#this post is actively hostile to the reader

[xairathan]

It's midnight, I'm procrastinating, it's time to put out all the thoughts I've had about Yushura into a place where people who are interested can find them; and if anyone wants to write her but isn't willing to put in the effort then save yourself the trouble and keep my girl's name out of your mouth so you don't show the world your ignorance.

I'm not touching story-specific stuff; we're extrapolating things about Yushura's life and being off of logical deduction, disability consciousness, and the grounding of the great work and thoughts of many crips of color. We begin.

Starting off with something I think I didn't get to do in any of my works and that the setting utterly snubs: if care and disability aren't a focal point of spacian developments, then you know that the disabled spacians have figured out their own remedies and methods of care. The earthians will have as well, but given the resource disparity, I would be surprised if the two were connected. tl;dr - Disabled community almost certainly exists and we saw absolutely none of it in the setting with "unique challenges to the human physique endemic to expansion into space" nice job gwitch

Which leads into the next part: I believe that there's no real-world corollary to whatever Yushura's condition is. That fits in with what Cardo Nabo said in the prologue. From the clues we're given in the light novel, I have taken the stance that it's most likely an issue of the heart; if not the heart, then the lungs. The most likely causes I can envision are likely (a) exposure to low-gravity in the womb, (b) exposure to space radiation in the womb, and/or (c) long-term, multi-generational changes to the human physique due to life in space. There is also likely not one singular cause that is the 'source'; these factors together likely compound potential health issues. Finally, it can be inferred from Miorine's recollection of her and Yushura playing tag that Yushura was fully able-bodied at some point in the past, and her condition onset after they lost contact. This might play into Yushura's severe hangups about luck, especially if both her and her brother are predisposed to her condition, but it presented only in Yushura.

If you intend to take any of the above knowledge and employ it in a medicalist manner, stop while you're ahead, educate yourself on the medical vs. social vs. political-relational models of disability, and then come back.

With all of this taken into consideration, the following is my imagination of Yushura's life. If at any point in reading this you feel pity, check your ableism at the door and go write something more your speed, like suIemio.

Yushura prefers low-gravity environments, and likely lives in a low-gravity section of the Lapis Garden station, or else on a ship that travels at a set speed. My best guess is 0.5G (half of standard Earth gravity) but honestly, does it matter when we have no real way to test it? Due to living in low-gravity most of the time, Yushura has very little muscle mass. While she can (and probably should) exercise, perhaps it isn't necessary or perhaps she doesn't want to. I don't know how physical therapy in low-G works.

Due to working in low-G environments, and due to her weak grip, Yushura likely relies on many specialized tools for her work. I'm thinking custom gloves, magnetic strips on her worktable to hold things, things that make it easier for Yushura to work for long periods of time without straining her body. In the light novel, we see that Yushura is capable of cooking jelly/various gelatinous foods, which is likely her main source of food, as eating messy foods in low-G is asking for trouble. However, this does not mean she is incapable of eating solid food, and I imagine a CTO gets invited to a fair share of lunch and dinner outings for work.

Unfortunately, we do not know whether society in the Ad Stella universe, where the GUND format was originally created to assist with impairments, is ableist. However, given what we know of the setting, I presume that most corporate stations operate at 1G and space travel operates between 0-0.2G, meaning that as per real life, not very much thought is put into accessibility and the comfort of the disabled. Also I couldn’t find anywhere good to put this but my headcanon is that her earrings are secretly blood oximeters.

For further questions, story-related questions and discussions, and additional fawning over Yushura, please find me at Xairathan anywhere.

Also her last name is Mirzakhani (Iranian) and her first name is Yushura (Arabic) you can't tell me she's pasty white you colorist fucks I bet you liked Sumeru too

(in case anyone asks my tl;dr for her personality is we don't really get to see it since the narrative suborns literally everyone, even the main characters, to its runaway plot; however, I too would be tired of everyone's shit if everyone kept coddling me and assuming that they know my body better than myself)

[mssishipi]

life of parasites — pjs

SYNOPSIS: Seven years ago, a parasite fell from the sky and rewrote the boundaries of biology, blurring the line between host and invader. Park Jongseong, now exists in the in-between, neither fully human nor entirely parasite, a hybrid organism shaped by adaptation and survival. Hunted by those who fear what they cannot categorize, he searches for meaning in the world—and finds it in you.

content tags/warnings: sci-fi— bio thriller, parasite hybrid pjs, parasite hybrid reader, they fight when they first met. body horror, graphic violence, injury and blood, death/near-death experiences, militarization, post-traumatic themes, mild animal endangerment.

explicit content (smut): unprotected sex, fingering, cunilingus, multiple sex position (their refractory period is broken, they keep going and going), double penetration, tentacles (?), monster fucking. READER DISCRETION IS ADVICED. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!! WC: 23.1K

note: the idea of monster and parasites in the story is inspired by the kdrama and anime: parasyte. but the biology, and how they merged was slightly different and some of it was my own writing.

Human psychology is deeply rooted in a survival mechanism that instinctively reacts with fear toward the unknown.

This fear, often manifesting as hostility, arises when individuals encounter phenomena that defy their understanding. When faced with the unfamiliar—particularly that which cannot be categorized within existing frameworks—the response is often defensive aggression. The unfamiliar is perceived as a threat, and in the absence of comprehension, elimination becomes the perceived solution.

Approximately seven years ago, Earth began experiencing a biological incursion in the form of a parasitic organism of unknown origin. This entity operates by infecting human hosts, initiating a fatal transformation process. The host is systematically destroyed at a cellular and cognitive level, as the parasite integrates with and ultimately overrides the nervous system and bodily structure.

Upon successful assimilation, the parasite reconstitutes the human form into a highly adaptive biomechanical entity capable of extreme morphogenesis. These entities exhibit advanced shapeshifting capabilities, able to reconfigure their structure into a variety of forms and tools, limited only by mass and matter conservation principles.

Neurologically, the parasite erases the host's personality and emotional spectrum, replacing it with a singular directive: to propagate through predation and infiltration. These organisms display a rudimentary form of consciousness, retaining fragments of the host's memories for navigational or social camouflage but are devoid of empathy or emotional regulation. Their cognitive processes are entirely geared toward strategic murder and survival.

Park Jongseong is different.

He adjusted his glasses, eyes fixed on the monitor displaying his own cellular data. Streams of biological activity lit up the screen—cells dividing, mutating, adapting. He was lucky to have access to advanced medical equipment. After all, he was a doctor.

Humans are naturally afraid of what they don't understand. It's part of how the brain reacts to threats—if something doesn't fit into what's familiar, the instinct is fear, often followed by violence. That's how humanity responds to the unknown: eliminate it.

Jongseong had become the unknown.

He didn't know what he was anymore. His thoughts still felt like his own. He still felt emotion, empathy, fear, curiosity. Yet something deep inside had changed. His body was no longer entirely human. Something else lived in his blood.

But with Jongseong, something went wrong—or maybe something went right.

The parasite had merged with him, not replaced him. His cells had changed, yes—they were stronger, more adaptive. He could feel the shift in his physiology: faster reflexes, enhanced senses, the strange ability to alter parts of his body at will. Yet his mind remained intact. His identity remained intact.

He was both parasite and human. A hybrid. An anomaly.

From a biological standpoint, it shouldn't be possible. The parasite is known to override the host completely—shutting down the brain, rewriting the nervous system, restructuring tissue on a molecular level. But in Park Jongseong's case, the process didn't go as expected. His consciousness remained. His emotions remained. He wasn't fully human anymore, but he wasn't fully parasite either.

And that made him dangerous—to both sides.

Creatures like him were being hunted by the government. Classified as biohazards. The official statement warned the public daily:

"Be careful around your friends, relatives, family—anyone could be infected. Parasites look just like us, until they kill."

Murder cases connected to parasitic activity filled the news. Victims were often found mutilated beyond recognition, their internal organs rearranged, their skin marked with unfamiliar growths. Fear spread faster than the infection itself. Jongseong watched the reports from his house, barely breathing. Every passing day made it harder to stay hidden.

If the government found him, they wouldn't ask questions. They'd dissect him alive—tear his mutated body apart in the name of research and national security.

"How do you identify a parasite?"

That was the question echoed by media and scientists. For humans, the method was crude but effective: parasites can't fully mimic human hair. A simple hair sample under a microscope reveals the truth—parasitic tissue lacks keratin structure, instead made of a flexible protein-carbon lattice designed to replicate appearance.

But parasites had their own way of detecting each other. A subtle biological signal—an acoustic resonance picked up only through the inner ear. Like a hidden frequency, only recognizable to those with the altered cochlear structure. Jongseong had experienced it more than once. He would walk past someone, hear that strange, low echo in his skull—and feel a sudden, icy stillness in his blood.

He wasn't alone. Parasites were organizing. At first, they were random killers. Now, they were moving in packs—coordinated, methodical. Adapting. Evolving. And so is he.

"That'll be 700 won," the cashier muttered, not bothering to meet his eyes.

Jongseong kept his head down, slipping the coins onto the counter. No conversation. No eye contact. He took the plastic bag with a silent nod, his fingers tightening around the thin handles before he turned and stepped back into the cold night.

Even with the parasite inside him, he still felt hunger—raw, physical. His body demanded energy like any other, though now his metabolism ran hotter, faster. He still craved food.

He still felt the ache of sadness, the longing to return to something normal. Something human.

But that life was gone.

The night air of Seoul stung against his skin, the cold seeping through his coat. He moved with the crowd, head low, blending in with the blur of footsteps, voices, and passing cars. Every sound echoed. The parasite had enhanced his senses, and sometimes the world was simply too loud.

Then he felt it, a low, familiar vibration in his inner ear—a biological resonance only detectable by parasite-modified auditory systems. His breath caught, and a pulse of instinctual fear ran through him. He looked around carefully, eyes scanning faces, shadows, movement. One of them was nearby.

His pace faltered. That's when he saw you.

You stood out—not because of your appearance, but because of what you did. In the middle of the crosswalk, your hand casually brushed your ear. A subtle motion, barely noticeable to anyone else, but to him it screamed recognition.

You were a parasite.

His brows drew together. Something was off. Parasites usually acted in groups—hunting together, assimilating their targets with military precision. If you were one of them, you should've engaged him.

But you didn't. You kept walking, fast and purposeful. Almost like... you were running away.

Jongseong stayed still for a moment, the bag of food hanging from his hand, forgotten. His heartbeat was heavy in his ears, half fear, and half curiosity. Why would a parasite avoid confrontation?

Jongseong moved. Not fast, not slow—just enough to stay behind you without drawing attention. He weaved through the crowd with quiet precision, his eyes fixed on the back of your coat. The city noise drowned under the low pulse still humming in his inner ear. It wasn't strong. Just enough to confirm you were still nearby. Still parasite.

The further you walked, the thinner the crowd became. The bright shops faded behind them, replaced by rusted gates, shuttered storefronts, and flickering neon signs. This was the forgotten edge of the city. The place people passed through quickly. The place no one paid attention to.

You turned down a narrow alley.

Jongseong hesitated at the entrance. The cold bit harder here, funneled between brick and concrete. His fingers curled, feeling the familiar tension in his muscles—his body silently preparing to shift if needed. Bone could become blade in less than a second now. But he held it back.

He stepped in. The alley stretched narrow, damp, littered with the scent of oil, metal, and old rain. Pipes hissed from the walls. Ahead, your footsteps had stopped. You were waiting.

When he turned the final corner, he found you standing in front of a rusted service door leading into a forgotten subway access station.

You didn't move. Neither did he.

"If you're looking for another kin," you snarled without turning, "then get the fuck out and leave me alone. I'm not one of them."

Your voice was sharp making Jongseong's body tensed instantly. The shift in your tone, the unnatural dilation of your pupils, set off every instinct in him. His hand inched slightly to the side, fingers twitching, ready to reconfigure.

Then it happened. Too fast to follow with human eyes.

Your right shoulder warped violently—tissue splitting and reshaping into something jagged, organic, and grotesque. It extended outward, not as a limb but as a weapon—wing-like in structure, but edged with hooked thorns.

You lunged, Jongseong barely reacted in time, his arm snapping up, skin splitting as a skin liked carapace laced with tendon grew along his forearm—absorbing the blow with a sickening crack of thorn against hardened flesh.

He staggered back, eyes narrowed, breathing sharp.

"You kept your mind," he growled, muscles tensed, his cells humming beneath his skin, ready to shift again. "But you're still dangerous."

Your shoulder pulsed with unnatural motion, the wing-like appendage twitching as it began to fold back. "I don't want to be part of your kin," you hissed, your voice jagged with fury. "Leave me the fuck alone. I am not a monster like you!"

Jongseong's eyes widened. He barely had time to respond before you surged forward. The air tore around you as your body shifted mid-motion—bone spiking from your forearm like a serrated blade. You slashed.

He ducked, sparks flying as your weapon scraped against the metal wall. He twisted, arm reforming into hardened muscle and armor-like plating, launching a counterstrike aimed at your ribs.

You blocked with an organic shield that burst from your side—scaled and ridged like insect chitin. The impact sent both of you skidding back across the damp concrete.

Your eyes met again. Rage. Confusion. Pain.

Jongseong lunged first this time, his limbs reshaping with practiced speed—flesh snapping, tendons stretching. A blade grew from his wrist like a fang of obsidian, and he swung it toward your shoulder.

You caught it, barehanded.

Your arm, now half-shifted and armored, trembled with force as it held his blade in place. But what caught him wasn't your strength—it was your face. You weren't snarling anymore. You were breathing hard. Your eyes... they were terrified.

Your reaction wasn't instinctual. It wasn't predatory. You had hesitated. Controlled your form. Redirected the attack instead of going for the kill. Just like him.

Jongseong pulled back, staggering a step. His breathing slowed. "You're... like me."

You stood still, chest rising and falling. The bone blade on your forearm quivered, then receded slowly, melting back beneath your skin.

"Don't say that," you whispered, voice cracking. "Don't compare me to you."

But the truth was there—in the way your limbs didn't shift fully, in the way your face still held emotion, conscience, even after a violent clash. You hadn't killed him when you had the chance. You chose not to.

"I'm a hybrid," Jongseong whispered, "I'm not a monster. I'm not human either. I assume you are too."

You didn't answer right away. Your eyes flicked toward the tunnel, where the distant clicking echoed like something crawling just beyond the light. Then, slowly, you turned back to him. Your jaw clenched, the muscles in your cheek twitching like you were holding something in.

"I'm a human." It sounded more like a plea than a statement. "I was—" you paused, blinking hard, "—I was a person. I had a name. A home. I worked a job. I went to cafés and hated Mondays. I had a cat."

Jongseong didn't move.

"I wasn't this," you went on, your voice rising. "I didn't ask for it. I woke up one day and everything was... different. My skin felt wrong. I couldn't stop hearing things. Smelling things. My body... it started moving on its own. Changing. Splitting open."

Your breathing quickened. "And now I can feel it, all the time. In my bones. In my mind. Whispering. Pulling that doesn't belong to me."

Your eyes met his—wide, wet, terrified. "I don't want to be what you are."

Jongseong lowered his gaze for a moment. He understood that look. He'd seen it in the mirror more than once.

"I didn't want this either," he said quietly. He took a slow, cautious step forward, then crouched to your level, his voice soft—human.

"I was a doctor," he said, almost with a tired smile. "Worked long shifts. Rarely slept. I used to stress-eat... corn, of all things. Still do. I don't know why. Guess the parasite didn't kill that part of me."

You blinked, confused by the strange confession. But it grounded you, if only for a moment.

"I think about who I used to be all the time," he continued. "That guy who thought medicine could fix anything. Who didn't believe in monsters—just diseases, mutations, pathology." He paused, watching your face. "Then I became the thing we used to study. And I realized something... I'm still here. Somewhere beneath all of this."

His fingers lightly tapped his chest.

Your gaze dropped, lashes trembling as you stared at the space between your knees, the damp concrete still stained from your earlier strike. You didn't say anything right away. Your breathing was shallow—measured, like you were trying not to fall apart.

"I used to love the rain," you said quietly, almost to yourself. "Now it just smells like metal and rust and... blood."

Jongseong didn't interrupt. He stayed crouched, steady, watching you.

"I haven't slept in two weeks. Not really. I keep waking up in the middle of the night with my hands turned into something else. Blades. Claws. Once, it was... wings." You gave a bitter laugh, dry and hollow. "I think they were wings. They tore the ceiling fan clean off."

"I keep thinking if I ignore it, if I just pretend hard enough, it'll go away. But it's always there. Under my skin. In my head."

Jongseong's voice came calm, anchored. "You're not imagining it. It's real. And it's not going away."

Your hands clenched into fists. "Then what's the point of fighting it?"

He didn't answer immediately. He sat down fully, folding his arms over his knees, not trying to lecture you but to just exist beside you.

"I fight it because I still remember what it felt like to make people better," he said. "Because I don't want to lose that part of me. Even if it's buried under everything else." He glanced at you. "Because maybe... if I keep holding onto it, I can be something in between. Not human, not parasite. Something new."

You shook your head. "That sounds like a lie people tell themselves to feel less afraid."

"Maybe it is," he admitted. "But it keeps me sane."

Another silence settled in. Then, a small voice escaped you—quiet, brittle. "I used to sing. Just... badly. In the car. In the shower. Everywhere. And now when I try, nothing comes out. Like my voice doesn't belong to me anymore."

Jongseong looked at you. "That part's still there. Buried, but not gone."

You blinked rapidly, jaw tightening. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you carried a strange weight—grief, recognition, something neither of you could name but both felt. The bond of shared monstrosity. Of shared humanity refusing to die.

Then, softly, Jongseong added, "We don't have to be monsters, even if that's what we've become. We get to choose."

You were quiet for a moment, staring down at the cracks in the pavement. Your voice came small, almost like you were afraid the answer would make it more real.

"How long have you been... like this?"

Jongseong's gaze drifted for a second, remembering. "Two and a half years," he said quietly.

You looked up at him, your voice trembling. "Two months. That's how long it's been for me."

He nodded, listening.

"I ran away from home when I realized what was happening to me," you continued. "I couldn't stay. I didn't want to hurt anyone. I couldn't even trust myself." You exhaled shakily, brushing your palm across your face as if trying to wipe the memory away.

"I ran into a parasite once," you said. "Fully changed. No humanity left. Said he'd been like that for two years."

"What did he do?" Jongseong asked, already suspecting the answer.

"When he felt that I wasn't like him... he didn't speak. He just attacked. Like I was an error. A mutation. Something that needed to be erased."

Jongseong's jaw tightened. "You barely survived."

You nodded. "He tore my side open. I didn't even realize I could heal until after." The memory made you shudder.

"I thought maybe I could hide. Blend in. Pretend I was still normal. But that encounter changed everything. I knew then... there was no going back."

Jongseong looked at you, really looked, and said gently, "You've made it this far on your own. That counts for something."

You laughed bitterly. "Does it?"

"It does," he said. "Because most wouldn't have."

"The parasite in us... it doesn't understand mercy. Or hesitation. The fact that you've held on this long, that you chose not to give in—that means you're still you."

Your eyes flicked to him, unsure. "And if I stop choosing?"

"Then I'll stop you," he said, not as a threat, but as a promise. You blinked, searching his face for cruelty and finding only empathy.

It was strange, in a quiet way—comforting—to be near someone like you. Someone who understood. That's how you would describe it. A sense of relief wrapped in unease. You were still hiding, but not really. Not anymore.

You learned his name is Park Jongseong. He told you in passing, but you held onto it. Jongseong, meaning "collecting stars." It made you smile softly, secretly. How fitting, you thought, for someone piecing himself back together from fragments of something once human.

He gestured toward a small kit laid out between you. "Try to relax. I'm going to insert a needle—just a quick sample," he said, already prepping the syringe.

You stared at him, arching a brow, half laughing. "You know I merged my body with blades, right? A needle isn't exactly nightmare fuel, Dr. Park Jongseong."

He let out a quiet breath of amusement, the corner of his mouth lifting into a subtle, reluctant smile. It was the first expression that looked genuinely human since you'd met him. Still, he moved with the calm, clinical precision of someone who'd done this thousands of times. His hands didn't shake, and his voice stayed even.

You extended your arm, the skin unusually smooth where it had once morphed—no visible scars.

He carefully inserted the needle into your arm. The sensation was oddly muted—your pain receptors dulled, altered by the parasite. Your blood didn't flow quite like before; it was slightly denser and darker.

"This should be enough," Jongseong murmured, capping the vial. "I'll isolate the DNA structure, run it against my own. I want to see how your immune system adapted. If your T-cells underwent the same mutations."

You looked at him curiously. "You think we mutated differently?"

"I think we merged differently," he said, eyes flicking to his portable scanner. "The parasite doesn't always follow the same pattern. In most hosts, it hijacks the immune system completely—overrides all genetic repair functions, takes full control. But in us..."

"It coexists," you said softly, finishing his thought.

He nodded. "Exactly. It integrates rather than eliminates. Your T-cells should be producing chimeric proteins—part human, part parasite. Like mine."

You tilted your head, intrigued despite yourself. "You ever seen that happen before?"

He shook his head. "No. Just us."

You both sat in silence for a moment, the quiet hum of his scanner whirring softly as it began processing. Data streamed across the small screen, lines of genetic code scrolling faster than most could read.

"It's weird," you said. "I hated this thing inside me. Still do. But sitting here... I feel like I'm finally studying it. Like it's not just happening to me anymore. I'm taking it back."

Jongseong looked up from the scanner. "Exactly. That's what I've been doing for two years. Trying to understand it."

You watched him work. There was a quiet intensity to the way he moved, so focused, almost surgical. His fingers danced over the scanner's interface, eyes tracking streams of data with an ease. But your gaze wasn't on the screen.

You studied him. His nose was too pointed, almost sculpted. His jaw, sharp like it had been carved with purpose. The light caught on the angles of his face, shadows tracing across his skin like ink. His raven-black hair fell slightly over his brow, just messy enough to look deliberate, and yet... it suited him perfectly.

And his eyes, sharp, eagle-like. At first glance, they looked cold. Angry, even. The kind of gaze that could cut. But as you kept watching, you saw through it. There was no rage behind them. Only exhaustion and softness.

"I can feel you staring," he said suddenly, not looking up from the scanner.

You blinked, caught off guard. "You have a strangely symmetrical face."

He smirked faintly, still focused on the readout. "Years of stress must have evened me out."

"I think you're too pretty to be a walking biohazard," you added dryly.

That made him glance at you, a flicker of amusement breaking through the wall of control. "That's not usually the first thing people say when they see me split my arm open."

You tilted your head. "It's the second thing."

He huffed a quiet laugh. Just for a moment, you saw it—the man beneath the monster. The one who used to save lives, who still wanted to, even if he didn't say it aloud.

"I used to keep my reflection covered," you admitted, your voice softening. "Couldn't look at my own eyes. I was afraid one day they'd stop looking like mine."

He didn't respond right away. Just stared down at the glowing genetic map on the screen, jaw tight. Then he said, "Your eyes still look human to me."

Your cheeks flushed, the blood rising unbidden. A strange irony, considering how much your blood had changed, but it felt too human. 

After the blood draw, he insisted on running a full assessment—"purely diagnostic," he said, slipping back into the old habits of a physician. His voice turned more analytical. But his touch remained cautious, and gentle.

You sat on the metal examination table, legs swinging slightly, eyes drifting over the cluttered shelves and half-finished notes pinned across the wall. He moved in the background, scanning a new set of neural data. But your attention wasn't on the screen.

"Do you feel lonely in here?" you asked softly, not looking at him.

He didn't answer immediately. Just continued working for a few seconds, then said, "I don't notice anymore."

You didn't believe him. You don't think he did either.

After another minute passed, your voice returned, gentler. "What happened? When you first realized you were like this? Did you just... stop being a doctor?"

Jongseong paused, then turned slightly, leaning back against the counter. The light from the scanner flickered behind him, "I was attacked by a gang," he said flatly. "Back alley. They thought I had money. I lost count after the twentieth cut."

You stared at him, stunned.

"I had thirty-five knife wounds across my torso, chest, and abdomen," he continued, "deep lacerations. Organ damage. Multiple perforations. I was dying. I think... I was dead."

You swallowed hard, eyes fixed on him.

"I assume the parasite entered my body when I hit the threshold," he said. "Critical condition. Immune system collapsed. Internal bleeding. It's my theory that the parasite thrives more when the host is on the edge—when the system is weak enough to take, but not too far gone to recover."

His gaze lowered to your arm where the sample had been drawn. "My theory is... I wasn't strong enough to resist it. That's why I didn't die like the others. The parasite didn't need to fight me. It just filled in what was already broken." 

"So, you think it chose you because you were weak?"

He met your eyes again. "I think it needed someone weak. It needed space to grow."

A pause. His voice softened. "But maybe... maybe that's also why we didn't become them. Because we didn't fight it like a war. We... merged."

You shifted slightly, the sterile metal of the table cold under your fingertips. "You think that's why I'm still here, too?"

Jongseong nodded. "Your neural scans still show strong activity in the amygdala, the hippocampus. Emotional processing, memory retention. That's rare in infected hosts. Most show degeneration within a week of full takeover."

"And mine?"

He turned the screen slightly to show you. "Yours are still human. Intact. Maybe even more responsive than average."

You blinked. "So I'm... emotionally stronger?"

He gave a faint, crooked smile. "Or just more stubborn."

You laughed under your breath, soft eyes lingering on him, the curve of your smile not wide, but real. For a moment, Jongseong couldn't look away.

There was something in your expression that unsettled him more than any mutation, more than any parasite or hybrid anomaly. It was the trace of comfort. The ghost of peace in a body that shouldn't have had room for it.

On another day, beneath the soft whir of outdated HVAC vents and the mechanical rhythm of genetic sequencing equipment, your voice stirred.

"What happens to the parasite inside us?" you asked. "Where does it go?"

He didn't answer at first. Jongseong stood across the room, bare-chested, his skin partially illuminated by the sterile blue glow of the diagnostic interface. He was facing a mirror bolted to the wall—cracked slightly near the corner, the silver peeling at the edges. He hadn't looked into it for a long time. Not really.

But today, he was watching himself. And in the reflection, he saw you, standing behind him, the question still hovering in the air. He held your gaze for a second through the mirror, then turned back to his own reflection.

"I don't know," he said eventually. His voice was calm, but not detached. He was thinking—hard. "At least, in my case, I don't feel anything inside anymore. Not like those early days, when it felt like something was pushing... crawling beneath my skin. That pressure's gone."

He paused, lifting his hand, flexing his fingers slowly—watching the tendons shift under his skin.

"It's like... I consumed it," he said quietly. "Or maybe my body did. My cells stopped resisting. Stopped treating it as foreign. They absorbed it."

"You think your immune system... adapted?"

"Yes," he said, nodding faintly. "I've run thousands of blood scans. The parasite's original RNA is still there, but it's no longer dominant. It's dormant. Integrated. Like mitochondria."

You raised your brow. "You're saying it's symbiotic."

"More than that," he replied. "It's part of my physiology. My T-cells don't fight it. They use it. They've evolved—specialized to incorporate its functions. Shape-shifting, cellular regeneration, neural acceleration. My body didn't reject the parasite."

The parasite didn't dominate him. It became part of him.

You exhaled slowly, your voice soft, almost like you were speaking to yourself. "You're still human, after all..."

He didn't respond, his gaze lingered on you.

You looked down at your hands, turning one over, flexing your fingers. "You and the parasite... you didn't fight each other. You merged." You hesitated, the word strange on your tongue. "I don't even know if merge is the right term. That makes it sound clean. Voluntary."

Jongseong turned to face you fully now, taking a slow step closer. "It wasn't clean," he said. "And it sure as hell wasn't voluntary."

You looked up at him again.

"It was pain. Constant. Days of fevers, hallucinations, muscles tearing themselves apart. My nervous system was rewriting itself in real-time. I could feel my own memories slipping... then coming back sharper. Warped, like they'd been filtered through something else."

He tapped his temple once. "I didn't think I was going to survive it. I shouldn't have. But something inside me didn't break. It adapted. And when the parasite realized it couldn't overwrite me, it... integrated. Not by choice. By necessity."

Your brows furrowed slightly. "You're saying it didn't want you like that?"

"The parasite wants dominance," Jongseong said. "Control. But when it senses it can't win, it changes strategy. Tries to preserve itself through compromise. It's not a thinking organism, not in the way we are—but it learns."

You nodded slowly, eyes drifting to the cracked mirror behind him. "Then maybe it's not about merging or fighting. Maybe it's about outlasting it."

He studied you carefully, the muscles in his jaw flexing just slightly before he spoke.

"Exactly. If you can hold on long enough, if you can stay yourself through the pain... you don't lose. You evolve."

You looked down again, thinking of all the moments you thought you were slipping. All the nights your body changed without your permission. All the times you'd woken up shaking, afraid of your own skin.

And yet... you were still here.

You looked down at your hands, flexing your fingers slowly. The skin looked normal now. "My hand hurts sometimes," you admitted, voice quiet. "It's like... a pressure building under the bone. I can control my shifting, but sometimes it feels like something else is doing it for me."

Your eyes lingered on your arm as if it might betray you in the next breath.

"I feel like I'm not me."

"That's normal," he said. "You're still only two months in. Your body's not fully stabilized yet. It takes time. The neural pathways between your conscious mind and the parasite's reactive systems are still syncing."

You glanced up at him. "That sounds way too clinical for my hand turns into a blade without asking."

He smirked faintly. "Point is—you'll get used to it. Eventually, the signals align. You won't have to fight for control. You'll just be in control."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. "But what if I don't?"

His smile faded, but his expression didn't turn cold. "Remember what I said when we first met?" he asked.

You nodded slowly, eyes narrowing as the memory stirred. Jongseong gave a soft tired smile. "I'll stop you."

You stared at him, reading the weight behind the words. "And you'd really do it?" you asked.

"If it came to that," he said, without hesitation. "If you lost yourself completely—if there was no coming back—then yeah. I would."

"But not because I see you as a threat," he added. "Because I'd want someone to do the same for me."

"I don't want to become something I'd have to be stopped from," you whispered.

"Then don't," he said simply.

Another day blurred into a week, and somehow, it became routine.

You and Jongseong were always near each other now. You simply showed up, and he never asked you to leave.

Every morning, without fail, you arrived at his doorstep. Sometimes barefoot, sometimes holding a plastic bag of random things you'd picked up—food, spare clothes, old electronics scavenged from forgotten corners of the city. Always with that same wide smile and a casual wave, like the world hadn't tried to erase you.

His home sat far from the crowded parts of Seoul, nestled in the quiet sprawl of the outer districts—secluded enough that no one asked questions, yet comfortable in a way that surprised you. It wasn't sterile or abandoned. It was... lived in. Warm wood tones, clean tile, books stacked in corners, a faint smell of roasted coffee in the mornings.

You didn't expect someone like him to have soft blankets and expensive sheets. But then again, he had been a doctor. Years of relentless work had filled his bank account even as it slowly emptied him. He rarely touched the money now, except to keep the house running and the lab functional. The rest stayed untouched, gathering dust, like a forgotten version of himself.

Still, his kitchen was well-stocked. His bed was always made. And now, somehow, you had become part of that space.

One quiet afternoon, sunlight filtered through the wide windows, casting long golden shadows across the hardwood floor. You stood barefoot in his living room, playfully holding your arm out as it began to shift.

Jongseong watched from the couch, sipping lukewarm tea, his eyes narrowed in equal parts curiosity and caution.

"It's my first time encountering someone who can shape their hand into wings," he said.

You smirked and raised your hand, flesh trembling, tendons coiling and restructuring. The skin along your forearm peeled open in seamless, silent motion, splitting into more organic. A full wing unfurled—sleek and wide, nearly as tall as you. Its edges were curved like a crescent, the shape aerodynamic but jagged, ringed with short, blade-like protrusions.

It was the color of your skin, yet it glinted faintly in the light.

"Most parasites use their heads," Jongseong murmured, leaning forward slightly. "They split open like flower petals—exposing core structures for attack or communication."

He stood and stepped closer, gaze fixed on your transformed arm. "But this... this is different. It's not just offensive. It's built for movement. Flight, maybe. Or at least gliding. Your body's adapting beyond the base strain."

You watched his fascination with a faint grin. He spoke like a scientist.

"Does your head still hurt?" he asked, finally meeting your eyes.

