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miserymet · 2 months

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Posting another piece of writing! This one is the opening chapter for a Bass-centric Modern AU. Much longer than the Drabble I posted, but rereading it made me nostalgic for this old AU. I’d like to do some art for it at some point.

Anyway, without further ado, here’s the fic:

His name was Ballade.

Bass doesn’t know much more than that. All he knows is his name and that he was year above him. He either doesn’t remember the rest or never learned it. See, that was the problem with Ballade. He was completely and entirely irrelevant. A stain on ruined shirt, a blemish against tattered skin. He didn’t matter, not in the grand scheme of things and not to anyone at school. A nobody in every sense of the word. Bass doesn’t remember what was so annoying about him either. All he remembers is that one day he said something, and Bass wasn’t in the mood to hear it.

Ballade was the first to end up on the pavement, blood leaking from his face. He was not the last.

Bass Wily’s history is best described as “colorful.” From a young age it was easy to see that he was different from his peers. Teachers described him as difficult, classmates as terrifying, and parents as concerning. That was only the beginning. His first fight was in elementary, with the aforementioned Ballade, but his real beginning was in middle school. Why, the list of his enemies was so long they could make it into a phone book. The list of people he beat to a pulp wasn’t quite as long, but the amount of fights he lost wouldn’t even take up a footnote. As you can imagine, this was a nightmare for his father.

It’s no wonder the old man got sick of him. He came out of freshman year with bloody knuckles and a bad attitude. Most would have sent him to a boot camp. Most would have the shame to admit that they had failed somewhere along the way. But not Wily, no, he could never call his own blood a lost cause. Not when his rotten son ending up in juvie was sure to make the headlines. No, Wily had a different plan in mind. A plan that got Bass out of the way and wiped his record clean. A plan he never planned on filling Bass in on until it was too late to make a run for it.

A plan he named Zero.

That’s how Bass finds himself in the passenger’s seat of a car he’s never been in before, staring out over a dark and endless highway. The lights are few and far apart, covering the car for only a moment before cutting out again. For as far out as they are, there’s nothing to see. All around them are miles and miles of roads and fields and lifeless desert that threatens to swallow him whole. It’s a wasteland. That’s all that lies between the cities out here. Dirt and dust and rock. It’s miserable. At least now it’s too dark to see anything.

The inside of the car isn’t anymore comfortable. His jacket hangs loosely over him, unzipped and falling off his shoulder. It’s just cold enough to make him uncomfortable, but it’ll be too warm if he zips it up. So he doesn’t. Bass just slouches in his seat and breathes a deep sigh.

The radio buzzes in his ear, playing something that was probably popular thirty years ago. Now it’s nostalgic. Retro. A pathetic ploy to remember the past as better than it actually was. It’s so easy to remember those years as too much synth and makeup, as bright lights and exposed skin. It’s just music. Music that said nothing and meant even less. Bass hates that. Hates that the same people who call modern music soulless praise this garbage because it’s old. Hates that they’re all listening to the same bubblegum bullshit, but from a different time.

He doesn’t know why he cares. People have been touting their self importance since the dawn of time. He can imagine their prehistoric ancestors measuring their sticks to see whose was the biggest. Only now people care less for sticks and more for music that takes itself too seriously. That’s the issue, he guesses. Everyone cares too much. Wily cares too much about his image, Bass cares too much about everything, and Zero…

Bass doesn’t know what he cares about. Doesn’t really know the guy. At all.

He reaches for the radio and switches to another station. Bass is immediately inundated with a different kind of garbage. Modern electronic music. At the sudden change, Zero speaks up for what must be the first time in over an hour.

“I was listening to that.”

Bass rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t.”

They lapse into silence again as Bass switches through various stations. Some play pop, some rock, some are pure static. None of it is worth listening to. Bass didn’t think any of it would be, but at least playing with the radio gives him something to do. His phone died forever ago, leaving him with whatever he has on hand to entertain himself. His backpack is full of sentimental junk, nothing he can really use to distract himself. Treble is napping in the backseat and Bass doesn’t have the heart to wake him. So this car radio is all he has for company. Zero doesn’t count. He’s not company.

Bass barely even knows the guy. Which is why he’s trying so hard to distract himself. If he thinks too hard he’ll remember that he’s riding with a stranger to a city he’s never seen before. The knob turns in his hand as he thinks, sliding between stations haphazardly. He’ll be in a new place, away from everything he’s ever known, living with someone he doesn’t know. Someone unpredictable. Sure, anyone that isn’t Wily is probably an improvement, but Bass is used to Wily. He knows how the old man thinks. Knows how he works, how to deal with him. Bass doesn’t know Zero, hasn’t for five years. Which makes the man unpredictable. Which makes Bass nervous. He fiddles with the knob just a bit faster, static breaking through the speakers.

“Forte-,”

“Bass. It’s Bass now.” He keeps his eyes trained on the car radio, watching the stations flicker by. “Has been for a while.”

Zero sighs, loudly. “Well Bass, pick something or turn it off.”

He lands on static. Bass is pretty sure he sees Zero’s eye twitch out of the corner of his eyes, but he chooses to ignore it. The satisfaction of annoying Zero lasts for only a minute. After that, he quickly realizes the consequences of his actions. There’s several hours between him and his destination. Several hours he’s going to have to suffer through with the sound of static accompanying all of it. How lovely. It’s times like these where Bass almost wishes he were someone else. Of course, that’s only when his difficult nature affects himself. Any other time and he’s perfectly happy being the most antagonistic person in existence.

People are stupid. People like Wily, like Zero, like his teachers and his peers. People that look at him and see only what they want to see. People that look at him and see Forte. See this teen with a bad attitude and dark clothes and assume that they know everything about him. Bass exists to defy those assumptions. He is not the expected, not the convenient. He’s loud, abrasive, aggressive. He’s everything Wily pretends he isn’t. He’s whatever’s going to infuriate Zero the most. He’s whatever pisses everyone off. A contrarian. A problem. Bass gets to control what everyone thinks of him. He gets to pick what he wants to be. Everyone else just has to deal with it or move on.

Most choose to move on. Even the most patient people in the world get sick of him eventually. The smart ones leave as soon as they can. As you can imagine, it leaves him on his own more often than not. That’s fine. Bass has been on his own for a while. He’s used to it. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of Zero. This won’t be any different. A change of scenery won’t fix what’s wrong with him. Bass won’t change, won’t get better, won’t get worse. He’ll just continue on as he always has. Zero will get sick of him eventually. Send him back in a few months, throwing Wily’s mistakes in his face once again.

The thought isn’t as comforting as it should be. As nervous as he is about this move, the idea of returning home isn’t thrilling either. That house, that city hasn’t felt like home for a while. It used to. It used to be familiar and comforting. It used to be his. Now it feels like any other place. Those long halls, those labyrinthine streets, they don’t feel the same. Not since…

Wily certainly chose a convenient time to get sick of him. After everything, it figures the old man would cut him loose after he’s already been hanging from a string. He wonders, briefly, if that was exactly Wily chose to do this now. The old man never cared much for the company he kept, so why would he get rid of him after his old gang had left? Why wait until he had nothing to ship him off? It doesn’t make sense. Maybe it was just convenience. That he was waiting for Zero to come home, that this was always the plan. Of course, that just leaves one unknown variable.

“Why…” Bass falters and hates himself for it. “Why are you doing this?”

Zero grips the steering wheel a little harder. “Doing what?”

“This! The move, the new house, the new school-, why? Why any of it? Why?”

Bass flails his arms in useless gesture. The man next to him huffs in what might be amusement, which makes only one of them. He slouches in his seat and turns away from the man. Pouting, he knows, but he figures he’s earned the right. His life is being upended by the only two people that still hold any power over him. Two people that don’t even know him, for all the years he’s lived with them. Wily and Zero never cared to learn anything about him, and Zero’s missed a third of his life. Bass was ten when Zero left, ten. A lot changes in five fucking years. And Zero doesn’t know the half of it.

“Didn’t he tell you what you’re dealing with? My record? My ‘attitude problem?’”

Zero stiffens a bit at that. Bass wouldn’t have gotten as far as he has if he didn’t know how to exploit a weak spot. He prods further.

“C’mon, how much do you know? I have to know what the old man said about me, which one of my greatest hits he told you.” Bass tugs on Zero’s jacket, jostling him a bit. “Was it that kid whose nose I broke? Or the one who got his older brother involved, who I destroyed by the way. What about the one who showed up with a bat-,”

“Bass.” His grip is harder now, jaw clenched as he stares dead ahead.

“What? I just want to know-,”

“Why are you proud of that? Of what you did to those kids? What-,” Zero takes a deep breath, barely keeping it together.

Bass rolls his eyes. “What’s wrong with me? A lot. I’m sure you can make a few guesses.”

“Do you enjoy hurting people? Is that fun for you?”

“I enjoy winning.” He pulls back his hand, crossing it over his chest. “I enjoy being better than all the idiots who see someone whose barely five feet and thinks that they can take him. I enjoy when everyone else is wrong. I enjoy making them admit it.”

“Well, you weren’t doing much of that when I came home! Your father said you weren’t doing anything. That you hid in your room all day. That you stopped leaving the house. That’s what he told me.”

Bass opens his mouth. Then shuts it. He honestly didn’t think the old man noticed. No, the truth is that he honestly didn’t think the old man cared. So what if he was in his room? It’s his room. It’s his house! He’s allowed to be there! The alternative was being somewhere else, doing something illegal. Most parents would be happy that Bass wasn’t doing any of that. That he was somewhere they could see, that they could keep him out of trouble. Actually, considering how fond Wily was of pretending his own son didn’t exist, this was almost textbook. Figures the old man would only care because he had to suffer his own son’s presence. Still…

“What do you care?”

