tears finally escape from you and stain his shirt. “You were really worried about this, weren't you?”

You nod into his shoulder, unable to provide a verbal response.

“I'm sorry that I made you feel like you couldn't tell me about this. It's definitely going to take a bit of time to get used to it, but I'm happy for you, really. I know I can seem overbearing sometimes, but I just worry.”

“I didn't want you to be upset at Channie-oppa or me,” you murmur. “I didn't want to do anything to hurt your friendship. I didn't want to hurt our relationship.”

“Y/n-ah,” Minho says gently, but firmly. “I want you to know that there is nothing that could hurt our relationship. You're my baby sister, I'm always going to love you.”

After months of keeping all your feelings bottled up, of denying your feelings for Chan, of dreading Minho’s reaction, you’ve felt a constant dread, guilt filling your insides. Now, you’re just filled with an overwhelming sense of relief. It’s as if an enormous weight has been lifted off your shoulders.

It feels like you can breathe again.

read it on ao3 | masterlist

[tojisun]

the hand that feeds you

— “i take care of her, s’all.”

johnny mactavish x f!reader

cw: 18+ work - minors dni; age difference; daddy issues (kinda the central plot); cooking as a love language; slow burn but in high speed; a breath of angst; power imbalance; canon divergence - regular/non-military life au // amazing divider by @gildui! // 6.5k words

extra notes: this is a very self-indulgent work. there are holes in the plot, 100%, so ignore those holes pretty pls </3 also ik this is more of a captain johnny-verse but midway through, i started projecting so i might’ve written him incorrectly and im really sorry for that!!

being roommates with johnny is not as weird as it is; he’s amicable, at first, then full blown nice when days passed. he’s not loud, per se, but there’s always a constant chatter streaming from his space, like he physically can’t sit still through the silence which is great because you don’t fare any better with the stillness too, so reminiscent of how it was in the suburbs.

you moved to a neighbourhood just skirting past the inner city just because it’s a lot cheaper. but even then, rent was always high and your little box in a rundown complex wasn’t going to sustain you forever even if you wished it would. then, an opening in johnny’s townhouse was posted, almost half-price than whatever is up in the market, and it’s great despite your skepticism. hell, it’s more than great — it’s lifesaving.

your shitty job at the bookstore really can’t cover much of your expenses anymore, and sure student loans and the grant is great, but the growing debt makes you wince so it’s whatever at this point. you’re about to graduate soon anyway, pooling work experience from volunteering and club organizations, and it’s not like you can even go back to how it was.

(underway to law school, primed up before your father’s scrutiny but the burnout got to you before you could even write the LNAT. you realized that being a barrister wasn’t really what you wanted so you changed programs, midway, and switched to children’s education.

god, the disappointment in your pa’s eyes was so big, you knew to pack your shit before he could even kick you out.)

it’s… tough.

god, is it tough. none of your old friends and colleagues could stay in contact, which you don’t hold against them because most of them, by now, have graduated and entered law school. you’re straggling about two years back because of the switch in programs, and everything’s gone too tight. your budget. your social life.

your dating life.

johnny often distracts you from it all — he works in downtown, in one of those high-rise buildings often reserved for limiteds or holding companies, and has to travel off the city every three months. he makes good money, he said jovially, and you know it’s a nudge as to why your portion of the rent is cheap in the first place.

when you finally bit the bullet and asked why he put up one of the rooms in the market, johnny just shrugged and said he needed someone to house sit but sort off permanently. said something like last time he left, the pipes bursted and he couldn’t really fly back to help with the repairs.

it’s great being with him. he’s bright and bubbly, but also dependable in ways you never really thought about. like—

well, it’s all mundane things so listing them feels embarrassing, and it makes you feel as though you’re a touch-starved damsel and johnny just so happened to be the next older man to give you any attention and his time. but you can’t help it. god, you can’t help preen at the way he exists beside you.

he’s just so… beautiful, is what it is.

rugged and charming and loud and filling. the townhouse is too big for the two of you, but johnny makes it work. makes it feel like the two of you just fit into each other’s spaces.

early mornings are spent with him lilting between english and scottish, his exhaustion plastered onto him even after he’s downed two cups of coffee. he bumps his hip onto yours when he ambles out to prepare for his work, grumbling something like good morning and how’re you. afternoons are more lively and productive; it’s of you coming back from campus at six in the evening only to find him in the kitchen, fixing up dinner. it’s always something fancy and rich in flavour; something he always eats with wine on the side.

you, uh, you never thought he could actually cook, let alone feed himself well, but there he was, always a plate ready for you too like it’s expected that you’ll eat dinner with him. like spending time with him was just natural — the sky is blue, the ocean’s deep, and you and johnny fall into each other like there is an invisible string pulling you close to him.

it’s a beautiful change of pace, and there are more days now when you can breathe in a little easier, and you know it’s all because of johnny. it’s all him who pulled you out of your slump and out of that darkness and gave you the room, literally, to grow.

he’s beautiful, but you’ve said that already, haven’t you? he’s just… so good to be with.

then, johnny began picking up and bringing some home.

.

the first time it happened was shocking, really.

you had an early morning, something that’s so murky now in your memories so you’re unsure if it was anything uni related or work related, just that it was five in the morning and you were clambering downstairs as quietly as you could. you rounded the length of the hallway from the platform to the kitchen when you ran into someone.

“steady,” she’d said, voice hoarse and loud in her shock too.

you yelled, jumping, arms swinging because was there an intruder, and it took johnny physically subduing you for you to calm down. looking back now, you burn in embarrassment, but then you had been so worried, your body wound up so tightly in your fear.

“shh,” johnny had murmured with that wry grin. “s’just me, lass.”

your eyes danced between him and the brunette — pretty even in her rumpled shirt, with long legs and a small waist — trying to understand what was going on. you are sure johnny had told you before that he wasn’t seeing anyone so who—

“your girlfriend?” she asked johnny, turning to him with her lips pursed and her brow cocked up.

the question settled in your stomach, doing wonders to your already-fragile psyche. you’d just spent hours thinking about johnny and what he meant to you; what living with him meant. how it eased up something carved within the trenches of your being, like you’d always been waiting for someone like him.

the question was a reminder, like prickling you with icicles, leaving you to navigate the swoop. but johnny had laughed, nothing mean but so dismissive that you felt the curl of shame brandishing from the base of your spine like johnny was laughing at you.

“oh, nah,” he replied, arm still slung over your shoulders. “she’s sorta my ward, yes? i take care of her, s’all.”

that’s all. you’re nothing more to him but a ward. a tenant. not even a friend—

she hummed, then leaned over to kiss johnny, her eyes still drawn to you like she’s watching, waiting for a reaction, and when she got none, she trudged to the door. you and johnny watched as she bent down to slip in her shoes, some stilettos with red bottoms, before wordlessly disappearing into the darkened morning.

“pretty,” you chirped, trying to break the tension of whatever that was.

johnny laughed in that way that surely crinkled his eyes, only to steer the conversation away by asking why you were up early. you remembered what you had to do and you dived to the kitchen in a flurry, chatting about the deadlines and due dates — so it was a school thing — and johnny just watched, silent, humming, eyes still curved in his glee.

you left no sooner than his… paramour did and, for a while, that was that.

but your semester is coming to a close and your schedule is changing, but so is johnny’s. he’s coming home later and later, but always seemed to offer apologies in the form of easy-to-microwave meals for your dinner. they’re still homemade, probably cooked up in the morning before he left for work, and you’d messaged him to say that he didn’t need to worry about you. that, sure, you came to him amidst financial struggle, juggling work and school, and trying to decide if you would have to starve this month because of rent, but you can cook. for yourself and for him too.

johnny’s face did a terrible thing when you mentioned that in person, the first in a while after things got hectic.

“what,” you bit out, embarrassed.

“nothing,” he said, blinking like he was realizing things he shouldn’t. “s’fun doing things f’r you.”

then he clamped up, spooning soup into his mouth, some of it messily dribbling into his chin. it’s not like you were doing any better, with how your throat closed up at his words, eyes going wide.

it’s been a thing, is what it is, but neither of you two have ever acknowledged that it’s a thing. it’s been a wordless experience — of johnny taking over things when it comes to the house because of course he will, it’s his home, but he always covers things for you too. things you’re sure normal landlords don’t really worry about, but not johnny.

there’s always extra food in the kitchen, extra blankets when the weather dips. there’s even a new cooling machine for the summer even though you know johnny’s room already has an installed air conditioning. he’s even changed the seats in the dining room because he caught you once hitting your hip after an all-nighter on a project.

then, he refurbished the den to make it your office.

“you didn’t have to,” you told him, mind racing at your savings, wondering if he was going to increase your rent.

johnny just shook his head with an almost fond roll of his eyes and clapped your back, arm hovering there. “s’all yers, hen.”

everything he did always accounted for you. so why the women?

they’re all long limbed and trimmed waist, with eyes that sparkled even when all you’ve seen of them is always within the poorly-lit hallway. they have voices that curl teasingly, breathy like they’re enticing johnny for one more night. and they’ve always, always, treated you like a—

like a kid.

a burden, almost, of johnny’s.

and, hell, maybe you are. johnny’s almost twice your age; he’s also already well-established in his career, some senior position that you can’t really follow but one he talks about with fondness. he’s got land rover-money, the car in his garage big and black and almost military grade, and it looks so expensive especially beside the crappy civic you were able to snag for a cheap price because it’s got about three-hundred-thousand mileage already.

you’ve got nothing to give him, other than the lousy rent payment that he doesn’t even really need but is just asking for courtesy because it’d be so weird for him to offer a room, or two now given you have the den too, for free. you’ve got nothing on your name, and if it isn’t pity that makes johnny care for you, then you don’t know what.

maybe his string of one-night stands are right — you are just a kid.

that maybe you really are still too wet behind the ears for the real world that you go running to the next person that could protect you from it, stumbling into his life and licking up every drop of his attention, mistaking his kindness for devotion. his care for love.

.

you should have known, then, that the thoughts would ripple, leaving you to feel like the days are unnavigable. obsession quickly took root, growing fangs, and it ensnared you; a vice noose at what had been a pleasant coexistence.

hell, you can barely stand being with johnny because of the jealousy. it’s a shameful thing, but a part of you thinks you deserve johnny more than the others do.

you tell yourself that nobody knows about johnny’s nightmares and the horrors that spill from his lips when it’s twelve in the morning and the two of you have hit the bourbon. you tell yourself that nobody knows about johnny’s aversion to the windows in the living room; that the reason why the curtains are a deep green is not to match the new plants he’s allowed you to fill up his home but because they shroud the panels more than the cream ones had. you tell yourself that nobody knows that johnny can sing; that he can cook a mean tomahawk; that he likes reading; that his wrists were hurting so he’s currently scheduled for a surgery; that he’s soft to you.

the women don’t know this johnny, you tell yourself, nails clawing at the hems of your chest. they don’t know him the way i do.

it’s a pathetic whisper. it’s so laughable. so juvenile.

they’re right. they’re right.