You hesitated for a moment, then shook your head. "Not anymore," you said softly. "I started doing what you told me. Focusing on breathing. Slowing everything down when it starts building up."

He nodded, approving. "The headaches come from pressure. When the nervous system tries to regulate a function it doesn't fully understand. But when you center your breathing, you give the brain a stable pattern—something to anchor the mutation against."

You laughed a little. "You sound like a meditation app."

"Doctor first," he replied, raising a brow. "Monster second."

You folded the wing back into your arm slowly, watching as the skin sealed over again, leaving no sign it had ever been anything else. Jongseong handed you a towel to wipe the sweat off your hands—it wasn't painful anymore, but it still took effort.

"Do you ever get tired of analyzing me?" you teased, dabbing your brow.

"Not yet," he said. "You're the only other hybrid I've ever met. Every reaction you have, every adaptation—it all tells me more about how this thing works."

You leaned back against the kitchen counter, looking at him with warmth. "So I'm your favorite test subject?"

He smiled faintly. "You're the only one who smiles back."

You started living around him—and it wasn't planned. It just... happened.

There was no formal moment when it became your place too. You simply never left. You came in, stayed for a while, and then stayed a little longer. Your bag ended up in the corner of his hallway. A change of clothes appeared on the back of his chair. Your toothbrush found its way into a cup next to his. No one said anything.

His laboratory is tucked beneath the basement. Stainless steel counters were cluttered with vials, blood samples, biofeedback equipment, and an old centrifuge that rattled every time it spun. Some walls were covered with whiteboards, sketched with frantic genetic maps, neural networks, protein structures, and lines of code that only made partial sense to you.

You stood in the doorway for a long time watching him. Despite not wearing a coat or a stethoscope anymore, he was still a doctor. He spent hours down there, alone, dissecting the mystery of what you both had become. Studying the hybrid genome, comparing tissue reactions, tracking metabolic rates, rebuilding broken sequences.

He never said it, but you knew he wasn't doing it for science.

He was doing it to keep himself sane.

So, you stayed. And while he worked, you started moving through the rest of the house. Dust had gathered in the corners of rooms he didn't use. Shelves were layered with months of settled particles, and forgotten books lay unopened beneath it. So you cleaned. One room at a time.

You cooked, mostly for yourself at first. But eventually, you started making enough for two. He always ate. Silently, usually. But he ate. Sometimes with a quiet compliment, sometimes with a small smile.

Later, you found the backyard—overgrown, wild, and tired. The flower beds were choked by weeds, the soil cracked from neglect. You didn't ask permission. You just started clearing it out. Pulling weeds. Watering the roots that still had life left in them. Then you bought seeds, colorful ones: snapdragons, asters, cosmos. Something bright. Something that still dared to bloom.

He noticed, of course. But he didn't stop you.

Sometimes, at night, when the house was still and the garden smelled faintly of wet soil, you found yourself staring at the ceiling of the guest room—Jongseong's oversized hoodie draped around your shoulders, warm with his scent—and wondered:

Is this what being human still feels like?

You asked yourself the question over and over, unsure of the answer. You still laughed. You still dreamed. You still loved food, flowers, music. You still worried.

Your mind drifted to things you hadn't let yourself think about in weeks. Your mother. Your cat. Your home.

The lie you told when you disappeared—telling your family you'd run off with someone. You'd sent one message. Just one. And never replied again.

Do they hate me for it? you wondered. Do they think I'm alive? Do they sit at the dinner table and leave your place empty, hoping?

The thought made you smile—but it was the kind of smile that didn't reach your eyes.

You snorted under your breath, turning onto your side.

Because now, in some twisted, literal sense, you were living with a guy. A guy who wasn't exactly human anymore. A guy who slept only four hours a night and spent the rest of his time trying to outsmart biology. A guy whose hands could become blades. Whose eyes still softened when he thought you weren't watching.

A guy who hadn't kicked you out. Who never would.

"You can shift your hands without blades?"

Your eyes widened as you stared at Jongseong, the question tumbling from your lips. The very idea felt foreign—impossible, even. Your own shifting had always come with sharp edges, bone-splitting pain, and the quiet terror that you might lose control if you shaped too far.

Jongseong glanced down at his hands, calm and controlled. Then, with a quiet exhale, he lifted one hand and extended it toward you, palm up. "Watch," he said simply.

His dark eyes shifted—pupils dilating slightly, the irises deepening in color until they almost looked black, consuming the natural brown. You knew what that meant. It was a physiological marker—hybrid activation. Your eyes did the same when you shifted. His were sharp, but not hostile, focused, but unthreatening.

The structure of his hand started to ripple not violently, not like yours usually did. No sharp angles, no sudden protrusions of bone or blade. The skin thinned and stretched, flowing in a fluid-like motion that reminded you of melting wax. It wasn't grotesque—it was graceful.

His fingers elongated and curved slightly. From the base of his palm, tendrils began to unfurl—slender, flexible, organic. Not quite like vines, not quite like tentacles, but something in-between. Soft ridges lined their surfaces. They pulsed faintly with life, reacting to the air, to temperature, to you.

They didn't glint like blades. They didn't threaten. They moved with purpose.

Your breath caught as you watched, caught between horror and awe.

"How...?" you whispered.

Jongseong didn't smile, but there was a quiet light in his eyes. "The parasite doesn't only build weapons. It builds tools—if you teach it to."

You stepped closer, cautiously, drawn to the strange, mesmerizing movement of his altered hand. "I thought it only knew how to kill."

"So did I," he said. "At first. But then I started thinking like it. Observing. Not just resisting. It reacts to survival instinct, yes—but it also responds to intention. Will."

He slowly closed his hand, the tendrils retracting fluidly, vanishing back into his skin as the flesh reformed and returned to normal.

You blinked, letting out a slow breath. "Wow. That's impressive but... completely useless," you said, your voice laced with sarcasm.

Jongseong's eyes returned to their usual deep brown, pupils shrinking, the hybrid dilation fading. He looked up at you, a beat of silence passing then he laughed.

It was soft, unguarded. A sound you hadn't heard often from him, but when it came, it felt genuine, surprisingly warm. "Well, thanks," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Glad to know my non-lethal biological innovation gets such rave reviews."

You shrugged, trying not to smile. "Sorry, Dr. Frankenstein. I just can't think of a practical use for creepy space noodles."

"Tactile sensory extensions," he corrected with mock offense. "They can be used to detect surface tension, pressure shifts, chemical traces—"

"So basically... weird science-fingers."

Jongseong gave you a long, theatrical sigh, one hand dragging down his face in mock despair, though the amused curve of his mouth betrayed him.

"You know what? Fuck it," he muttered, turning back to his workstation, but not before you caught the upward twitch of his lips.

Another month drifted by.

You woke, cooked, trained, experimented, and sometimes just existed with Jongseong in quiet companionship. The world outside still cracked and groaned with danger, but within the walls of his house, it was a different season.

And outside, life was starting to bloom.

The garden you once cleared had transformed. Where dry soil had stretched beneath tired weeds, color now flourished. The seeds you planted with no real hope had taken root. Soft petals in pinks, purples, and golds opened under the late spring sun, nodding gently with every breeze. You had come to love the quiet act of watering them in the morning, a grounding ritual. Something beautifully, stubbornly normal.

This morning, as dew still clung to the flowerbed leaves and your fingers dripped with the cool mist from the watering can, a small sound broke the usual silence.

A tiny cry. High-pitched. Fragile. You turned, instinctively alert. But it wasn't danger waiting for you in the corner of the fence.

It was a kitten. A small, orange-furred ball curled beneath the bushes—wide green eyes blinking up at you, damp fur clinging to its sides. It looked no older than a few weeks, its tiny ribs shifting with every shaky breath.

"Awww," you murmured, your voice softening as you crouched slowly to its level.

The kitten tilted its head but didn't run. You extended a hand carefully, fingers open, palm low.

"Hey, sweetheart... Where's your mommy?" you whispered.

It answered with a soft meow, barely more than a squeak, and nudged its head forward until it touched your fingers. Warmth bloomed in your chest, before you realized what you were doing, you scooped it gently into your arms, pressing it to your chest.

You didn't hesitate. You brought it inside.

When Jongseong stepped out of the lab hours later, adjusting the settings on his neural scanner, he stopped in the middle of the hallway.

You were sitting cross-legged on the couch with a towel-wrapped bundle in your lap. The orange kitten, freshly cleaned and fed, purred softly as it nuzzled your hand.

"You brought home a cat," he said flatly, blinking.

You looked up at him, eyes wide with innocent pride. "I named him Jongjong."

His expression flickered. "Jong... jong?"

You nodded with complete seriousness. "Because he's small. And soft. And a little grumpy."

Jongseong blinked again, then exhaled through his nose, half a laugh, half disbelief. "I can't decide if I'm offended or flattered."

"Oh, definitely flattered," you said with a grin. "He's the cutest thing I've seen since I moved in."

The kitten let out a mew, as if to confirm the sentiment. Jongseong stepped closer, crouching beside the couch to get a better look. The kitten stared back at him, unblinking, then gave a dramatic yawn and immediately fell asleep on your lap.

"He trusts you," Jongseong said, softer now.

You looked down at the little creature and ran your thumb gently between its ears. "He doesn't know what I am."

Jongseong was quiet for a moment. "Maybe that's the point."

You glanced at him.

"Maybe he just sees what's real," he added. "And not what we're afraid we've become."

You didn't answer right away. You just watched Jongjong breathe, tiny chest rising and falling against your arm, and felt the quiet weight of peace settle in the room like sunlight through the window.

Jongseong had spent years alone his house, surrounded by machines and memories. He thought solitude was necessary, that isolation kept him safe. That by keeping others out, he could contain the thing growing inside him, the part of him that wasn't entirely human anymore.

That was why, when you first asked him if he ever felt lonely, he hadn't known how to answer.

Now, he had an answer.

Yes.

Because since you arrived, he'd started to remember what it felt like not to be alone. And that contrast made the emptiness he'd grown used to feel sharper, heavier in retrospect. The silence he once embraced had been suffocating. But he hadn't noticed until it began to lift.

You filled the space with little things—sounds, gestures, life. The clink of ceramic mugs in the morning. The quiet murmur of your voice as you read out diagnostic data. The rustle of your clothes as you passed him in the hallway, always brushing just a little too close, like your gravity had started to pull on his.

He never told you that he started waking up before his alarm—not for research, but to hear you moving through the house. The sound of water boiling. The soft click of the stove. The faint hum of your voice when you thought no one could hear.

He never mentioned how he started leaving notes near your table. Little reminders. Jokes hidden inside formulas. Once, a crude sketch of a protein chain that somehow resembled a flower. You'd found it, looked at him with one raised brow, and said nothing, but your smile had lingered for hours.

Maybe you already knew.

Because some nights, when the house fell silent again—when the tunnel lights above the basement flickered and the lab's hum faded into a deeper hush—you would sit beside him on the couch, not asking questions, not filling the air with unnecessary words. Just being there. Shoulder to shoulder. Warm. Quiet.

And the silence didn't feel empty anymore.

"Peek-a-boo!"

Jongseong spun around and froze.

Your face had split clean down the middle, skin peeled open like flower petals under pressure, revealing the intricate folds of your brain, glistening and wet. Thorned tendrils coiled from within the exposed cavity, twitching slightly as if sensing the air. Despite the grotesque transformation, one half of your mouth was still smiling, playful, unbothered, as if this was just another joke between the two of you.

And somehow, impossibly, Jongseong found himself staring—not with fear, but with a strange, quiet awe.

Even like this warped, twisted, exposed, he still thought you were beautiful.

Terrifying, yes.

But beautiful.

Jongseong let out a sigh and pressed his lips to the rim of his coffee mug, hiding the curve of his smile behind it. He didn't laugh—barely. It wasn't that it wasn't disturbing. It was. You looked like something torn from a biology textbook on alien evolution.

With a twitch of muscle and membrane, your face knit itself back together, seamlessly folding in. The thorns retracted, the skin closed, the tremors stopped. You bounced on the balls of your feet, practically glowing with excitement.

"I learned that yesterday!" you said, beaming. "Can you do that too?!"

You looked at him like a child begging for a party trick, eyes wide, shining with that strange joy that came with discovering just how far the body could stretch before breaking.

Jongseong tilted his head, smile lingering at the edges of his lips. He set his coffee down on the lab table and stood slowly. "It's not exactly the same," he murmured, voice low and calm, "but... sure."

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then his skin split—not down the middle like yours, but in five clean diagonal lines across his face. The motion was quiet, each line peeled open slightly, like vents adjusting to pressure. From the top of his forehead, the bone shifted and stretched, revealing a sliver of cerebral tissue beneath a thin veil of skin—pale, veined, faintly glowing. A single blade unfolded with a smooth, mechanical grace, jutting forward from the frontal bone, not sharp enough to kill, but certainly enough to threaten.

"That's... beautiful," you whispered.

He let the mutation retract slowly, each fracture sealing with precision. No blood. No pain. Just practiced control.

"I thought we were past the point of calling brain blades 'beautiful,'" he teased, reaching for his coffee again.

You shrugged. "I think we're past the point of pretending we're not fascinated with each other."

That silenced him for a second. You stepped in a little closer. Not touching—just close enough to share breath. Close enough to see your reflection in his eyes. "Is that why you looked at me like that?" you asked, voice quieter now. "When I split open?"

Jongseong didn't answer immediately. He studied your face—not the skin, not the features, but the you beneath it. The remnants of humanity still clinging to something that should've been lost. The way your voice still held inflection, still carried joy. The way your smile wasn't entirely biological, it came from memory, not muscle.

"Yes," he said finally. "Because no one's ever shown me something monstrous... and looked so alive doing it."

You didn't move. Neither did he.

You stood there, close enough that you could hear the soft intake of his breath, the quiet thrum of his altered heart beneath his ribs, beating in a rhythm that no longer matched human biology... yet somehow still made your chest ache.

You reached up slowly, not asking permission, not speaking, just brushing your fingertips along the faint lines that remained on his cheek. The skin was smooth, impossibly warm, as if something still lived just beneath the surface, twitching, waiting. He didn't flinch. If anything, he leaned into your touch, just a fraction subtle enough to be instinct, but intentional enough to mean something.

"You're always so careful," you whispered, your voice barely more than breath.

Jongseong's eyes met yours. "If I'm not, I might hurt you."

You smiled faintly. "Maybe I don't mind."

That earned a small, broken sound from him. He reached up, slowly, carefully, and took your hand in his. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist.

"I don't know what this is," you said softly, searching his face. "I don't know if it's real or just chemical—just mutation convincing us we're closer than we are."

His fingers laced between yours.

"Maybe it is chemical," he said. "But if that's true, then so is every heartbeat. Every kiss. Every touch humans have ever shared. Maybe we're just... another version of it now."

You stared at him for a long moment. Not a word passed between you. Then you leaned forward slowly, testing the air between your mouths like it was charged and he met you halfway.

It wasn't a desperate kiss. It wasn't rushed, or hungry, or tangled in panic. It was precise.

His lips were warm—almost too warm. His body still carried that inhuman heat, like the parasite burned deeper than blood. But you kissed him anyway, because in that heat, you felt something real. Something yours.

He drew you in gently, hand sliding behind your neck. You felt your body respond, you tilted your head, lips parting slightly, angling the kiss deeper, fuller. He tasted like cheap coffee and the metallic hint of sterile air, but it didn't matter.

"I used to think I'd die without ever feeling something like this again," he murmured.

You ran your fingers along his jaw, still touched by the faint lines of his previous transformation. "I thought I had already."

He smiled against your skin. "Guess we were both wrong."

Then his mouth was on yours again, this time deeper, more certain. Not rushed, but hungry. His hand slid down your spine, fingers curling at your waist as he drew you in until there was nothing but heat between you.

You gasped softly against his lips, the sound spilling from you before you could stop it. Your hands moved up, wrapping around his neck, fingers threading through his hair. He took that moment, his tongue slipped past your lips gliding against yours.

His hands were on your thighs, firm but gentle, and you responded without hesitation. In one motion, you jumped, legs wrapping around his waist, your bodies moving together. He didn't break the kiss—not even for a second—as he carried you with careful steps.

And then you felt it: the shift beneath your back, the familiar give of fabric and old springs. The soft mattress beneath you.

You exhaled as your spine met the bed, his weight settling over you. His lips moved from yours, dragging downward, slower along the edge of your jaw, then to the tender skin just below your ear, and further down to the place where your pulse fluttered.

"Jongseong," you whispered, your voice shaky, half-lost in the sensation, as his mouth lingered at your neck. You felt the sharp heat of his breath, then the sudden sting of teeth—not enough to break skin, just to claim it.

He groaned against your throat, the sound guttural, vibrating against your skin as his hips pressed down, grinding against yours with a rhythm that sent sparks through your nerves.

"Do parasites get this horny?" he murmured. You laughed, high and breathy, your hips tilting up to meet his. The movement drew a sharp moan from both of you as friction met heat, and the space between you disappeared again.

"Maybe it's just us," you said, fingers digging into his back. "Maybe we're the broken ones who feel too much."

His forehead pressed to yours, his lips hovering just above your mouth as he whispered, "Then I never want to be fixed."

He shifted his weight, sitting back just enough to reach for the hem of your shirt. You lifted your arms without hesitation, eager, your skin already humming with anticipation. The fabric peeled away easily, and the moment the cold air kissed your bare skin, a shiver ran through you.

Jongseong's gaze darkened.

"Shit..." he murmured under his breath, almost like he couldn't help it. Then his mouth was on yours again—hotter now, more desperate. His hands braced your hips as you reached between your bodies, finding the waistband of his pants and slipping your fingers underneath. You cupped him through the fabric, palm slow and the sound he made into your mouth was something deep. His hips jolted, twitching into your hand, hungry for more.

Your bra was the next to go, tossed carelessly across the room. The moment it was gone, his hands returned to your body. He paused, looking down at you. His fingers traced the lines of your waist, thumbs brushing the curve of your ribs, his breath shaking as though the sight of you unraveled something inside him.

He looked into your eyes—asking, without words.

And you answered. "Please... touch me more," you whispered, his mouth lowered, finding the curve of your breast, lips brushing the delicate skin before closing around your nipple. His tongue moved slow at first, teasing the areola in gentle circles, and then with more pressure—suckling, tasting, devouring.

Your back arched off the mattress, every nerve lit in a low, burning ache that made your breath catch in your throat. A breathy sigh slipped past your lips as you tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him there, needing more.

"God—Jongseong..." you moaned.

He responded with a groan of his own, vibrations rumbling against your skin as his hands slid down again. His mouth moved across your chest, his tongue leaving trails of heat as he worshipped every inch he could reach.

Beneath it all was something that had nothing to do with instinct. You weren't two creatures responding to any programming. You were two broken people learning how to feel again, how to love without shame—even if your bodies weren't built like they used to be.

"Remove it," you whispered, fingers curling in the fabric at his waist.

His mouth left your breast with a soft pop, his breath warm against your skin. He met your gaze and then rose onto his knees, hands moving quickly to strip the last layers away. Shirt, pants, boxers—gone in seconds, discarded to the shadows around the bed.

Your breath caught. Your eyes dropped, landing on his body, honed, powerful, beautiful in a way that bordered on unnatural. And then your gaze found his cock: thick, flushed, already aching for you. The sight sent heat spiraling through your core, a pulse deep between your thighs.

Your mouth watered.

You sat up, hands reaching for him, fingertips tentative at first, then bolder—wrapping around his length, feeling the weight of him, the twitch beneath your touch. Your movements were a little clumsy, a little hungry.

Your thumb grazed over the slick at the tip, smearing it down the shaft with a slow drag that made his breath hitch.

He was so hard. So warm. You could feel his pulse there, alive in your palm.

You looked up at him, your eyes searching his face. And God, how could someone look so divine?

The dim lights above caught on his sweat-damp hair, his chest rising and falling with every uneven breath. His lips were parted, his eyes hooded but fixed on you like he was watching a miracle unfold. Like you were the miracle.

You stare at him back, and it hits you. He wasn't human—not anymore. Because no human was this breathtaking. No man could look so effortlessly beautiful, even when his body was wrapped in scars, mutations, and power.

Ethereal, you thought.

You arched your back slightly as you leaned down, breath skimming along his length, and you kept your eyes locked on his. The second your tongue flicked out to lick the tip—slow, teasing—he let out a low, guttural sound that made your whole body throb with need.

His hands gripped the edge of the mattress, muscles tightening.

You ran your tongue along the underside of his cock, your lips ghosting over the sensitive skin, teasing him.  You loved the way he watched you.

"Fuck..." he whispered, voice hoarse.

You smiled against him, mouth opening wider as you took him in again—inch by inch, savoring the feel, the taste, the heat. Your fingers stroked what your lips couldn't reach, working in tandem as your pace gradually deepened, your body moving with quiet, desperate rhythm.

His hands found your face, thumbs gently cradling your cheeks as he looked down at you with that subtle, crooked smile—soft and filled with adoration. His gaze was half-lidded, dark with desire, but calm, too.

You hummed around his cock, the vibration making his stomach tense and his breath falter. You continued your rhythm, your head bobbing as your tongue worked him. Each motion earned a different sound from him, deeper now, breathless and ragged, his self-control rapidly fraying.

"Stop for a while," he breathed, voice tight, hand sliding to your jaw as he gently pulled you back.

You let him go, a thin string of saliva still connecting your lips to his tip, glistening between you. He didn't look away, his thumb brushed the slick trail from your mouth, and with a smirk, he pressed it between your lips.

You closed your mouth around it instinctively, eyes locked with his.

"Fuck," he whispered, as if the sight of you like that physically hurt. "You're so goddamn hot."

His hand slid from your cheek to your side. He guided you back down to the mattress, kissing you softly between each motion, your cheek, your shoulder, the center of your chest—as his fingers hooked the waistband of your pants and pulled them down, taking your underwear with them.

Cool air hit your thighs, and you shivered—but not from the temperature.

His breath hitched audibly as the scent of your arousal flooded the space between you. His cock twitched visibly, a strangled groan catching in his throat as his eyes dropped to the heat between your legs. And when he saw you—really saw you—his hands gripped your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh as he gently, but insistently, pushed them apart.

There you were. Glistening. Dripping. Your pussy visibly clenching, aching around nothing. Open to him.

"Haah..." he moaned. "You're perfect."

"Jongseong," you whined, hips tilting upward, searching for friction, for touch, for him. "Please... touch me already."

He leaned down, his mouth met your clit in one hot, wet stroke. You cried out at the contact, your back arching, fingers flying to his hair, gripping tight. He groaned against you, vibrating straight through your core.

His tongue moved with hunger, circling your clit, then flattening against it, then flicking with just enough pressure to make you gasp. His hands held your thighs open, possessive and steady, his mouth working you like he was starved for you.

Then he dipped lower.

His tongue slid down through your folds, gathering your slick, then pressing against your entrance—probing, pushing, entering.

You moaned, loud and breathless, as his tongue fucked into you, warm and firm and impossibly deep. It was intimate and wild, like he wasn't just tasting you—he was making out with your cunt. Every slurp echoed in your ears, every flick sent sparks crawling up your spine.

You could feel his tongue twisting inside you, exploring every inch, curling upward, coaxing you open in ways no one ever had. His mouth moved between your clit and your core, switching seamlessly, building pressure until you were panting, writhing beneath him.

"Are you gonna cum, my love?" Jongseong murmured, lifting his head just slightly to look at you.

My love.

The words hit deeper than his fingers ever could. Your chest fluttered, warmth blooming beneath your ribs. You couldn't answer with words—only a frantic nod, your fingers tightening in his hair, mussing it, holding him

His mouth returned to your cunt, tongue working your clit with firm, relentless pressure. He licked harder, faster, each stroke pushing you higher, your body already teetering on the edge.

You were twitching, panting, the heat spiraling out from your core in waves. You'd forgotten what it was like to feel so alive, so overwhelmed in the best possible way—like every nerve had come back to life.

You shattered with a cry, orgasm tearing through you like fire.

But Jongseong didn't stop.

Even as your thighs trembled, even as your body jolted with sensitivity, he kept his tongue swirling over your clit. And then, as if he knew just how to break you open all over again, he pushed two fingers into you, his middle and ring finger, long and strong and perfectly angled.

He curled them inside you, then began to thrust, steady and deep, knuckles brushing your entrance on every stroke.

"Ahhh! Jongseong!" You gasped, sitting up involuntarily, hips bucking against his face. Your body screamed with overstimulation, but it was too good to stop. Too much and not enough, all at once.

Back when you were still "normal," an orgasm like that would've left you limp and done. But now? Now you felt supercharged, every cell vibrating, your skin buzzing with more instead of fatigue.

You needed more and so did he.

The same fire burned beneath Jongseong's skin—evident in the way his hands gripped you tighter, in the flush blooming across his cheeks, in the heat radiating from his body like a furnace stoked too long.

He pulled himself up, chest heaving, and kissed you hard. Your tongues tangled instantly, messy and desperate, your panting breaths shared between kisses.

His fingers never stopped, still inside you, still thrusting, now with an animalistic rhythm that had you whining into his mouth. Each stroke sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your core, your thighs twitching around his hips.

He swallowed every sound, every moan, and you could feel the satisfaction in the way he kissed you.

"More," you breathed against his lips.

His gaze darkened, his fingers thrusting deeper. "Then I'll give you everything."

He kissed you again, slower this time. You could feel his cock, hot and heavy, pressed against your thigh, throbbing with the need to be inside you.

He slowly slipped his fingers from you, your body twitching at the sudden emptiness, and shifted forward, positioning himself between your legs. His hand wrapped around his length, stroking himself once, then guiding the tip down between your folds. He didn't rush—he dragged the head of his cock through your slick, coating himself in the warmth of your arousal.

You whimpered, legs spreading wider, instinctively offering yourself to him, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

"Put it in," you whispered, desperate, lifting your hips to meet him. "Please..."

But he held you still, fingers tight on your hips. "Not yet," he murmured, teasing your entrance with the head of his cock. "I want to feel you beg for it."

You moaned softly, hips twitching, the heat between your thighs unbearable now.

He finally pressed forward, just the tip breaching you and both of you cried out in unison. It wasn't just the physical sensation. It was the shock of connection.

"God—your pussy's sucking me in," Jongseong groaned, his head tilting back slightly, neck tense, jaw clenched. "Oh, fuck..."

When he pushed deeper, you choked on a moan, head dropping back into the pillow, hands gripping the sheets. Inch by inch, he filled you completely, the stretch perfect, overwhelming. You could feel every vein, every pulse, your body clenching desperately around him as he reached places you forgot were there—almost brushing your cervix, almost too deep, but just right.

Jongseong leaned into you, pressing his body against yours, skin to skin, chest to chest. His arms wrapped around you. He hugged you—his full weight over you. His face buried in your neck, breath warm against your pulse as he finally began to move.

Slow thrusts, measured and deep. Every time he pushed inside you, it felt like a wave crashing over your soul—bringing back color, sound, breath. You clung to him, your arms around his back, legs locking around his waist.

"I feel so alive," Jongseong whispered against your ear, lips brushing the sensitive skin as he kissed it.

The room was filled with heat. The sound of breath, of skin meeting skin echoed through the space only the two of you could hear. Outside, the world moved—wind howling through the tunnels, distant animal sounds sharp on the air, senses heightened by your altered bodies.

But none of it mattered.

The only scent in the air was arousal—yours and his. The only sounds were gasps, moans, curses whispered into sweat-slick skin.

"Nghh... Jongseong..." you cried, voice cracking as you pulled him closer, fingers digging into his back like you could drag him deeper inside you.

His rhythm shifted, harder now. More forceful. And then he angled his hips just right—and hit you there.

Your scream tore through the room as his cock slammed into your g-spot, stars bursting behind your eyes. You clenched around him, tight and involuntary, your body no longer yours—only his, only this.

"Fuck," he cursed, head dropping into your shoulder as your walls fluttered around him. "You feel like heaven."

"Harder... please," you begged, your voice a broken whisper. "Want it harder."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his breath uneven, eyes blazing with raw intensity. "Yeah? This not enough for you?" he rasped.

You could only shake your head, tears brimming at the edges of your lashes from how good it felt. His hand reached up, fingers gently sweeping the damp strands of hair from your face. Then he kissed you again. Pouring every ounce of feeling into it, swallowing your moans as he slammed into you with brutal precision.

Each thrust shook your entire body. He moved faster now—faster than any human could. "Want more?" he growled against your lips. "You want to be filled, baby?"

You nodded desperately, too far gone to speak, your hips rising to meet every thrust, chasing the edge you could feel surging again. He groaned into your mouth, losing himself completely, fucking you.

When your orgasm hit, it tore through you, your whole body tensing, twitching, legs locking around his waist as you came hard, gasping his name.

And he felt the every pulsing wave, every clench of your slick, desperate walls around his cock—and he came with a broken sound, burying himself to the hilt as his release surged into you, thick and hot. You could feel him throbbing inside you, filling you deep, but he didn't stop.

Jongseong kept moving. His thrusts slowed but stayed deep, grinding into you. Your eyes rolled back, heat still pulsing violently through every inch of your body.

And for him—it was more than pleasure. He felt something inside himself realigning. Cells reorganizing, adapting again, responding not to survival... but to you. His body recognized yours, welcomed it.

The usual limits of human bodies didn't apply to either of you anymore. You should have been spent. Exhausted. But your broken refractory periods meant nothing now. The hunger didn't fade—it simply deepened.

He shifted without warning, flipping you effortlessly beneath him—then pulling you back, guiding you to straddle him instead. He collapsed onto his back, chest slick with sweat, arms open.

You took it. You climbed over him, breathless, body still buzzing, and sank down onto him in one smooth motion. A choked sound escaped both of you. You were so sensitive, your walls gripping him tight, but your need, your craving was louder.

You started bouncing, fast and messy, hips slapping against his thighs. "Fuck—yes, just like that," Jongseong growled, hands locking around your waist. His hips bucked up into you, matching your rhythm.

You braced your hands on his chest, fingers curling into his skin as your body began to spiral again. Your thighs trembled, knees shaking as your orgasm crept up again. You could barely breathe, barely think, only ride.

Jongseong shifted beneath you, planting his feet firmly into the mattress for leverage—and thrust up into you with such force you cried out, nearly collapsing over him. He fucked you through your orgasm, each thrust dragging the climax out longer, deeper, until your whole body convulsed, your cries echoing off the walls.

"Ahh—want more," you slurred, voice ragged, utterly cock-drunk.

Jongseong didn't speak. His breath came in hot, heavy bursts as he kept thrusting up into you. His hand reached up, slipping two fingers between your lips—quieting you. You moaned around them, muffled, your tongue swirling instinctively.

He watched you, eyes half-lidded, wild with lust. "You can't get enough, huh?"

Your moans vibrated around his fingers, still buried in your mouth, muffling your cries as your body kept bouncing on his cock, fast and needy.

You clenched around him again, and another guttural groan tore from his lips.

Jongseong slid his fingers from your mouth, glistening with your spit. He brought them to his lips and sucked them clean, eyes never leaving yours. The simple act made your pulse spike, your rhythm falter for a beat before you recovered.

Your hands slid back to brace against his knees, your back arching sharply. The change in angle made him slip deeper inside you, and you both gasped—his cock visibly outlined beneath your skin, filling you to the hilt. You saw the way his chest stuttered with each breath, eyes tracing every inch of your exposed body.

Then Jongseong laid back, propping himself up on his elbows to get a better view of you. His gaze locked with yours, you gasped softly when you notice the change in his appearance.

His pupils had gone completely black, pure darkness, blown wide.

Something else wrapped around your waist—slick, warm, textured like stretched skin, soft and strong at once. Your eyes widened as you looked down to see tendrils—tentacle-like extensions—curling from his body, wrapping around your midsection, your hips, your thighs.

"Jongseong..." you breathed.

He smirked and thrust into you hard enough to make your vision blur.

You cried out, body jolting, and then you felt another tendril—longer, thinner—slide between your legs. It pressed against your clit, stroking with an eerie, perfect pressure.

Your whole body keened.

"Oh—fuck!" you moaned, louder than before, your voice cracking as the sensation detonated through your core. It was too much. It was perfect.

Jongseong's other hand gripped your hips tighter, his fingers now stretching with inhuman dexterity, more of him wrapping around you, holding you. His cock kept thrusting up into you, the tendril at your clit stroking in sync, teasing the edge of your next orgasm.

Your breath hitched, your mind unraveling, the next orgasm building fast and hot, just out of reach.