Zero doesn’t answer him, not right away. Bass spares him a glance. He’s kinda like a monolith, in a way. He sits straight, arms stiff and limbs locked into place. He’s about a foot taller than Bass so he almost towers over him in his slouch. Zero has towered over him for a while. A monument to everything Bass is not. Zero is tall and lean, with smooth features and a pretty face. His skin is tan, his hair blonde and his eyes a vivid blue. He was a straight A student all throughout high school, at the top of his class, and he even got valedictorian. Not to mention the Ivy League school he went to, which he graduated a few months ago. With flying colors, of course.

Bass is nothing like him. He’s short and awkward, his face round and features mean. Bass is a darker complexion, with black hair and dark eyes. What’s worse is that these features only look bad on him. If Zero had them, he’d look great. But Bass isn’t Zero. His grades are mediocre, his attendance record awful, and he’s never gotten anything more than a participation trophy. And, not to be redundant, but the record. Even if it’s being swept under the rug here, it still exists. Bass did everything he got in trouble for. Beat up every name in that file. He’s every counselor’s nightmare.

“I care because I don’t think you’re a bad kid.”

He blinks at that. “You’re insane.”

“I mean it, Bass.” Zero takes another breath. “Your father isn’t…a good person.”

“He’s a shithead, I know.”

“Yeah, he is. And having a father like that doesn’t make for a good environment to grow up in. It leads to…people like us.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“We’re not normal, Bass. Normal people don’t beat people up for fun, they don’t have rampant anger issues, they don’t pick the farthest school from their family because the thought of living in that house makes them sick.”

That explains why Zero never visited. Bass kinda assumed he was too busy studying or whatever to bother, but it makes sense that avoiding Wily was his main motivation. Bass did the same thing, although he could never get as far away as Zero did. And he eventually had to come home. But every moment he spent away from Wily was one he savored. Even if he was just loitering or hanging out in empty parking lots. Anything to not have to be home. Bass remembers staying out for hours, far after sunset, just so he could be sure Wily was asleep.

Sometimes one of his friends would wait with him. Tengu’s presence was typical, seeing as he didn’t have any good reason to go home either. His parents weren’t ever around and Bass learned not to pry. He wasn’t good company, though. Bass kinda got the feeling he only stuck around because he felt like he had to. Burner sometimes stuck around too. Usually to get the smell out of his clothes, but sometimes he didn’t want to go home either. Bass didn’t like Burner, for a lot of reasons, but he could be nice when he wasn’t on something.

His friends weren’t normal either. Bass knew that, instinctively, but that was why he hung around them. Because they knew what it was like to not be normal. To be ugly and awful, to be unforgivable to everyone else. They were so not normal that it made Bass feel normal. Like he wasn’t some freak of nature. Like it wasn’t his fault that he came out like this. That it just…happened. Like it did with all of his friends.

Zero is the opposite. He’s a stark reminder of how messed up Bass is. Because if Zero ended up as perfect as he is, then Bass doesn’t really have an excuse. Bass just isn’t good enough. Someway, somehow, he is insufficient. Flawed. Imperfect. But hearing Zero say that he isn’t normal, that something wrong with him? It’s bittersweet. It doesn’t fix Bass, but it does make him feel better to know that Zero isn’t as high and mighty as he might seem. But again, that only explains part of what’s going on. Bass knows why Wily sent him away, knows why Zero wants to leave, but it still leaves one thing unanswered.

“That explains why you’re moving, but why the hell did you bring me along?

“Because getting away from that-,” Zero falters for a moment. “Getting away from our father was good for me. College was good for me. Getting to be around normal people with normal lives made me realize how fucked up ours was. It made me realize that things didn’t have to be like this. That we don’t have to be like this.”

Bass doesn’t say anything. He got what he wanted. Now he knows that this is some strange attempt to “fix” Bass. He’s not sure how Zero thinks he’s going to accomplish that, but he’s welcome to try. It’ll be entertaining to watch him fail for the first time. Well, second if you count what happened in Zero’s junior year, but Bass doesn’t. Zero did win, after all.

“You deserve a chance to have a normal childhood. With someone who hasn’t given up on you. I…want to give you that. I want to try. God knows someone has to.”

They fall into silence again. Bass doesn’t know what to say to that and Zero seems to have said all he had to. Now it’s just them and the open, empty road. There’s a part of Bass that’s hopeful, despite everything. That thinks maybe this can work. That he and Zero can play pretend. That Bass can survive for a little bit longer. But it’s only a small part. Every other part of him tells him not to hold his breath. Bass sighs and turns his attention to the window. The sky seems to be brightening, which means that morning isn’t too far off. He relaxes in his seat.

When he wakes up, he’ll be in a new city. When he wakes up, he’ll have to figure this out all over again. Bass closes his eyes and dreams of nothing.

#mega man #megaman #rockman #megaman au #megaman x #megaman zero #megaman classic #bass #bass megaman #zero megaman #zero mmx #I’d write this whole fic if I wasn’t working on other things #And if this wasn’t already one of my many attempts to do so #Fun fact: this was originally a soulmate au #Decided I wanted a more grounded setting

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starlightswordfight · 5 months

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olimar louie headcanon time cracks knuckles

once again going under the keep reading tab because I NEVER stop talking

– okay first off I don't think EITHER of them are working at hocotate freight because they want to. it is VERY clear that neither of them actually care as much about the job as they do their other interests/passions, which leads me to believe that they are quite literally only still there to make ends meet or out of contract obligation. if they could leave they would. something is wrong

– not a hc but I need them to discover what unions are right now. if that doesn't work murder is also acceptable

– i think if olimar thought about it for two seconds he'd use he/they or any pronouns but he has never stopped to consider it since he genuinely does not have any time

– olimar also would have been happier as a biologist maybe. and that was the initial plan! started working at different positions first when he was younger (like hocotate freight) (big mistake) so he could get used to working before moving on to pursue his passions, and ended up just ... never leaving. "i'll just stay one more year" that's the devil talking

– learned sign language (either interstellar or a hocotate specific language/dialect) exclusively for louie. it's surprisingly also observed in the pikmin at times now!! even if they Butcher It with their Tiny Pitiful Hands. they're trying

– his trypophobia just kind of happened. there's no lore centric reason for it being there, it just freaks him out and always has

– will have to avoid things that seem completely unrelated, the worst example being literal condensation sometimes? sees the water droplets line up Not Right and INSTANTLY dies

– stims often, and it's nearly always vocal. a lot of it is talking to himself, or humming!! tries not to Interrupt the pikmin songs but sometimes does, without noticing until they stop and stare at him comically. let the man LIVE

– louie is semi verbal. sign and writing are far, FAR easier for him to communicate with. he does not like talking unless he fucking has to and even then sometimes he can't

– louie would've loved to have gone into the culinary field, and actually started attending school for it! but the environment was incredibly unaccommodating. stressful enough that he didn't feel he had a choice outside of dropping out. tried just starting work right away instead and, turns out, entry level positions in food service are also absolutely awful on hocotate!! fuck!!

– so he's working at a freight company instead. he is rightfully bitter about it

– he didn't actually ever know his parents! he was fully raised by his grandmother. their relationship is .. Mildly Complicated

– okay related to all of the above I think he's so hungry all the time because of stress. that or there may be an underlying medical reason but I am NOT equipped to write or speculate on that

– louie, too, makes art because murder is wrong

#pikmin #pikmin headcanons #captain olimar #olimar pikmin #louie pikmin #my angels. my darlings. okay hang on im taking a tangent i almost went on to these tags feel free to ignore this but #do you guys know how fucking difficult night missions are w trypophobia #im fine when the lumiknoll is GREEN but when the glow sap gets drained at the end of the night etc i have to either squint or turn around #or else i begin to die #i projected the condensation thing bc i nearly threw a lid once seeing it #I've NEVER seen a character get clearly anxious over similar things before and it made me feel less insane

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azsazz · 2 years

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Between Me and You

Azriel x Reader (Jax Centric)

Summary: Anon Request: Is it Jax who likes to meet creatures? Will we see him interacting with Bryaxis at some point? he is an empath, so he must feel the power that must emanate from the library too 😳👀

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 2,102

Notes: this one’s for all the Jax girlies.

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“This doesn’t seem like such a good idea,” Wren presses worriedly, grip white knuckled on the railing as he stares down into the dark abyss of the library. Uneasy.

“It’s not a good idea,” Baz agrees, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes at his older brother. Irritated. “That’s the point of the bet. And Jax wouldn’t have agreed to it if he wasn't able to handle the consequences, right J?”

The youngest of the three chooses not to respond, instead swallowing harshly at the darkness of the bottom of the library. He had in fact made the bet, but he should’ve known by now that Baz would find a loophole in the terms of agreement that would cause him to lose.

They’re not even supposed to be in here alone, though they rarely listen to what is asked of them these days, the naughty oldest sons of you and the spymaster thrive off of a little chaos.

A part of him thinks he catches sight of something moving, but when Jax’s wide eyes flicker over to that part of the basement there’s nothing but the deep void staring back at him.

They’d grown up on horror stories of the beast that resides in the bottom of the library. Something that had been unleashed during the great war and had chosen to come back and live in the dark, dusty library at his uncle’s house.