(you’re just a—)

“i don’t see you anymore,” johnny murmured one morning, when things have gone quiet again, a cup of coffee sitting on the counter while he watches you throw orange peels into the garburator.

he just got back from a work trip in aberdeen, his exhaustion loud on his face. his hair is overgrown, the bottom ends of his mohawk curling along his nape. he was there for over three weeks, skirting almost close to a month — the longest he’s ever been away — and you had tried so hard not to message. not to drop casual check-ins because you’re sure no tenant ever does that to their landlord, but johnny had remained just as friendly; asking things like if you wanted another potted plant, a monstera or a dragon tree, or if you still had that swiss chocolate he brought home as a gift, or—

the list of his questions grew, but you’ve given him clipped replies, not knowing how to act right anymore since your quiet realization. even the “thing” that you thought you shared with him had fizzled at the drop of the women coming-and-leaving, and you are left to pick up the pieces.

it’s not like you’re broken or ruined or angry. god, no you aren’t.

but you feel unsteady, like now that you know that you liked him more than he liked you, you forgot how to breathe. how to live without that looming burden because your affection is nothing but a burden.

what will johnny do if he finds out? you can’t afford a new place to move into, not when you’re so close to graduating, the finish line just about to graze your very fingertips with how near it is. money is still tight, and johnny has already spoiled you rotten. has shown you how it is to live a comfortable life. and if he learns of your feelings, you would lose this. more than anything, you would lose him.

so you detached yourself from the noose, curling into yourself and using his work trip as a way to move on.

jesus — move on, huh? like there was a ‘you and johnny’ to even move on from. like there was anything there to read. like there was anything there to pull away from; twitching fingers drawing back into the spaces of your ribs, tucking yourself away from his warmth.

“i’ve been so busy, john,” you muttered, just as tired.

“yeah?” he said, still light. still jovial. “let me cook something nice for ye, huh? reward yer hard work and all.”

“i can’t.” you swallowed down the prickle lodged in your throat, eyes ducking away to avoid seeing his. “i’ve got a meeting with the club.”

(you missed the way johnny’s smile dipped.)

“oh,” he said.

you shrugged, internally wincing at your weak attempt at being normal, before gathering your thermos and your messily-wrapped sandwich. johnny was still standing by the counters when you turned around from the sink, his bulk so close to yours in ages. it had been so long since you could just reach over and feel his warmth; feel the soft pudge of what once were hardened muscles.

he’s looking at you with such sad eyes that it’s jarring to truly see because he’s looking at you like—

like he’s losing you.

“i’m gonna…” you trailed off, not really knowing how to end this truly awkward interaction.

“yeah, f’course,” he croaked out. “take care of yerself huh, lass?”

“thanks.” the smile on your face felt more like a grimace. “see you.”

he said nothing more after that, his eyes still searching; still furrowed like something’s changed and something’s happening, and it made your stomach drop because please. please don’t let him notice.

but johnny just watched as you went, his coffee all forgotten.

(something bloomed in the soft press of your heart, flickering like a young ember. you’ve never realized how longing could feel like your mouth is stuffed with cotton.)

.

johnny hasn't picked up since his return from aberdeen.

they’re getting a new firm so the shuffling has been brutal, leaving johnny to clamber out at five in the morning before coming back home when it’s pushing 11pm. the scruff on his face is becoming more unkempt, salt and pepper becoming more intense, but even then, he’s never looked more ruggedly beautiful as he is now.

it’s like he’s aged years and you shouldn’t be reacting so strongly to the change, but looking at johnny now makes you ache in a different way — core throbbing, throat parched and eyes stinging as you watch him. you’re so drawn to his gravitational pull, unable to detangle yourself now that it feels like he’s more back in your life than he ever was.

and you know it’ll end up hurting you. that you’ll go back to isolating yourself at the drop of a new girl in the house, the smell of her chanel or bvlgari perfume filling up the crevices that you’ve dutifully dusted every saturday morning while johnny’s out for a run. he’s made having casual lovers a cycle, one that you cannot blame him for because johnny doesn’t like you back.

but johnny’s been so attentive to you these days. he’s been a hovering presence even when he looks like he’s one blown wind away from passing out in his exhaustion, his warm hand always on the small of your back as he walks you to the door before chirping a hearty, “kick ass, bon!”

he’s back to fixing up food for you, like that blip in your schedule got him all creative because now, it’s not even just dinner. you’ve got breakfast waiting for you in the microwave, and packed lunch already in your bag, carefully tucked beside the manila folders and plastic envelopes for your capstone. it’s like he’s making up for something which is dumb and wrong because now, you’re all swooping stomach and prickling lungs.

“yummy?” johnny asked, catching you wriggling in excitement at the flavour bursting into your tongue.

your cheeks tingled, feverish, before giving him a shy nod.

he huffed, something so achingly fond, and rested his chin atop his crossed arms. you didn’t know what to focus on — the scruff on his face or the hard lines of webbing veins spilling from beneath his folded sleeves. then, he crooned, “good. that’s good.”

you ran upstairs to your room, throwing an excuse about finishing up your paper, before locking the door, and feeding your cunt two fingers to satiate the burn. the stretch was delicious, raw and sweet, and you humped your wrist, trying to douse the flames burning you up.

you thought of johnny, of the way he looked and how much nicer he’s been; of johnny and the way he was so kind to you, so caring like you’re up in his priority list again, overtaking his busy schedule and the firm restructuring, and his needs.

your orgasm felt like a ripping of reality, your mind splintering at the edges as you’re stretched thin. it felt like you’ve been pulled taut, then released with a resounding snap. it felt euphoric, like the explosion of something intoxicating. something wickedly addicting.

you knew that this could never be unmade. your affections had grown their tendrils, curling past the quiet admiration and spiralling into something unforgiving. into something greater than yourself.

“fuck,” you had rasped out, eyes prickling with tears as shame rushed into your chest. “fuck.”

you didn’t need this. you didn’t need any of this.

but it becomes a cycle — wash, rinse, repeat.

johnny continues to go unshaven; continues to pour his attention to you. and you soak it up, needy and soft, unable to turn away with your tail tucked between your legs. you fall back to the ease of how it had been, hip bumping his, morning coffee shared in the silence, dinner a filling affair once more. all that’s changed are the lingering looks, the resonating touches.

how johnny’s wide hand falls to the small of your back more often; how his fingers just slots against yours every time he passes you your cup; how his eyes rove over your face, always searching for something you dare not hope for.

the last time he flicked his eyes down to watch the way your tongue lapped at your lips, swiping away at the extra cream, johnny’s pupils had constricted before a quiet groan rumbled from his throat. your thighs had quickly clenched close as heat exploded in the pit of your belly, spreading like wildfire through your veins. the pressure on your nub made you hiccup, like a whine dragging itself from your trachea, and johnny had snapped his eyes back to yours so quickly, it made you heady.

“bon–”

“i have to go,” you murmured, clamouring to shaky legs.

you fucked yourself to a deafening point once more, ears ringing as you squirted, the gush of your slick pushing past your fingers. you had to gnash your pillow cover to muffle the moan rumbling from the base of your throat, trying desperately to be good. to not be heard. to be better.

but johnny’s burning gaze on your lips was seared into your memory, blazing on top of everything, and you imagined—

god, you imagined.

the way he’ll take you — beard rough on your chin, thicker fingers spreading you wider, reaching deeper, before finally filling you up with all of him, bullying the whole length of his cock until he bottoms out.

you pressed on your stomach, dizzy, thinking about how johnny would hit that far. you know he would. the women he’s slept with have told you, anyway, in passing, describing how he was in bed with dreamy sighs like they weren’t still reeking of sex and johnny’s aftershave.

(you still wonder why so many of them were mean, their noses tipped up every time they saw you. they were the ones that johnny chose, the ones who were fortunate enough to have been his lover, so you wonder why they still sought you out like you were competition.)

“johnnyyyy!” you moaned, loud and long, your fingers prodding at your walls, and you knew that you’d regret the wrangled cry later, but you didn’t care then, too busy swimming in the aftermath of your orgasm.

.

but johnny heard it anyway.

he told you that he had heard you. 

it happened so quickly — one moment you were bent over the espresso machine, fiddling with the levers with bleary-eyed attempts, then the next thing you knew was that johnny was crowding you, trapping you between the warm bulk of his body and the counter, his eyes furrowed so deeply which made the lines on his forehead run much deeper.

“whu’?” you asked, blinking tiredly at him.

johnny just did this shaky breath that rattled his whole body, like he was propped up by a couple of sticks instead of his whole mass. the mood shifted with that weak inhale though, and you turned to fully face him, ignoring the beeping machine because johnny was still looking at you with those eyes.

the ones that made you feel seen, read, and laid bare before him. like he could weave his eyes past the fabrics of your shirt to peek into the very jagged shards of your heart and see the cross that you’ve been carrying. like he knew things about you that he shouldn’t.

“johnny?” you prodded again, finding his silence alarming.

“yer too young for me, m’eudail,” johnny finally rumbled out, voice thick and deep.

and it’s—

what.

your mind was pressing into your skull, trying desperately to link your synapses together; for the fog to clear and for your coherence to rise above the pull of drowsiness, but johnny was faster. like now that he’s said the first words, the rest just follow, unstoppable in their force and in their meaning.

“i told myself i couldn’t,” he murmured, still breathing shakily; gaze still too fragile. “that yer lookin’ for nothin’ like me, and that yer just tryin’ to get out there with yer career.”

he lifted a hand, fingers twitching, before balling it back down to a fist.

“told myself i’ve gotta let go. found a way to cope and shit.”

johnny took another ragged breath in, and it startled you into gulping one of your own — you didn’t even realize that you’ve held your breath as he spoke to you, your chest clenching tightly as your mind began to link the passageways together, filling you in on what he wasn’t really saying.

“but carin’ f’you was so easy. christ, it was even delightful, hen.” he chuckled, something that was somewhat raw and pained.

you licked at your lips, blinking wide eyes open. johnny tracked the movement, his nose flaring like you’ve done something more than a subconscious thing, his shoulders going taut.

“i like doing all sorta things for you. liked seeing y’eat what i cooked; liked seeing y’use what i got f’you. liked watching y’come home to me. to me.”

a soft sound echoed between the two of you, and it took you an embarrassingly long time to realize that it was a breathless whimper that petered out from the base of your throat. you didn’t even realize that you’ve curled into yourself, almost like you’re trying your best to shrink before johnny, and johnny crooned.

callused palm cupped the round of your cheek, his thumb swiping just underneath your eye. “told myself yer too young; that surely yer looking for someone closer to yer age, but bon, i heard y’last night.”

you startled in his hold, a quiet gasp piercing through the heat. johnny’s lips danced with mirth.

“s’right. heard a loud thump against the wall and ran upstairs, all worried, but guess my surprise, yes? y’were moanin’ my name so loudly, it’s like y’left yer door open.”