"Need more?" Jongseong teased. More tendrils slithered around your body, responding to his command, flickering against your nipples—tight, wet licks of pressure that made you arch and whine, your chest thrusting forward instinctively. Your hands clawed at his shoulders, your head falling back, lips parted in wordless pleasure.

Your mind was far too hazy at this point, soaked in ecstasy and sensation.

Then you felt something soft and cool brushing the tight ring of your ass.

You flinched, hips jerking instinctively, but the tendrils around your thighs clamped tighter, anchoring you. Keeping you still. Keeping you open.

"Shh," Jongseong whispered against your neck, his voice patient, tender even as his body dominated yours completely.

The tendril at your ass was thinner than the rest, careful as it pressed inward—probing, stretching, sliding slowly. You gasped, muscles tightening, overwhelmed by the double penetration. His cock still thrust into your soaked cunt, fast and deep, while the tendril began to move inside you, teasing your second entrance.

You were so full, stuffed, surrounded, owned and every part of your body lit with fire.

"Why are you not talking?" Jongseong whispered, lifting his gaze to yours.

His eyes were fully dilated, pure black, wild and beautiful. You stared at him, mouth open, gasping—because God, he looked so hot. That face. That voice. That control.

The tendril inside your ass began to thicken, stretching you further, matching the rhythm of his cock as your body struggled to keep up. Your legs shook violently, your core fluttering as another orgasm surged too quickly to contain.

You were crying out, words lost to moans and breathless gasps. Jongseong thrust harder, faster; his hands, his cock, his tendrils working in unison. Every inch of you was stimulated. You were locked in his arms, caged in his grip, the hybrid strength in him overpowering but not brutal.

"I can feel you," he groaned. "All of you. You're squeezing me so tight, fuck—don't stop. Cum for me again."

And you did, you shattered, screaming his name, your entire body shaking as pleasure tore through you in electric waves. Your cunt clenched violently around his cock, your ass pulsing around the tendril still buried deep, and everything inside you collapsed into white heat.

Jongseong held you through it, driving into you with steady, desperate rhythm, chasing his own high, his body burning beneath yours, jaw clenched as he thrust one final time and groaned as he came deep inside you again.

Your head rested against his shoulder, your breath shaky in his ear. Slowly, the inhuman tendrils that had wrapped around you began to withdraw, pulling back into his arms, retreating beneath the skin.

His human hands replaced the tendrils, sliding around your back, palms soft as they cradled you. Then his lips pressed to your forehead, he brushed the hair from your face, fingers gliding through it carefully, over and over. The small, unconscious motion soothed something deep inside you.

The affection made you smile. You let your body melt into his, sinking deeper into the curve of his neck, where his scent surrounded you.

"Love you," you whispered in confession, your voice barely there . You felt the subtle shift in his chest, the rise of a soft laugh beneath your palm as he smiled against your hair. “I don’t want to regret any day I didn’t say that,” you continued. “Even if what I feel is just parasitological reaction, even if it’s some rewritten instinct pretending to be love—I don’t care. I love you.”

His hand pressed gently against the curve of your spine. "I love you," he whispered back, and the way he said it—so simply, made your heart throb.

You lifted your head slightly to look at him, eyes still half-lidded, dazed from pleasure and affection. You took in the mess of him: sweat-slick skin, tousled hair, the soft flush across his cheeks.

Beautiful, you thought again.

You smiled, lazy and warm. “More?”

Jongseong’s lips curved slowly into that familiar, crooked smirk.

The morning crept in quietly.

No alarms, no machines humming, no scans running downstairs in the lab. Just the soft amber light of dawn leaking through the half-closed curtains, casting warm streaks across the floor and the tangled mess of sheets.

You stirred first.

Jongseong’s arm was still wrapped around you, his chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep. His warmth radiated through the blankets, his breath steady against the back of your neck. You could feel his hand resting against your stomach.

You didn’t move right away.

You let yourself lie there, blinking slowly at the ceiling, muscles pleasantly sore, body still humming in a low, contented way. You could still feel the echo of last night in your bones, in your skin. The way he touched you. The way he looked at you.

You turned slowly in his arms to face him.

He was awake. His eyes were open, soft with sleep but focused entirely on you. The moment your gaze met his, his lips curved into a small smile, tired but intimate.

“Morning,” he said, his voice still rough from sleep.

“Hey,” you whispered. “How long were you watching me?”

“A while,” he admitted. “You twitch when you dream.”

You groaned, burying your face briefly in his chest. “Great. Bet I looked terrifying.”

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your cheek. “No. You looked... peaceful.”

You shifted, resting your chin on his chest to look at him properly. “You sleep?”

His hand brushed up your back in a lazy, soothing arc. “I do. When you’re here.”

That silenced you for a moment. “You always say things like that,” you murmured, “like you don’t expect this to last.”

Jongseong was quiet for a long breath. His fingers slid into your hair, combing it gently, thoughtfully. “I don’t take it for granted,” he said. “Not when everything about what we are could change tomorrow.”

You watched his face, trying to read between the words. “Do you think it will?”

He met your gaze. “Maybe. Our biology’s still in flux. Your last scan showed increased neural conductivity in your spinal column. Mine too. Whatever’s happening to us—it isn’t done yet.”

You nodded slowly, tracing the skin of his shoulder with your fingertip. “Do you think we’ll stop being us?”

He caught your hand and pressed it against his chest, over the steady beat of his heart. “I don’t know. But if I do change... I want to remember this. You. This moment.”

You leaned in, forehead resting against his. “Then let’s make more of them.”

His arm tightened around you, pulling you close until your nose brushed his. “Deal,” he whispered.

“Pathology of Parasites.”

You glanced up from your spot on the floor beside Jongseong’s lab table, brows lifted as you read the scribbled title on the datapad he'd just tossed aside.

“Wow,” you said, lips curving. “Very romantic.”

Jongseong looked up from his microscope, clearly unamused. “It was a working title.”

You held back a laugh as you pulled the datapad closer, scrolling through the contents—notes, schematics, overlapping neural maps. Some of it made sense, some of it looked like nonsense equations written in a fever dream. But it was his—every word a window into how his mind worked. Clinical. Focused. Relentless. And yet… there were margin notes scrawled in a different tone—curious, reflective.

One read: Subject B demonstrates emotional regulation post-mutation. Possibly adaptive. Possibly… intentional?

You knew Subject B was you.

“You study me a lot,” you said softly, setting the pad down beside you. 

Jongseong looked at you for a long moment, eyes steady, warm. “I don’t study you,” he corrected. “I try to understand you.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s somehow worse.”

He snorted. “Maybe. But you’re fascinating.”

You turned your head to rest it against the side of the table, eyes drifting upward to where he sat, perched in his rolling lab chair, hunched slightly over some slide under the scope.

“Do you ever miss it?” you asked. “Being a normal doctor?”

His jaw tensed, and he leaned back slowly, pulling away from the microscope. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “I miss helping people and knowing what I was fixing. Now... I’m just making guesses. Mapping new anatomy no one’s ever named. Studying nervous systems that grow new endings when I’m not looking. It’s not medicine anymore. It’s—”

“—exploration,” you finished.

He glanced at you again, his lips twitching slightly. “That’s one way to put it.”

You reached up and tugged at the end of his sleeve. “Come down here.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, now.”

He hesitated only a second before pushing the chair back and sliding to the floor beside you. You leaned against him immediately, head settling on his shoulder, your knees brushing his thigh.

“You ever think,” you murmured, “if we weren’t like this… if we were just two strangers in a city... we would’ve passed each other without a second glance?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then: “Maybe.”

You looked up at him. “Do you like that idea?”

He met your gaze, something soft flickering behind his eyes. “No.”

You tilted your head. “Why not?”

“Because if we were normal,” he said, “I wouldn’t have seen you split your face open like a flower. Or sprout wings. Or smile after turning into something terrifying. I wouldn’t have seen all the parts of you that are beautiful because they’re impossible.”

Your throat tightened. “You always say the nicest horrifying things.”

“I mean every one of them.”

You turned toward him fully now, your legs folding under you, fingers brushing against the back of his hand. “Do you think we’d still fall in love?” you asked.

He paused. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Maybe we’d never look close enough.”

You nodded slowly, fingers tracing invisible lines over the back of his hand. “Then I’m glad it happened like this.”

He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through yours. “Even if it hurts?” he asked.

You looked up at him, smiling just a little. “Especially because it hurts.”

His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slow and grounding. “You know what I think?”

“Hm?”

“I think our pathology isn’t just parasitic. It’s poetic.”

You laughed under your breath. “Are you writing love poems in medical terms now?”

He smirked. “Only when I’m inspired.”

You leaned in and kissed him. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about heat or need—but about knowing and choosing.

When you pulled away, you stayed close, your forehead against his.

“I like this version of you,” you whispered. “The one who smiles when I mess with your research notes.”

He chuckled, his voice low in your ear. “And I like this version of you—the one who pretends not to be touched when I leave you notes shaped like protein chains.”

“You thought I didn’t notice?”

“I was hoping you did.”

You smiled. The datapad beside you still read Pathology of Parasites, but under it, someone had added in smaller handwriting—And the ones who survive them together.

The weather was quiet—eerily so.

Outside, the garden swayed gently under a pale morning sky. The another flowers you'd planted weeks ago had begun to bloom in earnest, soft bursts of color dancing in the breeze. Petals fluttered open toward the sun.

Inside, the air was still. Calm. The kind of stillness that didn't last.

Jongseong sat hunched at his lab desk, deep in a web of data. The neural scanner whirred quietly beside him, tracking changes in his cellular rhythms. Graphs rose and fell on the screen. Numbers blurred into pattern. His brow furrowed, fingers flying over the touchscreen, eyes sharp with focus.

The sound of wheels.

Faint at first. Too faint for most ears.

But not his. Jongseong body tensed instinctively.

Wheels. Two vehicles. Tires on gravel. He closed his eyes for a second, counting. One... two… four sets of footsteps. Three kilometers. Getting closer.

Jongseong rose from his seat with calculated calm, brushing a hand back through his hair, then pulled off his glasses and set them on the desk. His movements were controlled, but fast. He strode to the reinforced lab door, locking it with practiced ease before tugging a small, folded rug from under the emergency shelf. He draped it over the entry seam, concealing the frame as if it were just a storage hatch, then adjusted a nearby cabinet to further obscure it.

Once satisfied, he stepped back, exhaled sharply, and turned toward the stairs.

By the time he reached the living room, you were already there.

You stood at the edge of the hallway, barefoot on the wooden floor, arms wrapped around Jongjong. The little orange cat was tense in your grip, ears back, tail stiff, sensing the same wrongness that you did. Your eyes met Jongseong’s—and they were wide with fear.

“Who are they?” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I heard—cars, and footsteps. They're close.”

Your brow furrowed, panic rising, but Jongseong was already moving toward you. His expression was calm, but you could see the tightness in his jaw. He cupped your cheek with one hand, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye. “Shhh… don’t be afraid,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “I don’t know who they are. But I’ll protect you.”

You swallowed hard, nodding once, clutching Jongjong closer to your chest.

The knock came sharply. Jongseong froze, he took a slow breath, then stepped forward, unlocking the front door with careful precision, standing just beyond the threshold was a man in a dark-gray uniform, flanked by two others. Another figure stood beside the nearest vehicle, partially obscured.

The man at the door wore a clean, crisp jacket with a silver emblem pinned near the collar. His expression was unreadable, polished. Government.

“Good morning, Dr. Park Jongseong,” the man said evenly. “I’m Lee Heeseung. Task Force Division Five. Anti-Parasite Intelligence Unit.”

Jongseong’s eyes flicked down briefly to the ID badge clipped at the man’s belt, then back up to his face. His features didn’t move.

“I wasn’t aware I was still listed under my former title,” he replied coolly.

Heeseung’s lips twitched into something close to a smirk. “Well, it’s been what… two years since you resigned after your incident. You can imagine it took some digging to find this place.”

He gestured loosely toward the landscape—gravel winding through old pine, the isolation of the hills, the unmarked road that led to nowhere. “Your house is… subtle,” he added. “Almost like you didn’t want to be found.”

Jongseong didn’t miss a beat. “I didn’t know that was illegal.”

“It’s not,” Heeseung replied, smile sharpening slightly. “Not yet. But you know how we work—we keep tabs on anyone with a profile like yours. Especially those who survived and then disappeared without a trace.”

“I resigned because I was hospitalized with thirty-five internal injuries,” Jongseong said evenly. “I’m sure you read the files, didn’t you? Spent a few late nights combing through the classified parts?”

Heeseung gave a quiet chuckle. “I skimmed the highlights. They don’t make many survive cases like yours, so you’re... of interest.” His eyes flicked past Jongseong’s shoulder—and landed on you.

You stood near the far end of the hallway, half-visible in the doorway, Jongjong cradled in your arms. You tried to stay still, neutral, but the weight of his gaze made your grip tighten. The kitten stirred with a faint mewl as you forced a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Heeseung’s head tilted slightly. “Girlfriend?”

There was something in his tone—probing, too casual to be genuine.

“Quite a familiar face,” he added. “I think we flagged her name once. Ran away from home, wasn’t it?”

You swallowed, every muscle in your body tensed beneath your skin.

Jongseong stepped forward, subtly blocking the doorway with his body to cover you. “We’re getting married,” he said flatly.

Heeseung’s brows lifted a fraction, but the smirk never left his face. “Well. Congratulations, then.” His tone made it sound like anything but a blessing.

Jongseong’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want?”

Heeseung’s smile faded slightly. Not gone but tempered. “There’s been parasite movement in this region,” he said. “We’ve been tracking electromagnetic fluctuations coming from your grid. Spike patterns. Irregular heat signatures. Even some satellite interference.”

He paused, studying Jongseong's face for a flicker of reaction that never came. “Nothing conclusive,” Heeseung added, “but... interesting. Enough to warrant a visit.”

Jongseong didn’t flinch. “Congratulations,” he said dryly. “You found a retired doctor with backup power.”

“Maybe.” Heeseung tilted his head slightly. “Or maybe we found a man who’s been hiding something more than outdated diagnostics.”

Jongseong stepped back half a pace—not in retreat, but to take a stronger stance. The door remained open behind him, but his presence filled the threshold like a barricade.

“If you had proof,” he said, voice low, “you wouldn’t be here asking questions.”

Heeseung’s smirk returned. “That’s true. For now.” His eyes flicked to the hallway again—just a second too long, settling on the space where you'd stood before he arrived. His gaze lingered, speculative.

“Thing is,” he continued, tone softening just enough to unsettle, “it’s only a matter of time. Sooner or later, all hosts lose containment. Doesn’t matter how strong they are. Or how careful.”

Jongseong’s jaw flexed. “And if they don’t?” he asked.

Heeseung’s eyes gleamed with the hint of something darker—curiosity, maybe. “Then they become something else. And that’s when they’re really interesting.”

Heeseung stepped back. His smile returned as he reached into his coat and pulled out a small card, placing it gently on the railing beside the door.

“If you ever decide you want to talk,” he said. “I’d be happy to listen.”

Jongseong didn’t respond. He didn’t take the card. Just watched.

Heeseung turned away, nodding once to the officers near the car. As he walked down the steps, his voice carried over his shoulder:

“Take care of your fiancée, Doctor."

The car doors shut with a dull clunk, and the engines rolled back to life.

Jongseong waited until the sound faded completely before closing the door. Not slamming it, just quiet.

The room was still again.

The echo of car engines faded into the distance, swallowed by the thick silence of the woods. But the unease didn’t leave with them. It settled in the corners of the room, in the shadows of the hallway, in the hush of the air itself.

Jongseong stood unmoving for a long moment, staring at the door. Then, slowly, he backed away, step by step, until he reached you.

His voice was low. Bitter. Tired.

“Government’s so fucking fake,” he whispered under his breath. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest.

Your body responded before your brain could catch up. Your arms encircled him, clutching Jongjong between you, the little cat still tense, mewing softly with each shift of breath.

You could feel Jongseong’s heart beating faster than usual. Not panic—but calculation. Instinct already grinding into motion.

Your own chest ached with the weight of it. “They’ll raid us,” you said, your voice strained. “You know that, right? It’s just a matter of time.”

“I know,” he murmured into your hair. 

He was already thinking, you could feel it in him—muscle memory kicking in, mind running down contingency plans, routes, caches, what to take, what to leave behind. But for one more second, he just held you there, breathing in the moment. Then he pulled back, hands firm but gentle on your shoulders.

“We need to move. Fast.”

You nodded, eyes wide but steady. “Where?”

“There’s a site. Old observatory, two hours east. No power grid, no satellite interference. It’s buried in forest. Abandoned for years.” He was already turning, heading toward the concealed panel in the hallway, the one that led down into the lab. “I used to store backup gear there. We can set up a new node. No one should find us.”

You followed him, Jongjong tucked against your chest, your footsteps light and quick on the floor. Down in the lab, the air was cooler—sterile, humming with faint electricity. But this time, the room didn’t feel like safety. It felt like a ticking clock.

Jongseong moved with swift. He was already pulling storage drives from the mainframe, detaching power cells, collecting physical records. “Grab your scans,” he said without looking. “The ones from last week. The DNA strand with the tertiary mutation—we can’t leave that behind.”

You rushed to the desk, locating the labeled folders, the encrypted drives. “Do we take the entire core?”

“No. Too heavy. Just the segments I isolated in Case File Delta-11. Everything else, we burn.”

You paused, breath caught. “Burn?”

He turned, locking eyes with you. “If they come here, they’re not just looking for us. They’re looking for proof. If they find it, we lose everything.”

You swallowed hard and nodded.

He returned to packing—the slow dismantling of a life that had once felt permanent. The garden. The house. The bed. The scent of tea in the morning and soft footsteps on wood. All of it, now just a risk.

“You’re doing okay?” he asked suddenly.

You looked at him, startled by the question. “What?”

He paused. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m trying not to fall apart,” you said honestly.

Jongseong walked to you, took your hand, laced his fingers through yours. “Then fall apart later. Right now, we survive.”

You blinked fast, refusing to cry, and nodded.

For the next hour, the house came alive with motion You cleared out the bedroom, pulling your few clothes into a duffel bag. Jongseong moved through the kitchen, the basement, the lab—grabbing rations, medical supplies, essential tech. Caches were unlocked from beneath floorboards. Batteries charged.

Jongjong mewed at your heels, sensitive to the sudden shift. You scooped him into a small reinforced carrier, latching the top shut gently as you whispered, “It’s okay, baby. We’re not leaving you.”

When everything was ready—what little they could carry—the rest was rigged.

Jongseong stood by the lab console, thumb hovering over a small interface.

“Are you sure?” you asked softly.

He looked around the room. The whiteboards, the shelves, the soft glow of monitors that had flickered through endless nights of quiet obsession. “I loved this place,” he said. “But it was never meant to last.”

Then he pressed his thumb to the screen. The countdown began: 120 seconds.

He turned to you.

“Let’s go.”

The two of you moved quickly through the trees, boots crunching against the uneven trail that led away from the house. The duffel bags strapped over your shoulders weighed heavy, and Jongjong’s carrier bumped gently against your side as you kept pace with Jongseong. Every breath burned in your chest, lungs tight from urgency, but you didn’t slow.

The road wasn’t far. Behind you, the first hint of black smoke coiled upward into the sky—thin at first, then thicker, darker, alive with the scent of something ending. Chemicals. Plastic. Burnt paper. Memories.

You glanced back once, just once, and saw the roof of the house begin to buckle in the distance, flames licking hungrily through the glass of the greenhouse.

The safehouse was gone.

You turned your face forward again, biting down hard on the grief rising in your throat.

Then, just as you and Jongseong stepped out from the treeline onto the narrow, cracked road, you heard it—engines. Multiple.

Too close.

Jongseong’s hand shot out instinctively, halting you in your tracks as headlights cut across the road ahead. Then another flash of light from behind. The hum of electric motors shifted into full roar as a wall of vehicles emerged from the forest—sleek, matte black, no visible insignia.

One car. Then two. Then four. They encircled you with military precision.

“Fuck,” Jongseong breathed.

Your heart kicked into a sprint.

The tires screeched as the cars completed the circle, trapping you both in the center. Doors slammed. Boots hit gravel. From the trees, two more massive transport trucks rumbled into view—large, reinforced, bearing symbols you didn’t recognize.

Your pulse rang in your ears. Jongjong whimpered inside his carrier.

Around you, agents moved into formation—helmets, rifles, armor too advanced for local law enforcement. These weren’t just military. This was containment.

You felt Jongseong’s hand slip into yours, grounding. His grip was steady, but the tension radiating from him was unmistakable.

They’d come fast. Too fast. Someone had been watching long before Heeseung ever stepped onto the porch. The visit had been a test—a warning disguised as politeness. And now, the real answer had arrived.

Jongseong stood still beside you, his body calm but coiled like a spring. Eyes scanning every angle—counting rifles, reading stance, calculating distance.

“We don’t run,” he said quietly, his voice low and measured.

You nodded, barely. Your mouth had gone dry. Every muscle in your body was buzzing with restrained panic, but his steadiness held you together. Barely.

Then the voice came, amplified by a mounted speaker from one of the armored vehicles ahead.

“Park Jongseong. Parasite host that evolved with retained intelligence. Subject Code 1072. You are surrounded. Surrender peacefully.”

Parasite. Host.

You felt something clench in your chest. They thought Jongseong was gone. That he was nothing but a skin-walker—a parasite wearing his face. They thought he had taken Jongseong’s memories. Not kept them.

And if that’s what they thought of him… what did they think you were? You were both still yourselves. Still human in the ways that mattered. Conscious. Feeling. Choosing. How could they not see that?

It was easier to reduce you to subjects—to codes and categories. It was easier to eliminate anomalies than to understand them.

You flinched as the quiet clicks of safety switches echoed around you. One by one. Like a metronome of dread. The hiss of containment coils charging up, the faint hum of EMP disruptors warming beneath the truck chassis. Cold, impersonal tools built to restrain monsters.

This is it. This is how it ends.

You choked back a cry, your vision blurring with panic, heart jackhammering in your chest.

A hand, warm and steady, wrapped around yours.  You looked up instinctively, drawn by that calm pull, and saw Jongseong’s face turned toward you. No fear in his expression.

Only you.

His thumb brushed gently across your skin—once, twice, the motion grounding. His eyes held yours, soft and unwavering, and in them was a message louder than the voice still barking orders from the trucks:

We’ll be alright.

No matter what happened next. Whether they fought, ran, or burned it all down—he would not leave you. Not now. Not after everything.

You swallowed hard, pressing your forehead briefly to his shoulder.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” he said. “I’m not a host. I’m not a parasite."

But they weren’t listening. Before the next breath, the soldiers moved.

Shadows broke from the perimeter—six of them, black-clad, rifles raised, moving with ruthless efficiency. You barely had time to react before they were on you, splitting you apart.

“Jongseong!” you screamed, voice raw, panic lacing. You twisted violently in their grip, but they were trained for this. One of them was already behind you, and then—Cold metal—pressed hard against the back of your skull. 

“Do not touch her!” Jongseong roared, voice losing all calm. “I came out here on my own. I’m trying to handle this peacefully—hear me out first!”

“What a nerve for a parasite.”

Heeseung stepped forward from the rear of one of the vehicles, casual as ever, a tablet under one arm and a sleek black coat whipping slightly in the breeze. His expression was between amused and disappointed.

“You know what fascinates me about your kind?” he asked. “You think memory makes you human. That because you remember who you were, that gives you the right to pretend you still are.”

Heeseung smiled thinly, but his eyes were sharp and gleaming. “You’re not a miracle, Park Jongseong. You’re a malfunction. A parasite too stubborn to wipe clean. An error in the code.”

“You’re wrong,” Jongseong said, voice low and shaking with barely-contained rage. “I’m not pretending. I am still me.”

“Oh?” Heeseung lifted an eyebrow, then glanced at you, pinned and trembling. “Then why does your biology say otherwise?”

“This,” Heeseung continued, “is not human. And it never will be again.”

He stepped closer to you now, far too close, gaze crawling over you. His hand reached for your face.

You flinched and Jongseong snapped. “Don’t touch her!” he bellowed. His body tensed, pulsing with barely contained energy, the hybrid signature humming just beneath his skin.

But the soldiers were faster this time. Before he could fully shift, they surged forward, slamming him to the ground with blunt, brutal force. A shriek tore from your throat as metal restraints clamped around his wrists, locking into his nerves with a cruel hiss. Another device—a containment collar—was pressed to the base of his neck and activated with a low whine. It snapped shut, injecting something through the skin.

"No!" you screamed, trying to lunge toward him, but two soldiers seized you by the arms and yanked you back. From the corner of your eye, you saw them dragging Jongseong toward one of the trucks. His head lolled forward, jaw clenched, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. But his eyes—his eyes—were still locked on you.

“My cat,” you whispered hoarsely, panic rising in your throat as you clutched the carrier tighter to your chest. The soldiers didn’t stop—they reached for it too.

"Please don’t hurt Jongjong,” you begged, voice cracking as the straps were torn from your hands, the warm weight of the carrier suddenly gone. “Please.”

The truck doors slammed behind Jongseong. Heeseung approached you, boots slow on the gravel, his expression unreadable. You expected amusement, or cold detachment. Instead, he looked… fascinated.

He stopped just in front of you, gaze flicking over your face, then lower, he reached out and plucked a strand of your hair.

You jerked back, but he already had it between his gloved fingers, holding it against the light.

It twitched. A subtle motion, almost imperceptible. The strand pulsed—flexed—like something living beneath the keratin. A ripple of parasite-altered structure, responsive to stress. Adaptable.

Just like Jongseong’s. 

“Fascinating,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. You stood rigid, breath shallow, refusing to give him the satisfaction of fear.

He didn’t need you to speak. He already knew. You moved differently too.

Not like the ones they captured in the early waves—parasites that tore through their hosts in hours, leaving nothing behind but mindless hunger. Those were feral. Primitive. No self-awareness, no identity. They moved in twisted packs, bonded by instinct and survival programming alone.

You showed restraint. Expression. Emotion. A parasite that retained host memories wasn’t unheard of, but this level of cognitive mimicry? This illusion of selfhood? It was advanced. Dangerous.

Heeseung’s gaze flicked toward the truck where Jongseong was being restrained, injected, monitored. Still conscious, still resisting. Still looking at you.

The way you’d screamed for him. The way he’d fought back. The way your bodies moved in sync when threatened, like one half of the same adaptive system.

Heeseung’s brow furrowed faintly as his mind worked. Two parasites. Two separate hosts. And yet—shared behavior, matched speech patterns, mirrored stress responses.

Coordination. There was no record of parasite hosts operating this way.

No. These two were different.

They operated like a bonded system—distinct, but synchronized. Reflexively connected. Conscious units that didn't just act... they adapted. They evolved in tandem.

Like they remembered how to be human.

Heeseung turned from you without another word and walked briskly toward the rear vehicle.

The heavy doors of the transport truck slammed shut behind him with a hollow thud, sealing away the forest light. Inside, the air was sterile and close—metal floors, reinforced paneling, containment restraints bolted to the walls.

Jongseong sat chained at the wrists and ankles to a steel platform welded to the floor. A neural-suppression collar wrapped around the base of his neck, blinking with slow, pulsing red light—designed to keep his nervous system dormant. His breathing was shallow, restrained by the collar’s influence, but his eyes…

His eyes were alert. Fixed on a spot on the floor in front of him, still burning with thought.

The soldier at the rear finished checking the restraints, nodded once to Heeseung, then stepped out, leaving the two of them alone as the engine rumbled to life.

The truck began to move.

Heeseung sat across from him, there was a moment of silence before Jongseong spoke.

“Where did you put her cat?”

He didn’t look up—just stared at the floor, wrists loose in the restraints, posture deceptively relaxed.

Heeseung blinked, caught off-guard by the question. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just calm, focused concern. That tone again. Human, not host mimicry.

“She was worried,” Jongseong continued. “Even when they put a gun to her head. She didn’t cry for herself.”

“Your first question,” he said at last, “after all this—after being tranquilized, collared, contained—is about a cat?”

Jongseong’s jaw shifted slightly. “He’s all she has left."

Heeseung leaned back in his seat, watching him, trying to see where the parasite ended and the man began. “You say that like you care.”

“I do,” Jongseong said simply.

“You’re not supposed to,” Heeseung said flatly. “Parasites don’t care. They consume. They replicate. They preserve function only long enough to blend in and feed. Emotions aren’t in the architecture.”

Jongseong finally lifted his eyes. And when he did, the calm in them unnerved even Heeseung. “Maybe your data’s outdated.”

Heeseung didn’t answer right away.

The collar blinked again—another suppression pulse. Jongseong winced slightly, just a flicker. But the control was slipping.

“Why her?” Heeseung asked, narrowing his eyes. “Why protect her? Why bond?”

Jongseong tilted his head. “You think that’s the parasite, don’t you? A mimicry of love?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” he replied quietly. “It’s something stronger than that. Something your experiments can’t replicate.”

Heeseung watched him for a moment longer, then pulled a tablet from his coat. He tapped the screen once, bringing up a live feed.

On it—your containment cell.

You were seated on a cold bench, hands cuffed, staring at the wall with red-rimmed eyes. Jongjong’s carrier sat in the far corner, intact. The kitten was curled up inside, asleep, breathing shallow but steady.

“She’s safe. For now,” Heeseung said. “As long as you cooperate.”

Jongseong didn’t speak. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just kept his eyes on the screen showing your containment room. The only motion came from his fingers—subtle, rhythmic tension in the knuckles as they flexed against the cuffs around his wrists.

The low rumble of the truck filled the silence between them as the vehicle rolled down the cracked road. The steel walls vibrated faintly with every turn, every bump. The hum of the suppression collar echoed with each pulse, a soft, almost inaudible thrum designed to keep the nervous system in check.

Heeseung sat opposite him, tablet resting on one knee, but he wasn’t looking at the screen anymore.

He was watching him. Heeseung had spent years studying parasite behavior. He’d seen the aftermath of outbreaks, the scorched ruins of cities where hosts turned feral. He’d dissected bodies whose minds had been consumed, hijacked by instinct. He knew how the infection behaved. The timeline. The neurological decay.

Heeseung leaned forward slightly, watching every twitch of the man’s jaw, every micro-movement in the corners of his eyes. There was no vacant, drone-like stillness. No flickering dissonance between body and mind. Jongseong moved with control. With memory.

“Two years,” Heeseung said quietly. “Since your incident.”

Still, no reply.

“No symptoms of degeneration. No neural collapse. No regression to instinctive behavior. Not even a shift unless provoked.”

Heeseung’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Parasites don’t do that.”

“You should’ve lost cognitive function by now,” Heeseung muttered, as if to himself. “Or at least shown instability. But you’re not twitching, not fragmenting. You’re still here.”

Jongseong didn’t answer.

Heeseung studied him harder now. “You responded to pain. But you didn’t lash out. You defended her first. Like you weren’t the one being contained.”

He stood slowly, pacing a step across the cramped transport cabin. “You aren’t fighting for survival like the others. You’re fighting for her. And the cat.” He said the last part with disbelief.

“And even now—with everything shut down inside you—you’re not asking how to escape.” He tapped a knuckle lightly against the wall. “You’re asking about a cat.”

Heeseung exhaled slowly, almost reluctantly, he muttered the thought that had been coiling in the back of his mind since he first saw the two of you together:

“…What if we didn’t catch a parasite?”

Across from him, Jongseong finally lifted his eyes. “You didn’t,” Jongseong said quietly.

His voice was calm. Too calm. It made Heeseung’s spine tighten.

“You didn’t catch a parasite,” he repeated. “You caught me.”

Heeseung turned toward him, narrowing his eyes, the flicker of doubt still not strong enough to override years of indoctrinated procedure. “So what are you then? The host pretending to be alive? Or the thing that took his name?”

“I’m not pretending,” Jongseong said, sitting straighter despite the restraints. “I never stopped being me.”

Heeseung folded his arms, cautious. “Parasites can adapt to memory. Form neural imprints. Replay emotions. It doesn’t mean they feel them.”

“I remember my mother’s voice,” Jongseong said. “The smell of mint in my lab. The first time I stitched a wound clean."

He leaned forward just slightly, eyes locked with Heeseung’s. “Tell me. What kind of parasite chooses restraint?”

Heeseung didn’t answer.