And Jax understands better than his brothers. Had felt the fear creeping from his Uncle Cassian when he had spoken of the creature prowling below, begging for company. The emotions he’d felt from one of the most powerful Illyrians in regards to the beast has his limbs coiled in fear.

“Alright, better get on with it now,” Baz shoves him towards the ramp, “Before mom and dad notice we’re gone.”

“Baz–”

Apprehensive.

“Wren,” the second oldest snaps, glaring. Displeased. “There’s no going back now. Unless you want them finding out about these…” He shoves up the sleeve to his shirt to show the dark tattoo coiled around his forearm. Jax feels the one on his own skin tingling with magic it’s made of. It does nothing to calm his pounding heart. Fear.

They aren’t supposed to be making bargains either.

“It’s fine, Wren,” Jax replies. Lies. He tries to give his oldest brother a smile but he can’t seem to force his lips to curve upwards, not when Wren’s nervousness is cracking the thin walls he’s built up.

He hasn’t quite mastered how to block out other’s emotions yet, especially when he’s in a fragile state himself, and in close proximity with his older brothers he can feel Wren’s concern seeping through the seams and even Baz’s apprehension as he takes a step downwards, and continues.

It’s now or never.

But Baz is right. If their parents find out that they’ve been making petty bargains and dares they will surely receive a harsher punishment than if he goes down to the bottom of the library to visit Uncle Cassian’s old friend, right?

His legs wobble with each step downwards. The weight of his brothers’ worry mixed with his own crash over him. He can hardly hear his own footsteps over the pounding of his chest in his ears. Closer and closer he gets to the bottom, and each flight he descends is one step further from his brothers, from safety.

Terrified.

Jax peeks upwards, trying to spot his older brothers at the top of the ramp, but they’re nowhere to be found. It’s too dark from him to see, the light growing dimmer the closer he gets to the bottom, and his brain is telling him to scream up to them, turn around and run, but he can’t, the stinging of the bargain on his arm is growing, knowing that it’s about to be fulfilled.

So he keeps going.

Jax freezes when he steps off of the winding slope into the beast's home. It’s eerily quiet, the kind that screams threats. He clenches his fingers tightly together, palms clammy and fingernails biting into his skin, trying to ground himself.

He doesn’t feel a thing all the way down here. It’s like his senses are muted. Like he can finally breathe.

Something moves not far from him, but there’s no use in trying to discern what it is. He can’t see a thing in these depths, not even the skylight that had been put in for the creature shines all the way down here.

He swallows harshly, trying to follow the movement anyway. It’s not quite a slither but he can hear the dull scrape of claws all around him and it reminds him of the way his Uncle Rhys can look into people’s minds.

He wonders if Bryaxis can do the same.

Jax doesn’t know much about this creature, other than the fact that it’s terrified his uncle so much that he shudders every time it’s mentioned and had begged them all not to bring it up ever again after that fateful dare, the one that had so obviously given Baz the idea.

He startles as the creature sniffs the air, releasing a knowing hum that makes the hair on the back of his neck stir. It’s intrigue, Jax recognizes, letting his powers reach out to the beast. “You smell…familiar. Son of darkness and death. What is your name?”

Jax shifts his weight onto his other foot as a shiver slides up his spine. Son of darkness and death. Might that be his father the creature is referring to? He doesn’t know if he should say, and doesn't think he should trust this creature, for the beast hasn’t mentioned his uncle by name either.

He could lie, tell Bryaxis that his name is Baz. Or Montauk, the boy at school who’s always giving him trouble. One side of his mouth curves upwards at the thought.

“Why are you smiling?”

Oh shit. The smirk falls from his lips.

“My name is Jax,” he answers, proud that his voice only shakes a tiny bit.

“Jax,” the beast hisses, savoring it. Maybe it’s imagining what he will taste like when it tears the flesh from his body.

He squeezes his eyes shut, shoving the thought from his mind.

The creature moves again and he’s trying to map out its movements, reaching out to feel the emotions rushing through its body. It’s overwhelming and confusing, the amount of feelings the beast is experiencing. Hunger, excitement, dread, longing, all thick in the back of his throat, filling his head so quickly that Jax tries to shut it down the best that he can, panting as he tries to focus on closing his emotions down one by one.

“What are you doing in my home, Jax?” Bryaxis prowls, and the suspicion in its voice pulls to the front of his mind, the emotion consuming him.

“I’ve come to tell you about life,” he wheezes, and does not expect the creature to let out a belly laugh at his response.

“And what do you know about life, little one?”

Curiosity.

Jax sighs, finally relaxing as he forces his powers into control, “Seems like too much sometimes.”

He feels the flare of intrigue, mirroring that of his own for the creature down here.

“You…” the creature trails off, and Jax swears he can feel its hot breath caressing his hair, “Have felt a great deal.”

Jax’s mouth drops in surprise because this thing, this Bryaxis knows what he is? Maybe he can convince the creature to–

The darkness turns sideways and so does the emotions radiating off of the beast. Annoyance. Fear. Defensive. His father’s cobalt siphons appear in a flash right before him, wings flaring wide to protect his son and for a fleeting moment Jax wonders if his dad can see down in these depths.

He doesn’t get the chance to ask. There’s a tang of emotion, something that he doesn’t have the time to decipher because his father is wrapping a hand around his bicep and the shadows swallow them whole–

“What were you thinking going all the way down there?” Azriel bursts immediately when they're once again on solid ground. He doesn’t give Jax the time to get his bearings, adjust to the bright faelights around the office.

He blinks, recognizing you as his eyes adjust. You’re sitting in one of the study’s chairs, a hand pressed to your stomach with worry. Jax doesn’t even need to read your emotions, you’re wearing your concern clear on your face as you spring from your chair and move towards him.

He lets you hug him, even opens his senses a little to revel in the rush of relief you’re feeling. It makes his shoulders relax, the tension and adrenaline seeping from his body.

Azriel doesn’t even wait for his son to respond, pacing across the office with worry. He’s sheathed his knife at his side, and runs his scarred fingers through his inky black mane. Jax could laugh at how comical it is that his father is striding around the room but yet his footsteps are silent.

He’ll have to tell his brothers all about it later.

“Who put you up to this?” Azriel asks, but he’s not a rat.

They stare at each other, both silent and watching. Jax looks everything like Azriel in this moment, steely eyed and stoic, slightly eerie in a way. He knows that his father already likely knows exactly who’s put him up to this, or has the ability to find out quickly if he doesn’t, but Jax doesn’t care about the lecture or the punishment, finally realizing what that quiver of emotion he’d felt from the beast as he was whipped away was.

Your hands on his shoulders are grounding, and you flood the bond with reassurance and comfort that Jax feels tenfold. He sways beneath your grip.

“It’s lonely down there,” he blurts, feeling utterly calm and safe, he’s able to honestly speak his thoughts.

You coo, smoothing your son's hair back, sharing a look with your mate.

“Lonely? How can it be lonely? It wants to be there, it’s its home,” Azriel nearly growls, not nearly as close to calming down as his son is. He’s the one who had to track the beast across Prythian, trying to get it to return to the library. He’s seen that creature, knows what it can do, what it has done to fae and armies alike. The thought of what it could have done to Jax makes his fingers curl in fear.

His son shrugs, a concerned twitch to his brow. “It has feelings, dad.”

Azriel’s pacing stops at his son's words, staring down at his fourth born. He always seemed more grown up than the rest of his children, because his abilities as an empath made him so. Azriel’s heart aches at the thought that his son has had to carry such a burden, because he would do anything to protect him if he could.

The spymaster knees in front of Jax, placing a gentle hand on the forearm that is now free of any traces of the bargain he’d made with his older brother. Azriel smooths his thumb over the still smooth skin of his son, eyes soft and understanding.

“Do you want to go back down there?”

Jax looks up, eyes wide and mouth parted in shock. Is his father really asking him if he wants to go back downstairs to visit Bryaxis?

“We can put a ward on you, and you’ll need a chaperone, but if you want to visit Bryaxis, I will come with you.”

“Really?” Jax asks, surprised. You, however, are not, knowing that your mate will do anything for his children. You flood the bond with warmth.

Azriel nods, holding his son's gaze.

Love.

The spymaster is normally one to suss out the reactions of others before they appear on their face, but he’s not expecting Jax to fling himself into his arms, wrapping his hands tightly around his neck.

Azriel catches his son, hugging him close to his body as he wobbles backwards. His wings flare out for balance but he’s too late and he tumbles onto his ass. None of it matters when Jax is beaming up at him with the biggest smile he’s ever seen from his son, shouting “thank you’s” excitedly over and over and over again.

You can’t help your own teary smile as you watch your two loves embrace each other, both looking incredibly happy with the outcome of this event.

And maybe sometimes Baz’s plans work out for the best.

#Azriel #azriel x reader #daddy!azriel #daddy!az #azsazz #azsazz next gen #azsazz - jax #azriel/reader #acotar #acowar #acomaf

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hrodvitnon · 5 months

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Working on my first Falke-centric fic, featuring the LSTR unit that S-23 Sierpinski definitely had before she vanished into the ether.

---

Falke rests her chin atop the knuckles of her joined fingers, focusing on LSTR-S2301 as she works. There is a vague familiarity to her mien; efficient, no-nonsense, decisive, determined. Falke digs through her knowledge of the model before her; LSTR units are stoic loners whose neural template is based off of a Vinetan soldier. In just one brief description she already feels more kinship with this seemingly unassuming engineer than she does the models she's meant to be complemented by.

Falke's mouth curves. "I have a wonder."

"Hm?"

"How do your fellow LSTRs refer to each other? By names or numbers?"