“johnny, i–”

“tell me,” he said, moving closer, his chest pressing against yours. “tell me t’stop, bon, an’ i will. but y’ve got to tell me. y’ve got to push me away.”

you looked at him, your eyes trembling at what he was laying out thickly, and your throat going parched at the blanketing desire rippling from him. there were so many things you wanted to ask, but his breath was tickling the bridge of your nose, dancing so close to the bow of your lips, and your heart ached.

desire coursed through you in waves, dribbling from the cup, and you lurched forward, chasing after his lips.

johnny melted into you. his hesitant touch turned greedier, more possessive, mapping your body and pulling you closer into him. his mouth devoured your own, gulping down the pleased little sighs and keens spilling from your lips. he kissed like a man starved, but you weren’t any softer; all nippy and desperate, fingers digging into his hair and fisting at the thin strands.

it was feverish, almost to a boiling point, and you needed more.

god, you needed more.

“johnny,” you mewled when he pulled away just enough to slide his damp lips along the cut of your jaw. “johnny, need you.”

“christ,” johnny sounded so wrecked, his voice rumbling deeply from where his lips were suckling on the soft curve of your neck. “i’ve been dreaming of this, mo luaidh. i knew i shouldn’t but yer so sweet to me and i– i wanted.” he said that word like it was dirty; like he’d been fighting tooth-and-nail to suppress it.

it made you tremble to hear how johnny desired you just as much. he had always felt unobtainable; always danced too far from your grasp and was always bigger than what you knew you could handle — his lovers had always looked divinely; pretty, yes, but fierce in their own right like they knew how to live without johnny; and you know they could, because they didn’t need johnny the way you do. they didn’t look at johnny like you do, like he hung the stars with those thick and aged hands of his.

but as you stood there, feeling every word punctured onto your skin, you couldn’t help but begin to cry, the tears springing from your eyes to slip down your cheeks. johnny rubbed your back, soothing and gentle. 

“i wanted t’take you – make y’all mine,” he whispered. 

you hiccuped, shaky from the weight of your hunger, and nuzzled close. your hands fell from fisting his hair so you could claw at the sharp corners of his shoulder blades, feeling the muscles there rippling, all taut when he bent forward and kissed you.

“please,” you began, feeling your mind thinning because you wanted more. more. more. more. “i can be– johnny, s’always been you. nobody else but you.”

you tugged him away, cupping his jaw and forcing him to look at you. and god, johnny looked so devastatingly beautiful, his eyes all furrowed and his cheeks all flushed, and his lips spit-sheened.

“fuck me,” you whispered, tired of dancing around.

he groaned, something that sounded so pained, before he was tugging you with him, up the stairs and skirting past your room and into his. 

you’ve never been in johnny’s room before, just as he had never been in yours since you moved in, and until now you still don’t know what you had been expecting upon walking in, but the smell of johnny wafting through was almost gut-punching. he smelled so close, like he was everywhere — surrounding you from the ground-up, dousing every pore with him until even your mouth felt full.

and johnny, he smelt like home. 

there were no more words uttered as he stripped you off your pyjamas, sure fingers making their way down the buttons, unlatching them from the hemmed slits. you watched with heavy eyes, blinking slowly like everything had been wrung out of you, leaving you pliant and soft. johnny hummed, appreciative, and mapped kisses from your heaving chest, teeth nipping at the fat, before moving on, sprinkling every expanse of your skin with such reverence. 

your hands were balled to your chest when he reached the jut of your belly, his chin hovering just above your crotch. johnny flicked up his darkened eyes at you, asking silently.

you gave him a nod, not trusting your own voice too.

johnny’s eyes had turned into slits, pleased, and hefted himself up just enough to be able to fit his hands on your hips and tugged your pants down. you shivered, the warmth in his room not enough to suppress the winter chill, and it made you buck into him. johnny comforted you with a quiet shh, rubbing his palm on the pudge of your thigh in soothing circles.

you don’t know why that touch was what did it for you, but soft sobs finally spilled from your mouth, scrunching up the desire into something undeniably frail. johnny didn’t startle though, like he knew that you had been wounding up to this tipping point, and instead continued to touch you tenderly, almost like if he could, he would cradle you close. 

“i love you,” you said, sniffling, because that was the crux of your vulnerability, right?

you love him. god, you love him. 

you’ve loved him since the day he sat you down for dinner and told you that you’ve got nothing to worry about, not anymore and not with him around. you’ve loved him since the day he flipped the den so you can have your own space for work; don’t mind the fact that he didn’t know if you were going to even stay, just that he insisted that you deserved that room either way. you’ve loved him since that swiss chocolate, since that cup of coffee, since he’s begun filling your painfully lonely days with his care. 

you’ve loved him since and now—

“oh, mo graidh,” johnny breathed out. “i love you too.” he kissed your thigh, scruff ticklish. “gu siorraidh is gu brath.”

you wanted to ask what that meant but johnny was already moving, sitting back up to strip out of his own shirt. you trailed your eyes down his body, capturing your trembling lips between your teeth at how breathtaking he was — soft with fat but still heavy with muscles, fuzzy with hair with the smattering pooling just underneath his belly button before trailing down to where they were hidden underneath his pants. 

you twitched before finally braving enough to reach out and brush your knuckle over the indents of his softened abs. johnny hummed, something that curled with appreciation, before covering your hand with his and holding it there. 

“all of me s’yers, hen,” he said with such finality that you felt it settle deep within the marrows of your bones. 

you nodded, emotionally spent and johnny lilted something else in scottish, so soft that it was almost a croon. you let him manhandle you — pushing your hips up so he could slot a pillow under for your back; you were so malleable to his touch as he took over, bending once again for a kiss while his fingers danced past the laces of your panties and into the damp heat of your pussy. 

you moaned, eyelashes fluttering when he pressed one in, so careful and slow, but you were so wet that it slid in with no resistance, gobbling it up knuckle-deep. johnny had groaned like he could feel your rising euphoria, before nosing along your temple as he wiggled the finger around, stroking at your walls. you wondered if he was going to tease but then he was pulling it out, only to plunge two in the next thrust, curling and stretching, and oh—

oh, ssss’good.

you don’t even remember how long he’d been spearing you with his thicker fingers, rough and long and reaching far, far deeper than you could with your own, but you laid there, sobbing, feeling your slick slip out, pooling, making a mess of your thighs and his sheets. johnny had moved from suckling on your neck to taking a nipple in his mouth, teeth softly gnashing at the bud. you felt like you were on fire, burning from your core, aching for a release. 

“cum f’me, m’eudail,” johnny groaned, breathless himself, his cock poking underneath his boxers, the fabric all wet from where his tip was, leaking pearled pre-. “let me see you.”

“johnny, i’m gonna– i’m–!” you squealed, legs jumping, squeezing johnny’s sides as you jolted, hips twitching at the bloating ecstasy. johnny just pushed down on your thigh, not letting up with the pace of his fingers. he was fucking you so hard that his hand’s slapping against your skin, his palm grinding down on your clit just right, and the pleasure sizzled into something biting. into something that was almost painful.

it was catastrophic, pulling you into two directions. johnny’s everywhere — his scent in your lungs, his fingers deep in your pussy, his mouth hot and wet on your tits, and like this, like this, you felt yourself breaking. 

ripping—

then, your orgasm was punched out of you. 

your senses had gone awry — throat throbbing as you cried out, your eyes going blind as they rolled into your skull at the final curl of johnny’s fingers. white noise filled your ears, and it was like you were submerged underneath water, wading through the crashing tides of your climax.

you came back to johnny peppering your face with soft kisses, whispering something you couldn’t decipher past the croon of your name and something like you did good and so beautiful. he’d already pulled his fingers out, and used both arms to cradle you close. you felt so empty — god, that wasn’t even his cock, yet — but your body thrummed pleasantly, almost like the itch was finally scratched. 

“johnny?” you puffed out, voice all scratchy and weak. 

“i’m here, bon. i’m here.”

you hummed, curling into his chest, head pillowed by his arm. you wanted to ask what about his own euphoria, but johnny seemed so content just laying there with you, not really desperate or needy, so you let it go, losing the battle against your drowsiness before finally slipping into a quiet sleep. 

.

johnny’s there for your graduation, carrying a big bouquet of only eden roses. you didn’t even know that those particular ones were expensive until someone from the graduation party oohed and aahed to their friend. 

your cheeks burned when their friend chirped, “well someone’s clearly loved.”

you know that what they said would have had johnny agreeing loudly if he was allowed in the lineup because he is never one to be shy about what he feels; or not anymore, anyway. he loves so fully and openly that you still wonder why it took the two of you so long to get together, but the days since then had just been kind and filling that you have long forgotten how it was to not be with him. 

they’re going to call your name soon, and your stomach swoops, excitement and anxiety mixing in a dizzying tandem. 

you’re graduating with a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a diploma in early childhood education, and this is not where you thought you would be when you first started university, but it’s the happiest you have ever been. and sure much of your poli-sci courses were scrapped when you changed majors, and that’s also a lot of money wasted, but you have three job opportunities lined up already and it’s like the seismic shift in your life had finally corrected itself. 

(your mom said she’s sorry that she and your pa couldn’t come, but you’ve stopped longing for their acceptance and told her it was fine.

there’s a date saved in your calendar, though, for a brunch with her and that was enough.)

you ducked into johnny’s arms when the graduation ceremony ended, careful of the bouquet he’s holding. 

“congratulations, bonnie,” he says, a hearty laugh rumbling from his chest. “christ, i’m so, so proud of you.”

you never pegged yourself for a crybaby, but tears begin to pool in the corners of your eyes at the weight of his words. 

“thank you,” you reply, soft and raw, and honest. 

johnny pulls you in, his lips warm as they’re pressed on your forehead. 

and this, just like this, you know things will only get better from here on out. 

[woodywood101blog]

Oliver was nearing the end of his service in the Army as a Brigadier, and wanted to ease his way into retirement or some sort of post-service career. He wanted to do something that would be rewarding personally and not too stressful, compared to his current duties in Personnel Management.

He knew the details of the PREGO Program run by Personnel Management. He knew it so well that he was the one who advised both Ryan and Rusty about particular elements of the program. Not his fault they didn't read the fine print, Oliver reminded himself.

At the same time, he wondered whether being part of the PREGO Program full-time might be a good way to transition out of service. He asked some fellow officers, who advised him that the researchers may not feel comfortable allowing a senior officer, particularly of his age, to participate in the program. However, when he asked the researchers, a flicker of curiosity flew through their minds, and decided to give it a go with Oliver and see if the treatment would work with someone who would typically be beyond child-bearing age.

So, alongside announcing he was transitioning to part-time service, he was also transferring to work for the PREGO Program full-time, both as a participant and as an adviser.

***

The researchers played it very safe with Oliver, keeping a close eye on him because of his age. Oliver took it in his stride, knowing he could just embrace whatever changes were happening to him. His wife and kids were a little perplexed by his eagerness to participate in the program, but supported him nonetheless.