“I should have attacked when you put the collar on,” Jongseong continued. “When you touched her. When you threatened a cat. But I didn’t. Because I still have choice. I still have will. And if I wasn’t me... you’d all be dead.”

Heeseung’s jaw tightened. “That’s not proof of humanity. It’s control.”

“It’s both,” Jongseong said. “That’s what you can’t see. You’ve been fighting a war against an infection—but you never stopped to consider that maybe, some of us… integrated.”

He let the word hang.

“Not overwritten. Not consumed. Not mindless.”

“Integrated,” Heeseung repeated slowly, voice skeptical. “As in… coexistence?”

Jongseong nodded once. “Symbiosis. On a level your science hasn’t reached yet. Our cells merged. Our minds remained intact. Not corrupted."

The idea clawed at the edge of his discipline. It wasn’t just unorthodox—it was heretical in the field of parasite containment.

“This isn’t a theory we can test,” Heeseung muttered, as much to himself as to Jongseong. “There’s no model for what you’re describing. No neural map that explains how host and parasite can both retain identity—”

“Because you’ve never looked,” Jongseong cut in. “You see symptoms. You don’t see survival. You isolate, contain, and kill before you understand.”

Heeseung stopped, and look at him again. “Why her?” he asked again, softer this time. “Why protect her like that?”

Jongseong’s gaze didn’t waver. “Because I love her. Not because the parasite remembers it. Because I do."

Heeseung was silent, the silence between them thickened.

“If you're going to cut us open, then leave her out of it. I’ve already run my bloodwork. The cells in our systems—they’re nearly identical. If you need a subject, take me.”

Heeseung narrowed his eyes. “You’re admitting you’re infected.”

“I’m saying I know more about what’s happening inside me than you ever will,” Jongseong said. “I’ve seen the mutation pathways. I’ve watched how the parasite interacts with host DNA. It doesn’t consume. Not in our case. It synchronizes. Rewrites with us, not over us.”

“You expect me to believe this is some kind of... biological partnership?”

“I don’t care if you believe it,” Jongseong said coolly. “I care if you let her live.”

Heeseung stood motionless, his fingers tightening slightly over the edge of his tablet. His mind clearly spinning, trying to stitch logic back together with a theory that had no precedent, no documented case, no rules.

Then a sudden bang was heard at the front of the transport.

The front of the transport jolted sideways, metal groaning as something massive rammed into the vehicle’s outer shell. Jongseong’s head snapped up, his body jerking violently against the restraints. The suppression collar flared with a pulse of light as it tried to regulate the surge in his nervous system.

But instinct was already rising. From deep in his bones, something ancient and sharpened stirred.

Warning sirens shrieked from the cockpit, pulsing red light flooding the interior. A violent, inhuman screech tore through the walls of the transport, piercing and layered with a sound that no natural throat could make.

Heeseung spun toward the back, eyes wide, gun already in hand as static exploded over the comms.

“—under attack—Sector Four breached—multiple signatures—non-registered forms—”

Then: silence. The comm cut out with a sharp burst of static.

Another impact—closer now.

The left panel of the truck ripped open, jagged claws punching through the hull. The interior sparked, wires torn from the wall. Screams erupted outside, brief, panicked, human—and were immediately silenced.

Gunfire flared, distant and fast. Then stopped. The truck screeched to a halt. Everything inside shuddered.

Jongseong’s breathing slowed. His pupils dilated. A sharp ringing started in his ear, piercing and constant. A signal. An echo. He knew that sound. The ferals were here.

Heeseung backed toward the wall, cursing under his breath, eyes darting toward the ruptured seams of the truck. “Shit—ferals. We’re not the only ones who tracked your signal.”

The vehicle hissed, locking down in emergency containment mode, blast doors grinding into place—but it wouldn’t hold.

It never held against evolved ferals.

A voice crackled in over the emergency channel, panicked and distorted.

“They’re cutting through the outer convoy—unit integrity compromised—blades—gods, their heads—!”

Heeseung turned toward the hatch with frantic precision, slamming a hand against the biometric reader. It blinked red.

Denied. Lockdown protocol in effect.

He snarled and spun toward one of the soldiers just as they dropped in from the front cabin, blood on their chest armor.

“What the hell are they doing here?!” Heeseung barked, breath ragged.

The soldier stumbled forward, panting. “We were being tracked. They're grouped, coordinated. They sensed the suppression signals. We were too focused on the subject—on capturing him—we didn’t see them grouping up!”

Heeseung’s face twisted, horror blooming beneath the sweat on his brow. He hit the external door override and shoved it open.

The wind roared in—along with the sharp scent of blood and ozone. He stepped out onto the highway and stopped cold.

The road was carnage.

Vehicles overturned. Trucks in flames. Smoke coiling into the sky. The asphalt was smeared with streaks of red. Civilian cars had been caught in the chaos, crumpled in the crash zone, some still running. The sound of alarms blared faintly beneath the screams.

And all around them—parasites. Dozens of them.

Moving in brutal synchronicity. Their heads had split open, revealing rows of blade-like bone and twitching sensory tissue, extending into curved, serrated weapons. Limbs bent at impossible angles. Some crawled low, others leapt over crushed vehicles.

One slammed a containment soldier into a guardrail, slicing through armor like foil. Another dragged someone beneath a flipped transport, the sound that followed barely human.

“Fuck!” Heeseung shouted. “We’re on a highway! Civilians are here!”

He watched as one parasite tore through a family vehicle. And suddenly, Heeseung understood the truth he’d ignored for too long:

While the government hunted for anomalies, the real parasites were already evolving—together.

 "Jongseong!" Your voice cut through the gunfire, the sirens, the screeching metal—and Jongseong’s body reacted instantly.

His head snapped up, muscles tensing, eyes blown wide with instinct. The suppression collar hissed against his neck, trying to contain the surge of parasitic activity pulsing beneath his skin, but it was failing—overloaded by the ambient energy from the ferals outside. He pulled against the restraints, harder than before, the reinforced cuffs groaning.

Heeseung spun, eyes wide, curse caught in his throat as he raised his pistol again and fired into a cluster of parasites tearing through the defensive line.

Shots rang out, shells clinking against the scorched metal floor. Smoke billowed from one of the downed trucks. The soldiers had formed a defensive circle around the transport, rifles raised, trying desperately to hold position. Their formation was tight focused on protecting the anomaly inside.

But they didn’t see you. Your form moved like a blur—inhumanly fast—leaping across the crushed hood of a nearby vehicle. Metal dented under your weight as you sprang upward, hair whipped by the wind, eyes burning.

“How the hell—” one soldier stammered. “How did she escape containment?”

Another parasite lunged toward you, its jaw split wide in three directions, blade-arms drawn back to strike—but you twisted mid-air, your arm morphing as it flared into a winged shield, catching the creature mid-swipe and launching it backward with a bone-cracking crash.

You landed hard on the ground, crouched and panting, blood spattered on your cheek but your eyes were locked forward.

“Get away from him!” you screamed, your voice tore through the cacophony.

More soldiers had arrived—reinforcements spilling onto the blood-slick highway, shouting over their comms, rifles raised, movements tight and confused. But they couldn’t keep formation. They couldn’t keep up.

The parasites were everywhere crawling over the wreckage, tearing through armor. Heads split in jagged, serrated formations. Limbs bent backward, adapted for slicing, climbing, killing.

Heeseung stood in the center, spinning in place, trying to process it all.

Too fast. Too many. His team was trained for containment, not war.

“Sector is compromised—” a soldier barked through the radio before his voice was swallowed in static and a wet, bone-snapping crunch nearby.

All around him, his men were falling. One circle formation collapsed entirely, parasites tearing through the armored bodies within seconds. Another squad tried to regroup behind the burning transport, but were picked off before they even knelt.

Heeseung turned, frantic, searching for something to ground the moment. His eyes locked on you again.

You were in the open now—half-covered in smoke and ash, crouched behind a twisted heap of steel. Your breath was ragged, chest heaving, your once-formed wing-arm flickering with strain. Bone pushed through skin, not cleanly. It was raw. Exhausted. Overused.

You lifted your hand again but it refused to hold shape. Too many eyes.

The soldiers had seen you, so had the parasites.

And now everyone was targeting you. They didn’t care if you were like them or not—they only knew you weren’t theirs.

Gunfire cracked again, a warning shot grazing the steel beside your head. You ducked, eyes wide, hand burning as it twisted, half-shifting into something between claw and shield.

“Jongseong!” you cried out, breath shattering on his name. You didn’t know if he could hear you, but he felt you.

Body twisting against the chains as the parasite beneath his skin surged upward. The steel groaned. Jongseong’s wrists ripped free from the restraints in a burst of heat and sound. Sparks rained down as his hands—half-shifted now, gleaming with dark, fluid armor—tore the collar from his neck with a violent crack, tossing it against the wall where it exploded in a flash of white.

One leap carried him from the open truck, landing on shattered pavement just a few meters from you. Smoke curled from his shoulders. The wreckage of the convoy burned behind him. But he wasn’t looking at the fire.

He was looking at you.

“Stay back!” one of the soldiers shouted, stepping into his path.

Another raised a weapon and then they shot him.

The crack of the rifle echoed.

A high-velocity round tore into Jongseong’s back, slamming into the base of his spine, his arms dropped slightly.

And that’s when something inside you snapped.

The sound of the bullet, the sight of him being hit—again—sent a wave through your chest that wasn’t fear.

"No!" Something inside you responded. Your ears rang—not from the gunshot, but from a deeper frequency. Like pressure under water, like something old and waiting inside your blood suddenly woke up.

Heeseung saw the shift too late.

“No! Hold your fire!” he shouted, voice cracking as he pushed through the chaos, waving his arm wildly at the squad still taking aim. “Cease fire—stand down!”

Jongseong’s body hit the pavement hard, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat. The bullet had struck at the base of his spine—the most sensitive part of his body, where parasite and host tissue merged deepest. His limbs trembled, nerves crackling like snapped wires. The world around him blurred.

Sound fractured. Vision swam. But even through the fog, his body moved.

He forced one arm forward, dragging himself across the cracked asphalt, blood trailing behind him. Grit tore into his palms. Every movement lit his back. He had to reach you.

His breath hitched, when he looked up and saw you.

You were standing amidst the ruin, body trembling, chest rising, your head is split. Down the center, your skull had begun to peel open, petals of bone and skin folding back in a horrifying symmetry.

Inside, the interior of your skull pulsed with living tissue—luminous, intricate, organic architecture sculpted into motion. The folds moved, shimmering with pale bioluminescence beneath layers of exposed membrane. Thorned tendrils extended into the air, twitching like antennae, reaching in all directions—reading everything.

You weren’t looking at anyone. You were looking at everything.

And anything that moved was a target.

Jongseong watched, breath stuttering in his throat as he pushed himself to his feet, limping, wounded, bleeding, but still moving toward you.

“No…” he whispered, his voice frayed with pain. “Please—look at me.”

But your head remained split open, the sensory limbs on full alert, searching, flinching, vibrating with threat-perception. You were caught in something deeper than instinct. Something merged. Not fully parasite. Not fully human.

Hybrid rage.

He saw your hands flex—one already reshaped into a half-scythe, twitching.

His steps faltered. You didn’t recognize movement anymore. Only motion. Only danger.

And that’s when a memory crashed through him.

“If I stop choosing?” you asked him, voice fragile, small in the silence of your shared bed. “If I lose myself?”

He cupped your face and smiled faintly, "remember what I said when we first met?"

"I’ll stop you,” he said. 

Jongseong staggered closer, lifting a hand.

“Come back to me,” he whispered, blood dripping from his fingers. “It’s me, remember? You asked me to stop you. But I know you’re still in there.”

Your tendrils twitched, one sweeping dangerously near his face. Another moved to your back—coiling instinctively, ready to strike anything that came close.

He didn’t move faster. He moved slower. One step at a time. No aggression. No sudden gestures. Just presence.

Your exposed mind pulsed again, recognition flickering across the movement sensors.

The rage inside you paused.

Jongseong was right there, wounded and reaching. His hand stretched toward you, fingers trembling, eyes full of you.

You saw him. He saw you.

For a moment, the chaos faded beneath the ringing in your head. The rage had cracked open, flared, and then wavered. The kill-reflex that had overtaken you flickered like a faulty circuit. Jongseong was there—his body broken, bleeding, limping toward you, arms out like he wasn’t afraid. And you weren’t afraid either.

He was calling you back. You could feel it in the weight of his gaze, in the tremble of his voice, in the way he said your name like it still belonged to a person, not a monster.

But the world never gave you time to breathe.

“Target in range!” came the voice, sharp and too close.

A soldier burst through the smoke to the left of the wreckage, rifle raised, armor streaked with ash. He’d broken rank. His orders were panic now, and his eyes were locked not on you—but on Jongseong.

He didn’t see the moment between you.

He saw a parasite protecting another parasite. He pulled the trigger.

And the world snapped back into motion.

Your body reacted faster than thought. Your limbs twisted with violent precision, burning pain ripping through your shoulders as tendrils re-flared wide. The trajectory of the bullet was instant, and so was your movement. You lunged—not toward the soldier, but toward Jongseong. 

The shot rang out.

It hit you in the side of the head. The force snapped your body mid-leap, the angle of your descent faltering as the impact twisted your momentum. You crumpled in the air, before collapsing into Jongseong’s arms.

He didn’t process it at first. His mind refused to.

He had just seen your face—your eyes, focused and full of something fierce. You’d moved to shield him. You had chosen. And now your weight was in his arms, limp, warm, and wrong.

Jongseong’s eyes widened, his pupils blown wide as your body hit him. You slid into his chest, your limbs folding over him.

“No—” The word broke from him. Your blood was already pooling in his lap, hot and thick, soaking through the front of his shirt.

Your head lolled against his shoulder, and for one breathless, agonizing moment, he thought it was over. That whatever part of you had held on through mutation and fear had finally let go.

Then, you moved.

Your fingers twitched against his chest, searching weakly, as though your body still knew him. As though your nerves had memorized where he was. His hand flew to your cheek, cradling your face, feeling the fresh, searing heat of the wound just above your brow, where the bullet had grazed—not pierced—just grazed, carving a shallow line along the temple instead of burrowing deep.

It hadn’t gone through.

It hadn’t gone through.

“Hey—hey,” Jongseong whispered, his voice trembling as his thumb brushed away the blood streaking down the side of your face. “Stay with me. Look at me. Come on, open your eyes.”

You stirred faintly in his arms, eyes fluttering open halfway. Blurry. Unfocused. One pupil dilated, the other slow to respond. Your breathing came shallow, uneven. But you were still there.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, slurred. “You were in the way.”

Tears welled in Jongseong’s eyes, stinging hot. “You think I care about that?” he said, a bitter laugh breaking through his grief. “You shouldn’t be protecting me. I’m supposed to protect you. That was the deal. That was the whole damn deal.”

Your mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. “We keep switching places.”

He let out a breath—part sob, part laugh—and pulled you tighter against him, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna get out of this. Just don’t close your eyes, okay?”

Around you, the world was still burning.

The smoke curled through the air, lit red by fire and violence. Parasites clashed with soldiers. Screams rose and fell. Metal groaned as the transport vehicles burned. But inside this circle, there was only the two of you.

Jongseong cradled your body close, arms trembling, holding you. You were breathing but just barely, and each breath was a battle. Your eyes were open, unfocused, but searching only for him.

“I said hold your fucking gun!” Heeseung’s voice tore through the smoke, sharp and furious. He stormed forward, boots crunching glass and debris.

But halfway there, he froze. A small, unmistakable sound pierced the tension.

"Meow."

Heeseung blinked, momentarily disarmed.

Out from behind a crushed tire, padding softly on tiny feet, came the orange kitten. Its fur was matted with soot, but it was unharmed. It limped slightly, dazed but determined, weaving its way across the field of bodies and broken machines. It meowed again, louder this time, heading straight toward the two figures curled together on the ground.

Heeseung watched, stunned.

The kitten crawled into the small space between your arms and Jongseong’s chest, nudging at your hand until your fingers curled faintly around its fur. A soft sound escaped your lips—almost a sob. Jongseong let out a broken breath, head bowed low, tears trailing silently down his blood-streaked face.

Heeseung had seen hundreds of parasite cases. Dissections. Failures. Living corpses. He’d seen what it looked like when something wore a human face like a mask.

They weren’t mimicking emotion.

They were feeling it.

And suddenly, something cracked in him. Maybe it was the way Jongseong hadn’t fought back. Maybe it was the way you had shielded him without hesitation. Or maybe it was the cat—meowing stubbornly like it belonged in this hell, like it belonged to someone who mattered.

Heeseung turned away. “Take them to the hospital,” he said gruffly. "Now.”

The remaining soldiers hesitated. He turned his head slightly, eyes hard. “They are just normal beings. You hear me?”

The sun was bright—too bright, almost unreal after everything. You lay on your back in the grass, eyes half-lidded, your arm stretched above your head as your fingers tried to catch the warmth. The heat soaked into your skin that reminded your body it was still alive.

The breeze danced lightly across your face, carrying the scent of earth and new flowers. Birds chirped somewhere distant, lazy and indifferent to what the world had gone through.

For once, it was quiet.

Jongseong dropped down beside you, his breath soft as he settled into the grass. His shoulder brushed against yours.

“You’re happy?” he asked, you turned toward him, giggling gently as you scooted closer, resting your head against his arm until your nose touched the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Yes,” you whispered, eyes closing. “The house you bought has neighbors. Real ones. I hear them laughing sometimes through the trees.”

You let your hand slide down into the grass, brushing over a patch of tiny purple flowers that had just begun to open. “The flowers are blooming again,” you added.

You felt his arm slide under your neck, pulling you gently into him. The warmth of his chest against your back. The sound of his heart, steady and strong.

“You’re blooming again too,” he said quietly, lips brushing the top of your hair. You smiled, tucking yourself in closer, your fingers playing absently with the hem of his shirt. 

“I talked to my mother,” you said after a pause, voice barely more than a breath.

Jongseong tensed slightly behind you, just surprise. His fingers paused mid-stroke along your arm.

“They cried,” you continued, your voice catching somewhere between joy and guilt. “Not because I ran… but because I was alive. Still me. I don’t think they fully understand what I’ve become, but they—believed me. That was enough.”

“That’s more than most people get,” he said softly. “More than I thought either of us would get.”

You turned just enough to look up at him over your shoulder, your cheek still resting on his chest. “They asked about you too, you know.”

He smiled faintly. “What’d you tell them?”

“That you were the reason I came back. That you weren’t a monster. That you were the most human thing left in the world.”

He didn’t answer that. Just held you tighter.

The breeze passed again, ruffling his hair, and for a few long moments, you stayed like that.

“I… got a job offer.”

You blinked, lifting your head slightly. “A job?”

He nodded. “From the Anti-Parasite Intelligence Unit.”

You sat up just a bit, your brow furrowing as you turned toward him. “Huh? That doesn’t even make sense—they tried to kill us. You think they won’t dissect you the moment you scan wrong on their monitors?”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Not this time. Heeseung vouched for me.”

You stared at him. “The guy who raided your house and locked me in a steel box?”

Jongseong gave a small shrug, like he was still trying to believe it himself. “He said watching us changed something. That they need people who understand—not just destroy. Someone who’s walked both sides.”

You exhaled slowly, processing that. “And… do you trust him?”

“No,” he said honestly. “But I trust myself.”

You looked at him, eyes soft but filled with worry. “I don’t want to lose this. What we have. What we made.”

“You won’t,” he said, brushing his thumb against your cheek. “I won’t let them take that. I just… I want to be part of shaping what comes next. So no one else has to live like we did.”

You were quiet for a moment, then reached up and ran your fingers through his hair.

“So…” you murmured with a crooked smile, “I’ll just be the one staying home? Waiting for you to come back from your mysterious, morally ambiguous government job?”

He chuckled, his eyes crinkling. “That doesn’t sound so bad, does it?”

You shrugged, teasing. “I don’t know. I was hoping for something a little more… exciting.”

Jongseong’s hand found yours, his fingers lacing between yours gently. “Then marry me,” he said.

You blinked. “W-What?”

He turned slightly onto his side to face you, pressing a kiss into the back of your hand. His voice didn’t shake. His eyes didn’t stray.

“Marry me,” he repeated, lips still brushing your skin. “Not because it’s perfect. Not because we’re normal. But because we survived. Because I want to spend every day I have left choosing you again.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. You sat up slowly, stunned, the words echoing louder now in the silence between you. The wind quieted. Even the trees seemed to hush.

“You’re serious,” you whispered.

He sat up with you, his face close now, eyes full of something more vulnerable than fear. “I don’t know how long this peace will last. But I know I want to build something with you. Something that no one can take from us. Not science. Not governments. Not even time.”

You laughed. “You idiot,” you said, tears in your eyes. “You didn’t even bring a ring.”

He smiled. “You’d say no if I did?”

You shook your head, laughing again through the tears. “No.”

Then quieter, as your hand pressed to his chest, you whispered:

“Yes.” 

And when he kissed you this time, it was full of sunlight and the sound of blooming things.

“Pathology of Parasites.”

The words glowed dimly on the top corner of Jongseong’s datapad screen, the title of a document he’d first created over two years ago. 

Rows of categorized data: genome sequencing, mutation rates, cellular instability markers. Diagrams of parasite-host binding sites. Bone marrow compatibility. Immune rejection cycles. Timelines of when the parasite first entered his nervous system. His own handwriting, still neat back then, filled the digital margins—observations in shorthand, notes from sleepless nights.

Date: March 4 Neurological sensitivity peaked at 3:21 AM. No external triggers. Breathing accelerated. Controlled. Note: Dreamed in third person again. Strange.

But the pages had changed with time.

What began as cold, methodical data shifted the moment you entered his life. Your name didn’t appear at first. Then it did.

A single line:

“Second anomaly encountered. Maintains emotional awareness.”

Then another:

“Unconfirmed bond pattern. Same cellular merging. Same control.”

But eventually, it wasn’t numbers anymore. He'd begun sketching you—rough outlines in the corner of the file margins. Not parasite diagrams. Just you. The curve of your jaw when you smiled. The ripple of your morphing wing when light hit it just right. The split of your skull the first time you showed him what you really were—and how he still found you beautiful.

More files were added. Pages documenting the moments no microscope could capture:

“She laughed while watering the flowers today. Her breathing pattern returned to baseline immediately afterward. Possibly tied to emotional regulation.”

“Her T-cells adapted faster than mine. She smells like copper and summer rain when she’s shifting. No documented reason. Just… her.”

The datapad buzzed faintly beneath his fingertips. He sat in the quiet of his study, your silhouette just visible through the open window—standing in the garden, laughing at Jongjong as the cat tried to chase a butterfly it would never catch.

Jongseong looked down at the title again.

Pathology of Parasites.

He stared at it for a long time. Then, slowly, he raised a finger and tapped on the word Pathology.

He highlighted it, then deleted it to typed something else.

“Life of Parasites.”

[whisperedmeg]

LONG DIVISION ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part xii

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: they misstep, misjudge, say the wrong things, and fall quiet in separate spaces. in the days that follow, silence becomes the hardest problem to solve.

genre: angst (a little fluff and hurt/comfort at the beginning but yeah, mostly angst srry) | w/c: 2.8k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, PTSD, panic attacks, arguing, spencer says something kinda icky he didn’t mean, frustration/tension/lots of emotion, fight left unresolved, slight cliffhanger

a/n: heeeey… don’t kill me for this one pls! still got one part left and you knowww I love them too much to let them be unhappy for too long 🥲. the final chapter of soft animal will be out next week (tbd on day). if you’ve stuck around this long, I truly don’t have the words to express how much I appreciate you. can’t believe it’s almost over. ily 🫶🏼

series masterlist

“I don’t need to be good at it, right?” Spencer asked, eyeing the gym bag on the floor like it might bite him.

“God, no,” I said, adjusting my ponytail in the mirror. “If it helps, most of the people who go to my gym are middle-aged teachers and a guy named Tony who brings a towel embroidered with flames.”

“That does help,” he said dryly, pulling off one of his socks and starting over.

It had been a few months since Rossi’s party — since the balcony, the journal, the move-in. Since all the sweetness and certainty that followed. And for the most part, things were good. Really good. Not perfect, not without the occasional misstep, but wonderfully, amazingly good. We shared toothpaste and bookshelves, played scrabble every Thursday, and argued over furniture placement. There was laughter. Sex. Quiet mornings.

But something shifted after the holidays. Slowly, then all at once. A string of hard cases. A few too many sleepless nights. A look in his eyes that said he was somewhere I couldn’t follow. He didn’t say much about it — Spencer never did — but I could feel it in the way he held his breath more often, the way he’d sit up at night, staring at the ceiling like he was waiting for it to crack.

After he got home from a long case involving a missing kid, I watched him pace our apartment like a ghost — all kinetic energy with nowhere to land. I tried and tried, but none of my usual methods to bring him back to himself had been working, so I went out on a limb and suggested the gym. I told him it wasn’t about fitness at all — that I loved his body exactly how it was now and wasn’t trying to change it — but rather, it was about motion. About trying something rhythmic, physical, grounding. I’d read about how trauma lives in the body, and sometimes healing means letting it move. He’d finally relented with a sigh and the world’s grumpiest nod, like he was agreeing to be sent into a war zone instead of a workout.

But now, as I handed him a granola bar and watched him lace up his shoes, I felt strangely proud. He had dressed in the new workout clothes I bought him. He’d packed water. He was trying.

“Come on,” I said, tossing him a hoodie. “Time to activate those mysterious leg muscles of yours.”

“Tell my mysterious leg muscles I hate them,” he muttered.

—

The gym was tucked into the ground floor of a brick building downtown. It was eclectic and slightly chaotic and filled with the kind of warmth you get from handwritten chalkboard signs and mismatched yoga mats.

We signed in at the front, and I could feel the nervous energy radiating off of Spencer beside me.

“Just remember,” I said, “you’re hot and brilliant and if you die here, I’ll avenge you.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely. “I want my eulogy to mention that I attempted cardio for love.”

—

Spencer stood in front of the gym mirror, stretching his arms overhead like he was preparing to scale Everest. He wore a look of deep suspicion.

“The creature approaches the elliptical with territorial caution. Observe its trembling limbs as it navigates the hostile terrain,” he said, only loud enough for me to hear, as he stared warily at the machine.

I choked on a laugh. “Are you seriously narrating your own workout like it’s a nature documentary?”

He nodded, stepping onto the elliptical with the tentative grace of a newborn deer. “I am. Sir David Attenborough deserves a day off.”

He fiddled with the settings and started moving. “Notice the male adjusting the resistance to level one, not because he’s weak, but because he’s conserving energy for hypothetical predator evasion.”

“Stop it,” I whispered, laughing so hard under my breath I had to slow the speed on my treadmill. It was ridiculous and charming and entirely him.

For a few minutes, things felt almost normal. An ordinary Saturday morning with the man I loved, goofily narrating cardio like a BBC special.

But then, someone across the gym dropped a dumbbell on the floor after their set. Spencer’s head shot up, and something shifted.

I noticed it in the way his breath shortened — too quickly. The way his shoulders hunched in, his jaw tensed. His eyes weren’t on the display screen anymore. They were fixed on a point in the distance, unblinking.

Another weight dropped on the mat behind us with a sharp clang. Spencer flinched.

One more slam and he was off the elliptical, breath ragged, barreling toward the locker room like the floor was burning his feet.

I followed — slowly at first, then faster.

I found him sitting on the tile floor near the lockers, back against the wall, knees pulled up like he needed to shield his ribs. He wasn’t crying, but his hands were shaking.

“Hey,” I said gently, crouching beside him. “Spence. You’re okay.”

His eyes flicked to mine. “The noises—” he started, then stopped. Swallowed. “It sounded so much like the yard at the prison.”

I nodded, heart breaking slow and quiet.

“I’m sorry. I—god, I thought I was past this. It’s been almost eight months since I got out.”

I shook my head softly, taking his hand in mine. “Stop that, you don’t need to be sorry. You don’t have to be fine all of the time. I’m here, okay?”

He nodded, and I didn’t try to fix it. I just sat beside him until his hands stopped trembling.

—

The next time it happened was while he was away on a case, so I only saw the aftermath. He came home pale and silent, dropped his go-bag on the floor, and stood in the middle of the kitchen in front of me like he didn’t remember how to exist inside walls that weren’t covered in metal bars.

“I had to interview a serial killer,” he said, voice flat. “In a prison.”

I stood very still.

“It smelled the same as Millburn did. I knew it would, but I wasn’t ready. And when I sat down across from him, I couldn’t hear anything over the sound of my own pulse.”

I reached for his hand. “You got through it.”

“I kept thinking about the sound the doors made when they shut. And then I couldn’t breathe right for hours. Even after I left. Even on the jet. Even now.”

He looked at me, like he was bracing for disappointment. Like telling me this might make me leave.

Instead, I wrapped my arms around his waist and held on tight. “You got through it,” I repeated.

—

There were more instances over the next few weeks — smaller ones. A nightmare where he woke up tangled in sheets, hyperventilating, coated in sweat. A startle response so sharp in the grocery store that he knocked over a towering display of cereal boxes. We laughed at it then, tried to make light of it, but I saw the way his hands shook as he cleaned it up.

Trauma doesn’t follow rules. Healing isn’t linear. But I kept hoping, irrationally, that if I just loved him hard enough, the patterns would flatten out.

I wanted to help. But the math wasn’t working.

—

The final break happened on a Tuesday.

He’d just gotten back from a long stretch of back-to-back cases. He looked… hollow. Like something had been scraped out of him and never filled back in.

I knelt in front of him, palms resting on his knees, trying to find his eyes.

“Spence,” I said, softly, “I’m worried about you.”

He blinked. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

Silence.

I reached for his hand. “I think you should talk to someone. A professional.”

His whole body tensed. His face shuttered, and he stood. “Oh, so you think I’m broken now?”

I paused, taken aback by his reaction. “That is not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Spencer—”

He crossed the room, putting distance between us like a shield. “I don’t need someone poking around in my head telling me I’m traumatized like that’s news.”

I took a few steps closer and shook my head. “I’m not saying you’re broken. I don’t think that at all. I’m saying you’re hurting, and you deserve to heal.”

He flinched. “You want to fix me,” he said flatly.

“I just want you to be okay.”

“I’m never going to be okay,” he snapped. “This is who I am now. You can either choose to deal with it or to not.”

The air cracked.

His words cut like a knife, and I took a few steps towards him. “Don’t do that. Don’t push me away because you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Yes, you are, Spencer. And you don’t get to tell me what I want, or what I can handle. I love you.”

“I never asked you to,” he snapped.

That stung.

I blinked, stunned into silence. I looked up at him with hurt in my eyes, and all I saw was distance. I searched for words that never came.

“You think I haven’t tried?” he said. “You think I haven’t been over this with professionals already? Do you know how many Bureau-mandated evaluations I had to sit through? How many times I talked about my ‘feelings’ so someone could check a box and tell some suit in a corner office that I was fit to rejoin a team I’d already been a part of for over thirteen years?”

I stood now, the floor cold under my feet. “I’m not them,” I said. “I’m not checking boxes.”

“Then stop trying to diagnose me,” he bit out. “You want to play nurse again? Write up my chart?”

That one landed hard. I blinked. “That’s what you think this is? You think I still see you as my patient?”

“I don’t know,” he said, voice cracking. “Maybe I don’t know how to be anything else to you. Maybe I’m just another project for you to fix. Sometimes you look at me like I’m this fragile thing, like I’ll fall apart if you touch me wrong.”

“Because sometimes you do!” I shot back. “You shut down. You disappear into your head. And I don’t know how to reach you when that happens.”

He stepped back. “Maybe we’re not ready for this.”

The words echoed louder than either of us expected. We both froze.

“That’s not fair,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to say that like it’s a fact, like it’s decided. Just because I pushed you to get help—”

“I don’t need help.”

“Yes, you do!” I said, shaking now. “And it doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

He turned away again, pacing. “I’ve had enough people tell me what I am. I don’t need the woman I’m sleeping with doing it too.”

I stopped breathing. Those words felt like a slap — loud and sharp and deeply personal.

“Wow,” I said, voice cracking. “That’s what I am to you? Just someone you sleep with?”

His face shifted instantly, regret flashing through his eyes. “No. No no no, that’s not—”

“You chose those words, Spencer,” I cut in, louder now. “Not ‘my girlfriend,’ not ‘my partner,’ not ‘the girl I love’ or ‘the woman I live with and talk about a shared future with on a daily basis.’ Just… ‘the woman I’m sleeping with.’ After everything, that’s what you call me?”