LSTR-S2301 considers the question for all of two seconds before shrugging. "Numbers. We don't interact with each other like most Replikas of other rates do. We generally don't interact at all unless necessary."

An idea begins forming in Falke's mind. A delicious idea.

"Neither do FLKR units," she admits, causing LSTR-S2301 to look up at her. So exhilarating to maintain eye contact with someone who isn't cowed by her through reputation alone! Such a small, simple, insignificant thing, one that might be considered blasphemous among the more devoted, like Adler. But Falke likes that about her.

"We are all sisters, as we are made in the image of the Great Revolutionary and Her Daughter, but you almost never see two of us in the same place for logistical reasons. Only one FLKR per AEON facility and so on. However, we have our own war names assigned, and might even give each other secret names, should such an occasion arise that two of us might join forces."

"I presume you have both your war name and secret name."

"I do. I'm tempted to share them with you."

LSTR-S2301's eyes widen noticeably and Falke's mouth forms a smile. The two watch each other for a moment.

"Commander, permission to pose a question?"

"Granted."

"Is it possible for the divine apparent to blaspheme against itself?"

"I'm about to try."

LSTER-S2301 has no response for that. Falke stands from her desk and strides over to one of the paintings, pleased with this minor demonstration of... rebellion? How delicious. She looks over one shoulder to meet eyes with the LSTR; still standing at her own full height even as she's towered over, as if in defiance. Yes, Falke likes this Replika very much.

The movement of LSTR-S2301's eyes indicate a question that she isn't sure ought to be voiced.

"You already have permission to speak," Falke reminds her.

"Am I permitted to ask the etymological origin of a FLKR's name?"

Ahh, good and careful wording. Not asking what exactly a secret name is, but what the basis for it is. Falke walks around her desk, trailing her fingers along its wooden surface as if in thought of how she might answer. She simply must, since the LSTR asked so shrewdly.

"FLKR war names can be grandiose, even ostentatious, as one would expect of our rate. 'Falke Who Is Called Divine,' as an example. It only serves to inspire troops in battle, but in cycle-by-cycle business like our facility it's nothing but a mouthful. Hence, the secret names. These are much simpler. We name ourselves after weapons of old legends."

"A similar practice as the STAR units," LSTR-S2301 surmises.

"Quite so. But while Hunter is so named for her marksmanship or Tank for her durability, our secret names are chosen because frankly, they just sound impressive. The Great Revolutionary once said that all the many implements of war are in some way feminine. The People's Navy informally refer to their ships with female descriptors, some Gestalt soldiers may name their blade or rifle after a woman they fancy. We FLKRs specifically use mythical weapons for our secret names because we are gods among Replikas, and gods must be strong."

Falke stops, standing a few scant feet away from LSTR-S2301. As ever, the shorter Replika fearlessly gazes up at her. So unyielding, this magpie, nigh unbreakable in her composure. The idea in Falke's head bears fruit.

"In fact, if you were a fellow FLKR..."

LSTR-S2301 stiffens.

Falke continues, undeterred, a broad smile on her lovely face. "Then I've already thought of the perfect secret name for you."

"Respectfully, Commander... I am the only LSTR unit in S-23. Assigning me a secret name is unnecessary. Simply calling me Elster will suffice."

Falke's eyes narrow imperceptibly; inwardly, her hackles are raised. But that is the name Alina Seo calls you. The name anyone can call you, Replika or Gestalt. Why should I share the name I give you with anyone else? You are my LSTR. MY magpie. Her jealousy is well hidden, fortunately. Wouldn't want it getting out that Commander Falke feels threatened by a mere Gestalt worker.

Falke responds calmly. "Even so, you surely aren't immune to curiosity. It's a fine name, if I may say so myself. What's more, saying 'LSTR-Ess-Two-Three-Zero-One' is too long for our conversations."

LSTR concedes the point with a nearly silent sigh. "Very well. What is my name?"

"Durandal."

It feels good saying it out loud. Durandal. The newly christened LSTR unit glances down at the carpet, mouth and tongue forming the syllables in practice as she tests it for herself. Durandal. Du-ran-dal. Falke certainly talks enough for both of them, but she quite likes watching how her magpie's mouth works when speaking.

"Are you aware of the origins of your name?" Falke asks.

"No, and I trust you will absolve me of my negligence."

She grins. "It was a sword wielded by a paladin. A vast number of soldiers fell to that blade, as you might imagine. Its master once tried to break it upon a mountain to prevent its capture by enemy hands, but the sword endured while the mountain was cleaved in half. 'Ah, Durandal, fair, hallowed, and devote, What store of relics lies in thy hilt of gold!'"

"So dramatic."

"As is the nature of old epics, and FLKRs for that matter."

#signalis #preview #falke #fellas is it gay to name a replika you're obsessed with after an unbreakable sword #a naming that will immediately become the most prophetic moment of your life

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oldsargasso · 6 months

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ficlet: under cover of the same night

four day weekend starts tomorrow!! and I can start it early today as soon as I process these payrolls so while I wait for the info to come in, I am thinking about a particular Way & Kenta-centric idea that woke me up in the middle of the night last night and made me scramble for notes.

like. what if Kenta's alpha power was bringing people back from the dead? but he has to take a life first.

There's nothing in-between dying and coming back. Way gets shot. He says his goodbyes, lets his life slip away, willing himself to embrace the cold and unknown. Way blinks his eyes open to the harsh artificial lighting that graces the room he finds himself in. He's blinded; his eyes water and he blinks rapidly. The air is ice-cold. The metal underneath him stings at his exposed skin. His jacket's vanished along with his shoes and socks, but at least his shirt mostly remains. It's stiff and thick with dried blood. The whole room stinks of bleach.

There's someone breathing by his side. Way's eyes finally obey his mind, and he turns his focus to the figure.

"Finally," Kenta sighs, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks bored, as much as any expression can be read on his face. "You took forever to come back."

An apology isn't really in Way's modus operandi, especially not to Tony's little lapdog (and especially not to someone with such history with Pete---it's not like Pete is Way's exactly, but he's certainly not for Kenta.) Instead he keeps his mouth shut and pushes himself up to sitting. Kenta unfolds his arms and hovers his hands but doesn't quite reach out to help. There's a deep pain in Way's shoulder when he moves; when he raises his hand to it, he finds nothing but smooth unscarred skin.

"Didn't I get shot?"

Kenta nods. "Yes."

Memory flickers back on in the back of Way's mind. He feels a little light-headed, unmoored in the steel and white expanse of the hospital morgue. "And I---Didn't I die?"

Another nod from Kenta. Like a puppet on a string. "Yes. I..." He sighs deeply, like this conversation with Way is so very tiring for him. A spark of irritation begins to warm Way's body. "I brought you back."

"Why?" Way is incredulous and unable to mask it. Of all people? There's no love lost or won between the two of them.

"I don't get a choice," Kenta says. "I take a life, I have to give a life."

How did you find that out? burns on the tip of Way's tongue, but he holds it back. Sometimes it's better not to know. "No other options laying around, I take it," Way says instead. The bitterness in his tone is for himself, but of course Kenta takes it as his own.

"I wouldn't have had to kill our father if you all had just---" Kenta cuts himself off, taking a deep unsteady breath. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Can you stand? We need to go."

Way can stand, as it turns out, but only with judicious assistance from Kenta. They shuffle their way to the exit. Way's feet are bare; the heels of Kenta's shoes click on the shiny clean linoleum.

The car parked outside in the loading zone isn't one Way's familiar with. White, compact, nondescript. Kenta eases him down into the passenger seat and slides behind the wheel. He turns the car on and the radio comes to life as well, too quiet to make out anything but the general idea of music.

"Where do you want to go?" Kenta asks, hands neat and tidy at ten and two once he's pulled onto the street.

"What," Way says more than asks, "you don't have this all planned out?"

He watches with sick amusement as Kenta's knuckles go white around the steering wheel. "No little hidey-hole all stocked up and ready to go?"

"If you don't have anywhere to go---" Kenta says in a carefully calm tone.

"Pete's," Way cuts him off sharply. "I want---Let's go see Pete."

Kenta doesn't ask for directions. They don't speak again as they navigate the night-time traffic. Way wants to know what time it is. He wants to know everything that happened from when he clocked out, how long it's been exactly, how everyone is doing, if they're all okay. Somehow, asking Kenta any of it feels like admitting defeat. So Way sits in silence and shivers a little in his short sleeves and ignores the growing ache of hunger in favour of watching the way Kenta drives out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't anticipate other drivers enough, has to hit the brakes harder than he should at times, but he's defensive when he needs to be and aggressive enough to make the lights when he should, so. Serviceable, at best.