Over the weeks, Oliver's tight abs gave way to a growing baby bump sitting atop his flaring hips. He noticed that his nipples were darkening and bloating outwards, much like his pecs more generally. His wife joked that he should try one of her bras on. However, as the weeks progressed, it became clear that he was not just going to need bras, but ones that were bigger than his wife's.

Oliver loved every single moment of his pregnancy. He was over the moon the first time he felt the baby kick, bursting into tears dramatically during a team meeting. He laughed while he struggled to fit into his issued uniform, and having to awkwardly ask to go up a couple of sizes. He took any opportunity he could to look in a mirror and explore his growing body. Every curve, stretch mark and discomfort turned into joy for him, as he truly marvelled at the scientific advancements made.

Even Oliver's wife was beginning to love this new version of Oliver. He was less stressed, excited to do his duty, and embracing more of the family life than before. He had a number of years where he was posted overseas, leaving her to look after their kids. It took a toll on their marriage and Oliver's relationship with his kids. But now, as he goes through what she went through many times, he's growing a whole new appreciation for what is happening.

As the time came for him to give birth to his baby, Oliver was already thinking about the next time he would get pregnant. His wife joked that he should be careful saying that before labor. However, Oliver's labor was so seamless and stress-free that after his first time feeding his baby son, he turned to the researchers and asked how soon he could do this again. His wife looked in shock at the researchers, who were just as shocked as well.

***

The researchers managed to persuade Oliver to give his body time to recover, so he got straight back into his regular routine at the gym, very quickly regaining a lot of his former physique back. It became clear to the researchers over the course of the PREGO and PREGO-Max programs that the men who have gone through pregnancy retain their enlarged breast tissue and mammary glands, and keep a more feminine waistline and hips. Oliver didn't mind, as it was a sign of what he had gone through, and what he wants to do again.

In his service transition planning session, his mentor asked what he wanted to do as his post-service job. He had two tasks in mind: either a mentor to other men going through the PREGO Program, or as a surrogate. His mentor was a bit perplexed by his response, as most men who take part in the program have serious grievances with it. But for Oliver, "it's the most rewarding thing I've ever done. Why would I stop doing something that is giving me real joy?" The mentor couldn't argue with that.

The researchers were working out a way to retain Oliver while allowing him to fully transition out of the service. With some approvals from higher ranked Army officers, an offer was put forward to Oliver: continue being a participant in the PREGO Program for a slightly lower payment rate than serving officers, with no obligation to be on duty.

To Oliver, it was a good deal - he had more than enough to retire with, from both his and his wife's incomes, and his kids were all in the process of moving out of home to go to university. He could retire, peacefully keeping on getting pregnant and supporting the PREGO Program. He did return with one question: do I need to keep the kids, or can they be put up for adoption? The researchers eventually decided that it would be more suitable to have the children be adopted by families within Defence rather than at large. With that, the deal was done.

***

Four years later, Oliver was waddling along a dock in the Bahamas, wearing his favourite pair of swimmers: an orange bra and matching swimming shorts. His wife was holding his waist, keeping him upright as his legs struggled with the boulder-like weight wedged between his hips.

Oliver begged to carry multiples for one time, "just to see what it's like!" The researchers were nervous, but decided Oliver's eagerness is hard to overcome, so they allowed him to try out the PREGO-Max hormones once. Sure enough, he became pregnant with twins, which the researchers were relieved with. They weren't sure whether Oliver's body could handle carrying more than two at a time.

Although Oliver's body struggled with carrying twins, he still loved every moment of it. He especially loved how his 'moobs', as he called them, managed to bloated even more than ever before, causing him to go up to G-cups rather than his regular D-cups. His regular maternity shirts that he wore for the previous pregnancies were already tight by the time he got to 6 months along, however that could also have been because of his wife's growing obsession with seeing her husband grow with each child he carried.

Oliver and his wife's love for each other in this new stage of life was hard to explain to others. She was enamoured in his strength and found a whole new way to connect deeply with her husband, who missed these key milestones of life for their own kids. However, she was able to be a key source of support for Oliver. Similarly, Oliver's love for his wife's sacrifices gained a whole new meaning as he struggled his way through every subsequent pregnancy, and especially with the twins.

As they slowly walked together along the dock, Oliver reflected on his service, the sacrifices he and his wife made for each other, and their new-found love and appreciation for each other as he goes through something that theoretically should never be happening with guys like him. "But fuck it, I love every bit of this", he thought as he moaned quietly when his wife massaged his lower back.

[sparklysung]

✨MEDDLE ABOUT – s.j.y.✨

© sparklysung – 2024. all rights reserved. no reposts, modifications and/or translations allowed.

pairing – sim jaeyun x female!reader

genre – smut | non-idol!au, university!au, strangers to lovers!au

warnings – kinda dom!reader (?), awkward!jake, oral (f. receiving), a bit of grinding maybe (?), mentions of alcohol and weed, pet names (mainly pup or puppy), physics major!jake, chemistry major!reader, reader calls jake a nerd lol. lmk if i forgot something!

word count – 2.370 words

summary – the one where jake ends up on his knees, eating you out after meeting you in a crowded bar. 

note – so i guess i’m back? from the dead? i’m so sorry if anyone cares that i literally for like a hot minute:’) i’m approaching the end of my university program so i’ve been super busy in the past couple years. stressed? all day every day. wanting to graduate asap? hell yeah. anyway, this was obviously inspired by meddle about – chase atlantic since i’ve been obsessed with them lately. pls lmk what you guys think, i’m trying to get back into writing and this is the first piece i’ve been able to finish so far lol. but pls be kind with me or i’ll cry lol i’m really anxious about posting again but fuck it we ball. this was also not proofread so ignore the errors if you find any lol. also lmk what y’all think about maybe starting a playlist type of series? with different idols and songs?

well, come and get it now,

when jake agreed to go bar hopping on a regular wednesday night with his friend group, he was not expecting the chain of events that would lead to where he was now. 

sure, he was hoping for a good time, especially since wednesdays were designated ‘dollar beers’ and the usually expensive alcoholic drinks were at a more accessible price. it was the perfect opportunity for broke college students to go out and get drunk while on a budget. 

that was why he did not put up much of a fight when jay let him know about their plan for the night, quickly coming to terms with the idea that he was going to have to show up to class horribly hungover. he knew no matter how many excuses he offered, jay was not going to take no for an answer. 

so, at 8 pm, jake took one last look at himself in the mirror, psyching himself up for what the night had prepared for him, before heading to jay’s place. 

come and get it now. 

“you made it.”

jay commented as soon as he propped the door to his apartment open, a satisfied smirk adorning his face. 

jake trailed behind his friend like a lost puppy, a bit anxious and painfully sober. once they reached the nicely decorated living room, the group was finally complete. 

by the look of it –if the others’ flushed cheeks were something to go by–, the night had already begun. 

his friends were chatting loudly, the sound of laughter and alcoholic beverages being passed around filled the otherwise neat area. the cold night air made him shudder as he joined the group, the smell of weed coming from the balcony making his lungs burn. 

baby, show me what you’re doing, 

before he knew it, jake found himself surrounded by sweaty bodies, the stuffy air enhancing the effect of the weed he had smoked earlier. the music blasting out of the multiple speakers scattered around the bar, the bass making his body feel numb. 

jake joined his friends, dancing with not a single care in the world, the concerns about school quickly slipping out of his intoxicated mind. 

it felt great to finally be able to relax for once. 

however, just as he was starting to enjoy the night, he somehow managed to make a fool of himself. 

“fuck,” jake yelp, utterly embarrassed. “i’m so sorry, i swear i didn’t mean to spill your drink!”

come and turn around. 

“you can make it up to me by getting me a new one?”

the sound of your melodic voice made his head tilt upwards, following the source, shame washing over his body when he got a look at you. 

you were hot. 

a little stunned by your pretty face, he struggled to say something. 

“o-of course!” he blurted out a little too loudly for comfort, and jake’s cheeks grew hot when you giggled at his awkwardness. 

we only met each other just the other day,

“i take it this is not your scene?” you wondered out loud, obviously trying to start a conversation with the cute boy. 

“uh, something like that,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head, visibly nervous. “i don’t usually go out on weekdays, especially when i have class morning classes the next day.”

“i see,” you hummed, thinking about your own morning classes tomorrow. but who cared, right? have fun now and deal with the consequences later. 

“so, uh, what’s your program?” you smiled to yourself at his attempt at keeping the conversation alive, relieved to know he interested in you enough to engage with you.  

“chemistry.”

his eyebrows shot up at your words, impressed. 

“no way, i wasn’t expecting that.”

“yeah? what’s yours?”

“physics.”

you gasped loudly, feigning shock, and he smiled abashedly. 

“good thing i’m into nerds.”

but you already got me feeling some type of way. 

you were so bold with your words, so smooth with the way you flirted with him. your honey-like voice had him blindly agreeing with you, almost in a trance-like state. you could be asking him to trade his soul for a chicken nugget and he would instantly agree, no questions asked. 

the way you blinked at him, long lashes fluttering so innocently as your glazed over eyes stared straight through him, spiking up his heart rate. your body leaned closer with his every word, fingers toying with a loose strand of your silky hair in such an endearing way his fuzzy mind could not comprehend. 

it had to be illegal to be this attractive. 

and you were guilty as charged. 

now, if i could figure it out,

one thing led to another and soon your lips were on his plush ones, leaving a kiss that felt like a cup of hot chocolate in the winter. warm and sweet. 

jake was able to shake off the initial surprise and deepened the kiss. one hand found its way into the nape of your head, pulling you closer, and the other to the small of your back. his touch was hot and reassuring, allowing you to get lost in the feeling of his mouth on yours. 

your short dress rode up revealing more of your thighs as you reached for his broad, strong shoulders for support, your weight leaning on his athletic body. and to your delight, you could already feel the hardening bulge in his pants. 

he pulled away, his breathing uneven and lips swollen, appearing dazed. 

“wanna get out of here?”

i’d take you back to my house so we can meddle about. 

jake barely managed to lock the door before you were pushing him against it, arms going to wrap around his neck to bring him in for a kiss. your hungry lips on his, your hot body against him, the scent of your perfume. the combination of sensations overwhelming his senses and leaving him panting for air. 

he couldn’t get enough of you. 

jake noted to thank jay later for almost dragging him out of his house. 

your ministrations, the gentle but eager touch of your hands and your searing lips on his sensitive neck had jake struggling to keep up, far too aroused to think straight. his pants had become considerably tighter since he met you earlier. and he couldn’t help but push his hips into yours, searching for some much needed relief. 

the giggle you let out at his desperate attempt at humping you had a frustrated whimper almost escaping the poor boy. 

so pretty.

“aw, is my puppy getting impatient?” you asked in the most taunting tone, getting off on teasing him. 

“y/n, please, i need something,” jake pleaded, cock throbbing in his jeans. “anything.”

and who were you to deny such a polite boy?

somehow you both managed to stumble into his room, hands never leaving the other. 