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, softer, but not moving closer. “I’m not making sense. I’m exhausted. I’m saying things I don’t mean. I’m too angry.”

“Yeah. And now so am I,” I whispered. “Because I’m not just the woman you’re sleeping with. I love you. I’ve been trying. I’m still trying. And if trying too hard makes me a villain in your story right now, fine. But don’t reduce me to just sex.”

His jaw moved like he wanted to speak, to apologize, to take it all back. But nothing came out.

So we let the silence finish the argument for us.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the night. He went to bed early and didn’t reach for me when I slid in beside him.

When my alarm went off the next morning, I reached for Spencer instinctively — but his side of the bed was already cold. Not just warm-body-left-ten-minutes-ago cold. No — it was long-gone cold.

He’d left.

—

The days after were unbearable.

I didn’t hear from him. Didn’t see him. I went to work, came home, stared at the door like it might open. It didn’t.

The math of grief is cruel. I kept trying to solve for X. I tried running equations in my head — if I’d phrased it differently, if I’d waited a day, if I hadn’t brought up therapy at all, would he have stayed?

But the problem wasn’t the equation. It was the absence.

Spencer had always been a variable I couldn’t quite pin down. Beautiful, complex, unsolvable. But I didn’t want to solve him — I just wanted to be with him. To carry the remainders together.

—

I started to unravel on day two.

Instead of reaching out, I cleaned. I reorganized the bookshelves by spine color and then by height and then finally by the Dewey Decimal System, because I knew he’d find it funny and I hated how much I wanted him to notice. I walked three miles before remembering where I was supposed to be going. I cooked a meal I didn’t eat. Washed dishes I hadn’t used and folded laundry I hadn’t worn.

By day four, I felt nauseous with worry.

I sat on the living room floor for an hour staring at a dried tea ring on the coffee table, wondering if love was always supposed to feel like this — like a variable you couldn’t isolate. Like an equation you knew how to write but couldn’t solve.

I showered at noon and didn’t bother with makeup. I dug out an old sweatshirt I hadn’t worn in months, one that said CHESTNUT HILL GENERAL HOSPITAL in faded letters across the front, even though I’d never worked there. I wore it simply because it was mine, because I knew the smell of Spencer’s clothes on my body would break me. Just looking at his side of the closet was awful enough.

I still couldn’t eat. There was something about a knot in your stomach that didn’t leave much room for anything else.

Outside, it had started to rain — a thin, apologetic drizzle. I wondered if he was somewhere stuck in it, hoping he’d brought an umbrella.

By mid-afternoon, the rain had thickened to a steady shower and I stopped pretending to be busy. I curled up on the couch with my knees drawn to my chest, and I let myself cry.

I replayed the conversation in loops. Not the big parts — those were easy to recall. It was the quiet things that haunted me. The pauses. The dropped eye contact. The absence of breath between one thought and the next.

I knew what prison had done to him. I was the one who had monitored his vitals. I was the one who’d given him a place to rest his head and pretended it was protocol. I was the first person he’d called when the quiet of his release crept in. I’d watched him learn how to laugh again. To cook. To joke. To sleep through the night. And yet I still managed to break the one rule I’d set for myself, one I never spoke aloud: never make him feel like a project.

Evening hit, and the light had shifted — that soft, gray kind that made everything feel like the end of something. I was still on the couch, my body sore from sitting too long in the same position.

I thought about texting him. Just one line: Are you okay?

But I didn’t.

Instead, I curled tighter beneath the blanket and closed my eyes. Not to sleep — I couldn’t really do that without him — but just to make the world go quiet for a moment.

And finally, I let myself admit it:

I didn’t know if he was coming back.

I missed him — not just his presence, not just the comfort of his body beside mine — but him. The crooked smile he didn’t know he made when he read something interesting. The obscure trivia tidbits he couldn’t help but share. The way he mumbled my name when he was half-asleep. The catch in his breath when he found a dirty joke I’d jotted down on a post-it and hid for him. The way his nose scrunched up when he grinned goofily for a Polaroid picture.

I missed the way he looked at me like I was something worth staying for. I wanted to believe he still would.

Throughout all of his struggles, I kept trying to work through his trauma like it was solvable. But love isn’t clean like basic math — it’s messy and complicated. Sometimes you divide and divide and divide and still never find the solution.

Right now, all I had was the quiet. And outside, the rain kept falling.

ᝰ.ᐟ

part 13

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[delphi-shield]

instant connection .ᐟ.ᐟ

di!leon x reader - long-distance relationship - part 1

next part

leon's a liar.

he doesn't mean to be. he tells you he works in security because it's easier than explaining the shitshow that is the DSO. you'll ghost him in a few messages anyway - and if you don't, he'll do the honors.

leon. 6'0''. works in security at no. undecided on kids. doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, long-term relationship, open to short. his first picture is of him throwing a peace sign to the camera, hair immaculate. (he'd had to crop out the hideous monster, a writhing mass of flesh and teeth, and now bullets. leon had realized very quickly that most of his selfies were ones he sent to hunnigan and ranged from drowned cat couture, 'forgot my umbrella today' to 'i'll help you train if you want to be a field agent, you're missing out', encouragement in the same frame as his latest monstrosity.)

the only thing completely true on his profile is his name and his status as a non-smoker and newly minted teetotaler. (according to his sobriety chip, he hasn't touched a drink in eight months. he keeps it in the same pocket he used to stash his flask in.) he's probably six foot in his shoes, he figures. that's only a half lie. 'undecided' should be 'unlikely', but that hadn't been an option in the drop down menu. his therapist says he needs to keep himself open to happiness, not to hold his dreams under water and drown them the moment he dares to have hope. it sounds kind of like bullshit, but undecided is the closest he's letting himself get to optimism for the time being. it's the same deal with long-term, open to short - blind optimism undercut by what he knows life has in store for him.

companionship isn't in the cards for him, not in any meaningful way, and that's fine. you get used to it after a while. it dulls out, gets hazy, only really creeps in on lazy weekends when he leaves the window cracked, swept in on sweet-smelling spring breezes.

it's one of those days when he opens his dating app to review his scant few likes. he clears the cobwebs from his profile only often enough to keep it active (there's that hope again). activity was few and far between, usually saved up to have claire or hunnigan go through his options and point out red flags that he would gladly sail right past - but that day, a cavern had opened in his chest. he only knew how to fill it with validation.

you were half-way across the goddamn country. you'd probably liked him weeks ago when you were passing through. seemed like a safe enough bet. more than likely, you'd never respond. even if you did, this would never work out. the distance was crazy.

so of course he messages you.

all right, what's wrong with you?

kind of a weird thing to say to a stranger, but you take it in stride and turn the question back on him when you respond an hour and a half later, the notification so surprising to him that he has to reel back through your profile to see what he's actually dealing with.

the distance makes it safe. there's a buffer between you. unspoken, mutual understanding that this is impractical and a waste of time.

the messages get more frequent. the stilted conversation melted to daily updates, and he'd exchanged phone numbers with you out of convenience. the app was a pain in the ass. he didn't want to get guff for being on a dating app during work hours, but texts were easily hand-waved. daily pictures escalated to weekly calls, which mutated into scheduled movie nights. there were a host of classics he needed to show you. his contribution to society was making one more person culturally conscious of leon s. kennedy's greatest hits.

leon remembers exactly where he was when you'd sleepily confessed that you weren't talking to anyone else. posted up in a hotel in belgium, getting ready for his operation. it was the middle of the night for you. the day loomed ahead of him, loaded with hostility and viscera. you were half asleep. he could have told you anything and you would have hummed and forgot it, nestled into your pillow. he tells you the truth instead, that he'd deleted the app you'd met on, that you're the only one he's talking to as well. it's the closest to commitment he can do and you take that promise to your dreams.

since then, he warns you when he'll be away for a 'business conference', unlikely to respond.

(conference sucked, he messages you from his hospital bed. he's fresh off assignment chest wrapped tight in bandages. he'll be out in a few hours. nothing serious. part of him aches to reassure you about something you didn't even know you had to worry about. execs tried to eat me alive out there.)

leon realizes he's fucked when he pays more attention to you, pinned to the top right corner of his laptop, than the cheesy horror-comedy you'd picked out for movie night. one hand itches for the bottle and the other itches for you, imagining what it would feel like with your weight dipping the mattress next to him, how his hand might fit against the arc of your hip - the movie on the big screen, not his laptop, still ignored in favor of watching you.

"are you even paying attention?" your voice crackles over the speaker, competing with the honking of a clown nose. he's lost the plot of the movie, doesn't quite understand where all the clowns came from (outer space, he thinks, but that would be ridiculous). he's too busy replaying your voice in his head, imagining it slower, sleepier, pressed into his shoulder.

"yeah, of course."

"uh-huh," you hum doubtfully.

you encourage him to pay attention to the next scene, pointing as if that will do anything when there's so many miles between you. something about the practical effects. he tries, honest to god, but his eyes keep drifting up to you.

he's not a monster. he waits til the movie is over to spring his stupid idea on you. leon respects the sanctity of film, the intimacy of showing your favorites with another person and the anxious hope that they'll understand the piece of you you're trying to share with them.

but he can't get the idea out of his head, and he'll make it up to you with a thorough analysis of the movie next time you have a movie date because if he doesn't say this now he's going to pussy out.

"listen, i was thinking," he ruminates, taking his time to chew his words. plenty of time to back out. leon's grown good at identifying what sort of anxiety is brewing in his gut - perks of the job - and he knows he'll kick himself if he back out now.

"that's rare."

"hilarious. i'm serious, i've been thinking. i've got some time off built up. if i don't use it by the end of the year, they don't pay it out. company's a bunch of cheap asses."

he's talking in circles and you've already reached the ending. he leans a little closer to the screen, hopes the look in your eye is glee and not fear.

"so..." leon trails off. plenty of room to back out. if you don't grasp this he'll just ask for travel tips and lick his wounds somewhere warm and tropical.

but you don't offer that. you sit up a little straighter. he swears that's a smile that you're fighting to keep down. "so...how soon are you thinking?"

casual. nice.

"as soon as possible." less casual. shit. "i was thinking a week. is that--?"

"that's great. can you let me know the dates?"

"yeah. yeah, of course."

this is going too well. too smoothly.

leon takes a breath, combs his fingers through his hair.

"we are talking about me coming to visit, right?"

you laugh at him. he's never been so happy to be laughed at.

"yeah, leon. you're coming to visit."

"just making sure."

it's impractical. it's unlikely. his therapist is going to have a field day next session. he still hasn't figured out what to do when you find out that 'security' had been a very misleading description of his work, or when you figure out that he's only 5'10'' on a good day. none of it is fair to you, he realizes, but booking his flight is his first step in trying to do right by you.

"i'll pick you up from the airport," you insist.

"i want a sign with my name on it."

"i'll put 'kennedy' on it and wear a suit and sunglasses so people think you're a big deal."

"i kind of am a big deal."

you roll your eyes. "oh, my mistake."

if only you knew that was the truth.

dividers from @/adornedwithlight

[werezmastarbucks]

no title, head empty

inspired by me. 8th member au blueprint i wrote it off of. this is not a chronological chain, but rather a series of drabbles based on my headcanons! kinda like some events i wanted to write in detail.

idol!yoongi x idol!reader

word count: 12121

warnings / tags: i will either infantilize Jungkook or write him as a fuckboy until he personally comes to my house and dislocates my jaw; hurt/comfort, smut, dry humping, jerking off/masturbation, mint yoongi, grumpy yearning

July 2012

You are ready to faint - you've already seen the glimpse of their faces, and it's the worst of what you could expect. They don't just unwelcome you: they are in a state of active indignation at your arrival. You've seen the pictures of the boys so that you could memorize their faces and names. The only one who doesn't look like you stink is the scrawny, shy guy with his hair covering almost all of his face: long, scared eyes, affectionate mouth as if cut with a scalpel onto his head. Easily pretty. Maybe you should stand on his side but your body refuses to move. You keep your eyes on Taehyung and his lack of instant hatred.

The worst of all that rapper Yoongi guy: sharp jaws like he snaps his teeth at people, gaze hidden beneath his long bangs, body half-turned towards the mirror wall. His eyes travel everywhere in the room except for you.

Even their postures are hostile, until Namjoon finally sighs and begins his heavy lifting. Steps up. Puts out his huge hand. It swallows your palm and the sounds are dulled as he introduces himself. You keep staring at yourself in the mirror wall: small, hungry, completely horrified, but - with an unexpected arrogance on your face, lower lip protruding like you are judging them. Because you are. Because it's the natural defense mechanism against the seven faces who aren't even trying to fight the urge to frown. They want to show you that, even though they are powerless here, they were against it. Yoongi guy slowly raises his eyes to the ceiling when you start speaking, like he is praying for the light fixtures to collapse on your head.

You could snap your fingers and snark at them. Say, I don't want to be here either, I was supposed to be a solo act. I am not happy about living with seven boys either. Are you kidding me?? The realization finally crashes into you like a train: you will have to live with them? Narrowed eyes, lips curved in disgust like you are some kind of demon made of shit that usurps their bedrooms. Taehyung seems helpless at best, doesn't look at you anymore.

Then you spot the kid. Doe eyes staring at you in total shock, confusion, disbelief. You reckon his world will shatter pretty soon. He can't be older than fifteen, doesn't look it. He is pressed against Taehyung's shoulder like he is trying to hide from you, and you can't stop looking at him.

Namjoon names all of them one by one just to make sure you've memorized correctly. There's no smiles, no more handshakes: it's pointless pretending. There are managers in the room, the photographers, and those pictures will never end up being posted anywhere, because the sheer whiplash of hostility in the room transcends the digital. When the name check gets to Yoongi, he pushes himself off the mirror wall and eyes you up and down, hands in pockets. He looks like the type of guy to beat someone up in the back alley. You are sick of his quiet-loud demonstration, so you stare back, trying to mimick his cold gaze. And you lock eyes. And everybody gets super uncomfortable.

You got a problem?

Sure I do. I am looking at it.

His face is hollow, white. Dark circles under the eyes: he is malnourished like the rest of them, like you will be soon, he is exhausted and raw, like a leopard that's being skinned alive. You have sympathy for that. But he is giving you shit unfiltered. You feel like crying, and Namjoon senses that and tries to elevate the atmosphere. Taehyung is painfully silent, incredibly shy. Hoseok, the one with the darkest hair, shakes his head as if to cover his eyes.

In short, the first day goes horribly. They are probably in pain, too. You look at the schedule.

Fifteen hours of classes and practicing. Three hours of vocals. An hour orientation the whole first week. That leaves you five hours to sleep, eat and shower. You can do whatever you want with it.

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September 2012

You hear the sobbing from the kitchen. The kitchen isn't just that: it's united with the space that you call the living room. It's a fluid concept: sometimes kitchen is bigger, sometimes the living room is. It's hard not to walk in on someone when coming back to the apartment: the clothes rack is stuck at the door and the space begins there. No hall, no corridor. Home immediately.

Jungkook is sitting at the small writing desk Hobi and Namjoon dragged from the dumpsters. The kitchen table isn't big enough for all eight of you - one person has to either sit on someone's lap or eat at the dumpster desk. Another reminder of how you toppled their peace. You almost fit.

Now the boy turns away quickly as you step inside, shaking your backpack off. His sharp elbow flies up and his hand wipes his face. Another fist clutches the pen angrily. It makes you feel weird. Jungkook has been punching your gut with that kid stare since the very beginning: there's something distinctively vulnerable about him, about the way he slightly tilts his head like a kitten. The way he opens his mouth when listening. Imitates his hyungs like a little cub learning to function on the fly. There's not even a big age gap between you; just three years. But when you hear this chocked whimper, see the back of his head, hair standing all apart, you get irrationally soft.

"You okay Koo?" you try to sound flat, like you are just dropping an observation. Natural, unaffected. He sniffs and just can't stop. Jungkook's voice is bad this week, he keeps creaking like it's breaking again although he is way too old for it. It's most likely the strain: been recording for tens of hours, no breaks. Plus he is constantly dehydrated. You've seen Seokjin corner him and make him drink water yesterday, eyes on his mouth so that Jungkook can't escape it. He forgets to drink water.

The boy tries to steady himself; his shoulders grow angry, he is embarrassed, and you don't walk away. There's nowhere to go, except to the room maybe, but that would be uncalled for. He is just unravelling slowly, humiliated, in front of you, hiding his face. You give him a minute to collect his shit while you wash your hands in the bathroom. The fucking tap is so dirty with the toothpaste stains, it looks like snot, and you shudder. Usually you rub it with water with your palm, but now touching it is beyond you.

You come back, and Jungkookie is there, hovering above the desk with his eyes concentrated on nothing, staring through his notebook, pen standing in his hand like a windmill.

"You need help with this?"

His lips pressed together, he pouts at the same time. You look over his shoulder as the inevitable understanding breathes down your neck: stress like this is unhealthy for him. You drag the chair from the kitchen table to him and sit down, and Jungkook tenses further. You put your elbow on the desk, and he tries to move away, but there's nowhere to move. It's claustrophobically tight. His shoulder swallowed by the sleeves of Namjoon's big raincoat. Your eyes drop to the page: "Mixed Conditionals". Something to cry about for sure.

"I just..." he is trying to substitute his weakness with anger and grits his teeth, "don't fucking get it".

"I know", you take his pen, and he lets go of it with relief. You start fixing and marking his homework. He is sitting stiff, like a boy does, hands on his knees, looking at the textbook on the desk like it's the most disgusting thing he ever laid his eyes on.

"Why do I need this fucking English", he mumbles.

"Korean is way more difficult", you coo, "let it be consolation to you that you naturally speak a more complicated language".

He swallows something in his throat. It's rare that you don't see sweat on Jungkook's temples, his dark hair sticking to his honey skin. Eyebrows, soft and light, curve painfully.

You fix his mistakes which there are plenty. But feel like if you start actually helping - through explanations - he won't listen and only panic more. Jungkook sniffs further.

You look up at him.

"Rewrite it like this".

"Teacher knows I don't understand this. He will know I didn't write it".

You shrug. He doesn't sound like he is trying to fight; sounds powerless.

"It's hard because you aren't concentrated. Your mind is always somewhere else".

You know it's in the dancing studio. Where he keeps almost cracking his knees and exhausts his still growing organism to the point where it gets dangerous. At this level of fatigue, expecting his brain to also understand higher-level English grammar is stupid. He presses the heel of his palm into his eye.

"I just can't..." he repeats. And breaks down again.

"I am failing".

Your first instinct is to extend your whole body towards him. Jungkook has no idea how your female brain reacts to him: it's maternal. It's clinically protective. It's his bubbly cheeks and innocent eyes that remind you of your never-born kid that you never even wanted to have.

"You aren't failing", you utter, trying to make it land, but it's such a stupid line. It carries nothing.

"I am. I can't record, I can't do the split, I can't do my homework..." he mutters as his voice goes thinner and thinner, and you snap. Your hand gets to his shoulder and then, head.

"Jungkookie, you are worn out, it's not incapability, it's just..."

He lets you drag your palm on the back of his head, and his nostrils flare. He starts crying. Lips pursed, curved, chin dimpled, he drops his arms and leans into your hug, and you guide his head onto your shoulder. Now you are a mom.

"You better cry about it", you advise gently, "cry, you'll feel better".

"Nobody else cries, only me", he complains, gutted.

"I cry, too".

"You're a girl".

It sounds like an accusation, a punch and a dismissal all at the same time. But you let is slide.

"The others must cry too, they just hide better".

It's really hard for him. He lets his shoulders shake several times as the sobbing shudder goes through his body. He collects his tears into his palm and they spill onto your lap. You tell him he is doing great. No, he is doing excellent. He looks better than all of you, manages to sleep enough. He is doing his norm, which is actually the same as the adult norm. He is working at the same pace, and he still hasn't been kicked out of school, and he is doing amazing. You tell him to keep crying until there's nothing left.

"Cry it all out, give me a glass".

"A glass?" the sobbing is broken for a fraction of a second, confusion barging into the middle.

"A full glass of tears, no less".

Jungkook chuckles, but his nose is blocked now, so it comes out as a snort. You squeeze him tigher. He is bony, albeit muscular, but it's only because there's barely any fat in him. He squeezes you back, then wraps his arms around you, and you are reminded that at sixteen, he is already almost bigger than you. Boys may be small in their minds, but are all big in reality. He doesn't say "thank you", but instead, presses his forehead to your shoulder and sighs like a scared puppy. You keep tapping his back to maintain a rhythm to his catharsis, and he soon calms down.

The aftermath of it is just sniffing. Sniffing, he rewrites his homework on the next, empty page. Sniffing, he wipes his face and then wipes his hand on the jeans. Sniffing, he even starts joking and speaking a little.

"How did you even learn all of it?" he asks with a feeling, guiding his much lighter resentment onto the subject.

"It's like..." you almost say like tryna stick a fire extinguisher into an asshole, but stop yourself. Maybe when he turns seventeen and a half you could begin the asshole allegories. Jungkook smiles even though you don't finish it. You want to shield him from all the dark crap that's still about to happen in his life. You've only been here a month and already got the taste of this industry. Try not to think about it.

There's shuffling behind the door, a click, and Yoongi steps inside the apartment, immediately greeted by your two pairs of eyes. He is always slightly aloof when he comes to the dorm. Has to take off his hat, his earphones, then blink, and only then is he ready for a conversation, or even a hello. But now he clocks Jungkook's face immediately. He raises his eyebrows quietly, then looks at you for help or an explanation.

"Y/N is helping me with English".

Yoongi stares at his puffy nose.

"Did English do that to you?"

He takes off his jacket and carefully tucks it onto the clothes rack. There is one rack. There are eight people. It's bearable now, while it's still almost summer. But you can't imagine where you'll put all coats when autumn comes.

"Mixed conditionals", you explain, and he chuckles lightly. He can't resist, just like you couldn't, and his fingers tap the maknae's shoulder.

"Don't beat yourself about it. You don't actually need them".

"You do, you do!" you protest. "Hey, you do need them!"

Yoongi huffs further.

"No, you don't, why would you", his laugh is breathy and deep, "no one uses them".

You grimace at him from behind Jungkook's shoulder. Yoongi drags his feet, stooping, into the bathroom, and knocks over the toothbrushes by the sound of it. Curses quietly. Turns on the water. Opens and closes the cupboard door. Then walks back into the kitchen.

"Have you eaten?" question for the both of you.

"No", in unison.

"Then drop it, let's eat".

"You are an education disruptor", you tell him gravely. Yoongi pushes a stray chair away and opens his mouth with a smile. He must be in a good mood because he isn't usually as talkative. Not with you. What if you accidentally won him over by helping Koo?

"No use trying to study with an empty stomach. Come", he says simply, and turns away.

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November 2016

The room is full of Jimin and Taehyung's shimmer. There's so much loose glitter that it floats in the air. Every time someone jumps, it bursts into smaller clouds and disperses, makes the space around wobble, quietly shining like Aurora Borealis. There's a lot of jumping. This is the night that changes everything. You search for Namjoon's eyes all evening because in them, you see the most vivid confirmation that this is not a dream: you made it. You made it. This is Daesang in Hobi's hands, that you didn't steal, that wasn't given to you by mistake. This feels - to them - like the greatest party they've ever been to. To you, like someone finally cut the leash off of you and let you run.

This changes everything.

The amount of tears, both real, and the fake ones that grew into real ones, is left unspoken between you eight; you all cry throughout the evening, bursting into sobbing in the most unexpected moments. Since the second you saw Yoongi hide his face on the stage, you felt that your own resolve to stay adamant, calm, dignified, is crumbling. You even smiled at first, into your palm, thinking he was acting out what he had rehearsed earlier. Then you noticed his face became wet and realized he was really crying.

And when Yoongi cries, everybody kind of cracks.

Now it's past crying though: they are thrashing the hotel room like they are seven - that is, in age. Jimin is jumping on the bed in his shoes and Jungkook is swinging the whole Hoseok in the air, and you are searching for Namjoon's eyes: your roommate, your brother who is keeping your secrets, your partner, your supportive shoulder. He is the one who intimately understands what it means, what just happened. He had to carry it all. He had to be the reflective shield for all of you, these three years, he was the one who, instead of dropping his head and taking it like a good boy, looked straight into the camera and said,

I will prove it to you all.

He looks back at you and smiles. His face is spotted; he is trying to wipe the rest of make up off, since the tears and then water that Jin splashed on him started ruining it anyway. He is rubbing his chin with a napkin and smiles the way you like the most: like he is the lion resting on the top of the hill, surrounded by his pride. This gaze liberates you from the tension you've been feeling all evening, and you can finally join the party. Join the jumping. Even Yoongi is jumping: this is the first time you see him this happy. This smile manages to change his whole look: whereas normally he is sharp-jawed, pouty and expressive, now he looks like a boy ten years younger. His teeth make him look like a bunny. When he is happy like this, you're not scared to approach him at all.

And it's not like you're intimidated or anything. It's just that he is reserved, and you'd hesitate doing things like just ruffling his hair out of nowhere, like you do with the others. Normally.

Tonight, you go as far as to land on his lap, because your feet are already sore, your knees are in pain, you are a little drunk, a little dizzy, and all other surfaces, except for Yoongi, are already occupied: the bed is full of Jungkook and Taehyung's bodies, wrestling, puffling like they are fighting for survival, where the actual prize is the little camera still recording. The armchair is taken by Hoseok nibbling on a hard piece of white chocolate, a glass in his hand shaking and spilling every time he bites. The table is full of food, jackets, cameras, their bow ties, watches, food packages, glasses and empty bottles. Chairs have simply d i s a p p e a r e d. You think a couple of chairs might be in the other room, and the others... it's truly a mistery. So, without a second thought, with clarity that is proof it's completely within the context, you land on his lap.

And Yoongi proves to be completely okay with it.

After all, they sit on each other's lap all the time: he lets Jimin sit on his lap, Jin often perches on top of Jungkook, Hobi likes to occupy Namjoon and so on. They do it because it's funny. Because sometimes it's fan service. Sometimes there is, like now, not enough space. Not all rooms and spaces are designed to host eight people at once. You feel his hand keeping you in place on your back and feel comfortable, calm, safe. The conversation never stops: you're still in deep discussion with Seokjin huyng, and Yoongi joins it; Namjoon roars with laughter when Hobi spills the rest of champagne on his knees, but, while laughing, runs to him with napkins. The same napkins he'd been drunkenly rubbing his face with, so they carry make up. And when Hoseok starts wiping, the white foundation leaves spots on his black pants, and the volume keeps rising in the room.

It's happy. It's the happiest you've been in a while, too. Of course, just doing your job and being together is great, as well, but this is the real game changer. You feel happy like you finally managed to deserve something good. Like you are finally taken into account. Jungkook finally wins and stands up with a grunt, his face reddish with exertion, while Taehyung slowly slips off from the bed and rests on the floor for a while; you look at him, all disheveled and the hair up like he'd been zipped with electricity. He stares back at you lifelessly, dramatic, then grins. Jungkook films you and Yoongi, and you notice how different it feels from the usual. It's for personal use. It's the private memories. You down the glass quickly and put it on the floor, then put both your hands on Yoongi's face, relishing in the opportunity to annoy him while he is in a good mood. You pinch his cheeks and he acts for the camera, showing his teeth, crunches his nose.

"You have a beautiful smile, hyung", Jungkook slurs.

"You have a hole in your shirt", Yoongi laughs, surprised. Jungkook checks it, letting the camera swing off his wrist.

"He is getting so big", you whisper.

"And cocky", Yoongi complains, without bothering to lower his voice. Maknae doesn't notice anyway; his eyes forget the hole and focus on who to disturb next. He is searching for his next victim. It feels like you and Yoongi both are impressed with his growth; but in slightly different dimensions.

It all moves. The alcohol makes the time slow and fast all at the same time. And the only constant is he - Yoongi. The presence so subtle, assuring and permanent. The room spins around, flashes of glitter in the air, the boys' hair flies up as they jump with the music, their voices high, splashes of champagne and vodka, curtains bothered and dancing; his knee bobs under you, lifting you so effortlessly that it makes you think you are too light.

You don't even notice anything off until his voice is suddenly too close to your ear, but it's not only the proximity. Whispers, covered by grouped palms, lips even brushing against each others ears, aren't uncommon. It the tone of voice: deep, suddenly invigorating, rumbling, when he simply replies to Namjoon.

"Not even a little? I don't know, four?"

You have no idea what they are speaking about, but all of a sudden this voice makes you shudder and you mask it with a sway. His hand on your back tightens as Yoongi instinctively tries to keep you from falling - and settles you down again, firmly, like he refuses to let go.

You feel his face so close to you that it makes you question the whole decision to spontaneously sit on top of him. The bed next to him has been clear for almost an hour, ever since Jungkook defeated Taehyung. And yet, you two, like a couple of mice, squeezed into a corner, feel quite so comfortable that you sort of forgot the difference.

They sit on each other's laps because they are all boys.

You do that only for photoshoots.

Drunk, happy, ecstatic about the win, you forgot this is slightly outside the realm of norm. And now that it's been a while, Jungkook starts looking at you two curiously; not judgingly, no. Narrowing his eyes just slightly, almost like he is squinting to see better. Taehyung drops one look and his pupils go up and down. It's done on the go, without breaking attention from what they are doing.

Hoseok returns to the room with a huge water bottle in his hands and pauses microscopically as he looks at you.

You spiral under the surface in the quietest, the most casual realisation: your mini-dress is high up, and you don't even register it until your gaze drops. The boys never look properly, why would they? Yoongi's chest at your shoulder vibrates, and it's warm, and the moment when a snap of low, steady laughter leaves his mouth, you slowly lift yourself up.

His hand drops from your back. Drunk Yoongi is a sight to behold, if only because he taps you just above your tailbone before releasing his grip. You try not to make a big deal out of it as his eyes slide onto your face, calm and curious, still narrowed with laughter. He is so close that you can see the exact line where the make up artist decided his brow should end. There has never been a reason to get that close to him, and now it makes sense. He is so handsome it scares you for a second.

You get up and move away, failing to pat him back or say something to make it less awkward. As you walk towards the table, stretching your stiff back, you take off and kick your shoes away with the force. His hand falls on the mattress next to his thigh and clutches the covers. The room erupts in yet another burst of laughter.

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November 2016

Namjoon snores.

No, please, you guys don't understand.

Namjoon S N O R E S.

Might be a dramatization of events, but it feels like the bed is vibrating under you with each time he releases the air through his nose with that thunderous sound. Dammit, he deserves to be very happy when he decides to start a family, so he will need to do something about this. Some nights are quiet, of course, but when the dude snores, he goes all in. You wreck your head about how a young man can even produce such ancient sounds.

The earphones do nothing for you. Those two little buds are hard, pressing against the inside of your ears as you push them further, and even when you make music deafeningly loud, there's still a background track coming form the bed nearby.

It's been like this for a while.

He's giving you serious sleep schedule problems. The doctors Namjoon has seen don't know what to do yet, and neither does he.

You leave your bed and put on a thicker shirt over your sleeping tee because in winter it's cold at the dorm. Still do not wear your slippers, don't care to feel for them under your bed in complete darkness, because you can't stand being in this noise for much longer.

You usually sit in the kitchen, staring into the window, on your phone, or keeping your head in your hands. Just once did Seokjin find you under the table, curled into a pathetic ball in your own blanket you carried with you. Normally Namjoon snores the loudest in the hours between one and three o'clock, and then this horror just... stops suddenly, he turns on the other side and sleeps quietly. You just need to ride out the two night hours. The Snitching hours you call them. It's you combining the words Snore and Witching, and obviously it doesn't make any sense, but neither does a twenty-three year old healthy boy who snores like three industrial tractors working together.

Jungkook had offered to change rooms with you, selflessly. You declined knowing that he only did it because you're a girl. If one of the other boys suffered, they would all just shrug.

You sit on the small, hard chair, keeping one leg up, nibbling on your knuckle to keep yourself from falling asleep. The kitchen becomes uglier, emptier at night. There's always a tiny, narrow stream of cold air seeping through the entrance door behind your back. The table is full of spices and sauce bottles. Jimin forgot to put away his mug after he drank water before sleep. You decide to clean and put it away; soon enough you will become a night kitchen elf, finishing the dishes, tidying, maybe even cooking breakfasts for them, if you stay here between one and three in the morning often enough.