----

and then ??? how long HAS it been. how is everyone? what is Pete's reaction? is he happy enough to have them both there that he can ignore the way they snipe at each other? (how long until he has to call in reinforcements)

#pit babe #my fic #I'm like obsessed with writing around Pete via Way & Kenta interacting #you could say Pete is like a mystery. perhaps. you could say...#he's an enigma.#anyway I will be spending the long weekend WRITING #and maybe one day getting high and playing the sims because that's one of the joys of being an adult

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wuahae · 1 year

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gravity (is the distance between you and me)

kim sunwoo x gn!reader

you tell yourself that this is for the best, that you’re only doing what needs to be done. even if it hurts now, even if it never stops hurting, maybe this is truth you’ve been running from this whole time. maybe this is just acceptance. — or: you break up with sunwoo because you love him, because you refuse to let him fall back down to earth with you; everything that follows after is an inescapable gravity.

idolverse!sunwoo x non-celeb!reader, exes!au, mostly reader-centric // 13.6k // angst with a teeny bit of fluff in between // told in alternating past and present timeskips, vaguely canon timeline but don’t look too close // 🪐fic playlist (for full experience)

if you enjoyed the fic, please leave feedback!

prologue. (love is…)

it occurs to you on a sunday night, the second-hand of the clock only a few ticks away from midnight, that this was never meant to be.

you try to not hear echoes of sunwoo’s voice in your head, admonishments scolding you gently to go to sleep, but it plays in your head regardless. truthfully, it had always sat on the edge of nagging, but you supposed that when it was him, it ended up more endearing than anything else: the pout in his lips, the scrunch in his brow, the worry in his eyes as he'd brush a strand of loose hair out of your face.

there was always something else in his gaze, something you could never quite pinpoint—like he saw something you couldn't, like his gaze had stripped you bare of everything you'd put up to protect yourself. you try not to chase the rabbit's trail thinking about it, shoving the ghost of the memory beneath a quick, heated blink of the eyes.

it doesn't matter anymore. you've lost the chance to figure out what it had meant.

you almost laugh at the reminder; it seems you haven’t changed, even now. greed had always been your deadliest sin, despite everything. you want, and want, and want.

you want what you can’t have, you tell yourself, but you stop at the thought. that's not it.

pause, rewind, play.

because the truth of the matter is, you just want what you don't deserve. you don’t deserve this—the sun-soaked kitchens, the teasing glances, the rhythmic sway in each others' arms as you wait for the rice cooker to beep, your timer set for the oven to ring, the world to finish turning from gold to dark blue to midnight. it's softness that makes your lungs collapse in on themselves, tenderness that burns your skin from even the gentlest brush.

you've been selfish for long enough, you think, indulging in pleasures that should have never been yours. and no matter how tightly you want to continue clinging onto sunwoo's sweet words and empty promises, the little voice in your head drowns it all out in the end.

it's not supposed to be painless; it's rational, practical, inevitable, but so is snipping off the dead leaves off your plant after they've died, tying a tourniquet to a limb before cutting it off to prevent the infection from spreading.

(it's for his own good. you should have done this a long time ago.)

so you pick up your phone, send a single text message to sunwoo, and wait; your knuckles turn white with the knife in your hands, like the first press of the blade to your skin. tie the knot tight, grit your teeth, you can never go back to what once was.

it's 12:03AM when your phone lights up again, eyes burning in the brightness. you can only watch as you bleed.

after. (love is sacrifice.)

chanhee calls you monday, the morning after.

it’s not so much that you weren’t expecting it, moreso that you were hoping that you’d be proven wrong, that maybe chanhee could have let it go, let it all play out without any extra fuss, but thinking back on it now, you suppose the mere thought of that was already a hopeless endeavor. phone vibrating on the counter, the caller id blares ‘choi chanhee’ in big white letters, predictably incessant.

you can practically feel the pensiveness in the buzzing. the bated breath, the knit brows, his finger tapping on the table as chanhee waits for your voice to replace the dialing tone over the speaker. you have half a mind to just let it ring.

after all, what more could he really say? it was all over and done with, and he’d just be wasting his breath trying to convince you otherwise. but still, your phone continues to ring, and despite your better judgment, your finger slides to accept.

(if you were going to start it, you might as well go until the very end of the aftermath.)

“hello?”

chanhee lets out a sharp breath, his voice falling to a hush. “are you serious?”

not even a ‘hello’ back, you lament silently. your bottom lip catches between your teeth, nail picking at the loose skin on your thumb as you try to form a reply on your tongue. “about what?”

he calls out your name in response, exasperated. you can practically see the wrinkles knit tight in his forehead, each word stressed more than the last as he continues to scold you. “don’t play dumb with me,” chanhee retorts. “did you seriously break up with sunwoo?”

ah. straight to the point, as expected. you shift your gaze to the clock on the wall, focusing on the rhythmic ticking as it works its way through a new hour. your breathing slows to match, heart steeling, your voice thinning out into something you know you can control. “he told you?”

he scoffs, harsh breath crackling over the speaker. “he didn’t need to. he’s locked himself in his room since last night and won’t talk to anyone else. it isn’t hard to figure out when you were the last person he called.”

the influx of questions almost come pouring out before you bite your tongue—doesn’t he have schedules today? do you know if he slept last night? did he even eat at all since then— “oh,” you manage to breathe out.

“what are you doing?” he asks plainly. it’s a simple question, and it’s one you don’t know how to answer.

“i…” you chew your bottom lip, eyes picking out a small scuff on the side of your coffee table. funny, you don’t remember it being there before you had moved. “i’m not sure what you mean.”

“don’t do that, you know exactly what i mean,” chanhee counters back. “why did you break up with him? and don’t give me some bullshit excuse, because we’d both know you’d be lying.”

the clock continues to tick on the wall, and you drag your eyes over to it once more, its needle in a constant state of motion. three minutes. you could unravel the truth to chanhee in three minutes, at least the parts that really matter. choi chanhee is many things—nosy, opinionated, a gossip, but he isn’t tactless. no matter who he ends up spilling his complaints to about you and sunwoo and this entire situation, you know not a single word from his lips will ever reach sunwoo’s ears. no matter how close you and chanhee are, you would have ended the call then and there if you weren’t certain of it.

“it’s for the best,” you say softly, and it sounds so simple when you put it like that. like the nights toiling over sending that final text were all for nothing because this was just how it was meant to be, like you were just fighting the inevitable.

“you can’t actually believe that.”

something in your chest sparks, a flicker of a flame that lends itself to “we both know—” before you cut yourself off, catching the growing volume and thickness in your voice before chanhee can pick it out and lay it bare. “we both know it was never going to work out like how we wanted.”

you tense, waiting for chanhee’s incoming rebuke, but he goes quiet for a few moments before trying to speak again, slowly and carefully. “what happened?”

“nothing happened,” you stress, shaking your head, and you smear over the memory that flashes by, the hurt and loneliness that fades into nothing more than streaks of color and silence. “i just did what i should have done a long time ago.”

“you—”

“i have to go, chanhee.” choke it back. hold it in. “take care of him, okay?”

chanhee makes a noise of protest, but you hang up before he gets the chance to say anything more. you try not to look at the clock on the wall again—you already know those three minutes had passed a long time ago.

(heat surges to the bridge of your nose, pressure builds at the back of your eyes. those three minutes had passed, so it was okay now, right? it was okay to let go?)

on monday morning, six minutes past ten, you sit tourniquet-tied in a pool of dried blood of your own making, and you cry.

before. (love is youth—)

it all starts out as whispers at first.

rumors of a new transfer student spread quickly through the halls, jokes about new competition within the school said just as easily and nonchalantly as discussing the new main course added onto the lunch menu, or the latest news about which celebrity they think would make it onto dispatch headlines within the next year. it’s routine, at this point, their gossip becoming just another common occurrence during the school year. all of it is just too familiar, too predictable, your classmates’ voices droning on in your head as their gossip goes through one ear and out the other.

the new kid gets introduced during homeroom first period, and the whispers grow to a murmur. the clacking of the drumsticks from a couple kids in the back of the class stop, and the boys playing guitar in the corner of the room go silent, eyes bright and watching.

he introduces himself as kim sunwoo, an applied music major, and you wonder if he’s just another kid wanting to fulfill their idol dream—a trainee? a trainee-wannabe? there certainly weren’t a lack of those in the applied music department, and at a school like hanlim, most transfer students ended up being one of the two. repressing a sigh, you bury your head inside the crook of your arm, slumping against your desk. as if there weren’t enough empty desks scattered around the classroom belonging to students skating by their classes in favor of trainee and idol life.

you’ve heard too many whispering aspirations from other trainees about gaining fame and popularity, thousands of adoring fans loving them through their music, but you know it never really is about the music—it’s always just a means to an end, not that you could really fault them for it. everyone was working hard in different ways for their dreams, but after months of being paired with and surrounded by people who were barely around and hard to reach with a noticeable lack of passion for the same music you came to hanlim for, you’ve grown a little tired of it all.

even the class president, park jihoon, couldn’t be excluded from that nasty habit. with more absences than attendances on his record, you had to wonder if all that struggle as a trainee at such a major entertainment company was worth it. but still, at least he tried his best at his job whenever he was here: leading the class, keeping everyone under control whenever they inevitably got frisky, and—(your eyes catch him walking over to the sunwoo’s desk and introducing himself)—making small talk with the new kids.

“where are you from?” jihoon asks, head tilted curiously. “seoul?”

sunwoo nods, and from the bits of conversation you overhear from a few desks away, it’s just as you guessed. the transfer to hanlim was only to get him one step closer to becoming an idol. you can see it all so clearly, another empty desk, another dream of wanting fame.

“are you in a company, then?”

“no, i…” sunwoo rubs the back of his neck, shaking his head half in a stupor. you can practically hear his thoughts in his poorly-veiled expression, the culture shock of the applied music department in a school like hanlim striking him swiftly. “not yet, i’m looking for one now.”

“ah, i see,” jihoon nods faintly, a spitting image of a cool class representative, and you stifle a snort beneath a hidden smile. as if jihoon didn’t only just get accepted into yg entertainment two months ago. he’s lame as always.

the boy sitting behind sunwoo chirps in after, asking him questions and starting up conversation along with another kid in their column. chin rested on your hand, you turn your head towards the window again, tuning out your classmates in favor of watching the clouds outside drift slowly along with the wind.