‘cause it’s not just a figure of speech,

jake’s body fully sprawled on the bed trembled when you brought a hand to cup the tent in his jeans. his groans only grew louder, raw with desire as you slipped your hand under the fabric and made direct contact with his length. 

jake thought he was having a fever dream from how stupidly hot his body felt. each caress of your soft hands had him weak on the knees, hips bucking to follow your touch, not caring about how needy he seemed. 

your panties were drenched as you felt him up, mouth watering at the thought of his dick fucking your throat until you choked. 

but that could wait. what you needed right now was his mouth on your dripping core. 

you got me down on my knees. 

“fuck, please,” he whined, “let me taste you.”

jake looked at you from his place on the floor, looking all desperate to get his hands on you. you could see his pretty eyes shining even in the darkness, a glint of need letting you know just how much he wanted you. 

slowly, you lifted your dress to reveal your underwear, your fingers teasing the hem of the garment. 

he swallowed, his mouth uncomfortably dry. his own fingers itched to reach for you and get your panties off himself, too eager to get more of you to wait.

your eyes scanned the boy in front of you, eyebrows scrunched together, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. despite your limited vision, you could easily make out the outline of his cock in his pants. you almost wanted to jump straight into business just to get a look, wondering what shade of pink it was.

key word: almost. 

“what’s wrong, puppy?” you teased, biting back a smirk. when he only huffed in response, you decided to push further. “speak up, sim, i asked you a question.”

his hard cock twitched from the confines of his jeans at your tone. 

you looked annoyed, tapping your foot impatiently as you waited for an answer. 

“i need you, please,” his words came out slurred, too horny to care. 

you nodded, raising a brow at him. “it wasn’t that hard now, was it?”

his body almost vibrated with excitement when you pulled your panties down your legs. you stepped closer to him once they hit the floor, and his eyes immediately shot to the discarded piece of clothing, breathing getting heavier when he found the wet patch at the crotch. 

among the wide range of traits you possessed, liar wasn’t one of them. the sight of him, on his knees, begging to please you, had you rubbing your thighs together. your neglected core dripping with arousal. 

“be a good pup and eat me out.”

jake perked up as soon as his brain processed your words, scooting closer without a care for his knees. he hummed when you gasped at the feeling of his tongue licking a stripe up your slit. 

it’s getting harder to breathe out. 

jake groaned when you pushed his head closer, his nose digging into your pussy and putting pressure on your clit. his hands immediately went to grab at your thighs, gripping them for dear life. 

he was enamoured with the way your hips bucked into his mouth, your plush lips letting moans escape. it was like music to his ears. 

girl, just scream it out,

jake could barely breathe but he didn’t care. all he could think about was the intoxicating scent of your arousal, how sweet you tasted on his tongue. he could feel a mixture of your juices and his saliva drip down his neck, and he felt like he was about to cum in his pants like a bitch in heat. 

his hips desperately humped the air, too engrossed in making you cum all over his face to feel embarrassed. your fingers tangled in his soft locks, tugging at the roots whenever his tongue swiped just right only egging him on to work harder. 

tell me what you’re thinking about. 

“j-jake,” you whined, feeling the knot in your stomach tightening at the speed of light. “don’t stop.”

bet, he thought. 

if the way your thighs were trembling around his head was something to go by, he knew you were close. 

feeling you fall apart just from his mouth only was driving him insane. he couldn’t wait to see you take his cock, velvety walls stretched around his thickness. he wanted to hear your sweet moans as you struggled to fit him whole, pussy too tight for such a big dick. 

hell, just the idea if it had jake eating you out like he would never get pussy ever again. his skilled tongue poked at your entrance, trying to push it as far as he could, relishing in the squelching sounds filling the room. 

“fuck,” he moan into your pussy when you pulled his hair a little harsher than before, the vibrations directly against your clit sending you over the edge. 

you swore your mind blanked out for a second there. your orgasm washed over you like a tsunami, leaving you light headed. your body convulsed as if you were experiencing a demonic possession first hand, hips humping jake’s face like a rabid dog, riding out your high. and if it weren’t for jake’s grip on you, you would’ve hit the floor. 

once you regained a hint of control over your body, you pushed his head away from your sensitive core. 

to your satisfaction, jake looked as equally as fucked out as you. his once pristine shirt was now clinging to his toned body due to the sweat, his dark hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead. his pupils were blown out, chest heaving up and down at a concerningly fast pace. 

you had him exactly how you liked men, utterly ruined. 

with a sly grin on your face, you pulled him back up on his feet by his shirt. before he could yelp, your lips crashed against his in a heated kiss. jake stumbled towards you, unintentionally pressing your body into the cold wall behind you.

his hands grabbed your hips to pull you impossibly closer, need to feel more of you. your fingers wandered back to his hair, playing with the strands of silky hair and hissing against your lips when you pulled a little too hard. 

his body felt like it had been lit on fire, the touch of his large hands almost burning you, leaving behind an invisible outline of his hand on your skin. the kiss you shared grew more passionate, more desperate with each passing moment, your tongues waltzing to the pace of your fast-beating hearts. 

although you were enjoying the heated exchange, you both needed more. 

no, i wanna see you undress now. 

you hastily removed your clothes, tossing them somewhere in the room. jake followed suit, matching your eagerness, ready to pounce on you the moment he got the chance. 

soon you found yourselves all over each other once again, hands touching and feeling up the other’s body, lips finding each other with a growing intensity. 

jake placed you on his bed, looking down at you like you just escaped his wildest dreams. 

i wanna hear you confess now. 

“i want you to fuck me, jake.”

–lia:)

[reasonsforhope]

Book Publishing Resources

Well, since a few people said they were interested and/or that posting about it on here occasionally was a decent idea, here we go!

I'm MC Calvi, a freelance editor specializing in self-help, psychology, spirituality, paganism, workbooks, and LGBTQ books.

You can find out more about me at my website, where I also offer free twenty-minute book/publishing consultations, in addition to regular editing services.

I am also now offering some pay-what-you-can resources on my website and on Gumroad. I'm committed to offering pay-what-you-can resources because the odds are already so stacked against marginalized authors, and publishing shouldn't be pay to win.

I have two new booklets I'm actually super happy with! They both draw on my eight years of experience in the publishing industry to give authors a leg up.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming as I hit "publish" on another good news post!

[electrasev5nwrites]

Aint No Grave (galvanic vitalism) 1/2

part 2

His stumps hurt like a bitch. 

Deidara rolled over and groaned, thoroughly sick of this phantom pain bullshit and tedious revivals. “I have died twice,” he complained to management. “This is unacceptable, yeah. I earned my culmination.”

Why was he back again? No one was commanding him into battle-- and he didn't feel dead, anyway. Aside from a buzzing in his bones he just felt alive. Regular. Total bullshit.

That was weird but he didn’t have the emotional energy to devote to wondering why he had woken up again, after dissolving into dust at the end of that asinine battle for the continuation of humanity with all those Konoha chucklefucks and the zombies. He sulked in the dirt. Ugh. What the hell was it now? Some magical goddamn last-chance heroes quest to clear his soul’s debt and make it into the pure lands? Barf. It was highway robbery to steal his right to leave a final and dramatic mark on the world.

Someone grunted. It was low, dismissive, and very familiar.

Deidara rocketed up, bracing himself with– holy shit, his arms were working. He spent a moment staring dumbly at his gaping palms before he remembered that he had heard someone fucking awful in his vicinity.

Kakuzu gave him a look of pitiless disdain and went back to his work, stitching the lips shut on Hidan’s severed head. An arm flailed angrily from where it was pinned to a tree. The other arm was inching towards the other body parts, but the legs kept drunkenly ambling away from it. Hidan’s legs were still attached to his hips and they were trying to walk over to what was left of his lower torso, a few yards over yonder. This looked like Kakuzu’s work.

That didn't explain anything that he cared about, yeah.

Deidara used all of his years of training to interpret the subliminal message that he should shut the fuck up now. Instead he scowled at the old man. “The fuck is this?” he hissed, and gestured with his working arm, holy shit, that was wild. Some civilian-donated arms had been sewn back on after that buttcrack Hatake wiped his arms from existence, but they hadn’t worked that well for him. These moved like his own arms and they didn’t even smell like human rot. That had been bad enough, to be some weirdo clinging to the past like Sasori-senpai, but to have perfect new arms happen to him again was an unforgivable affront. He squinted at the mouths in his palms. No chipped teeth. They were perfect and undamaged.

He was sort of offended. Deidara waved the arms around a little more to gauge their utility. “Did you do this to me?” Deidara hissed suspiciously. He glanced down at the seam where his stumps ought to end. He frowned. He didn’t even see scarring… There was a tan line. His stump was a little darker than the arms. Ew. He contemplated this perversion. “Looking back on the past with nostalgia is for hacks, yeah,” Deidara said vehemently. “I can make clay with my ass if I have to-”

“Shut up.” Kakuzu’s green and black nightmare eyes flashed with barely repressed rage.

He shut up. Just for a moment.

And then he noticed something weird. “That is an extinct mushroom.” Deidara pointed accusatively at the fungal sack of shit in question. “This is a lame genjutsu.” He huffed. “And that– fucksake, has whoever made this not heard about the post war one land management programs?” He scowled at a growth of mugwort, which had been eradicated in the wild like 30 years ago by the medical industry to ensure patient supply stayed level and no one did any folksy self care. “This is someone’s idiot botanical fantasy,” he complained. “Either that or we’ve traveled back in time.”

Both of the old men were staring at him now. Hidan and Kakuzu exchanged a meaningful look, like they didn’t think he would have noticed the flaws in the landscape.

Deidara rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he said disdainfully. He shook his long hair out and ran a hand through it–wow, okay, he had missed that. He twisted a section together to enjoy how soft and strong the strands were. Maybe having hands again was worth it. He forgave them for being a throwback.

There was a wet sound as Hidan tore his lips apart in an attempt to break the thread keeping them shut. “We’re in the past, ass bucket,” he sneered wetly. The effect was ruined by how weak and weedy his voice always came out when he didn’t have two lungs attached. His left arm finally reached his torso and started pulling it to his legs.

“Shut up, uggo,” Deidara said immediately. And then he had to run from his life because Kakuzu retaliated. He used his new hands to blow up a section of the forest, which brought down an angry nature-freak clan of proof that he was, in fact, in the ancient past.

“Those are fuckin’ Senju?” Deidara accused, three sweaty hours later of chasing around increasingly desperate survivors from a patrol squad. He kicked the closest body. It squelched. It almost sounded like a voice protesting, through the mess he had made of the face. He knelt down to pull at the corpse’s face to confirm it really was dead. Huh. Musta been air trapped in the gut or something. It moved when he touched it, like human skin and fat tissue and not like something Sasori or Orochimaru would have kept around mummified or pickled. He made a sound of disgust. “This is savage,” Deidara complained. “The only good thing about coming back to life is that I was gonna have a chance to see the new Fuyumi movie, yeah.” He kicked the body again for good measure, hard enough that it rolled over. It grunted again.