You take the mug and walk to the sink, turn on the slow stream of water to rub it with your fingers, when you hear steps.

Right. The all-nighter genius, and since very recently - a cause for distress, Yoongi.

It started two weeks ago. You discovered that there's one more person unsleeping nights; only, if you fail to fall asleep, he does it voluntarily, because "at night my head works so much better". First night you collided in the kitchen, in this twilight zone, surrounded by sleeping bandmates and enveloped in the magical soundtrack of Namjoon's rumbling snoring from behind the wall - when Yoongi crawled in to make himself a coffee.

"I nod off a little", he explained, a tight yet casual smirk on his face. In the wall light from under the cupboard, his face was greyish and the signs of lack of sleep, very clear.

"Then sleep?" you offered. He shook his head. Then said there is not a single spot in this tiny apartment where Namjoon's snoring isn't audible.

"Tried pinching his nose?" he asked, as if you were just a dumbass, who hadn't tried virtually everything.

Now, these run ins become more and more regular, and you're not even sure how much you hate them. You despise them a little because you caught a tiny crush on Yoongi. Or maybe it was there. He always seemed very pretty to you, but this prettiness has always been aloof, detached a little. Now that you know he lets you sit on his lap with the condition of being drunk, it unlocked the feeling. The feeling you know is definitely completely not desirable for anyone. You imagine the kind of ass-kicking the management gives to those who mess around within their own groups. It's discipline. Military, iron, impeccable. Too much on the line.

You change feet on the cold floor as you see his shadowy frame float into the kitchen like a ghost. The blue light of the laptop in his hands makes him look infernal, sharpening his sleepy frown. When he is busy, or tired, or occupied, one brow goes up and bends there, behind the hair. You reach for the light and click the little button. Yellow light pours into the kitchen, making the small space claustrophobic.

"We synchronized?" you guess, putting Jimin's mug away. On nights like these, you don't even have to worry about being quiet - or loud - in the kitchen, because Namjoon snores so noisily that the sound of a mug clunking against the metal bars of the dryer becomes soothing, melodic. Not to shade Namjoon. You actually worry about him more.

"You could say so", Yoongi walks around the table and puts his laptop on it, pushing the bottles back, "I heard your door".

You ahh with understanding.

"Coffee?"

He is so concentrated that you ask yourself why he even had to come out like a cave gremlin. His shoulders slouched, back arched, the top of the spine protruding under the white tee. He rubs the side of his face, tongue punching the cheek.

"Oh, thanks. Uh-huh".

He drops you glance, then his eyes look down.

"Why are you bare-footed? It's icy cold".

He kicks off his slippers and then pushes them towards you with his foot. Then his own feet start fighting for dominance to be on top of each other under the table.

Arguing with Yoongi is kinda pointless, he always has bulletproof points. He has the upper hand: he is older, therefore, in his logic, he should take care of others. The floor is cold; you accept the slippers with a puff and shove your feet into them; they are too big for you so you drag your feet on the floor as you move to the drawer with spoons. Yoongi tries to sit monkey-style, putting his feet up, and the tiny chair creaks under him, surprisingly loud.

"They are shit", you comment.

"Yeah..."

The light of his laptop changes. It's now white. He opens a spreadsheet, and you look curiously.

"What's that?"

"Things we need".

While the kettle is boiling, you walk to him and look over his shoulder. Your eyes are quite dry with lack of sleep.

"Mattress for Jungkook", you read, "what did he do to it?"

Yoongi shrugs, and it becomes obvious you're stading too close. Problem is, you don't care about standing too close. He is a warm body in the cold kitchen, and you are drawn to him like a moth to a lamp. As his shoulder goes up slightly, it touches the underside of your breast, and you clutch the back of the chair he is sitting on. Yoongi doesn't seem to notice.

"I think he turns and thrashes in his sleep". He pauses, "It is not a reason for you to spiral thinking he sleeps badly".

He says that without even looking up. Knows you so well. Wouldn't be surprising: in a dwelling like that, where every creak and sneeze is heard throughout, it's hard not to know everything about each other.

Yoongi adds chairs big enough for boys to the list. They go right after "curtains in Hobi & Tae's room" and "pepper spray".

"Why do we need a pepper spray?" you mumble, your eyes focusing on the spreadsheet. Yoongi chuckles,

"It was a joke", he deletes it, "Taehyung was annoying me".

The kettle is bubbling water but isn't ready yet. You stand up straight, looking at his head, at his stoop. Your fingers tug on the ends of his hair tickling the back of his neck.

"These are all uneven. They need trimming", you check how bothered he will be when you brush your fingers lightly against the skin. Yoongi's skin is so clear, milky-white in this light, the vertebra clicking back into place as he straightens his back. His hand shoots up, clutching your palm.

"Leave them alone. I am growing them out".

He scratches his neck as if to clean it off your touch. The kettle clicks, and you step away to make him coffee. Yoongi produces night sounds: gentle, barely audible purr-like humming while he is thinking. The light of his laptop changes to blue again.

You pour the water, add sugar, try stirring it without clinking the spoon against the walls of the mug. Then turn around and place it on the table next to his laptop carefully. With your past-midnight clumsiness, there is always a danger something spills somewhere. Seokjin did spill his tea on Yoongi's laptop once. It was quietly scary. Yoongi never yells. His slippers threaten to fall off your feet every time you make a step.

The snoring stops. You look at each other for a second.

"A bit early this time", the clock on the wall only shows half past one in the morning. Yoongi raises his finger.

"Give it a minute. He is either choking or woke up for a moment. He will start again in..."

He waves his finger in the air for a couple of times, and then an explosive burst of snoring tells you Namjoon has been, indeed, choking. You turn your head to stare into the darkness of the entrance door. Your shared bedroom is to the right; the sounds coming from under the door. As you listen to it, your hand gets behind your ear, pushing the hair away, mindlessly.

When you turn back to the table, Yoongi is still watching you above the laptop, his eyes now with a different expression. They are barely open, he is very tired, but something is simmering in them. Suddenly you want to talk about the Daesang night and whether he remembers it the way you do. Whether he remembers the sudden awkwardness and his own hand on the small of your back.

He is looking like you were in the middle of a long conversation and he is waiting for a response. Lips parted slightly; when Yoongi is unfocused, his mouth opens by itself. You sit at the table two spaces away from him, and he sips coffee quietly. His nimble, bony wrist bears a dark-red crust of the scrapping cut he earned when he fell off the bike two weeks ago. Hurting wrists is scary to Yoongi because he plays the piano. November is wearing thin under the frozen weight of December. The little window, almost unnoticeable with the light, gives view of the narrow street where the lamps are often broken. There's palish fading tint on the glass, and you get up again to take a look. Yoongi's hands click on the keyboard rhythmically, then the touchpad quacks a couple of times. You slide your feet across the floor to the window, looking outside, and touch it. The glass is like the floor: ice-cold. Street is barely visible down there, the faint yellow light, together with your puffy face, reflected in the glass. Behind your back, you see white and white and white: Yoongi stands up, white skin, white hair, white shirt, and makes the only step to the sink to wash the mug. Drank coffee in two gulps to make the brains work. His feet step completely silently, pants baggy, shirt oversize. He looks so cosy and helpless, and the contrast of what Yoongi comes across, and what he really is, might give whiplash to someone unprepared. You realize that this, what you feel, is tenderness. You like him. You like him a lot. All of him.

Without a warning, you both turn up back at the table, on the same side: him reaching for his laptop and you, criss-crossed with his hand, reaching for the bottle of jam forgotten by Jin. It's supposed to be in the fridge and, as soon as your eye catches it, your mind goes in the tidying mode.

The arms collide touching like two swords, the skin below elbow going cold. Tonight hasn't been the usual, casual, insomniac kitchen hangout; it has been awkward, kind of brusque; you hear Yoongi exhale like he is two sizes bigger than he really is. He turns his face to you. You see the eyes you perhaps haven't studied enough because you have always been shy to look into them directly for long. They crawl down towards your lips, and the punch of red makes your eyelids heavy with abashment. You don't want to, but you look away, shyness tearing its way through your bones with the force you had no idea it possessed. Maybe Yoongi never mentioned anything about the Daesang night because he doesn't care to say anything. He is, after all, a guy of few words where they can be substituted with actions.

He leans in, crooking his neck, to find your mouth, and you let him place an unhurried, soft kiss. The cord going through your spine makes you arch your back at the sensation of his touch; the bubble is burst; Namjoon's snoring, the soundtrack for the whole night, has drowned in silence and the taste of bitter coffee. You are drawn to him. The body feels every point of contact: at the mouth, where his lips, plump, are kissing you with the same devotion that Yoongi himself always has when helping you; and finally you understand what the slippers, the shared food, the window seats given up to you, were about. His hands snake carefully up to your sides, and the fingers brush over the ribs through two shirts; even the warmth of his stomach - almost touching, almost beyond going back - is vivid like you are suddenly completely aware. What's happening in between your thighs is surprising and painful, and you draw away, scared. The reality of it, a flashback into the future, is trouble. It's ridiculous that someone like Yoongi should be off limits for you; you can't even define what's so wrong about it, even though you know you will probably break your own restriction. For now, it's simply too much to take, the presence of him white like the icy tint on the window, is blinding you to the point of almost losing control.

And losing control goes completely against the discipline you have got yourself used to with this job. The whole point of being here is the control.

Thankfully, he is so close that you don't have to look him in the eye. His lips are kind of heart-shaped, you notice, with dread.

"I'll go try to sleep", you mutter, because he is quiet, and you can't think of anything better. He doesn't say anything. He moves his head in a tiny motion that gifts the nod to you, and to you only; it's understanding, not defeated. You have to hold on to his broad shoulder in order to escape the proximity of him; the shape of it just right under your palm. You step out of his slippers, leaving them in front of him, and walk soundlessly back to the bedroom, into Namjoon's noise that sounds completely surreal.

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December 2016 / Yoongi's pov

Distraught. He is distraught and ashamed of himself as he sniffs and crosses arms on his chest, pouting at everything, at everybody. No matter how he sits, a part of you is provocatively visible, and it's bothering in the ways that begin to make him feel like he's a creep.

He tells himself it's just built-up tension, and it happens to everybody.

Doesn't make it any more dignified though.

If he sits back, he can see your knees, bent, one grey stocking slightly pulled down, under the coffee table. Thighs hugged by the hem of the knitted winter dress. Fucking Christmas photoshoot. Said you were feeling cute so you didn't change, and now he has to see one sock slightly pulled down from your fidgeting in your place.

If he sits up, he sees your throat and two thin, straight bones going to your shoulders, where the collar of the dress is wide, threatening to slip just any second. Jimin looks so utterly bored sitting hip to hip to you on the floor, focused on the puzzle on the table. So totally unaffected by the bone-crushing beauty next to him, that Yoongi finds it both hilarious and liberating. It's nice knowing that it's just him. Would be scarier knowing you just exist... like that. Driving people insane while assembling a puzzle.

He throws a piece of it on the table,

"That's stupid anyway. Some are missing".

Three curious faces, including yours, look up at him.

"You hungry?" Seokjin asks from the couch, without turning his head. No, Yoongi almost says, I am horny, hyung. Happens.

If anything, it only means he is healthy, and everything is normal. It is normal to want someone you like. It is normal to like someone who is your type. It is normal to get a little frustrated when you live and brush elbows with that someone every day and are forced to see them in all kinds of revealing outfits, and also - and that's deadlier - with that messed-up hair, in the loose old t-shirt, with a sweet pout on their face in the morning.

It's been an okay venture for the first three years when Yoongi was relatively busy all the time and knew the lines of boundaries are drawn in red glowing marker.

Ever since the Daesang night it's been getting a little more interesting though. The cautious glances. When you get flustered, he noticed, your eyes go a full circle, avoiding his face, staring at the ceiling, and the blush is so bright that you can't keep it away even with ice.

When he kissed you in the kitchen to Namjoon's rumbling snoring melody, all hell broke loose. Because now he knows it's mutual. He has been inside your mouth. There's no going back.

Yoongi stands up. The little grumpy outburst gives him a reason to leave. He knows none of you will follow because when there's a frown in between his eyebrows, everybody's afraid he'll growl if approached. He only had to do it once, with Taehyung, guess the intensity was enough to send a clear signal to the whole pack. Crazy, they are like a group of animals, them eight, he thinks. Question is, what animals exactly.

He sulks for the rest of the evening, frustrated with himself first, because some days his mind simply refuses to unclutch the idea of you. Maybe under him. Maybe with your legs even wrapped around his waist. No clothes maybe. Hair tie on the floor. Some place without the other members. His mouth on your throat. Counting. Thursts.

He barely holds on until night when finally you all fucking disperse, and wanders around the big house aimlessly, staring at the faceless furniture, perfect for the winter shooting, but absolutely lacking life, shape or idea. Huge panoramic windows keep away the snow piles he doesn't see often and still gets that childhood faux association with cotton. He rakes his hair and looks around, listening to the relative silence of the huge living room where nobody lives. That's what it is lately: a series of lifeless houses belonging to no one, rented, styled in the same way, where the only living thing is you all. You eight light up the dwelling for two days and then leave; in Yoongi's mind the house stops existing, because who the fuck would want to live or even spend a holiday in a place with square white sofas and paintings of black lines on the walls.

The muffled voices and occasional booms of doors opened and closed come from the second floor. He is attracted to the warm, beige light of the kitchen island where he knows a bottle of something strong is hidden behind those tinted glass cupboard doors. The sight of your knees under the coffee table that's now empty of the unfinished puzzle haunts him like he doesn't see your knees all the time. Something is different now; it's less bearable. Of course. It's the warmth of your face next to his, and the vulnerable, short hitch he heard while he was kissing you. That one small glimpse of your 'yes'. He's been avoiding you solely for selfish reasons, not to get worked up even more. It's bad enough as it is.

He walks to the bathroom door glaring in the middle of the wall, a placement of the room so random: it's like the architect closed their eyes and poked a spot on the blueprint. He yanks the door open and steps into the mid-sized room, boring, white. You said his hair looks like edible snow nowadays. So, cotton. Candy.

You must think he is soooo cool. So collected. You tell him that all the time; Yoongi circles around the room choosing where he wants to embarrass himself; then steps back and locks the door. Walks over to the sink and opens the mirror cupboard to stop seeing his stupid face. You always tell him how collected he is; that he is an island of calm when everything becomes chaotic. He can practically hear your voice now repeating it. So collected... collected... your voice does a dip when you say that word. You've been avoiding him, too, and he is, honestly, grateful, because he hasn't figured this out yet. As he shoves his hand in his boxers, he holds himself on the sink, squeezing his eyes shut. Being too near you is the same as being gagged, with a rope on his neck and bound, while the others beat him up with sticks, and also, he is on fire. And you're just sitting on top of him, saying,

Yoongi-i, you are so collected.

When you say his name, you stretch the 'i-i-i' and he wonders what it sounds like just an octave higher. Just a bit higher. One sock slightly pulled down from fidgeting. Every time you move, your hand brushes over your thigh, a thin wrist with pen smudges, caught in a bracelet that costs like that square sofa. Yoongi strokes himself, then changes hand when the torn blisters he's been poking start hurting him. He doesn't like rough, he likes tender. He is tender. He wants to get it over with quickly; mind clouded but not enough to forget that his Bangtan boys - and girl - have an impeccable intuition and always turn up in places you aren't supposed to be. The house is only two floors. There are only six rooms, bathrooms included. Someone will knock, he knows it. He is jerking himself off, trying not to buck his hips too much, hot air shoots through his nose. He does have a lot to go off of. It's a cluttered existence. Knees brush against each other under the table during breakfast, fingers interlock for safety of movement or a good shot; smiles are exchanged to make a good or even suggestive picture; after all, you have grown into their little boy jungle in these three years, and became a monkey just like them. You do lie in a pile with them when watching movies, and Yoongi is the only one who keeps sensing your body close. It feels great. No drama. Okay, half a drama. His thoughts swarm like ants on crack, and he grips his own cock harder, trying to push himself back to the narrow corridor of focus. Fucking ADHD, can't even masturbate on turbo when needed. Yoongi puts an elbow on the cupboard shelf and hides his face in the crook of his arm. The night of Daesang was like something out of this world. Your soft weight on his lap, every movement sending warm, relaxing shock through his body. And he was drunk which meant it was so easy to stay collected. Your arm on his shoulder, the smell of champagne and Paco Rabanne on you. You kept fiddling with the back of his collar and didn't even register it, kept stroking the back of his neck. Pure madness, you were so close. Yoongi uses the dry, sure instrument of imagination to cum, unravelling the Daesang night into something that didn't happen. What if the others weren't in the room. What if you were willing to do it. What if he put his other hand on you and pulled up your dress. It's so obscenely normal to want to finger someone so gorgeous. What's actually making him cum eventually is the thought that maybe he will get to do that at some point.

The sperm shoots straight instead of doing the cinematic curve down and right into the sink. Yoongi stares at it, panting, wondering how livid Hobi will be if he ever finds out his little toiletry bag has been cummed upon. Thankfully, it's plastic. Yoongi washes it with soap and cleans the wall, numb and atrociously unaffected. That collected returning to him. Men are simple creatures. He knows he is quite simple when it comes to this. Dick limp, crankiness gone.

He takes a big breath of relief and puts his face under the water, squeezing his eyes shut. Then cleans the wall again just to be sure, and shakes off water. No towels in this bathroom on the first floor, they have all been nicked away upstairs. He shakes his head, too, recalibrating himself back to normalcy, and pushes the door open, lighter, almost pleased, at the very minimun unangry and calm.

You're sitting at the counter, shaking one foot in the air. Socks are off, only the winter dress left.

He can just go right back and lock the door again.

"I will pee myself", you jump off the stool and pace towards him, shooting one lip-in-between-teeth glance at his wet hair, and pushing him away.

"There's bathrooms on the second floor", he is breathless, not because he is supposed to be embarrassed. But because it's shocking how predictable the universe is.

"Occupied", you reply and sneak inside, shutting the door closed behind you.

Yoongi rubs his face. There's an impression of your elbow in the middle of his chest where you pushed him. It's like being a teenager all over again. Guess it's real love because Yoongi doesn't want to otherwise label himself just pathetic. He sighs, walking to the bar he still remembers about, and examines the choice of alcohol.

When you're done, you walk out of the bathroom shaking your hands in the air, feet bare again, tugging at the sleeves of your dress. The collar is too wide on purpose. The purpose being pissing off Min Yoongi personally. Your eyes are judging him when you see the bottle in his hand, but he is quite used to that. He can sense the intensity of the gaze has been turned up though: you know his aces now. You know he likes you. There's an angle to your brows. He raises his own, looking back at you. He knows you know he knows. You both know it. He places his glass on the counter.

"Is there tea?"

You stand on your tiptoes to look inside the cupboard, and he helps out of pure habit. It has become something like muscle memory; assisting you. Simply a thing he knows how to express himself with. His hand pokes around the top shelf, fingers trying to detect the shapes of objects: bottle opener, a tall glass lying on the side, a box of matches. Random, lifeless array.

"There's no tea. Do you want Cola?"

"Yes. Why are you wet?"

"I fell into the fountain", he hums monotonously, making his way to the fridge. "Are they going to sleep tonight at all?"

"Yeah, Koo is in the shower. Namjoon is already asleep, I think".

You perch yourself back on the same stool and gasp,

"Yoongi".

Not a good time to hear his name out of that mouth again, but he has to obey. The fever of this horniness, maybe motivated by the change of the scene, or even this fucking porn studio-like plastic house, is unrelenting. He looks at you.

"Look at these chairs".

He does. You make a good point. They are sturdy, new, and have little backs. They are also big enough. You lean against the counter, the arch of your back hidden by the knitted dress. He snickers.

"What are you thinking?"

"We shove them up our asses".

"Eight chairs in eight asses", he agrees, chuckling with a sense of relief. Your wide smile slashes him right across the face, and he can't pretend anymore:

"Don't do that, please".

He shakes the bottle of Coca Cola well and opens it slowly, gradually, to release the fizz out. Cause the bubbles hit you on the nose otherwise. And you always yelp. And you always crunch it. And you always let everybody in the room know.

"Do what?" You finally catch up and pour him the whiskey he had abandoned to serve you. You pour each other's drinks, and he doesn't bother to answer. He is wet, tired, quietly amused. Yoongi puts the bottle on the counter and his other hand on your back to feel the spine moving as you straighten up. You lean forward in a second, he can see there's something like fear, or doubt, or hell knows what else, holding you back. The restraint like a metal plate in your brain, that you walk over the second time around. Simply speaking, the Daesang night made everything very clear. He even considers confessing what he was doing in the bathroom so that you stop thinking he is the paragon of moderation, but your lips click his mouth busy. December of 2016 is pretty happy, all things considered.

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January 2017

He has bright-mint hair now. And it becomes a lantern visible in the dark hall even before Yoongi waddles into the kitchen. Like clockwork. Namjoon doesn't deprive you of sleep every night; sometimes you are so exhausted that his snoring becomes somewhat of a lullaby. You don't know that Yoongi comes out at night regardless.

During the day, you keep away from each other. There were no conversations. No conversations are needed here: you are stuck in the same bubble, reading each other's eyes every time you clash; it's more surprising how this thing wasn't more obvious before.

How it wasn't obvious that his arms are the perfect length to hold you in place, one hand on your stomach, the other securing your palm, long fingers enveloped around like petals of some lily-like flower. How it wasn't obvious you are both in love. His hair smells still of sharp chemicals; the colour is new, about two days old, and it makes him look younger than he really is. More tender. There are slippers on your feet protecting you from the ice cold of the kitchen floor, dark window opaque with the light from under the shelf. With your shoulder blades, you can feel his chest rise and fall calmly as he breathes, finding immense entertainment in watching you cut the greens over your shoulder. Since you hang out in the kitchen anyway, you get into a habit of prepping simple breakfasts. When the rest of the boys get up in the morning, you are usually less late to the studio when the food is ready in advance.

It's a strange new feeling, being hugged by him. This is not dating; there were no confessions of discussion about 'what the fuck we are doing'. Since it's the liminal space at night, in between snores, in between worlds, it almost feels like an ad break, like something you don't need to talk about. When Yoongi is confronted by Hoseok and Seokjin about lingering glances and palpable tension, he justifiably says nothing is going on. It feels true although it is not true.

Something is going on. His hand lets go of your other palm so that you can grab the knife again and get to the dill. Yoongi busies himself with your hair, putting it away to expose your neck. You like listening to his breathing, cat-like, low, with slight rustle like he permanently has weeping nose. Thinking that this can get you kicked out, can ruin you both and put a big fat period on your careers, is almost mind-splitting. This? His warm, careful mouth placing little, gentle kisses on your skin, embodying all that Yoongi is. Calculated, soft, caring. Because you feel like you don't deserve to get kicked out and fired for falling in love with someone like him.

It is always you who loses control first. Yoongi's restraint is insane; it's like he can hold on to that last flesh thread forever, hanging by one nerve that will never snap, instead stretching on and on.

You are, in fact, a virgin, who is way too adult now to fight yourself when Yoongi tickles under your ear with his tongue.

You make him release you for a second in order to turn around, your hands crawling around his shoulders and getting into the new cyan hair. It looks so edible, but couldn't be further from that; you know it probably will taste like acid and cigarette smoke. However the colour makes everything around blurry, highlights the blackness of his eyes. His need seeps through microscopically with how his hand presses on your back, fingers pushing through the shirt, tracing a rib to the side and back; you don't feel like hiding yours. There's nothing to battle about with this guy; he isn't competitive and won't use it against you. As you grab his neck, Yoongi grabs your mouth, and the whole body rebuilds itself. Bone to the bone, hips pressed against each other, every bend of an arm filled with closeness, the edge of the kitchen counter digging painfully into you, so you push him back and follow, clenched to him like a catfish. Yoongi slides backwards slowly, soundlessly as usual; the dorm is a beehive, where every space is occupied by someone. Somewhere behind the wall, a sound of thump makes you both stop and listen. Listening is hard, as well; above Namjoon's snoring, the blood in the ears adds to the loud humming. It seems like it's coming from Hobi and Taehyung's room; but there's no more movement.

"Is Jungkook at home tonight?" You hadn't noticed when you started calling the dorm a home. Yoongi's restless hand is holding you by the side like you're falling.

"No, he sneaked out after midnight".

Again. Maybe it's better he's not here because Jungkook still wanders around in his sleep, a somnambulist. Doesn't remember much in the morning, but still.

Yoongi starts moving again, until the chair cuts his way, and he sits slowly, and the chair still creaks anyway. He squeezes his eyes shut, looks like an animated character with that hair, unbearably cute. Bright hair, reddish lips which you kiss again, unable to keep yourself away. The chair moans, begging for mercy, warning you, when you lower yourself on his lap, his hands guiding you by the hips, and the moist, hot connection of your thighs clicks you cemented on top of him.

"Wait, let me..." Yoongi mutters into your collarbone, although he has no idea what he wants to do. His mouth keeps licking the shivers onto your skin. Hands adjust you, sliding up and down on you, chipping away at his control little by little. It's even more important to him than to you, you reckon. He feels more responsible for things. The soft democratic hierarchy of the group puts this on his barely functional shoulders to keep the peace, manage the finances and to-buy lists, and maintain control when Seokjin doesn't feel like taking things seriously. It's too much for one person, especially for a boy who hasn't even reached the full twenty five years of age yet, his frontal lobe still developing.

The real animal presses you into himself just a little harder, and you feel the friction in between your legs where his dick - what else could it be? - suddenly gets hard and pokes you demandingly in the core where the sensitivity shocks you. You have no idea exactly how this is working, but it feels good as you shift slightly, and you realize it's the back and forth movement. Yoongi shushes you, his fingers lightly tapping you lips and lingering there, pressing on the upper one. You breathe against them.

"We're too loud".

The chair is the first violin giving you away, croaking under him with every little movement you produce. The shuffling of your feet on the floor, and the slight, shy moan coming out of your mouth, all create the actual noise that's very obvious if anybody is awake. The dorm is, in fact, so loud at night. The old fridge humming its nightly labour, and the occasional wheez of a motorcycle below the windows, and let's not mention poor oblivious Namjoon for the hundreth time. Namjoon the facilitator of this vulgarity happening, who exiles you out of the bedroom and right into Yoongi's arms.

He does something, lifting you up slightly, and pushing the chair more firmly against the wall, so that it creaks less, and as you fall back, you grind against him again, and he produces a sharp, torn breath. The shock of arousal is so powerful that you nearly voice your surprise again, but at the last second just let the air leave your throat, and he rewards you for it with a wet kiss you have never experienced before. Everything moves: your chest heaves with breathing, your hands dig into his shoulders, making him hum with pain, your hips grind shakily until Yoongi's hands grab them from behind and finally make the motions sharp, technical, and precise. You are horrified of what may happen if anybody decides to drink water or go pee; and the boys just might. They do have the weird, ironic tendency to sniff out the worst moment to pop up. Your sleeping pants do nothing to lessen the sensation, soaked through; you sleek up and down, controlled by his hands rubbing you against him; you can even make out the shape of his cock, trying to behave, pressed down. You put your arms against the wall to allow more flexibility in your hips, and it suddenly makes you think of a part of choreo you do for Silver Spoon. You realize you have no idea how a wholesome night cooking session suddenly snapped into this; Yoongi sucking on your neck too hard, humming lower than a human ear can detect, your knees wobbling with weakness crawling up to your belly button. He curses under his breath, sliding his hand forward along your thigh, and you flinch with your whole body, feeling just the right angle he is coursing you on; debilitating trust forces your hands back to his head, fingers getting lost in the manufactured softness of mint. You come unexpectedly, dropping your chin down to choke the sound and try and exhale with no words.

Yoongi sighs like he's done a job for ten; the whole construction is wobbling like the tower of Babel. The chair is the most violated here. It creaks for the last time: a whimper of a dying creature, and then you both try not to breathe, listening. The heart thumps too hard; when you guard yourself, it makes your whole upper body beat rhythmically. The dorm is quiet. It's sinister: Namjoon stopped snoring. Your eyes crawl up the wall, eyeballs still pulsating slightly: it's five past three. His time to finally sleep. Yoongi holds you down lightly, lips dry, nose against your shoulder like he is preparing to nap.

You snake your hand down in between you, pushing your hips back slightly, and nearly fall off of him, but he keeps you intact.

He wants to say something, inhales, but doesn't produce a sound as you tug on the waistband. The apple inside his throat bobs beautifully.

"It's the first time I touch a dick", you confess, your whispering voice strained, some kind of shriek still trying to push through. Yoongi sniffs softly, his hand going along your back. Fingers clench the back of your neck unexpectedly hard.

"What have you been doing all this time?"

"Work".

Your fingers wrap around it, and Yoongi pulls the waistband down a little. It's wet mess under you, you try not to move too much. You produce a soft gasp although you don't know why you're so surprised. His cock is pink and pretty like his knuckles and elbows; Yoongi breathes shakily when you start stroking, then he makes you look away, his nose nudging your chin for a kiss. Delivering his reactions straight into your mouth; you can't believe a human can be this beautiful, this steady and patterened, making sense.

"Don't hurry", he asks, then licks your bottom lip from the inside. Your free hand brushes over his ear. You're drawn to his head, the shape of it, the sensation; it tilts back and forwards when you push, obedient. You slide your palm up and down the length of his cock, pressing your finger against the vein instinctively, and his tightening grip responds positively. Yoongi's hand slides down, lying on yours and helping you catch the rhythm. Your mouth against his cheek, you place a kiss on his face because you realize you barely do it. It's always you getting kissed, receiving the affection, drowning in it. You catch yourself wanting to pant again, moving hips together with him.

When Yoongi cums, he arches all over, throwing his head back and banging it on the wall; moans with pain as you struggle to pull it away by the hair to comfort him; his sperm is pushed out in gulps onto his shirt and your hand, surprisingly hot. You wrap your arm around his head, pressing to yourself to stifle his voice and soothe the pain. Guess this should go down your memory because it's the first time you see - feel - him shake, tremble. Never before. Not when he was sick, not when he was angry, this is different. Arms interlocked, you are like a disfigured squid perched on one small chair. You don't know if you should wipe your hand right on his shirt or if it will be rude. Yoongi whispers,

"We can't be doing it at home".

He says home, too. You wholeheartedly agree; almost drive yourself to horror when the clothes rack with Jimin's beige winter jacket looks like a human silhouette to you. The whole time Yoongi's words don't match with his hands. He is probably battling with himself all the time; as he says, get up, his fingers dig deeper into you and keep you in place.

You make it to the bathroom shambling, clutching on each other. The pants are wet and cold, highly unpleasant, so you pull them off as soon as the door closes behind you. There is no lock on it, so Yoongi simply steps to the sink and takes off his shirt, looking at it curiously like he is surprised by something.

You try not to stare like you didn't just orgasm from simply riding his lap, like there's something to be ashamed of. He picks up your pants from the floor, half-naked, and turns the water on, blinking tiredly.

"Just leave them in the washing machine", you suggest. He sniskers.

"Nah, no way".

As the water crashes on top of his head, he shakes it like a dog, bright-mint strands sending droplets around, beating on the plastic walls of the shower cabin. His dark eyes are smiling; he is trying not to look directly, seeing you become shy; steps behind you instead, puts his chin on your shoulder, and it's like an i love you in the way he gently presses against you. You lick your lips frantically, but you are coming down a little, knees getting steady again, unafrad of his hand covering your belly button. You both should say something. Instead you let the water hiss in silence and soothe something that's going to take a lot more fucking to calm down.

"Take my shirt", you offer, "it's big".

Yoongi moves his bad shoulder and rubs it, frowning, but accepts the shirt. One towel is wrapped around his hips, another, around you, and you're choosing to rob Taehyung of his to dry your hair. You press the handle of the door quietly, hoping for just a little more luck tonight.

There is none left.

As you sneak out of the bathroom, Yoongi behind you, you are met nose to nose with Jungkook performing the same silent handle trick at the entrance door.

His hair is loose, standing on his head, jacket unzipped, and he is trying to click the lock back into place as quietly as possible, helping himself with baring his teeth.

Your eyes meet across the short distance of the hall, and you two freeze.

Not Yoongi, who seemingly doesn't give a shit about anything anymore. He purrs judgmentally and shuffles on the floor looking for his slippers.

"Why are you back so late?" you decide to attack first.

Jungkook's eyes are huge like two freaking UFOs, and you know he has a right to feel indignated.