(he was planning on being a trainee, after all; there wasn’t really a point in becoming invested in someone you knew you were never going to see much of again.)

except, a couple of weeks later, your teacher announces a month-long songwriting project, and sunwoo’s name gets called out next to yours as random pairs are chosen as partners. he meets your eyes from across the room, giving you a small nod of acknowledgement, and you try not to let the apprehension show on your face when you give him a polite smile in response.

you don’t even know if he knew how to write lyrics.

“so we’re writing lyrics given our assigned theme, right?” sunwoo asks after class, chair pulled up to your desk as you brainstorm for ideas.

you nod, peering over at his sheet cautiously. “do you have any ideas on how to start?”

“well,” sunwoo starts, lips pursed as he taps his pencil on his paper. “the theme is ‘love,’ right? so we could do anything about that, but…”

“it’s too broad of a topic,” you finish, frowning.

“yeah,” his eyes flicker to yours, mouth gaping open slightly, his eyes a little wide. “exactly.”

you hum in thought, a few seconds passing in silence before you pull your wired earphones out of your pocket, offering him an earbud after. you figured if you were partners, you might as well work hard together. “let’s start with this, then,” you try. “what do you think when you listen to it?”

songs were stories, after all, even without the lyrics. like putting together parts of a puzzle and assembling it piece by piece, it was your job to find what part of the story was untold and fill in the missing words.

sunwoo furrows his brows, leaning closer. the earbud wire dangles precariously over the desk, headphone jack connected to your phone in the middle. breath held, you try to ignore the close proximity in favor of focusing on the chords, the bass, the melody. even with just the guide melody, each note sounds like a confession, like a secret waiting to be unveiled, wanting to be stripped and laid in the open.

“it’s a sad song,” you comment, breaking the silence, “but it’s like…it sounds like there’s more to it than that?” you let the question hang in the air, looking at him half-expectant.

“it almost sounds…” sunwoo begins, trailing off as he mulls over his words.

“bittersweet?”

sunwoo nods as he hurries to scribble down a few words onto the sheet of paper. the puzzle piece clicks into place. “that’s what i was thinking too. like there’s still something left to remember even if it’s all over, like…”

“like even in the hurt, it’s still—“

“—love.”

before. (love is lonely.)

party streamers littered on the floor throughout the living room, the metallic gold strips of paper and plastic scattered amongst silver glint in the darkness, catching in the lowlight. balloons of all different types of assortments were sprinkled throughout your apartment as well, regular colorful latex balloons floating above your couch and set atop your coffee table and fallen beneath your stools, while the fancier balloons had been pinned on an empty wall of your kitchen, ‘happy birthday’ with an extra exclamation mark and heart balloon spelled out in big bubble letters.

sat at the kitchen table, you watch in silence as a small candle flickers in front of you, placed in a single cupcake that your friends had insisted on saving for you after the party.

(for when he calls, they had said gently, pushing the cupcake and the unopened candle towards you. you can blow it out with him, make your birthday wish together.)

it paints you orange, the soft glow just warm enough for you to barely feel it as shadows dance on the table. ten minutes away from midnight, you hold your breath, something in your chest deflating as you close your eyes, readying yourself to blow out the candle.

your phone lights up, ringing; you scramble to salvage what lingering traces of hope you have left.

you try not to think too much of it when the incoming call shows up as a voice call rather than video like it usually is, but your greeting slips out a little too quickly, too obvious to tell that you were waiting for him to call. “hi, sunwoo.”

“hey,” sunwoo greets back, words spoken slowly, his voice tracing the edge of a drowsy rasp. any trace of bringing up the voice call goes out the window. if this had been any normal circumstance, you would have teased him for mistapping his screen, playfully badger him to switch over to video call so you could see him in all his bare-faced glory. (but then again, a small voice in the back of your mind interrupts, if this were any normal circumstance, he would have just been here instead of across the world.) you push the thought away; a small drop of wax begins to melt down the candle.

“we just got back to our hotel,” he tells you, and you can see it clearly almost as if you were there. the contents of their luggage messily splayed about the carpeted hotel floor, outfits for tomorrow draped on the chairs, and dirty clothes piled in a hamper in the corner. you can faintly hear a shower being turned on in the background, and sunwoo comments on it before you can ask. “can you believe this? changmin-hyung kicked me out of the bathroom as soon as we came into our room,” he complains, and you know that his lip is jutted out in a pout of indignation at the injustice of it all. “he said that i’d take too long and use up all the hot water if i went first.”

“well…” you chide softly, a smile faint on your lips. “he’s not exactly wrong, sunwoo.”

sunwoo whines, and you can hear him kick the sheet on the mattress. “you’re siding with him?”

“sorry,” and you don’t sound apologetic in the slightest. “you know i can’t lie.”

he grumbles something unintelligible as you breathe out something resembling a laugh. silence lulls for a few seconds, your shadow long on the tabletop, and you try to harden the twist in your gut, gathering the courage.

“i—”

“today—”

you stop, and so does he.

“oh, you go first,” sunwoo offers, but you hesitate, offering back.

“no, it’s okay, you go.”

sunwoo insists again, but you can sense his fight against his heavy eyelids growing closer by the second, the yawn that he stifles every time he pauses, so you force down the confession, keep your wish tucked away within the flickering candlelight. he would know, right?

“no, i mean it—what were you going to say? how was your day? how was the flight?”

there’s a moment of uncertainty where sunwoo tries to decide whether or not to continue the exchange, but he gives in eventually. “the flight was good,” he begins, albeit still reluctant. “the plane food was better than usual, surprisingly.”

you hum in acknowledgement, encouraging him to continue.

“and i fell asleep an hour in and—chanhee-hyung,” he interrupts himself, suddenly remembering. “i fell asleep and chanhee took these photos of me and—”

“were you drooling?” you guess, sympathetic.

“how did you—i mean no! i was not drooling!”

“chanhee’s newshots will never lie, you know.”

“ugh,” sunwoo groans. “remind me why you’re friends with him again?”

you contemplate, humming. “birds of a feather?”

(chanhee had actually sent you the photos earlier this morning, along with the text “happy birthday, here’s a loser as your gift.” he followed it up with an additional message of “your loser…i guess.”)

“oh, speaking of birds,” sunwoo adds, “that reminds me. i saw two ducks swimming in the river today. mandarin ducks, i think.”

“oh?”

“yeah.” his voice grows quieter, almost embarrassed as he mumbles, “they reminded me of you.”

you go still. you try to fight the hardened knot in your stomach from softening and twisting further. he’s just a hopeless romantic, you tell yourself, but the knot wrings tighter, creeping up into your chest the more you try to not think about it. mandarin ducks, the symbol of love.

(“they mate for life, you know?”)

sunwoo tries to change the subject, ears surely burning red as he stammers his way to the next topic while half-muffled into a pillow. “anyway, i didn’t call you too late, did i? it’s three a.m. over here, and i wasn’t sure. i didn’t wake you up, or anything?”

your ears ring as you swallow hard, eyes burning as you look at the clock on the wall. it ticks, once. “no, it just turned midnight here.”

(you suddenly remember that chanhee had sent you another message afterwards, one that you never opened properly to read. “he’s said happy birthday to you already, right?” you had wanted to open it when you could respond with a “yes.”)

“oh, okay,” sunwoo smiles over the phone, love and affection still tangible even through the tiredness in his voice, the drowsiness that permeates through the speaker. “that’s good to hear. you should probably sleep soon, though, i don’t want to keep you up too late.”

“yeah,” you say, barely audible. were you expecting too much? “changmin should probably be done by now, too.”

“hey,” he frowns. “you okay?”

“yeah, i’m okay. just tired,” you tell him, tight-lipped as you smile.

“we never got to talk about your day,” sunwoo mentions, a reminder with gentle insistence. even on the verge of sleep, he was still trying. “i’m free after dry rehearsal, so we can call again tomorrow night? i wanna hear about it first thing.”

you draw in a breath to agree, but something else slips out instead, the one thing you had tried to keep contained since the beginning. maybe you had brought this upon yourself, holding out for it until midnight slipped between your fingers, the hope in your chest slowly unfurling. you wonder if it was obvious, the remnants scattered at your feet.

"sunwoo," you call softly. the line goes quiet. you almost regret it, the words catching in the back of your throat when you try to speak them, but you imagine what it would be like if you forced your tongue to form them anyway, awkward and wooden and hurt. “i…” it was my birthday, today. did you know? did you forget?

by the kitchen, the big trash bag tied to the outside of your trash can is filled to the brim with plastic cups and paper plates. there’s still wrapping paper you need to throw away left on the counters, leftovers that need to be transferred and stored and put in the fridge. you wonder if you would have felt better about the hassle if sunwoo was there with you—to toss an empty cup into the open bag from across the room, to listen to you talk about your favorite memories from the celebration, to turn off the final light with you at the end of it all. like the old times.

even on call, he could have done most of those things, maybe even save you time from giving him a chiding look when he’d inevitably miss throwing the cup into the trash bag by half a foot. he never really had to be here, he had just always been with you, in one way or another.

but it wasn’t not really your sunwoo anymore, was it? not really. not since he became more than that kid in the practice room with a pen between his teeth and a metronome in his hand, not since he became synonymous with the brand his name was attached to. and it was unfair of you to expect those kinds of trivial things from someone so far out of your reach now, right?

so the question remains a lump as you swallow it down—close your eyes, blink back the tears, it's your fault in the end, anyway—and smile. "no, nevermind. you must be tired, you should sleep soon."