He glowered for a while. He could feel Hidan and Kakuzu moving his way, probably to whine about his lack of subtlety like the old married farts they were. Well, they could go fuck themselves, he decided, standing and bracing his hands on his hips to lean back and crack his back. 

Hidan came crashing into view. “You!” He screamed. His eyes were wild as he pointed at Deidara.

He raised a blonde eyebrow in disdain. “Yeah?” Deidara drawled.

‘Might have to fly away from this. The two of them are a nightmare.’

Ah. Haha. Shit. He hadn’t prepped any sculptures to blow up. Deidara resisted the urge to giggle when he realized he might be in danger.

“You’re immortal now,” Hidan breathed. He got waaay too close, wafting the stink of metallic blood and rot. “You’re one of us, you were worthy enough to be rejected from the pure lands. It’s a sign.”

Deidara was too busy plugging his nose to listen to the idiot’s words for a moment. When it landed, he laughed. 

Him? Immortal? That was stupid. “I would never,” Deidra drawled. “Immortality is for hacks. Life has no meaning if it never ends— your end is the only meaning!” He declared loudly and proudly to the forest, and was promptly ignored. 

“I can feel it!! Hidan grabbed him by the forearms and brought their faces close together. “Repent and convert,” he breathed, and then kissed Deidara’s forehead. “You have been baptized with death and now speak his tongue.”

Ugh!

Deidara shrieked and blasted a hole in the creep. “Hands off!” He put some space in between them and huffed, outraged. “That’s nasty, yeah, when was the last time you washed the blood off of your- off of your anything?” He spluttered in outrage and shuddered.

Hidan ignored that very good point to start off on one of his religious scriptures. Deidara watched from a safe distance, appalled but willing to take the moment to scoop up some shitty dirt and chakra-treat it to work as makeshift clay. He stuffed it to satiation with explosion release chakra and hurriedly molded it into a shitty fat clay bird. As he worked he tracked Kakuzu’s location. He was probably interested in the bodies that Deidara had left– he seemed to veer towards all of them on his way to intercept Deidara and Hidan’s eventual conflict.

“-have the blessing of our Lord and Savior to see and hear beyond death,” Hidan took a moment to breathe. “Join the holy crusade to convert the filthy fucking nonbelievers and use their blood to paint his will upon the damned canvas of this sinful goddamn world-”

Deidara let it go in and out of his ears until he felt sufficiently armed and his bird’s beak didn’t look so stupid. “You’re cracked, yeah,” he said flatly. “I’m not buying what you’re selling. So you can fuck off.” He gestured for Hidan to leave, shoo.

Hidan stopped talking at least and stared at him, red eyes glittering with malice and something that wasn’t very sane. Kakuzu was close now. He had spent a few minutes with a corpse and picked up speed in a way that implied he was pissed off.

Deidara sensed, in his heart, that it was time to leave. “Don’t call,” he said with a wink, and blew his shitty little sculpture up into the safest size he could manage with such shitty material. He hopped on and lifted directly up.

The impulse was to use the sculpture as a barrier between his body and whatever it was that Hidan was throwing at him– but that would be stupid, yeah, because if this got ruined he would be back on the ground with that asshole, so Deidara leaned over the side to spit shitty clay balls out of his hands. He released them midair in time to redirect Hidan’s scythe. By the time the weirdo had his staff back, Deidara was out of range.

He picked a direction at random, given that he didn’t know what time it was so the sun wasn’t useful for orienting. The geography clued him in before long that he was heading for Suna– oh, shit, for the lands that would one day be unified into Suna.

Deidara considered the soil quality there, hissed, and adjusted his heading to the vague direction of Iwa. 

He didn’t know why he was here, or what he would do. But every situation was enhanced with a large quantity of high-quality clay.

[ignitesthestxrs]

this is not a post that is a life lesson exactly, but it is like. an update on my life and how glad i am to have had options in this situation, and it can also be a metaphor if that metaphor is helpful to you

anyway, in mid february my boss was like 'hey do you have time for a catch up in at 11.30', and i had to do my regular self talk down of 'you're not getting fired lol clam down' except

(okay i didn't get fired, but i did get laid off.)

(read more because i've never told a short story in my life)

which. positive news, i got laid off in aotearoa nz and not america, but it is still the worst job market my case worker at the ministry of social development has seen in 20 years, so i wasn't feeling like. hype. about this situation.

the specifics of my career are that it's not really a career so much as it is a place i started working at when i was 17, and then didn't leave. it had nothing to do with my degree and wasn't doing anything i was especially interested in, but it was a job, and i was comfortable there, and it paid for half a surgery i needed and dealt with a solid decade of my unmedicated panic attacks, so like. solid work. a job that did essentially what i needed it to when i needed it.

that being said this left me in the position of: not having done a job search, ever! not having a CV! not having comprehensive knowledge of my own skillset because i learnt half a programming language on the job and only knew how to use it with my company's bespoke software! i was not feeling confident!

the huge caveat to this is that i DID receive 38 weeks severance. and when i say huge, i mean that was the safety net/prize that allowed me to do literally anything after the point of being laid off. like. had i not had that financial cushion, i had enough of a governmental safety net to fall back on if necessary, but it would have been high tension misery and panic the whole way through. at no point would i have dealt with any of it with grace (and frankly, no one should have to).

but because i did have that safety net, i had options, and i also just had the ability to...start dealing? my main concern was like, okay, given that this is happening, am i going to be able to continue living pretty normally for the next few months? yes? okay then, the only thing to do is to start doing.

(there are many things to do in this situation, but it did help me to picture having one path, and that path was Forward).

so idk i used my ten years of reading ask a manager on breaks and started writing cover letters and applying for jobs and now i have one. this is a simplification of a process that was at times miserable, and always deeply fucking boring, but i also think that the nature of just getting a rolling application process started helps with the overall brain-work of not taking rejections personally. like, if you're applying to everything that your skillset vaguely fits, your feelings can't be too hurt if a company comes back with 'skillset too vague bitch, nice try'.

anyway the job i ended up landing - and it was One Job, but You Only Need One - has ended up being something in the public sector that in the process of learning it existed, i became weirdly enthusiastic about. it also has a week more holiday than my last job, pays 10k more, and is in the same suburb i live in. it has more opportunity for career growth, and apparently i can also get free eye tests? that sounds nice. and i landed it quickly enough that i still have a stack of that severance money left for savings and also purchasing a celebratory build your own wooden pinball machine set.

all this to say, getting laid off was weirdly the best thing to happen to me this year. perhaps in many years.

which. that's LUCK, so much of this is luck, and location, and random happenstance. but also, you know, some of it was mindset and work also. some of it was due to decisions i made about my job and my mental health over a decade ago. i am a person who was able to deal with this situation pretty okay today because of decisions i made as a much less stable and unmedicated young adult.

this is what i mean about this being a useful metaphor if you want it to be. on account of the luck and the happenstance etc, i would never want to say 'this bad thing that happened to you is secretly a chance for a good thing to come!' because: i genuinely don't believe that.

but i know i have been a person in the past who fucked up in ways i had to trust my future self would be able to deal with and built on. i have had difficult and bad situations in my life that had very little to do with any power i had over those situations, and i had to pick a direction and start walking, because the other option was to lie down and not move.

and that process has been habit forming. allowing myself to take breaks when i could afford to, even if it meant not keeping up, meant that i could built up my tolerance to risk and disaster at my own speed, befitting my own capacity.

i am haunted by the version of myself that i believe could exist if i wasn't weighed down by everything that i am. a hannah who is less tired, more focused, less mentally ill, more supported by generational wealth and opportunity. she sits just out of reach, and occasionally she looks back and says, a little concerned, 'aren't you worried you're just making excuses, though? don't you think if you were a little more disciplined, you could be me? are you going to be so kind to yourself that you forget you even wanted to be me in the first place?'

i am: always worried about these things. but i am the person who is here, and i am moving forward at the pace i am able. for the most part, it's working out.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

the baftas: my eyes need bleach after the livestream chat.

I SAID I WOULD COME TO TUMBLR AND SLUT-SHAME ALL OF YOU, AND YOU BET YOUR GODDAMN BILDADDY I'M HERE TO DO IT. First, a huge thank you to @good-usernames-were-taken, Valerie, for enabling this entire chaos and streaming it. And of course to Disappointment the Main Maggot.

Second, as per requests from you maggots, I have to give an honourary mention to the tragic lack of an emotional support gaseous orange, the late half-eaten packet of Lays on my desk, and my nearly empty can of Monster energy. Idk either, you asked for the mentions you got them.

Without further ado, presenting the BAFTA Awards 2024:

I am busy drawing out the neckline stitches of Crowley's wedding dress, when I am reminded of the stream and I crash into it midway. Little do I know what I am getting into.

Everyone is here for David Tennant. No one is here for the actual awards. This is made very clear very quickly.

KNEES. JUST KNEES. ALL EVERYONE TALKS ABOUT, THROUGHOUT THE STREAM, IS DAVID TENNANT'S KNEES. ARE YOU ALL OKAY WHAT THE FRESH HELL.

For context, David is in a kilt for the first half. I finally see why my relatives disapprove of skirts above knee-length. I never knew humanity's unholy worship of knees till I came here.

SOMEONE ASKS IF DAVID HAS TANNED HIS KNEES. MAGGOTS. PLEASE.

We interrupt our regular scheduled program of David knees to have an intense discussion about British versus French humour, and the misgendering of croissants.

RDJ wins an award and calls his wife his Alpha and Omega.

We're back to the knees. I can't handle how slutty David's knees are, says a worthy maggot.

This goes into a discussion about tickets for David's Macbeth, because, you guessed it, the kilt and the knees.

A lot of gorgeous and talented women in the BAFTAs tonight. I am floored.

I am not allowed to dwell in my awe because the chat is not a place of the lord. Curtain calls of Macbeth are discussed with unnecessary lasciviousness.

Thankfully, in the midst of this, I get a great Zodiac pattern reference for Crowley's wedding dress cummerbund. I was going to have to research the night sky for star charts but this is better.

People show their beautiful brainrot-induced Doc Marten purchases.

The knee thirst has moved into X-rated territory. I am terrified.

A song is sung in memory of film industry people who passed away this year, and people are sad about Dumbledore but at the same time are imagining Aziraphale and Crowley dancing to the song. The brainrot is real.

I accidentally spoil Saltburn's freakshow for someone. When I ask how I can make up for it, they say something about GOAD. I'm alarmed. Is that an OnlyFans, I ask. It's Good Omens After Dark, the chat answers. Is THAT an OnlyFans, I ask. Close enough, the chat says.

David has now changed outfits to a suit, which finally makes people pay attention to the BAFTAs, if only to alternatively thirst over the suit and bemoan the loss of knees.

Things, uh, happen, which I will have to include as quotes in another post. Cheers, @thearoacemess and @vitrilol.

Barty Crouch Jr is debated about as the Wolfstar child. Bratty Crouch Jr is said to be Crowley.