He points his finger at you accusingly, drastically, unhinging his jaw, and watches Yoongi walk into the kitchen towards the kettle.

"Uh, ha, uh!" is all maknae manages. You fix the towel around your chest and give him a frown, trying to maintain the subordination, but you know the nineteen-year-old Jungkook is slowly slipping away from your authority and only plays long because he loves you.

"Don't make noise there", Yoongi whispers from the table. You see he has taken out three mugs from the dryer. You and Jungkook glare at each other again. Maknae takes off his jacket in a sharp motion and tries to hang it on the rack, but misses the hook, the rack being full of clothes already. The iron fucking thing shakes, tilts to the side and starts falling, and he rushes to catch the whole mess, stumbling. You slip towards the table, feeling the disaster coming. As Yoongi slides across the kitchen to help, Jimin's voice tears the night through the bedroom door:

"God fucking dammit!"

[for-a-longlongtime]

To all the fans in the Pedro fandom who feel like they don't belong

I see you. We see you. You have a place here among all of us, and we want you to be here - we really do.

No, this isn't a Kumbaya post, I'm fuckin' for real.

To all the writers...

... who receive racist messages, death threats, are being told their reader insert isn't good enough, that this and this character wouldn't be with someone who looks and sounds like you, that you're not using the right words or that you misspelled something --

I am so fucking sorry people had the fuckin' gall to direct that hate at you, because you don't deserve it. You share your stories and characters with us, and they are adored and read and celebrated exactly for who they are - not despite of who they are.

To everybody who lurks, reads, but doesn't feel like they can participate...

... who see how their skin tone, language, identity, gender, body type, sexual orientation, culture, type of relationships, and so much more is underrepresented or actively treated with hostility --

I'm so fucking sorry, and I - as many of us - understand completely why you feel that way, because it's absolutely valid. But I promise it's not how the majority of people feel about you. I know that doesn't make up for shit, but I do want you to know that most of us care a lot.

Nobody should stay in an environment where they feel like they're not wanted, or where remarks are made carelessly without regard for how hurtful stereotypes are. But if this has ever happened to you, be it out of ignorance (or at times malice), please know - your presence matters.

To everybody who has ever felt insecure about their kinks or liking smut... ...please don't. Seriously. Your kinks are what they are and they are completely fine. Liking smut is fine. Liking Pedro characters in smutty fic is fine too. Kink exploration in fic should be a safe space and respected.

Don't shame others here, especially not as an anon. Yes, certain topics that writers address in fic may be challenging for you for a number of reasons, but guess what? You don't have to read it! You don't have to dissect *why* someone wrote that! Don't like smutty fic? Cool, so don't wade into fics marked as explicit. Don't like certain kinks? That's cool, just read the warnings and skip fic when it doesn't appeal to you. Sure you're entitled to your own opinions, but you do not need to air them out in public or trash an author because you didn't like how they wrote something.

To everybody in this fandom...

... especially those of us who are white, able-bodied, straight, cisgender, had formal education, are a native English speaker, and/or many of the other privileges that a lot of us carry in our backpack every day:

We need to do better. Please. For so many reasons.

We need to be aware of our blind spots, biases, the fact that at times everybody fucks up - because we live in a racist, homophobic capitalist patriarchy -, and that occasionally means admitting we were wrong. That we unintentionally said something that was hurtful and that we're sorry for hurting people with our words. That ignorance can slip so easily into words that we type, and that the only way. But own up to it and please don't pull the 'I'm sorry you feel hurt' card - no. Take actual responsibility. Particularly when underrepresented voices explained to you why something is wrong.

And please, call out your friends on things like this - especially if you're white/straight/cis. It's your responsibility to speak up because you're closer to them. White people should be the first to call out racism; it's not up to the people that already are on the receiving end of prejudice (or worse, hatred) to fight that battle.

Exclusion doesn't only happen if you're actively spreading hate - it also happens by not taking accountability for when you fuck up, or when you are erasing and ignoring identities. If the word 'representation' doesn't mean much to you, that's probably because you constantly see yourself reflected in the stories and people in society (that, in itself, is privilege too) - and hey, good for you! But there are many of us who that doesn't apply to in the same measure.

I've had many conversations lately about this with fellow queers as well as brown/black/Latinx folks, so I really wanted to post this. Not as virtue signaling or whatever the hell, but because I know a lot of people are seeing and reading things that are understandably make them reluctant to engage.

So hey, let's do better and look after folks in our community whether we directly engage with them or not. The amount of comments that are always gushing about 'I love how Pedro cares about others/is an ally!' is very disproportionate to seeing similar support expressed for creators and fellow fans. Let's also not forget he's a Chilean man, the son of socialist refugees, who has always actively been on the barricades for LGBTQIA+, rallies against white supremacy and the toxicity of patriarchy -- so if you appreciate his dedication to 'causes', lets apply that to the very real people in this fandom too. And fyi, this isn't just about a single instance or a single person - it's so much bigger than that, and we all know it.

(oh, and if you feel like I'm being a moralist about this - feel free to unfollow or block my ass. You do you! I don't care. I care about the people here who don't want the community harmed by anons who get their kicks from being a bully.)

[piplup335]

Mafioso x reader! (platonic)

*ahem* HELLO, F E L L A S so uh my sch started ;-; meaning I may or may not be active bc of school but I'll try to write as much as possible since I still need to feed you guys :,D also bc i like writing lol- ANYWAYYYY I'm gonna use both dream game and forsaken tags, there don't seem to be any frozen soul tags as of making this post (as far as I can see, I didn't check ;-;) and I'm using their mafioso in forsaken's context, sorry! if the developers of any game said anything about this please do lmk and I'll change it :,) also pls gimme feedback, this is my first time writing for this dude and I may have messed up in some parts, particularly since it was a pain in the ass to find lore for this dude- I cooked this up for my friend but I also need to feed you guys so uhhh enjoy! :D

… *cries*

⋯⇋ ૮(•͈⌔•͈)ა ⇌⋯

You didn't know how it happened. And you sure as hell didn't want to know.

Were you all in debt in one way or another? Did that gambler...whatever his name was...aggravate the mafia? By taking out one loan too many?

You had just been tossed into that forsaken realm, flying out of the sky and landing right in front of that old, run-down cabin.

When the inhabitants of the cabin...survivors, they called themselves...opened the door, they dragged you in and immediately started blasting you with information as though they had no time to spare. You could only look around, hurriedly registering faces and voices as everyone's incessant chatter filled your ears, eventually fading into nothing but an incoherent buzz.

A young man in a pizza delivery uniform. A middle-aged guy with a soldier's outfit. A guy wearing...a burger on his head? Wait, was that an actual head on top of the burger? Was it alive?

Before you could open your mouth to ask anything, your vision faded to black.

You could hear the faint sound of a radio starting up and a stern voice.

"I see one of them."

It sounded hostile. Strict. Whoever was speaking was clearly dedicated to his job and determined to hunt down "them", whatever people that referred to.

...and just like that, you woke up in an unfamiliar place.

No elaboration, no nothing. Just the radio, the voice, and you were back to normal in who knows where.

After walking around aimlessly for a bit, though, you realised that the place was more familiar than you thought. The hotdog stand, the fountain, even the Drakobloxxer exhibit...it all seemed too familiar. The name of the place was on the tip of your tongue...but you just couldn't reach it.

Then again, some things changed too. You didn't remember this carnival being that old and run-down. The last time you were there, you saw children running around, playing tag with each other while other families would queue up to buy hotdogs from the various stands...

Now all you heard was silence, save for your quiet breaths and the occasional sound of footsteps against the concrete floor.

A few more steps here and there. A Ferris wheel. An ice cream truck. More and more memories resurfaced, from the time you went on the Ferris wheel with your parents to the times you'd constantly beg and plead with them to buy you ice cream. Everything felt nostalgic.

You still couldn't remember the name of the carnival, but you did know that it was rather cool.

You jumped as you heard something whizz past you. It hit the wall with a soft squeak and fell to the floor.

"What the...?"

You ran towards whatever that was and picked it up. It was a small bunny.

"...nooo, who threw you? Are you okay?"

The bunny seemed to be perfectly fine. In fact, it seemed to be happy, almost as if it liked being thrown as fast as a speeding bullet.

The fluffy little critter sniffed your hand, giving it playful nibbles like it was trying to get used to you. When it finally registered that you weren't a threat, it started to try climbing your arm. 

"Hey...no, that's dangerous!"

You placed your hand out in front of the bunny, satisfied as it scuttled into your palm. Bunny in hand, you held the little fella in front of you. It glanced at you with those beady black eyes, those eyes filled with innocence and curiosity...

You couldn't help it. You needed to pat the bunny. 

With your free hand, you started gently scratching the bunny behind the ears, trying to gauge its reaction. The bunny let out a happy squeak. Instead of trying to bite you, it was relatively docile, sitting in your palm and letting itself get scritches.

"Aww, you're such a cutieeeee..."

You kept petting the bunny. Its soft, snow-white fur felt like heaven to touch. No matter how much you petted it, it didn't seem to mind. In fact, it seemed to like all the attention you lavished on it.

You were so preoccupied with petting the creature, you didn't notice the presence of someone behind you.

"Having fun now, eh?"

You turned your head to look at the individual behind you.

For starters, this man was tall. Really tall. He donned a black suit with matching trousers, and his tie was neatly adjusted as if he was going for some formal occasion. His fedora cast a shadow over his eyes, but everything else didn't matter to you. He looked...familiar.

"I don't recognise you from our list." He stated bluntly.

You gave him a blank stare. List? What list? You got thrown into some cursed realm less than an hour ago, and now you had some weird list to worry about?

Noticing your blank stare, the man shook his head.

"...never mind."

Meanwhile, you were still trying to figure out what his name was. You didn't catch many names in the wooden cabin. You knew Elliot as he was the only one with a relatively normal name, Dusekkar because of his pumpkin head and...uh...yeah, no. You only remembered those two. Regardless, with that fedora and suit, you were almost positive that he was one of the survivors, but just to be sure...

"...are you one of the survivors?" You quipped. 

The man took notice of your completely clueless expression. He put two and two together...and knew that you had no idea who he was. He did find you interesting, and the bunny squeaking in your hands only softened his heart. He wouldn't want to kill you, lest his bunny become upset. So, he played along with it.

"Affirmative. I go by Mafioso. Do not let the name deceive you, I do not cause harm."

You nodded in understanding. Mafioso looked down at the bunny in your hands, and his stoic expression cracked into a smile.

"I believe it likes you. That bunny is mine, by the way."

You glanced up at Mafioso with horror on your face.

"You threw that poor thing at a wall-? Why?"

Mafioso laughed- a deep, hearty chuckle. The sound of it was comforting, to say the least.

"Relax...it's okay. It likes being launched at walls and always makes these happy little noises. Am I right?"

Mafioso gave the bunny a few head scritches, and it squeaked happily.

"Told ya."

You watched in disbelief as Mafioso picked up the bunny, the small animal not resisting or showing any signs of pain. It liked him, and he liked it back. Mafioso smiled at the bunny, watching it scurry around on his palm.

He set it down on the ground, watching with a small smile as it explored the area with little hops and jumps.

"Adorable, isn't it?"

Mafioso flashed you a charming grin. You smiled back, now a lot more comfortable around this once-unfamiliar stranger.

"Yeah. This is...nice..."

A loud gunshot rang through the area. Another male stood at a distance away from you, with a black tuxedo set. He had an old gun in hand, and he donned some cool black shades and a pair of headphones- wait.

There was only one person with a tuxedo in the cabin as far as you recalled. Then who was the other person? Or rather, was Mafioso not a survivor this entire time?

"Oi, new guy! Run! Mafioso's the killer- are you trying to die?!"

Oh. That was your answer.

Mafioso's smile was wiped clean off his face. He tenderly picked up the bunny and dropped it into your hands, the ball of fluff staring up at you with curiosity in its small eyes.

"Take care of the little fella, will ya? And cover your ears. Do try to cover my bunny's ears too, princess."

Princess? Did he seriously call you that?

You didn't have time to question further as Mafioso chased after the unknown person, and all you could hear as he ran off was a single phrase. Not directed towards you, but your fellow survivor.

"I love knocking out teeth."

You gently covered the bunny's little ears, stroking its soft fur as pained screams rang out through the carnival grounds.

Looks like you've managed to make an unexpected new friend.

⋯⇋ ૮(•͈⌔•͈)ა ⇌⋯

and that's it! I hope you enjoyed, and I'll see you all soon! ...at least, I hope I can get back to writing...

[revelboo]

Heyo!

I just binge-read all 77 chapters of Everything Is Alright on AO3 (PHENOMENAL WRITING BTW!!) and while looking for more Starscream/reader here on Tumblr, I found your blog with the master post linking to the Tumblr version of the same fic. However, when I checked it out, I noticed there was some stuff in the first chapter here that wasn't in the first chapter on AO3.

I also noticed that the last update on AO3 was around the same time as the first full chapter post on Tumblr.

So I'm curious: is the Tumblr version of Everything Is Alright a more fleshed out continuity of the AO3 version?

I will 100% be devouring it if that's the case bc I genuinely think it's my favorite Starscream/reader I've read.

I’m more active over here and I tend to forget the AO3, honestly. It mostly serves as my backup

Everything Is Alright Pt 140

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• Watching Starscream flare his wings aggressively when Soundwave tries to reach for you, and the way you frown up at the Seeker, Megatron vents tiredly. Still unsure how exactly he got roped into whatever this nonsense is. Why he hadn’t been able to just watch you die in his hands. True, he enjoys your quick temper and indignation that seems reserved for only him. Your fire and that you feel comfortable enough to argue with him when most of his followers simply agree with him, never bothering to question him to his face. Well, except for Starscream’s muttered snark when the Seeker thinks he can’t hear him.

• Servos flexing, Soundwave grabs Starscream by the wrist, fully aware of the Seeker’s petty intention to keep you away from him just because he’s frustrated that you’re sparked and it’s not his. “No,” he growls, field flaring aggressively and the Seeker hesitates. And you shudder like you can feel it brushing against you, too. Giving him pause before he reaches out with his other hand to brush a servo against your cheek. Searching and finding your own weak field. How had he not noticed it before? Or is it because of the spark bond? The spark itself?

• Aware of them both, it’s like you can feel Starscream and Soundwave’s annoyance crackling over you, making your skin prickle. Making you uneasy. And Soundwave’s head tips, watching as you lay a hand on his servo. He knows you can feel whatever this is. You’re sure of it. Have no idea what this new alien weirdness is, but it’s making you oddly anxious and then just like that, Soundwave is calm and it’s not so bad. No longer overwhelmed by them. “What is that?”

• “EM field,” Soundwave murmurs and Starscream stiffens. Hadn’t realized you could pick up on that and he grimaces realizing you can definitely feel his hostility toward Soundwave if you can. Forcing it down, he vents softly and you look up at him, offering him a little smile. “Possibly from the excess bonds or the new spark,” Soundwave adds, servo sliding lazily against your cheek. Because they’re in uncharted territory, figuring things out by trial and error. Wings flaring out slightly when Megatron wanders closer to study you, your shoulders hunch as his field becomes anxious at the warlord’s nearness to you.

• Smiling lazily down at you as your expression becomes wary, Megatron reaches to pick you up and both of your other mates stiffen. Starscream hissing at him, but not making a move to try and take you back, probably afraid of accidentally hurting you. “Now that I’m sure I can’t accidentally spark you, I think I should claim what’s mine,” he growls, enjoying the way the Seeker bares his denta. “After all, you’re my mate, too.” Turning and letting himself out of the habsuite to head toward his own, he rumbles a laugh as you scowl up at him. ‘You just can’t help tormenting him, can you?’ You ask meaning Starscream and he rubs a servo against your jaw. “Trust me, pet. He deserves much worse.”

Previous

Next

[maysileeewrites]

something there | teaser

movie! Fiyero Tigelaar x gn!reader

Synopsis: When Fiyero suggests a group date activity with Galinda and Elphaba to try and quell the tension between the two, you agree, not knowing that these two might have a common goal in sight as well. (And maybe playing matchmaker wasn’t the only thing on Fiyero’s mind when he suggested the idea …) 

AN: based off of this concept post. I'm so sorry that it's taking me this long to write this, but this story is turning out to be a beast, I'm nearly 4k words in and the actual group date hasn't even happened yet. I might have to split the final shabang into two parts, we'll see. please be just a bit more patient with me <3

Your doubts didn’t seem to phase Fiyero in the slightest. Actually, it seemed that the more vocal you became in voicing your concerns, the more determined to see this through to the end - and see it through successfully - Fiyero became. 

Not even Elphaba’s irritated expression, when he cornered you and her after dinner the following evening, seemed to intimidate him, which, you had to admit grudgingly, was a feat in and of itself. Because while you liked Elphaba very much - when she wasn’t using her breath on venting about Galinda that was - and valued her friendship, she could be quite intimidating. 

If she’d looked at you the way she was currently looking at Fiyero, you were sure that you’d have already crumbled under her withering glare. 

As it was, Fiyero merely shrugged, smirking, when she said, her voice dripping with irritation: „And why in Oz’s name would you do that?“ (Fiyero had just announced that he wanted to invite you two for dinner in a fancy restaurant in town the next evening.) 

„Because I want to spend some time with my best friend’s other friends - get to know them myself, you know“, he said, an easy smile on his face, as he walked closer to you and slid an arm around your waist, the gesture so casual, so natural, almost as if it was something he did all the time. 

It wasn’t. Because while Fiyero had always been extremely affectionate and not even your sister’s irritated glare when he’d casually grab your hand and lace your fingers together or gently touch your arm to get your attention could discern him, he usually didn’t do something like this. 

This felt new and dangerous and thrilling and - you liked it. 

You liked being this close to Fiyero, feeling his body right next to yours, heat radiating off him, even though it caused your heart to start beating frantically in your chest, your palms to sweat and your cheeks to flush. 

Sweet Oz, what was happening to you? 

Because this really wasn’t the moment for you to be this flustered and confused by Fiyero’s shenanigans, not when Elphaba’s irritated, hostile glare was still fixed on him. 

„I see“, Elphaba said dryly, her tone clearly indicating that she didn’t understand at all and that she wasn’t very interested in hearing more. 

„I mean - I already know you’re great, I’ve already heard so much about you, but I thought that we two should get to know each other as well, get to spend some time together, if you know what I mean.“ 

At this, he actually winked at Elphaba. 

Elphaba was having none of it though, raising her eyebrows pointedly. „And what if I happen to not share that sentiment?“ 

„Well, then I’d be very disappointed“, Fiyero said, shaking his head. „I mean, I was quite looking forward to discussing Dr. Clover’s lecture over dinner with you - I happen to admire his work as well -, but no can do, I guess …“ 

„You want to go to Dr. Clover’s lecture with us?“, Elphaba said, the surprise in her voice mirroring your own. You hadn’t heard of this particular aspect of Fiyero’s plan yet, and his satisfied smirk told you that he knew - or at least thought so - he’d won Elphaba over.

tagging: @angel-starbeam @matt-patt-engarde @hazbingirliexoxo @tn22220-blog @crisis-unaverted @graham-mackrackers @a-quick-request @tattooed-galaxies

[artemiseamoon]

I’m glad to see more discussion about the experience as a non-white person in the PP fandom. I have been in many ‘fan groups’ in my life, 80s baby here, and this one has surprisingly been the most unwelcoming and triggering in many ways (💜minus the ✨amazing✨ readers, mutuals, and friends I have made here. This part is the good stuff.) 💜

I’m glad to see more discussion about how we get overlooked and our work, art, and moodboards get ignored.

I’ve been yelling into the void about this since 2020, many others as well, and many for much longer than me. We get ignored, overlooked, nasty anons, the list goes on…

In my time sharing here, I have tried to make things as diverse and inclusive as possible while highlighting black and brown folks. But I tell you, my readership suffered, my moodboards (which I put my heart and soul into) were only shared sometimes, if so it was by a few lovely mutuals and amazing readers who supported me.

My engagement has always been a struggle. I could actively see my moodboards and fics with brown skin characters get 0-10 likes and no reblogs while ones with petite pintrest ⚪️ women get 100+. This happened often, minus cool surprises like when something would be shared by a bigger blog and then i’d see more engagement for a burst of time. Only in these cases I would have the most reach and see that reflected in things like reblogs and likes. Anyway…

This has been a discussion for a long time. I got so tired I stopped talking about it. I stopped posting about it. It seemed my voice, and many others didn’t matter. I took many breaks, left and came back, only to find things worse and the little community I had mostly gone. I stepped away from here and the PP fandom.

I was and am greatly disappointed that there is such a lack of support and blatant (plus passive aggressive) racism in this fandom for a poc!

Recently, to see the confederate flag used as an aesthetic choice in a fic (by a writer I did enjoy and follow) was a blow. Especially even more now as a queer woman with brown skin living in a country that voted a racist criminal into office, again.

Fan-fiction should be a safe place to escape. Why would we want to see our very valid fears and hostile signs like that flag in fics we read?

On that note, it is crazy to me we have to experience this at all, but especially in a fandom for a poc man!!

Again, I am happy these conversations are happening. Will things change? I dunno - I feel doubtful. I am pissed. But I do hope there will be change.

Ps: just because a character is from the south, and has an accent, DOES NOT mean you have to make them racist. As a woman with Louisiana Creole roots via my dad, and Southern (GA, NC, VA) both via my mom and dad (I grew up in the North so no accent and all for me) BUT I do write alot of Southern Gothic and fic settings in places like Louisiana. Would I add that fucking flag even tho it’s around? No.

Don’t do shit like that. Do better.

Pss: this is bigger than me, I am not just talking about my self. My work is not for everyone, some will dislike it, thats totally ok, i have weaknesses as well as strengths as a writer, thats ok - i am talking about this on a grander collective scale of things. We already lost so many creative talented poc and queer writers and I myself have been distant from the fandom as well. Don’t be surprised if more continue to leave if this shit keeps up.

[askablindperson]

When people put image IDs under the cut (Keep Reading) of a post on Tumblr, does a screenreader still detect it? Or does it skip it?

Hi! Thank you for the question.

So, in general, most of the time, a screen reader can find the “read more“ button/link and successfully activate it. And, the majority of the time, we can then subsequently read the rest of the post after activating the read more.

However, I want to put heavy emphasis when I say “most of the time.“ Tumblr is notoriously known for being barely usable with a screen reader at best and actively hostile to screen reader users at worst, and there are inconsistencies galore as well as frequent accessibility breaking updates. There are times when I have been able to access a read more one day, and then log on the very next day and find that I am totally unable to find it at all. There are other days where one post allows me to activate it just fine, but another gives me so much trouble that I give up And log off for the day completely in frustration.

For these reasons, as well as several others, it is almost always universally recommended to not put an image description under a read more. The image description should always be in the standard body of the post, and/or in the alt text.

The other big reason why it’s not great to put an image description under a read more is that if you delete your blog, that read more can no longer be activated, so that image description is gone forever even if others can still re-blog other versions of the post.

And, lastly, putting an image description under a read more simply just creates extra steps for disabled Tumblr users that non-disabled users don’t have to do to get access to the post and its content. We are often already doing so many extra steps just to use the website as a whole because of how inaccessible so much of it is, and putting more barriers in the way means that far fewer Blind people are likely to ever see that image description. Or if we do see that post and notice that you have put a description under a read more, we might already be out of spoons for the day and clicking that read more is just another tiring frustration. The description should be readily available And as easy to access as the original image is for fully sighted users if you want to create a truly equitable experience.

I hope this helps answer your question!

[genericpuff]

i find it funny that one of rachel’s drawings of herself in the afterword that just went up is just fully persephone. is that something she does a lot?

Alright so I've been making it a general rule for myself to like, not harp on Rachel in any way outside of LO as much because frankly the horse is dead now and there's not much left to say outside of what can be analyzed in hindsight. I think despite everything I have to say about her and her work, she still deserves to get away from this nonsense and I don't wanna spend eternity hovering over her shoulder.

But the afterword was posted within the LO series and is clearly meant for readers of LO in the functioning of being an afterword so let's just call it fair game LOL

I will say, on the whole, it does feel very honest and sentimental and I can respect Rachel for taking the time to write out and illustrate her afterword in a way that was personal to both her and her fans. I can understand why she went at it from the angle that she did and I'm not gonna fault her for that.

But there's also something that feels deeply... disingenuous about her approach right from the starting gun. I will say, before I continue, that I'm well aware I am biased towards Rachel as a creator, and I fully acknowledge that I could very well be reading too much into things. This is just my opinion, take it with mountains of salt.

I can get looking back on your own childhood, your past self, whatever, and going "see! it all got better!" because sure! For a lot of creators like Rachel, it must be wild to look back on where they came from and there's a lot of sentimentality on expressing that through an afterword like this where she reflects on where she came from. Though she STILL didn't acknowledge her other comics outside of LO, I can understand if she wants to leave those skeletons in the closet.

But I feel like her drawing herself as a child who's being given an Eisner by her adult self and all that just feels like some gross attempt to disarm any criticism of her because "don't make fun of me, I'm just a sad lonely baby girl!"

She's not a child. Child Rachel didn't grossly misappropriate Greek myth into their own self-indulged vanity project. Child Rachel didn't claim herself a folklorist of a culture's works only to bastardize them completely. Child Rachel didn't create a hostile environment within her fanbase by bullying anyone who she perceived as a threat, sneaking into critical spaces to try and cause trouble, and writing her own clapbacks into her comic. Child Rachel didn't claim to be challenging misogyny and purity culture only to reinforce misogyny and purity culture through her own self-insert baby-virgin-gets-rescued-by-rich-tycoon power fantasy that regularly glorified abuse towards women and the lower class.

30-almost-40-year-old Rachel did though.

At best it comes across as really cringe sentimentality from a Greek-weeb (heh, greeboo) and goes to show how much Rachel inserted herself into Greek myth without ever absorbing its messages or cultural contexts, it was all about her and her feelings as a sad New Zealand girl with dyslexia who thought Persephone's story was about another sad girl being rescued from her "horrible childhood".

At worst it's an active attempt to play on people's heartstrings by drawing herself as a child who people will naturally not want to criticize. I don't want to assume she's doing it intentionally, I really don't want to leave her afterword on a bad foot, as I can definitely understand as both a creator and a person who struggled with learning disabilities in their own childhood how and why she wants to pay homage to her past and where she came from... but let's just say, as someone who's also gotten way too "lost in the sauce" concerning personal self-reflective projects, I think there's a lot to say about how this confirms that Rachel made LO entirely for herself, about herself, without any actual intention to respect the original myths, because she never truly separated them from herself when she was a child. And, in my humble opinion as someone who has Been There with the self-insert OC's and self-reflective angsty plotlines, I can fully attest to the fact that that's not fucking healthy. Even with personal projects, you NEED to learn to get your head out of the sauce, you NEED to learn to objectively separate yourself from the narrative so the story doesn't fall apart under your own hubris and ego, you NEED to learn to draw a line if you want to have any sort of identity as a human being outside of what you make for people. And that's with just normal original stories, this was a story based on Greek myth which doesn't belong to her.

And this goes for a lot of the things she's said and done in the past, so much of her own "sources" even are tethered to things that she read / watched in her childhood and only vaguely remembers, as if she never mentally left her childhood at all, which just... if the point was to highlight her past and the traumas she went through and how they contributed to her present, an Eisner isn't going to validate those experiences. And drawing attention to her past through the lens of her childhood self absolutely 100% does not absolve her of the negative effect her work has had on the modern Greek myth zeitgeist nor the things she's said and done as a 38 year old woman who should absolutely know better.

The community she entered and took from will forever remain changed by her influence and taking, in many ways not for the better. She has the privilege of walking away and never having to think about it again, with all the awards and accolades that were bought for her, the bravado that she built around being a "folklorist" with zero credentials, and the platform she was given over many other creators struggling to even be heard.

That "place" she claims to have now was built entirely on inserting herself into another culture's works and doing nothing but taking, taking, taking, while offering nothing in return but vanity and lip service. That "place" was paid for and brought to you by Webtoons.

[kryptznnn]

♡/♛- Patience III

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➸ INTERESTS; -pro-hero!katsuki bakugo (27) x f!quirk-less reader (23)

➸ BACKGROUND; -During pro-hero 'Dynamite's term within the top 3 heroes of the country, it was made aware by his agency that he needed assistant around. He hadn't appreciated the gesture really, as he hates being followed let alone babysitting, but he wasn't ready for you to enter his life.

➸ WARNINGS; - wc.6.1k, sexual tension, arguing, frustration, mentions of alcohol, drinking, drunk kissing, drunk sex, under the influence mention, partying, teasing, obsession and possesive mention, slight infidelity, mentions of cheating, masturbation, kissing, fluff, smut, etc.

➸a.i; - 🌸my main navigation, so sorry it's been like MONTHS since my last update on this story im so embarrassed. I just realized my last post to this was around christmas? bye its summer break, im working on the aizawa fic as well and posted last night. I've also made an AO3 account this week, so I'll be active on both accounts and take requests on either. thank you! (also not proof read)

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[Patience II , Patience I]

“I don’t need saving, I had it handled.” You groaned, busting open the doors to your main shared office with Katsuki before walking over to your space and placing your things down.

“A thank you’d suffice. Why do you have to be all upset over it, press was eating you alive.” He responded, beginning to remove his gauntlets before closing the doors and locking them. Your jaw tightened at his words before you turned to him.

“Thank you Dynamite. My hero.” You said through gritted teeth before rolling your eyes and going back to unpacking your belongings. You heard him scoff from behind you.

“You’re bein annoyin’. Can you stop doin that and stop treatin me like it’s all my fault?” He said in an agitated tone, tossing his gauntlets onto his desk as they cluttered together with his other items loudly, making you jump a bit. “Yea the press got too into your relationship with your stupid little boyfriend, so-“

“Respectfully sir. Whatever I do with my time and who I do it with when I leave this damn building is none of your concern. Nor is it any of your business who I bring into my apartment or my bed for the night. The press is shameful for causing a stir, but you’re even more immature and selfish for making it worse.” You spat, now turning around to face him as you pointed.

This entire situation was insufferable especially so early in the morning. Even when you both expected the situation to die down months ago after he came towards you with the news of your business nearly being outed it still managed to follow you and bite you back in the ass.

Now the pictures of you and your friend had flooded the streets, being caught at a restaurant and an apartment complex similar to yours, but it was actually his. The two of you hadn’t been officially together but you weren’t open to anyone else either, still working through the labels.

Now, this morning the press had been anchoring down on your future and your plans and if you new ‘relationship’ would pry into your work. As shoving others aside and shutting down reporters Katsuki had the nerve to repeat the question back to you, asking how serious the two of you were.

Now here you were, bickering back at one another, arguing like high schoolers. Yes you owed him the truth and clarity as he was now your superior, but after over a year of being with one another almost everyday you’d think things wouldn’t have to be so hostile.

After of what felt like hours, which were only minutes of frustration and build up lashing out at one another, you sat at your desk in silence. Your back faced to the outside world and Katsuki as you took a deep breath attempting to focus on your computer work for the day.

You started with clearing calendars and schedules, doing whatever didn’t require you to speak to Katsuki as of right now. You could hear some noises and clinking from behind you but you only ignored it, putting in one earbud as you worked.

Hours passed as you neared the end of your shift and work online. Whatever you had to confirm with him verbally or in person you made sure to write it down to ask another time if you weren’t able to email him a link of things. Police reports, hero reports and even council meetings with the agency or board.

Your brows furrowed as you looked at the time on your laptop, reading a soft glow of 8:12pm. You only exhaled softly before resting your chin in your hand before scrolling some more on tomorrow’s schedule.

The thick tension in the room was undeniably intoxicating enough to make you want to scream. Things hadn’t felt fair today and for the first time in what seemed to be a lifetime you had your first genuine fight with Katsuki.

So much could’ve been on the line at the moment, your reputation, your paycheck, your respect and even your job. You felt something twist at your gut as you sat in silence, biting at your bottom lip.

Usually when something upsets you, you’d run it by him and he’d just say alright or blow it off to not raise any issues. Now this time was different, because you had blown up at him and refused to take either of those actions as an answer, and here you were.

Even your relationship with Katsuki was on the line as of now, at least that’s what you were convinced. You had gotten so close with the man and he became everything you hadn’t expected, you were able to make him smile and even laugh, each time blooming a warmth within you that you hadn’t understood.