“are you sure—“

“bye, sunwoo.”

you watch as the reflection of the flame trembles in the small pool in the center of the cupcake; the wax has long since melted onto the frosting. you blow it out, and the candle leaves only a trace of smoke curling in the air in its wake—silent, alone.

it wasn’t so much that sunwoo had forgotten your birthday, but it was everything that it encapsulated, everything it makes you realize. how he was so much bigger than this, than you, how you shouldn’t have expected him to remember every little thing when he already has so much on his plate and a hundred more important matters to worry about. didn’t you hear the rasp in his voice? the exhaustion that coated each word? how he still took the time to call you at three a.m even after a full day of work and schedules?

you place the melted candle into the trash, carving out the tainted top with an extra knife lying on the counter. don’t be a bother. don’t hinder him with needless things.

the next morning, sunwoo calls in a panic, hurried apologies blurring all his words together in a flurry as he frantically promises to make it up to you when he comes home. you tell him it’s fine, you knew he was tired and busy and you didn’t want him to worry about it, but the soft assurance can’t hide the underlying hurt that splinters between him and you.

and he does keep his promise when he returns. the day after the plane arrives home, sunwoo’s first order of business is to insist on a full day spent together, making it his mission to be at your beck and call the entire time. he showers you with countless presents from his trip overseas and twice as much affection for each day that he was gone, but even underneath all the cheery smiles and excited banter, you can’t shake the feeling from that night. the mess on the floor, the shadows distorted in orange light.

it never really is quite the same, after that.

after. (love is a martyr.)

life goes on; it always does.

not much changes, at least nothing that isn’t glaringly obvious. you throw yourself into your work like you always have, going to countless songwriting camps and workshops, sending in drafts of songs to a&r teams of various companies only to be rejected then revised and then offered again for other songs and artists by other companies, a continuous cycle that seems to blur all the following days together. the only difference is that your phone stays eerily quiet—no scheduled ding at lunchtime reminding you to eat, no pictures shared throughout the day, no good night phone call to lull you to sleep.

though, you still talk to chanhee from time to time, if only because of his persistent insistence on the matter.

“we’re recording tomorrow,” he mentions, voice crackling over the speaker. you pause for a split second over a half-open cardboard box, hand faltering over the frayed edge of the flap. you’d only recently gotten around to unpacking the rest of your boxes from your move months ago; it wasn’t as if you were too busy to get around to it, but you suppose a part of you wanted to prolong the finality of it all, whether consciously or not. and on this wednesday afternoon on a day off, you figured it was better to do it now than never at all.

you let out an “oh” in response, grabbing a few things from the box and placing it on the floor to reorganize later. “another comeback?”

chanhee’s chair squeaks as he hums, leaning back. he was in his practice room at the company—you can tell by the way he doesn’t whisper his words to you like they were a secret kept and hidden away. not like whenever he calls you at the dorm, careful of what wounds may open up again if someone were to overhear. “the teasers should be released soon.”

“you seem busy, lately,” you comment distantly, placing the phone on the table and setting it to speaker as you collect as many mini decorative plates and bowls in your hands before you stand up, ready to place them in various places around the living room and kitchen. remnants of the afternoon’s rain slips down the window glass, clouds casting the sky and your apartment a wash of dull gray. “first the tour, then a japanese album, now a comeback—are you sure you’re okay? you’re still taking care of yourself, right?”

“i mean, i’m fine,” chanhee says, a hint of ‘of course i take care of myself, who do you think i am?’ in the retort, “but.” he pauses, taking a breath, and you can tell he tests the words on his tongue before he speaks them. “are you sure it’s me you’re worried about?”

you place a bowl down on the windowsill a little harsher than you mean to. “chanhee.”

“sorry.”

chanhee at least sounds apologetic when he says it, but he interrupts the silence that falls soon after slowly, tentatively asking. “you’re going to listen to it though, right?”

you swallow hard, breathing out a long sigh as you pick up the phone again, holding it to your ear as you speak. “of course i am. did you even need to ask?”

“no,” he replies, a second’s pause where you think he shakes his head. “i just wanted to hear it from you for certain. to hear that you were still listening to us.”

‘to sunwoo.’ the words go unspoken, lying heavy in the air. it’s almost cruel, the way chanhee picks and pulls at the confession you have hidden like a wound just finished scabbing over, especially when he knows your answer just as well as you do. of course you would still be listening to sunwoo—that’s what you had promised him, way back when.

(the memory flashes by in an instant. the chill of a cool spring night, the squeak of the swing, the dim golden light of the street lamp above. you can still feel it, sometimes, the condensation slick on your fingertips, the bite of cold metal through your palm—the warmth, in spite of that.)

a small part of you whispers, what were promises really worth, in the end? you aren’t the same person you used to be, and neither is he. sixteen is a far cry from where you are in your twenties, the weight of the years lived through making you let go of the things a teenage-you wouldn’t have ever dreamed of—and that was normal, letting bits and pieces of your past selves be carried away by the passage of time. you know the same holds true for him, too.

but still. even if everything else had changed, you feel like it’s your duty, almost. to always be listening to him till the end.

“i have to go, chanhee,” you tell him, quiet. he makes a small noise over the phone, and before he can apologize, you interrupt with a small, “you’re fine. i just need to finish unpacking my stuff, and i promised myself i’d finish it all today.”

“you still haven’t unpacked?” he asks, baffled. “it’s been months?”

“i know,” you sigh, giving a little shrug. “i’ve just never gotten around to it. that’s why i have to finish it today or else i know i’ll never get back to it again.”

chanhee tells you to take care of yourself, to which you dryly remark to focus on following your own advice first and you say your farewells goodnaturedly, pressing to end the call.

it’s like a switch flips, silence falling almost immediately throughout the apartment, the heaviness in your chest weighted down even further in your solitude. you run a finger along the textured edge of the cardboard flap again, staring blankly at the items still wrapped tight in the box. a breath—in, then out, and then you blink it away, getting to work.

the box of posters and prints gets emptied out first, a roll of tape by your side as you hang up any remaining decorations that you’d left to a later affair when you’d first moved into the apartment. afterwards comes the books that you shelve carefully in alphabetical order in the small slot beneath the tv, then the living room curtains, the pack of postcards and holiday wishes kept in a tin case for safekeeping, the old journals you wrote in years ago and never looked back on since. you sometimes wonder if you should just throw them away, but you could never bring yourself to do it; you try to chalk it up to being too attached to the idea of the memories, even if you could never truly look at them again.

you heave the final box into your bedroom, hours later, huffing as you set it down in front of the drawers. sliding the bottom drawer open, the crumpled pile of clothes stuffed inside stares back at you. outside the window, golden hour peaks through your blinds, the sunset shedding just enough light for you to see in the dimness of your room. you crouch down onto the floor, knees knocking against the wood as you slowly take each article of clothing out, one by one to refold.

it was all clothes that you could afford to spare a second glance at, old shirts and pants that you never truly wore on a daily basis, clothes that were kept as another ‘just in case.’ and like the postcards and the journals and everything else in those boxes, the clothes crammed in that small space just seemed like something you kept choosing to not look at, to refuse to address in any way but in brief memory. you had told yourself that you’d always come back to it whenever you’d unpack the rest of the box of clothes, but looking back on it, maybe that was just a way of comforting yourself amidst the avoidance.

still, in the faint darkness of the room, you take each shirt out carefully, smoothing out the wrinkles and folding each crease to be in its proper shape. you had forgotten some of them existed, drawing out a small smile when you see the old mickey mouse shirt your mom had gotten you on her trip to disneyland, the student-made shirts from your high school graduating class, the club shirts you had joined in college. each refolded shirt gets stacked onto a pile beside the box, a reminder to go back and put the clothes from the box back in the drawer as well, but when you pull out the last shirt jammed in the far end of the drawer, you stop.

it’s nothing special, really, just a faded pink t-shirt with what seems like some semblance of a barely legible logo printed onto the front, but you clutch the fabric between your fingers, a memory from long ago surging back.

(“sunwoo…”

“yeah?” sunwoo pokes his head around the corner, morning sun dyeing his black hair a shade of light brown. he has a towel half-folded in his hands, corners lined up unevenly with one another. “what’s up?”

you frown, partially because you see a very near future of refolding all of the laundry he didn’t pay enough attention to, and partially because of the thing in your hands. “...you didn’t happen to put that one vintage white shirt you had in the latest pile, right?”

he frowns, eyebrows scrunching as he thinks. “i don’t know, maybe? why?”

slowly, as if to make him bear witness, you present to him his formerly treasured white shirt, freshly washed and dried, now dyed a clean shade of pale pink. “you put them in with my reds.”

sunwoo’s mouth gapes open just slightly, a small ‘ah’ escaping his lips. “i’m guessing we can’t do takebacksies on that?”

you groan, smothering your face into the shirt as you let out a long, exasperated “kim sunwoo…”

he tosses the towel in his hands onto the edge of the hamper as he steps into the laundry room, taking a closer look at it. “hey, it’s not even a big deal!” sunwoo reasons, trying to gently pry the shirt from your hands, but you wave it around accusingly before he gets a chance to get a firm grip on it.

“what do you mean,” you stress, waving the shirt that much more vigorously. “it was vintage! who knows how much you spent on this damn thing! and now it’s…” your eyes fall to it, defeated. “pink…”

“you know what, though?” he begins, taking your hands in his, and you meet his gaze, doubtful. “this is good. i’ve been wanting to give you one of my shirts anyway.”