I obtain a banana, which I associate with blowjobs.

@thearoacemess talks about someone deepthroating a seven-inch banana without a hitch.

The stream does a flashback to the kilt time. It is a mistake. @queermarzipan barrels in and is being too slutty about the knees.

I tell them they need jesus, and they yell about how they've gone to mass twice today and they're an atheist.

Thankfully, @vitrilol starts chanting about the glory of Ireland. The only thing that will distract Marzipan from David Tennant is Ireland.

He proceeds to start screech-singing in all caps.

🎵IRELAND IIIRELAND TOGETHER STANDING TALLLL.🎵

The BAFTAs end. People are still thirsting over David Tennant.

🎵I KNOW YOU'RE MISSING HOME IT'S SO LONG SINCE YOU'VE BEEN🎵

Uh, more dubious things about David, suits and the absence of said suits are discussed. I'm trying my damndest not to notice.

🎵AND THE LIFE YOU HAD IN DUBLIN NOW AIN'T NOTHIN BUT A DREAM🎵

There is accidental Mascot lore: I am apparently from a different timeline (I mixed up timeline and timezone) and that's how Apollo deposited me in an illegal sushi restaurant where I became Neil Gaiman and Michael Sheen's intellectual child.

I am compared to a cat.

TOM HIDDLESTON AND DAVID TENNANT WERE IN THE STAGED-LIKE THING IN THE BEGINNING AHAHAHAHAH LOKI AND CROWLEY MY TWO CELESTIAL GENDERFLUID ICONS.

OKAY so I will end the summary here and make a list of out of context quotes in a new post. Because. Boy oh boy. That deserves its own post.

[feelmyskinonyourskin]

The Thunder That Follows | 1. Do You Think I'd Give Up?

Frank Castle x Fem Reader

next chapter | series masterlist | my masterlist

summary: Frank meets a mysterious new foe.

warnings: None for this chapter

*I never give permission for my fics, manips, or any other original creation I post on Tumblr to be copied, posted elsewhere, translated, or fed into any AI program. The only platforms I currently post on are Tumblr and AO3. Thanks!*

word count: 933

Frank Castle was not used to competition in his line of work. Sure Red was a pain about the ‘no killing’ thing whenever their paths crossed, but there weren’t exactly a lot of people (except the scumbags he was after) getting in the way of his work. That was until tonight.

The HVAC system of the building hummed in his ears as he stalked the halls of the 72nd floor of the Skyward Airlines corporate offices. Every corner he turned led to a different executive suite, each one more plush and lavish than the last with modern furnishings and stunning views of the New York skyline. Not a soul was around to enjoy the luxury and he was growing more agitated with every room he entered that turned up empty. The bastard had to be in here somewhere.

He took the stairs two at a time to the 67th floor, wondering if C Suite assholes like Herman Douglass even knew his company had space on the lower floor, where all the underpaid employees - regular people with rent to pay and families to feed, worked overtime to make sure he could buy a yacht that sat empty docked in the Hudson most of the year.

He sighed with relief as he turned the corner and saw a light coming from under a door in the long hallway ahead. A woman’s voice giggled from behind it and he heard his target hum in agreement.

Having an affair with his younger secretary, how cliche.

Frank waited patiently for a few moments, listening to see if there was any chance the woman would slip out of the room and leave him the opportunity he was there for in the first place.

“Oh darling, there’s a special gift for you I forgot on my desk upstairs. Why don’t you be a dear and go get it?” the male voice said from behind the door

Perfect.

“Oh yes, Mr. Douglass!” she agreed with another giggle

She didn’t see Frank standing in the shadows waiting as she flung open the door and traipsed down the hallway, hips swinging as she went.

Frank took the opportunity and slipped into the conference room where Douglass sat, leaned back in a chair with his feet on the conference table. He had a smug expression on his pudgy, red face as he undid another button on his dress shirt.

The click of the gun alarmed him as he spun in his seat, sputtering and scrambling to his feet to meet his visitor.

“What… what could I possibly be… The Punisher… but I’m not some low life.. I mean, I…” Douglass stammered

“Shut it Douglass, like all those heroin strains being laced with whatever fucked up shit that’s killing people ain’t getting transported on your planes.”

“I don’t know anything about heroin transportation you must have the wrong…”

Bang.

The sound of a gunshot rang out through the conference room and Herman Douglass flinched, ready to meet his maker.

But it seemed as if time stopped and both he and the man who fired the gun stared at the bullet, suspended in mid air.

A woman appeared between them, holding the bullet between her index finger and thumb.

“Who the hell—?”

But before he could finish his sentence, she spun around and landed her fist right on Douglass’ temple, rendering him unconscious as he slumped against the table.

She turned to face Frank, combat boots thumping on the grey carpet as she threw the bullet on the floor and stepped towards him.

“This one is mine, Castle.” she exclaimed, stepping on her tip toes to nearly press her nose to his. “There’s more to this heroin transport than just him. I need him alive. For now.”

Frank could see the anger in her eyes. After all, it was about all he could see of her. The cowl of her grey athletic zip up and a black beanie covered most of her face, and her black cargo pants hid the rest.

“Can’t let that happen.” Frank replied

“And why not?”

“Cause he’s been facilitating some nasty drug trafficking, the kind that’s been gettin’ people killed.”

“I’m aware of that. Why do you think I’m here?”

“Honestly, not a fuckin’ clue. Don’t even know who you are.”

“You don’t have to. I’m here about his crimes too and he will be dealt with. But later.”

The woman waved a keycard in Franks face. Herman Douglass’ work keycard to be exact.

“This is my ticket to figuring out just who is paying him to move the drugs. But I need him alive.”

“So I’m just supposed to go on my merry way then? Huh? That it?” Frank asked “Look lady, I have no idea who you are or how you stopped my bullet out of thin air or just… appeared. But I ain’t about to just take the word of some stranger that he’ll end up dead and not just kill him myself right now.”

The woman shrugged.

“Just stay out of my way, Castle.”

Frank barely had time to react as the woman disappeared before his eyes just as she had been before. He had no idea where she was until his gun was out of his hand and striking him against the forehead. Then it was black.

The alleyway where Frank woke up smelled of hot garbage, reeking of a New York summer air that lingered in your nose for days. His head pounded as he tried to recall how he’d ended up here.

A woman, who was there then not? No that couldn’t be right…

[cyarikacyare]

Taking a break from our regular scheduled program to post this Fivesoka ficlet!!

@tealmisthams this is for you (for no particular reason other than I feel like it because I know you’ll appreciate it)

The only other Fivesoka content I’ve written besides for the Fivesoka creation event and it is a few years old at this point, but I still like it a lot!

Modern AU, prompt was “Really dating , but everyone thinks it’s fake”. It’s pretty short, but still fun (I think so and I hope you do too)

.

Fives didn’t hesitate to jump up and answer the door as soon as the doorbell went off.

“I’ve got it!” he shouted through the house, running to answer it.

On the other side stood Anakin and Ahsoka, as expected.

“Hey guys!” Fives smiled. “You made it!”

“Was there any doubt?” Anakin smirked, giving Fives a handshake.

“We wouldn’t miss gaming with you and Rex for the world!” Ahsoka said, winking.

“Speaking of which,” Anakin said inviting himself in. “Where is Rex? Rex!”

“I’m setting up already!” the other boy called out.

Anakin chuckled and made his way towards the living room.

Fives beckoned for Ahsoka to come in. She eagerly obliged and slipped off her shoes.

“You still want to tell them today?” Fives asked as he grabbed her hand.

“Yep!” Ahsoka said cheerfully. “Not a doubt about it!” She squeezed Fives’ hand. “As long as you’re still okay with it?”

Fives nodded. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Walking into the living room, they found Rex and Anakin already set up and ready to go.

“What took so long?” Rex asked tossing the controllers at them. “Ready to go?”

“More ready then you are!” Ahsoka laughed, launching herself onto the couch. Fives chuckled and sat on the floor in front of her.

“You’re all gonna get whooped by me today!” Fives said.

Anakin snorted. “As if.”

Well into the third round, Fives looked over his shoulder at Ahsoka. She smiled and gave his shoulder a rub. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Now?” he said quietly.

“Sure,” Ahsoka shrugged. “Though they do seem very preoccupied trying to beat each other.”

“The distraction should help lessen the shock.”

Ahsoka nodded. “True.”

Fives turned back around and cleared his throat. “So,” he said slowly. “Ahsoka and I have something to tell you.”

“It had better be serious,” Rex said through clenched teeth as he tried to gain an advantage on Anakin.

“It is,” Ahsoka said.

Anakin hummed, indicating his lack of belief, but Fives continued.

“Ahsoka and I are dating,” he stated. Ahsoka squeezed his hand.

“As if,” Rex snorted. It was followed by a muttered curse word as Anakin took another life from him.

“You know,” Anakin said, somehow managing to keep his attention on the game. “That’s a new prank for you. A good one, but not that good.”

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. “Thanks, but it’s not a prank.”

“We’re serious,” Fives insisted.

Anakin gave a victorious cry as he won, leaving Rex groaning in defeat. Then, Anakin turned to face his sister and friend.

“I’m impressed you’re trying to pull this off, but it won’t work. Also, I’m gonna start becoming incredibly suspicious anytime you and Fives are planning a get together for video games,” he directed at Ahsoka.

“It’s not a prank!” Ahsoka said. “I promise.”

“Yeah,” Anakin nodded. “Just like how Padmé coming over wasn’t a prank either? Well, guess what? Padmé didn’t deliver that pizza!”

Yeah, but that was priceless,” Rex chuckled.

Anakin groaned. “Don’t encourage them! You’re suppose to be on my side!”

“I am!” Rex shouted. He turned to Fives and Ahsoka. “Seriously guys, you should drop the joke before it gets you in trouble.”

“It’s not a joke!”

Fives could hear the exasperation in Ahsoka’s voice. He placed a hand on her knee and smiled. “I’ve got this.”

She nodded and slowly smiled back.

“Hey Dad?” Fives called out. “Could you come here a second?”

Rex eyes widened and he stared dumbfounded at his brother. “Don’t you dare try this one on Dad!” he warned. “Don’t you dare.”

In less than a minute, Jango Fett entered the living room. He crossed his arms and looked at his younger son. “What is it, Fives?”

Fives smiled. “Oh, well, I just wanted to let you know that Ahsoka and I are dating.”

Rex and Anakin stared at him, goggling at Fives’ audacity.

Jango nodded slowly and turned his attention to Ahsoka. “Is this true?” he asked simply.

Ahsoka nodded solemnly. “Yes sir. It is.”

Anakin stared at her, eyes wider than Fives had ever seen.

“For how long?” Jango asked.

“2 months,” Fives answered.

“No problems encountered?”

They both shook their heads.

“No, sir,” Ahsoka replied.

“Very well then,” Jango shrugged. “Carry on.”

Ahsoka’s whole face broke into a smile as he left the room. Fives grinned and squeezed her hand.