It certainly wasn’t one you had with your friend Ren, if you could even call him a friend. The things you’ve done or said to one another certainly weren’t friendly actions. Maybe you were at fault for the first half, taking out your frustrations and anger from unhappiness on everyone but the actual reason.

You felt your eyes begin to sting for a moment before swallowing. Hoping to flush whatever nerves and heat that rose to your face at the moment. Work might be one of the worst places to cry, and it certainly wasn’t something you’d begin to do today.

In one fellow swoop you clicked your laptop to sleep and closed it, standing up from your seat and pushing in your chair. Slowly you gathered your belongings, your mind racing as to think of what to say, or how to start it.

Soon you gathered all of your things on your side and got a hold of your coat, holding it in your hands as you made your way over to Katsuki, who was seated at his desk in different clothing on his two screened desktop.

“I wanted to apologize for today sir, it was never my intention to cause such a large issue or ruckus between us.” You said apologetically, bowing as you did so, a small frown falling upon your lips.

He only looked up at you, not responding. No reaction was plastered on his face, not one of surprise or shock, maybe even anger or sadness, nothing. He stared at you as if looking at a wall, clicking his tongue before moving off to the empty side of his desk before gesturing you to sit down.

“Do you drink?” He asked you, already grabbing two glasses and placing them down on the table as you watched him. You raised a brow at the question before answering truthfully, making him walk over to the large fridge/freezer from behind him as he opened it to reveal neat whiskey.

He sat down, pouring an ample amount of whiskey into each cup, pouring more into his before placing the cap on the bottle. He could feel your eyes on his, feeling the confusion in your gaze, but he hadn’t faltered any of his movement. He only placed the bottle to the side and slid your cup over to you before speaking.

“You have nothin to apologize for. I was wrong for buggin you with it anyways, you were stressed enough.” He started, picking up his chilled glass and taking two gulps before starting again. “Whatever you do, or whoever you do is none of my business.” He finished, taking another swig of his drink before placing his cup down, raising a brow as he watched you.

You sat there with your cup, resting in your hands but untouched. You only looked into it with an even wider frown now, brows furrowing slightly as you took in his words, eyes flicking over to him and back to the cup.

“Is that your way of an apology?” You asked, earning a soft chuckle from him, if you hadn’t been so focused on him you would’ve missed it for sure. “I was sure you’d hate me” you ended, before taking a large mouthful of your drink, nearly finishing it.

“I could never hate you” was all he said as he watched you, before finishing his own short glass. He only turned to open the bottle of whiskey again before pouring himself more and pushing the bottle closer over your now empty cup, filling it to the top as he did for his own.

His words echoed in your head, you smiled softly. Never was a strong word to use, especially given the circumstances of this morning. You only looked down into your glass again, feeling the back of your neck and ears heat up intensely as your stomach felt light.

“If I didn’t know any better I’d say you’ve grown very fond of me.” You said in a joking manner, earning a hum in response from Katsuki. “You might even like me sir.” You said on edge, boring your eyes into his face to rile a reaction out of him, he only took a mouthful of whiskey before parting his lips to answer.

“Take it however you want to” he responded, watching as you enjoyed yourself as you drank. The warm in your chest from the alcohol felt so relaxing once it settled, immediately feeling the effects seep into your head and spread all over your body.

You placed your coat in your lap now, making yourself more comfortable as you let your down from the ponytail it was in. You took a sigh of relief as you did so, immediately feeling better.

Katsuki watched you, his eyes training over your face and body like a predator watching its prey before making its move. He was thankful for having alcohol here, hoping it would hide whatever blush that would appear if things came to worse.

He’d rather flush out the feeling of anxiety and jealousy in his chest with the warmth of the alcohol, wanting to forget all of this morning. He had expected you two were close, closer than he anticipated, than he hoped for. His slight subtle touches and sayings never went by you, and yet you ended up with another man.

When he found out that this morning it dug into his skin harsher than anything he had felt for years. Like the feeling when Izuku had grown a quirk at random, or when he was beaten over and over again in competition of his other classmates and superiors in challenges, exams, and even missions.

Because now he was in competition all over again, and the challenge was you, to grasp at your attention and become a priority of yours. Maybe if he had kissed you back all of those months ago before walking you to your car, things would be different.

As strong as Katsuki was, as powerful as he was and as wealthy as he was, he wasn’t anything short of a coward. All he could do was sit and watch you slip away from his fingertips no matter how hard he tried to grasp at you.

It wasn’t fair, none of this was fair to him. Whoever you were with now surely didn’t deserve you, they surely didn’t make you as happy as he could. Like how he’d watch you grin from ear to ear when you’d try new food you’d enjoy, or when someone makes a mistake you’d point out in meetings with the agency only to be rewarded of your sharp eye afterwards.

It felt like now things had started to move backwards. The time and energy that you’d built off of one another was now being flushed down a toilet right before his eyes. He wasn’t sure what idea had hurt him more, you being out of touch with him to be with another man, or the fact you just simply wanted nothing to do with him in the first place.

He only frowned at the thought before turning his gaze elsewhere, the bittersweet taste of the whiskey now seeming to get to him. He only pushed the bottle further aside before getting up and walking towards the opposite side of his desk, grabbing his phone.

“I can call you a ride to talk you home.” Was all he said, listening as you hummed to him in agreement. His eyes flickered over to your tipsy eyes, you grinned widely at him, your teeth showing. He only looked back over to his phone and shut his eyes tightly, removing the mental image he placed of you in his head.

Maybe drinking with you alone was a horrible idea. He had only wanted to rid of the bad tension of this morning, but he seemed to have made things worse. Your hooded eyes and cheeky grin, hair lowered down to the sides of your face and your glossy lips being less flush as your makeup stained the glass.

He only made his way over to you, one hand holding his phone while the other held his glass, raising a brow at you as you sat up straight. “Do you want me to call them now?” He asked, earning a small shake of the head from you, before slowing your movements and smiling again.

You stood up now, leaning over the desk to reach for the half filled bottle of whiskey before Katsuki reached over stopping your hand, all after putting his phone in his pocket. You stood up straight to look at him, rolling your eyes before taking his glass from his hands and downing the rest, maintaining eye contact with him.

He only swallowed before looking off to the side, taking the glass from your hands and placing it down onto the desk. You only looked at him, moving your head slightly to the side to lock eyes with him again.

“You should go home.”

“I want to stay here longer, I just got com-“

“Your shift ended a while ago, I’ll call a car.” He cut you off, reaching into his pocket again grabbing his phone. You stopped him before he was able to pull it out.

“Please… Katsuki.” You pleaded, brushing your hand away from his wrist as you placed it on his chest, his face hovering over yours. That same scent of his familiar, sweet like nectar mixed with cologne and it drove you mad.

You asked yourself if his lashes had always been so long, and brown as well, not blonde like the rest of his hair or eyebrows. Or how he had the smallest freckles this close to his face, you couldn’t see them before from far away even with your glasses on.

You let your fingertips dance across Katsuki’s face for a while, and surprisingly he let you. Not moving or complaining as you did so, making you smile even harder, feeling your cheeks start to strain.

“You’re very pretty for a boy.” You cooed, now tracing out his freckles of his face before kissing the side of his cheek softly, now on your tip toes before pulling back. You only felt both of his strong hands rest on each side of your waist before pulling your body closer to his.

“Don’t do something you’ll regret, you have to go home Y/n.” He stated, holding you in place and lowering his head. You only lifted his face again as you reached on your tip toes, now kissing the bridge of his nose, gasping as his fingers now dug into your skin, lifting you up onto the desk to sit beside the empty glasses.

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not”

“Prove it.” He gasped, his face flushed as his hands never left your side, watching you as you laughed. He watched the way your throat bobbed and you tossed your head back, your hand coming towards your mouth as if to hide it.

“My name is Y/N L/N, today is Thursday and we’re in year 20XX. I can walk in a straight line too.” You said, counting off your fingers as you named every obvious detail as you looked at the calendar on the wall from afar.

“Don’t do this to me” he said in a whisper, barely loud enough for you to catch onto, but you did. You only raised a brow at him as he wore a frown on his face, letting go of you suddenly before getting his phone and sending out a message, his phone dinging within seconds.

He only grabbed your belongings without warning, taking your glasses and accessories and placing them in your bag. Lifting them off your and his desk before making his way back over to you, grabbing your coat as you stood up off his desk.

He grabbed your hand, pausing for a while as you intertwined your fingers with one another as you made your way to the elevator. He pressed the down button, waiting for it to open silently. He didn’t dare turn around to look at you, his pulse sky rocketing and mind racing in confusion.

Soon the elevator arrived and he only waltzed in with you, your hand soon slipping from his grasp as you stood inside, watching him with a satisfied hum. The tension inside seemed to buzz louder than the dying alcohol in your system had, making you more flustered than you possibly already were.

You weren’t sure how or what lead to the moment, although you were sure you made the first move, but as of right now he had you pressed against the wall of the elevator, just underneath the large camera serving as a blind spot as he kissed your lips roughly.

His tongue tasting the same as the whiskey you’d had with him upstairs earlier as your bag was dropped to the elevator floor. You moaned into his mouth as both of your hands were wrapped around the back of his neck, as his hands seemed to maneuver every way over your body.

Starting from cupping your face to hugging at your hips and waist, crawling down to squeeze at your ass and even hold you up by your thighs as you straddled him. The short, but painfully sinful moment being cut as the elevator dinged, making him practically jump off of you.

He gasped, attempting to slow his breathing as you did the same, your fingers ghosting over your lips as you did so. He was quick to pickup your bag as you fixed your ruffled skirt and wrinkled blouse. As you stood towards the entrance of the elevator as the doors opened Katsuki stopped you, fixing your hair in the way it had looked before it all started before letting you step out first.

The walk through the lobby and out into the lot was absolutely silent, you only snuck glances at one another in secrecy. From what you’d seen on Katsuki he seemed overjoyed, a large smile, genuine at that placed over his face as he walked.

As you made it outside towards his driver he held the door open for you, handing you your bag as you sat. You only nodded and thanked him as he closed the door, your window rolled down.

“Thank you… for today. I’ll let you know once I make it home.” You said cheerfully, he only nodded, his hands resting in his pockets before taking a step back, nodding his head to the driver as a signal for you to go.

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Katsuki Bakugo isn’t in love, and he certainly isn’t in love with you. It would be the only way to explain his crazy attitude and actions recently, but that couldn’t be the case.

He understood love, he had loving and caring people in his life who showed it to him, but none of those people he loved had made him to thibns like these.

He was unable to sleep, eat, bathe without fully engulfing in memories of you. Dreaming of you at night, or even imagining you eating dinner with him in his large house alone.

There have even been times you’ve been in the shower with him, your head tilted back a bit for the water to drip down your body, all for him to watch you, or masturbate as he did so. He’d watch as his imagination of you would roll your nipples underneath your pinching fingers as you teased and played with yourself, moaning his name over and over.

You’d always keep eye contact with him as you did so, and somehow always cumming at the same time. Then after things ended you’d disappear from his shower, from his thoughts, until night would come.

He was sure he was wasting his twenties away, that this was some sort of illness. He had went through all stages of ‘love’ he had deemed impossible and entirely unnecessary.

There was the stage of affection or crushing, that was how it had all started off. Catching glimpses of you longer than he should have, hanging with you longer than usual and listening to your small talk, making mental notes of what you liked.

He was sure that stage ended after the interaction with his parents for the first time, and even after mentioning your name on accident to his friends. He hadn’t seen you as anything then, just sure it was the work atmosphere and liking to let loose with you from time to time.

That’s not what coworkers or employees do, that’s what friends do. Yes, the two of you became a baseline of friends outside of work from that small time period and he was quite fond of it, but it still hadn’t entirely described all he felt.

Like the small chances of jealousy, especially more than usual recently, and lust. The lust was intoxicating beyond a point he could stand. He was honestly so surprised with himself he hadn’t just fucked you rough to have his hips snap into your pelvis repeatedly on his desk after your lips ghosted over his face over and over. You were such a tease and he hated it for himself, he hated more that you hadn’t even seemed to remember anything else you did the next day.

Don’t get him started on the concept of obsession either, seeing things in public or on social media pages and thinking if you’d like it. Than forcing a schedule that revolved around you in it daily, even if you weren’t working that day he had to see you. It wasn’t healthy in the slightest but in all honestly who was Katsuki to give a single fuck about anything he was obligated to not do.

Like how he’d pry and as more about you and your “mystery” man you still had yet to reveal his name and background to him for. Or how he’d have your log in information and password for your laptop and check on things every now and then, emails and webpage history. Taking note of what you’d do and what you had set up for yourself outside of work hours and away from the agency behind his back, smiling to himself when there was hardly anything there.

He never saw himself as those weirdos he’d tease from crime television, or stalkers he’d heard stories of. He was an admirable man, at least he tried to be, being less of a wreck and head over hells in anger issues as he grew older.

He might have not been calm as much as he’d like to be but he had managed the collected half. Now since your intimate moment in his office after having a glass or three in his office he was sure keeping his distance from you would be best.

Maybe you were lying, for your own sake and dignity about not remembering. Shame could be a reason, or fear, fear of how your relationship would continue if you had acted on those feelings before.

And it hadn’t helped that he let it happen, his pride weak and grip even weaker. He was in a mental battle with himself, telling you to leave and stop but grabbing you and pulling you closer to him. Allowing your lips to rest upon his face and your hands rest on his chest, as you spoke of your familiar boyfriend in the morning.

Katsuki wondered if he should’ve felt bad for the man. The press and public getting ahold of his relationship with you and yet you were in his office, pressing soft kisses and giggles onto his face.

But as you mentioned you didn’t remember, so there was no reason to think or act on anything. If he could go back and do things differently he would, but he’s not sure he’d be able to have the balls to do it.

He wondered for a while how your relationship was, whether you were enjoying yourself and happy with the way things worked out. A part of him agreed that couldn’t have been the case since you seemed so ready for him to take you, and even wondered if you two were truly official.

Maybe if he knew the answer to those questions the guilt that gnawed on his heart that night would have no reason to even be there. He was entirely sure he would be able to satisfy whatever need or desire your body craved, or whatever your flaunted boyfriend couldn’t provide.

No matter the reason or cause, Katsuki was sure he wasn’t one of the worst men on the planet, and certainly not the most jealous, which eased his mind. Some men in his situation would’ve either killed the woman they’re infatuated with or kill the 3rd involving party, leaving a gruesome look and record.

He was very far beyond that point and he knew he had nothing to worry about. Except for tonight of all nights that is, being out with his friends at a large bar, to which they practically begged him to invite you.

You had made your familiarities with all of them before, during Katsuki’s birthday, and yours had passed a while back to have a nice dinner with everyone. So seeing them all again and sharing laughs and drinks were evident, especially when Mina gasped at your forwardness.

“I mean, it’s like he hates me or something! Going around and hiding for months and he still has yet to call me his girlfriend! Technically we aren’t dating so I can do whatever the fuck I want!” You shouted, throwing your arms up in frustration as the others laughed, Katsuki stayed quiet, eyeing you.

He had spoke less and less throughout the night, but this had immediately caught his attention. He turned his head to face you, sitting two seats down across from him as you laughed along with Mina, taking another shot before speaking.

"I'd never date a guy like him anyways, it's just something to pass the time, he gets it." Was all you said before earning a couple laughs and 'oh's' from others, and a brow raise from Katsuki.

"Girl you're speaking like you've got another guy on your mind." Mina gasped, you only looked off to the side with a smirk, not bothering to respond. She only squealed in response as you finished your drink, humming softly.

She went on and on with the others, inquiring to know who it was that had you so captivated to the fact you were too embarrassed to share. You only ignored it, waving your arms profusely as you watched your empty cup. You looked over quickly to catch Katsuki's glaze in yours before looking back over to the others, making sure it wasn't detected.

As the night continued on, more and more empty glasses and bottles littered your large, shared table, and eventually, you bid everyone your farewells before standing up. As you turned to leave you bumped into Katsuki's chest accidentally before pausing and looking back, your apology slurring.

He only turned with you, his hand resting on your lower back as he escorted you to the car, he was speaking to you, but you only hummed in response. His words sounded too rapid for you to understand, or maybe it was just the alcohol. You only entered the car, his hands never leaving your body as you entered, you only mumbled as you put your seatbelt on.

He sat beside you, a seat separating the two of you as he leaned forward to talk to the driver. You only kept your eyes trailed on his figure, dressed in casual attire. You never took him as a man to wear jeans so often, he seemed more of a dress pants kind of guy, but it didn't seem to matter too much.

It reminded you of a photoshoot he had scheduled for an upcoming modeling agency that asked him to wear a full denim outfit. Denim jeans and a jean jacket, shirtless as the hem of his underwear hung at his waistline, poking out of his pants. Those photos are still something engraved in your mind, you bit your bottom lip to stifle a giggle that was soon to slip out.

He only sat back as he heard you, turning to face you as you smiled widely, batting your lashes at him. He looked out your window for a minute, watching as the middle window separating the backseat and the driver rolled up. You lifted your fingers up, tracing the corners of his face and cheeks, brushing his hair away from his sides.

He leaned down in front of you, faces only centimeters away from one another. You made the first move, leaning in closer to him as your lips brushed against one another, testing the waters with a large grin. Before you could even pull away he leaned down and kissed you eagerly, his hands gripping at your face and throat, angling your face upwards at him.

He hesitated a little before licking at your lips before you invited him into your mouth without a second thought. If it wasn't for the fogginess of your mind and the butterflies in your stomach gnawing at your focus you could've sworn, he was smiling into the kiss as he did so.

In the small moment of shared gasps and moans throughout your make-out with Katsuki, the vehicle comes to a short stop. You're the first to pull away, looking out your window to see your apartment complex. You gasp into a smile, immediately removing your seatbelt before turning to Katsuki and opening your door, grabbing his hand in a way to pull him out.

He's surprised, but obliges, too drunk to truly care now that you've arrived back at your place without harm. He soon comes out of the car with you and you give the driver a quick thank you and wave before dragging Katsuki along with you through your front door after unlocking it with your keycode combination.

He's drunk now, but he wishes he would somehow be able to remember the code in case of emergency in the future. You only kicked your shoes off and began to attack him with kisses, not making it past the entrance of your home.

He was quick to respond, slamming the door shut behind him as he grabbed you, lifting you up onto his waist as you wrapped your legs around him. Moans and whines were thrown around in the air as he tossed you onto the nearest piece of furniture he could find, your couch.

Kisses turned into bites, grasping turned into grabbing, removing clothing and brushing hair aside until the two of you were completely nude on the couch. You moaned into Katsuki as he continued, the night advancing as you began to sober up, him doing the same.

“Katsuki” you whined, placing your hands on his torso attempting to push him with the little to no strength you had as he thrusted into you with no remorse, grunting at your words.

He was above you, pressing against you to the point you thought you were genuinely melting into the large couch. Your legs were spread for him, as he made himself more than comfortable between them, his upper broad body caging your much smaller one.

He only grunted in your ear, uttering lines between pet names and cursing how good you felt. Honestly you weren’t sure why you were pushing him away, it felt so good, but it was too good. The feeling was making your head spin and your heart pounding through your chest and your body trembling slightly.

“Want me to stop?” He panted, his pace now begging to slow down a little bit as his strokes now became sloppy, looking into your eyes as you shook your head, now digging your nails into his shoulders as you moaned.

My god, it felt as if he was splitting you into two, and you loved every second of it, you whined like a big baby, and he loved it. You felt as if you would’ve burst and couldn’t handle it, and he would just baby you and push you through it.

His positive words would ring through your ears as you babbled, now softly sobbing into his chest as he pressed back down onto you, rutting into you like some kind of animal. You only reached your arms out over his back, hugging him now as you began to do the same with your legs, locking him in place as you felt your high approaching.

He could already tell you were close from how you held him, and your crying getting louder. His grunts and moans became louder, repeating his phrase of 'oh fuck’ over and over again into your neck as he was close as well. You began to squeeze around his length as he dug deeper into you, placing one hand on your lower stomach, repeatedly tickling your cervix with his cock.

You began to grow louder; whoever your neighbors were would’ve definitely heard the sounds of your voices mixing with one another and your skin speaking to one another. Katsuki quickly pulled you into a passionate kiss, your tongues quickly tangled with one another as he pulled his head away, now completely focused on making you cum.

As your vision was clouded in tears you could see the beads of sweat rolling down Katsuki's forehead and neck now, you wrapped your hands around his neck. You quickly began to feel a familiar tightening in your stomach as your heart fluttered softly. You weren't sure if it was the alcohol to blame for the way you felt and how much your body responded back to his, but it was nothing you'd ever felt before.

“I’m gonna- baby, I’m so close,” you babbled, now shutting your eyes tightly, letting the tears streaming down the sides of your face as you mewled. He only huffed and hummed in response, keeping the same pace as he came down to your ear. In a way, you prayed this moment wouldn't end; the blissful enjoyment of making love to one another was so suffocating.

“M'gonna fill you up, keep ya nice n’ full” He whispered, letting out a grunt afterwards as his breath hitched. You had finally reached your breaking point as you had already once tonight beforehand. Your orgasm ripping through you as you shouted out, holding onto your lover for dear life as you began to spasm, your legs shaking slightly while still being wrapped around his large back.

Your own orgasm had sent him over the edge, now coming to a complete stop and placing all of his strength into burying himself deep into you, the head of his cock kissing your cervix as you groaned, feeling him twitch inside of you before quickly cumming inside of you.

You both laid there for a moment, your legs still around him as he was still buried deep in you as you caught your breaths. Cursing 'fuck' in unison as you both began to come down from your high before he pulled out, groaning as he did so. The two of you just laid there, looking into one another's eyes before he leaned down to kiss you, clearly exhausted.

He only moved over to the side, grabbing a large blanket that had been folded behind him from your previous laundry before throwing it over the top of you two. He rested his head between your breasts and kissed the area softly; you only smiled at him sleepily before wrapping your arms around his head.

Without even realizing it, you fell asleep almost immediately, praying things would smooth out in the morning.

They in fact, did not.

✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡✗♡

Taglist: @matchat3a @pikachuzhc @froggy-crystal @idiotboys @gojosukuna2268 @dragonscribbles @adherethecomingofage

✴🕷 please do not copy, plagiarize, edit, or translate any works submitted by me. all works are originated and all other pictures used within those works are online images. thank you!! @kryptznnn

[szqnxi]

I saw that you're asking for scenarios so can you maybe put the phrase "What do y'all know about *famous person*?"

Sure anon!! This one might be a bit ooc so 🤷🏻‍♀️. Been busy lately that's why there's no update, if anyone wants to be added on the taglist, please don't hesitate to reach out. Also, if you have scenes in mind, please drop some

Your number 1 fan (Part 2)

Katsuki Bakugo x reader

<<previous

"--but hey, at least no villains showed up. Made our patrol a lot easier" Kirishima said as they stepped out the elevator of the agency building.

Katsuki let out an angry huff. He was still pissed with the stunt that Mina pulled earlier, which resulted in the two knowing about his obsession with you and your songs.

And in return for not blowing up at them, Kirishima came up with a compelling offer -- promising to buy him a limited edition vinyl record of your new album, which Katsuki surprisingly agreed at.

"Stupid racoon eyes just had to broadcast us patrolling the area. Of course no fucking villain would fucking show up" Katsuki rolled his eyes, irritation clearly visible at his face.

"There hasn't been any villain activity there for months. Besides, we're not there to fight villains. We're just checking on something" Mina corrected him, her grin not faltering despite Katsuki's annoyance.

"Yeah yeah whatever pinky" he dismissibly replied when the elevator opened.

Y/n's song Coincidence could be heard from the hallway as the three of them approached the hero office. Kirishima opened the door and they were welcomed by the sight of Shoto and Izuku, the former doing paperwork while the latter was on his phone beside Shoto, sipping at a cup of takeout coffee as they both sang along to the song.

Upon seeing the group enter the room, the two of them immediately let go of each other's hands, acting as if they weren't doing it before. Izuku let out a nervous chuckle while Shoto's normally impassive expression was now replaced by a surprised one.

"Oh hi..." the green haired stuttered. "I thought you guys were still on patrol. I didn't expect you to be back so soon" there was an obvious awkwardness in his voice.

Mina and Kirishima exchanged a knowing look, as if they had formed a silent understanding about the current situation. Her lips curled into a mischievous smile as she glanced at the two of them.

She immediately pounced on Izuku, pulling him aside, practically cornering him and peppering him with questions about his sudden appearance at the agency, specifically in the hero office with Shoto, asking as if she had no idea about the intimate moment the two were having a moment ago.

Katsuki's eyes twitched in irritation, his annoyance clearly evident as your song continued playing in the background. Shoto glanced between Mina and Izuku, then at Kirishima and then at Katsuki, who looked as irritated as ever with the noise Mina and Izuku were making.

Before Katsuki could explode at them with his usual verbal fury, Kirishima interrupted.

"Down boy"

"I AM NOT A FUCKING DOG" he growled at Kirishima, who only laughed at him in response, before pulling Mina away from the clearly uncomfortable Izuku, who appeared to have seen a ghost, specifically a pink blabbering ghost courtesy of Mina, according to Katsuki.

Katsuki moved to the office couch, sinking comfortably in its cushions, as the others continued with their tasks. Kirishima was chatting with Shoto about their patrol earlier and keeping Mina at bay from pestering Izuku again while she was giving Izuku playful winks, giggling and demanding he owed her some 'tea' for whatever reason.

He decided to scroll on his phone for the meantime. Searching your name on Twitter and reposting new updates from your page. Until he saw a reply on Mina's post of a stranger calling your songs 'stupid'.

His eye twitched in irritation as he immediately began typing profanities on his phone, posting a hostile reply in response to the audacity of the stranger who dared insult your song.

Katsuki didn't stop there. He proceeded to report all of her 'stupid' covers, claiming copyright infringement and even reporting the person's page, which was undeniably childish, but be was too irritated to care.

"Kaachan" Izuku's voice snapped him out of his online rampage. He looked up, shooting him an annoyed look, just in time to see Mina and Kirishima leaving, mentioning a dinner that is yet to be cooked. Not that he cares.

"What do you want, shitty nerd?!" He growled angrily at Izuku, storming towards the other side of the desk they were sitting at, slamming his hand down and glaring at him, accusingly pointing a finger in his direction.

"You" he growled

"Uhh me? What about me?" Izuku replied nervously

"And you" and then at Shoto who only gave him a confused look.

"WHAT DO YOU TWO KNOW ABOUT Y/N HUH?!"

Next >>

(⁠=⁠｀⁠ェ⁠´⁠=⁠) Szqnxi's Main Masterlist

(⁠´⁠(⁠ｪ⁠)⁠｀⁠）Number 1 Fan Masterlist

Note: it took me so long to post part 2 lmao. I was so busy with my life so sorrry T_T pls send some message idc if it's anonymous just interact with me I'm begging y'all /hjk but anyway I wanna answer some questions so pleassseeee

[strwberri-milk]

Hiya! So I just read the post about the arranged marriage trope qith Sylus and Zayne x reader (non-mc), would it be possible to request the same but for Caleb, Rafayel and Xavier? If Three is too much then just Caleb and Rafayel? 👀🥺

Thank you!! I love your writing 🧡

Caleb could be manipulated into it if something else is at stake. If he weighs the value of his happiness as less than the happiness or benefit of the outcome, then he'll agree. You would be able to tell in the way he acts though. He's not very interested in getting to know you but he isn't outright cruel. Thankfully, he's willing to take care of you, putting aside money for you to use to buy groceries, a bit of spending money, just little things like that.

You wish you could see him more often than just in passing. He didn't seem ever interested in talking to you, going to his private room all the time. He barely knows anything about you outside of your name, not making any efforts to figure it out. He might notice things in shared spaces that you like or things getting used up that need to be replaced.

There's a very slight chance you could begin a tentative friendship with him. You'd have to be manipulated the same way he is or not one of the people directly responsible for the predicament he's in. If you both come from a similar position, he's more amenable to hearing you out. Other than that though, you'd live basically with a roommate who takes care of you a little more affectionately than a perfect stranger should.

Xavier expects it (based off the bit I know from his myth). He isn't happy about it, but he'll do it for the greater good, similar to Caleb. He tries to be a good husband, wanting to be kind and attentive but he turns out to be a bit more friendly. He doesn't really try to cover up by becoming sickly sweet and adoring and his habitual silence can be seen as offensive? You'd think he hates you and he doesn't really, he's just not happy with the situation.

He can be convinced to spend time with you at least, the two of you sitting in awkward silence as you try to learn things about him. He just never actively tries but at least he answers questions if you start pushing for them. He wouldn't really be interested in falling in love but it could happen as you two spend time together. At the very least he could become a close friend and confidant, someone you feel comfortable speaking to at least.

Rafayel is vehemently against it from the beginning. This will be the cause of outwardly hostile and cold treatment from him. He doesn't really talk to you and makes it a point to avoid you, not caring about your role - or lack thereof - that you play in this whole situation of his. He isn't at all interested in getting to know you and he opposes it all the way down the metaphorical aisle.

If somehow, the marriage ends up going through he just buys you a different home to live in and sticks you there. He sends money out of obligation/whatever you need but really, you just feel like a bird in a gilded cage. He rarely sees you and only makes appearances when he's practically being threatened to look like a happy husband. He'll tolerate it for that time and then that's about it.

If he's already in love with someone else there's really no hope. He doesn't look at you like a person even, more focused on what he's missing. He would have ran away quite early on to be with his lover, practically dead to the world in favour of them. If he isn't, he just sees you as his jailer, keeping his distance and refusing to give you the chance to get close to him. He doesn't do well with people telling him what to do and to him, this is ultimately the worst thing you could do to him.

[seafoamreadings]

week of june 22nd, 2025

these are written predominantly for the *rising* signs but they are also intuitively "channeled" enough that they should work for any dominant energy you have! (try your sun if you don't know rising, or more advanced readers can try moon, anywhere you have a stellium, etc and see what works best for you!)

aries: your sign is activated all week due to saturn and neptune hanging out there albeit in uncomfortable ways. but some of the activations are positive and the ones that are more challenging, like this week's new moon, still show you the path forward to getting where you're going.

taurus: vibes are less taurus-supportive than one might hope but not actively hostile to you either, and having venus still in your sign for a while does help. lean into venusian qualities even as people around you get more intellectual and "serious."

gemini: while your money vibes are overall not just good but actually excellent, i *would* recommend *not* borrowing from friends or lending to them at this time. and don't let them talk you into spending any savings you're working on!

cancerians: your yearly new moon is this week which is perfect for re-inventing yourself and mid-year resolutions. it's square some stuff in aries which is less than ideal, but being so closely conjunct jupiter makes this a good time for *you* if not necessarily for your vocational pursuits.

leo: amidst various psychic renovations, mercury comes to your sign to visit for a while. the ingress is this week but soon enough there will also be a retrograde of that guy in your sign! so start your preparations now.

virgo: this week helps you become a magician or miracle-worker of sorts. you can bring down a dream or fantasy or idea and implement it in the real world of structure and form. it just takes putting your mind to it. sounds trite, but mercury means business!

libra: the blend of energies this week is tense yet productive. you get push back, but help comes from your social communities/networks. no libran is an island so don't get too solitary at this time.

scorpio: cancerian yet martial vibes suit you in unique ways. a little help from your ruling planet pluto doesn't go amiss either. you possess a quiet, persuasive power. don't rely too much on words; scheming behind the scenes and just emanating the vibes will serve your aims better.

sagittarius: the sun conjoins your ruling planet jupiter in your 8th house this week which, among all the other aspects, is so incredibly golden, rich, and jolly. gifts are likely. close connections and collaborations can be auspicious. some witchcraft may be in order, if that's your thing.

capricorn: like it or not, relationships remain the primary focus of your week. hopefully this is going well, but relationships with neglected facets or which have been outgrown may act up in uncomfortable ways, like a little flare of arthritis.

aquarius: mercury into leo means talk openly with a conversational partner especially if you have something to say that you haven't really wanted to say. do this before mercury goes retrograde in a week or two!

pisces: engage in hobbies and creative pursuits, especially if you can enjoy them alongside a person you care about. so much the better if you can do so without spending money or, even better, if the money goes to a good cause.

watch the transit posts in real time to have the best guide through your week. want a little more? have a look at my patreon or ko-fi.

check out my etsy for a private reading or fill out this formto set up a reading through venmo, cashapp, or paypal. private readings are currently closed, but will return in late august :)