Rex’s jaw might as well have been dislocated. “No way,” he said. “No kriffing wa-You serious? You’re serious about dating?”

Fives and Ahsoka both nodded.

Anakin shook his head. “Well, okay then, Snips. Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

Ahsoka shrugged. “Fives and I agreed we’d tell you two together.”

“I can’t believe you’re serious,” Rex breathed, staring at the wall in disbelief.

Ahsoka chuckled. “No hard feelings though?”

“Yeah, no,” Rex sighed. “Just disbelief.”

“You’d better take good care of her though,” Anakin said to Fives, waving a threatening finger at him. “You don’t want me on your bad side.”

“No problem,” Fives nodded. “I’d protect this girl with my life.”

Anakin chuckled. “Yeah, I know. The threat was just obligatory. But, you know, now I really have to propose to Padmé.”

Ahsoka rolled her eyes. “You’ll stay in the lead. Don’t worry.”

Anakin shrugged. “Better safe than sorry. And uh, no surprise babies, okay?”

Fives laughed. “We know! Don’t worry.”

“Both our dads are gonna give us this lecture,” Ahsoka said. “You don’t have to.”

“I just can’t believe you’re being serious,” Rex said, shaking his head.

.

🧡💙

[ladycibia]

Hi, you don't have to answer this or anything, but just hoping you're ok and things are going well. It's been a while - and this is absolutely not a guilt push at all - just a hope that you're ok and looking after yourself, whatever you're doing. Be safe xx

local gremlin returns to infamous website after three months of inactivity

H-hi there! TwT Thank you so much for your concern and for taking the time to write to me such a sweet message, I really appreciate it and I am so, *so* grateful.

I’m sorry I disappeared for so long; I actually wanted to post a boring life update at the beginning of September but my PC broke and I lost tons of stuff, including my programs (+ my printer) and the long text I wrote for that occasion (lucky you). I have this habit of not posting anything unless I have something “creative” (= stupid drawings) to share, so I ended up disappearing (again) from social media.

But I’m fine! I mean, I’m fine, now; last year was pretty tough because of work and I couldn’t even get a proper rest during summertime as I was busy with the move and – well, I’ve got to admit I didn’t have a great time back then. Unfortunately, I’m one of those people who don’t react well to changes (I remember crying because my parents changed furniture once XD) and it took me a while to get accustomed to my new accommodation. But, as I’ve already said, I’m fine now! I started a new job (in my old school! …which is…strange, as I hated my school XDDD) and I can’t wait to enjoy my winter holidays! I mean, the last time I was able to draw something was two months ago and only because I got sick TwT ;;;; and I started colouring them *now*!! It’s the same old story: I miss drawing and I wish I could be more productive, but every time I have a little free time I end up doing my housework or sleeping (or just working again). But I’d like to snap out of this attitude and just be more active even if I haven’t drawn anything! Not on a regular basis ofc, but, you know, from time to time…! Anyway, thank you again for your kind words 💖wishing you the best! ;w;

[peachhcs]

Celly propt 7 where Sammy wears Will jersey for the first time as a couple at BC or could be done in the USA era when Will realizes he has felling for Sammy

in his jersey | the wonder years

hughes!sister x will smith au (samy + will)

the pining continues between samy and will during the wonder years when she wears his jersey to his ntdp game

1.7k words

i got a bit carried away when writing this lmao. i know this is a celly request, but i also feel like this ask fits into samy and will's wonder years category. writing their pining is soo cutie because they're so oblivious to one another. also posting another fic bc i feel bad leaving y'all dry for a couple days😭

700 celly masterlist | au masterlist

samy pulled the baseball cap further down her head as she sunk into the bleachers beside will's parents. she sported her friend's number across her back, trying to ignore the glaring looks from the other girls three rows down. they were regulars at the home games only because they had crushes on each of the players—specifically will. when samy walked into the rink wearing will's number across her back daggers were instantly shot. those girls were definitely not happy seeing samy wear her friend's number.

she tried ignoring them knowing they were just jealous she knew will specifically. she'd be happy to befriend them, but after months of just glaring, it was obvious they didn't wanna be samy's friend. instead, she sat with her parents and kept her attention on the boys down on the ice doing their warmups.

her eyes glued themselves to her best friend wearing the number 2 which was the same number spread across her back along with his last name. he skated around the ice with gabe and ryan, the three of them doing their warmups together like always. she loved seeing the three of them down there together, smiles painted on each of their lips being able to play the sport they loved together. 

it was also a bit of nostalgia knowing their last games playing for the ntdp were coming close. spring was right around the corner which also meant u18 worlds and after that the boys were completely done with the program. something about all of that felt bittersweet for the boys and samy. 

what would she do without them bugging her either in ann arbor or plymouth every weekend? will finally found her gaze when he looked towards the stands. the smile never left his lips as he waved. it was pretty known by now that he always waved at samy first before shifting his attention to his parents beside her. the blonde skated towards the glass and nodded his head to the right, an indication that he wanted samy down at the open entrance. 

while getting up, the youngest hughes directed a smirk in those other girls' direction. she knew she was about to piss all of them off when they watched her and will interact on the floor. what samy didn't know was that will saw the entire thing. 

he knew those girls liked him and were most definitely jealous of samy. he knew getting her in his jersey would shut them right up and finally get off his back by sending a clear message that he liked his best friend! (of course, samy had no idea though). 

"they're gonna bully my dms if you keep that up," the blonde lifted his helmet as he skated right up to the door where samy waited. 

the girl's entire face flushed in embarrassment, "you saw that?" she grimaced. 

"yeah, i did. it was endearing though. seeing you brag in their faces that you're mine," sometimes will's confidence grew a little too much and he said things without thinking. his own face flushed after realizing he said that. 

"i'm yours, huh?" samy raised her eyebrow. 

"shut up, you know what i mean," but she didn't. she didn't really get what will meant and how badly he wanted to really call her his. 

his stupid feelings were only getting worse and seeing her in his jersey with his all-time favorite number wasn't helping. however, his chest swelled with pride and a feeling of possessiveness knowing that everyone in the arena would see his name plastered across her back. 

"you look good in my jersey, by the way," will pulled at the material that basically swallowed up samy's small frame. 

"i still wonder how you convinced me to wear this," the brunette teased a bit, but secretly she loved it. 

her stupid feelings were only growing stronger and when will begged her to wear his jersey to his game the other day samy nearly confessed right there. even though it was fun watching her best friend beg her for something, she would've worn it regardless. 

"i'm pretty convincing," the boy shrugged smugly. samy rolled her eyes, but the smile on her lips betrayed her trying to act unfazed. 

"good luck tonight, will. you guys are gonna do great," she reached up to place a gentle kiss to his cheek because 1. she always did that and 2. she wanted to make those girls even more jealous than they were. who cared if they went and bullied her and will's dms later. 

"thanks, hughesy. see you after the game?" it was a miracle she didn't notice will's heart eyes. 

"you know where to find me," they said their goodbyes before will's coach came after him for not warming up. 

the game revved up to 5-3 with the ntdp boys on the winning side. samy was on her feet as she cheered on her best friends flying across the ice. the trio worked so well together, speaking wordlessly with one another as they trusted each other and passed the puck around the opposing team. it was almost like a dream watching those boys play and that feeling of bittersweet crept back into samy's mind. 

u18s and then the nhl draft in a few months meaning all of them joining the professional world. it was a day that seemed so far away when they were younger and was now just months away. 

"let's go will!" samy yelled down as the forward made his third goal of the night bringing the score to 6-3. 

the crowd erupted in cheers. the brunette smiled seeing will do his celly with ryan and gabe. immediately, the boy's gaze spun around to find samy's in the stands. they found one another pretty quickly and will pointed up at her, the happiness glowing across his features. his gesture earned a small blush across her cheeks while her parents and will's sent the girl knowing looks because of course they knew their kids liked one another before they even knew. 

once the game finished, samy waited around near the locker room for will to emerge. she usually leaned against the wall scrolling through her phone until the boy came running out. tonight was no different. twenty minutes after the game ended, the blonde was rushing out of the locker room in a happy daze. his curls were hardly even dry as he scooped samy into his arms, spinning her around so her feet weren't even on the ground. 

"so proud of you, will. you played so good," the girl gushed into his shoulder. 

"you always make me play well," his flirting earned another blush on samy's face.  

"shoulda known this was why will pushed everyone out of the way to shower first," ryan teased as he came out a moment later with gabe. 

the boys snickered with one another, but will didn't find it amusing. "shut up," he mumbled. 

"good to see ya, hughes. thanks for coming," ryan collected samy into his own hug. 

"duh, like i'd ever miss a game. you guys played so well," she pinched their cheeks which annoyed the hell out of them, but they let her do it anyway. 

"how much did smitty pay you to wear his jersey?" gabe continued with the chirping. 

all of them but will shared a laugh. he was not finding their remarks as amusing as he usually would tonight, "jesus, do you guys ever shut up?" 

"just a bit of begging and he convinced me," samy squeezed will's arm.

"begging? like hands and knees?" ryan hollered. poor will was now red in the face and wanted to rip his friends' heads off before they said anything more stupid. 

"just like that," samy didn't help. 

"don't we have to meet our parents. i thought they wanted to go out to dinner," will cut in before someone said anything else. 

"right, they're in the lobby," the brunette grabbed ahold of will's arm as they walked together to find their parents. 

after hugging his parents, the two families headed out to find something to eat. will climbed into samy's car since she drove herself up knowing the blonde would most definitely convince her to come back to his house for awhile which then resulted in her sleeping over. good thing it was saturday night and neither of them had practice tomorrow. 

"what am i gonna do when you're a hundred miles away in the fall?" will's gaze fell on samy's even though she was focusing on her parents' car in front of them as they followed them to the restaurant. 

"tough question. probably die," samy teased a little. 

"probably, yeah. i don't think i've ever really played a game without you there," the blonde admitted. she found his gaze for a second. the whole idea of graduating and going to college was a thought swirling around both of their minds lately. 

"i'll be there in spirit watching you through my laptop." 

"not the same, but i guess it'll have to do," will sighed a bit. 

"you know boston's gonna be really lucky to have you. you're a legacy," she poked his arm that was dangerously close to hers on the center console, but it wasn't like either of them were gonna move their arms away. 

"you are too, you know. by association," will smiled. 

"i think quinn and luke nearly fainted when i made it official i was going to michigan," the brunette hummed. 

"michigan definitely gained a good one. you're gonna kill it on the field." 

she met the boy's still lingering gaze. the two shared a loving smile still so oblivious to each other's feelings. they were so obvious, yet both of them didn't see it no matter what anyone said or did. 

the drunk makeouts didn't count because they were drunk, right? the lingering touches was just a friend thing, right? the constant teasing from both of their friends was stupid because none of them knew what they were talking about, right?

wrong. so, so wrong. 

samy did in fact end up back at will's house after dinner. the two curled up on the couch with the tv playing a movie, but neither of them were really paying attention because all they could think about was one another and who would finally have enough courage to confess their feelings.