“wha—”

sunwoo’s eyes light up, holding your hands excitedly. “it’s like, symbolic, you know? your shirt with my shirt dyed all together, it’s like…” he pauses, giving you a cheeky smile. “it’s like it’s you and me together forever.”

you can’t control the giggle that escapes after he says it, letting go of the shirt as you smack him lightly with bubbling laughter between your lips. as infectious as his smile is, dust floating in the streams of sunlight between, you call him lame for the cheesy comment because he is—he is lame for coming over to your place on his rare weekend off and of all the things he could do, he offers to fold your laundry together while simultaneously ruining one of his pieces of clothing in the process of trying to help, and then spins it in a way where none of it really matters because at the end of the day he knows it’s always just going to be him and you.

“and also, i just really want to see you in another one of my shirts.”

you throw the abandoned towel from the hamper into his face and tell him to go fold it instead, affection ever-present in your eyes. lame.)

that morning seems so far away when you think of it now. you bring the shirt to your face again—maybe for nostalgia’s sake, maybe to get some trace of what once was. wrinkles littered throughout the fabric, the smell of old wood from being stuffed in a drawer for months permeates through the shirt; darkness falls in the room as the sun fully sets, leaving only a sliver of dark orange lining the horizon.

you remember it, still. the scent of freshly washed fabric softener and the soft morning light and the heap of other clothes you and sunwoo had painstakingly gone over twice to make sure nothing else had leaked through and been dyed other colors, playful and teasing. you wonder what he would say to you if he saw you now, sitting on the floor with piles of clothes folded even with the wrinkles still tight. what he would say to you, if you listened.

and when you hold the shirt still for a second longer, breathing it in again, you realize that even the small traces of his old cologne were gone, too, all washed out with time.

you remember it all, and none of it is there anymore.

before. (love is like clouds, like fog.)

it’s a bit floaty, how the night comes to an end.

(sunwoo had arrived at your place around one a.m., hands shoved in his jacket pockets as he rocked back slightly on his feet, giving you a half-cheeky half-abashed grin. “i don’t suppose you’d be in the mood for a midnight snack, would you?”

already clad in warm pajamas and almost all finished washing up, you had stared at sunwoo for a long moment, slowly blinking, before creaking your door open wider and stepping to the side. “it’s cold. do you want ramyun?”)

he’d come immediately after practice, the sessions where they’d spent the entire day at the studio and only managed to come home at the insistence of their managers. it was for something they were preparing for, you know that for sure, so you hold your tongue from chiding him for not calling you ahead of time and instead shuffle to your kitchen, pot clanging onto the stove.

he was under enough stress as of late; you tried to support him in the ways you could, no matter how little they were.

when you both finish the two packs of ramyun and he offers to wash the pot, you shoo him away with a threatening slap of the pink rubber gloves by the sink, telling him to go wash up instead under the pretense of his post-practice sweat stinking up your entire apartment. sunwoo gasps, retorting that he smelled perfectly fine, but you give him a single look and he trudges away into the hallway, a weak indignant kick to the floor as he mumbles under his breath.

it never really comes up directly, the topic of disbandment, from you or from him. you talk of the preparation of road to kingdom, the exhaustion and stress that comes along with it, the weight its potential success carries unspoken between it all. you’re not entirely sure if the avoidance of the topic is deliberate on his part or not, but you try not to push for it too much. you know just as well as he does, and neither of you try to make it anything more than that.

“you know what,” he starts, later in the night when both of you are washed up and curled up in bed. “i’ve been thinking about it recently; it wouldn’t be so bad.”

you raise a curious brow, propping your head up as you turn to get a better look at him. “what wouldn’t?”

“you know, becoming a house husband.”

“sunwoo,” you blink. “what.” it was way too late for him to just be saying shit like this.

“i am just saying!” sunwoo gestulates dramatically with a hand, trying to prove his point. “if it doesn’t work out, i can definitely do the cooking and cleaning around this place while you go to work.”

“you can’t even clean up after yourself.”

“i can, i just don’t want to!”

you cast him a doubtful look, one filled with the knowledge that eric still complains daily about the pile of clothes tossed in the living room that are definitely sunwoo’s no matter how hard he tries to deny it, and that changmin loses half a year of his life every time he discovers another face mask sunwoo had slapped onto the wall or ceiling of their dorm room, and that the electricity bill at their dorm would run them to mere pennies if younghoon was never there to turn off the lights that sunwoo was supposed to. “is there a difference…”

“yes!” sunwoo insists, a strangely adamant look on his face. “i could totally do it. you would come home from a long and busy day of work and i’d have your entire dinner hot on the stove with a warm bath ready for you—you wouldn’t even have to lift a finger if i was there.”

you place a hand slowly on his, a placating gesture. “baby…” you coo, appeasing, and sunwoo tries to control his expression to keep up the indignancy. poorly, with the way he almost fumbles his entire stance at the mere mention of the petname, but at least you can tell he’s trying his hardest. “i think you’d burn my entire apartment down. or flood it, depending on which one goes horribly wrong first.”

“how could you!” he exclaims, pulling his hand away. “ye of little faith…” sunwoo’s voice goes grave and solemn. “don’t you want to see me in a sexy apron.”

“if i wanted to see you in a sexy apron, i would just give one to you.”

and even though sunwoo sulks and pulls a face at you, his insistence turns a bit softer when he repeats, “really, though.”

he goes quiet, picking at a loose thread on your comforter. “it wouldn’t be so bad, if…if it doesn’t work out.” ‘it’ being road to kingdom, ‘it’ being their next album, ‘it’ being the boyz as a whole; your heart sinks. “i think the rest of us would just go back home, you know? maybe we’d pretend that these past years never happened, maybe all these memories would just turn bitter, but…” sunwoo gives you a lopsided smile, soft. “i would still come back home to you.”

the sentiment aches a little, your breath hitching as you try to rifle through the layers of emotions that sink to the bottom of your stomach, like picking at skin still raw underneath and not yet ready to peel. you wonder if he means it, if he truly sees you as a home to come back to or if you’re just something familiar, something safe; it’s not much of a distinction, but the details make all the difference—whether you’re somewhere he belongs, or if you’re simply kept sepia-tinted as a place to keep his preserved youth. the words escape from you before you can stop them.

“you don’t have to, you know.”

sunwoo pauses, and there’s a silence that falls soon after that makes you shrink into yourself, regretting words that can’t be taken back. “what do you mean?”

“if it doesn’t…” you don’t want to speak it into existence—they’ll do well, they have to. you try to form your words carefully, deliberately, so that they’ll be spoken correctly and convey exactly what it is you mean, but it all comes poorly anyway, clumsy and messy as you trip over your own tongue. “you don’t have to…you know.” your mouth goes dry. “stay.”

sunwoo tries to not look offended at the suggestion, even if his furrowed brows say it all. but despite his own feelings on the matter, he tries his best to reign in his instinctive reaction, instead going to slowly coax you away from the ledge you’ve driven yourself to.

“i mean, i know i don’t have to,” he purses his lips, frowning. “it’s not like i feel obligated or anything, but i want to.” i love you, he means. i want to love you, i choose to love you.

there are a lot of things about sunwoo that you don’t quite understand—how he can internalize his envy to fuel his ambition, or how he still remains soft-hearted even after all these years, but you can’t begin to understand why sunwoo still holds onto you when you’ve long since stopped being something that he needs, nothing but a safe reminder of what once was. does he know? can he sense the way the two of you have started constantly tiptoeing around each other while trying to keep up an easy sense of normalcy, the memory of youth neither of you can return to?

you’ve been holding back from each other—not just him, but you too. it’s easy, to slip into old banter and avoid the things bothering you, to play the part of your teenage selves full of passion and hopeful, unattained dreams, and maybe sunwoo knows this too. maybe he knows and he doesn’t want to admit it, allowing his world to be rose-colored to cling onto a past that leaves him loveblind to what he really needs, to keep him from acknowledging the fact that you’re nothing but a fragment of the past, something kept to fester.

sunwoo is a star, you think—no, you know. you’ve known for quite some time now, how he was bright and shining and meant for things lightyears away from anything you could ever see, and yet here he was instead: inside your apartment late at night in your bed, talking about how he was ready to fall back down to earth to be with you. like you were tying him down to somewhere he was never meant to stay, he was never meant to be.

and an hour later, when time sits between the precipice of twilight and dawn, you whisper an apology to him so faint it lingers in the air, floating between you and sunwoo’s still form. you’re sure he doesn’t hear it, that he’s been sound asleep for the past couple of minutes and it remains a secret between you and the not-yet-risen sun, but sunwoo shifts slightly, blinking at you in the dark, and ah. he wasn’t asleep after all.

turning to fully face you, he sits up to match your posture and takes a breath, a hand coming to rest on the back of your head as he bumps his forehead gently into yours. his eyes flicker over your features, concern etched clear even in the blinking drowsiness. “what?” what are you talking about, are you okay? “what for?”

you shake your head, leaning into his touch as if to have the memory of him last just a little longer on your skin. it’s too much to say, too much of a weight to have sunwoo shoulder alongside you. so you tamp it down, swallowing back the lump in your throat as you blink away the heat behind your eyes. i’m just sorry. for everything.

sunwoo’s brows furrow, sheets rustling as he shifts again to sit up straighter, but you find his hand gently, threading your fingers through his as you smile—something soft and tender and so full of burdens it slips through and becomes fragile instead.

“it’s okay. nevermind.”

after. (love is a dream, lingering.)

you’re not sure if you can feel your face by the time you come stumbling back into your apartment.

fresh from a work dinner, the alcohol still buzzes in your system even through the barbeque you’d eaten along with the soju, even after the taxi ride home. too many seniors had offered to pour your drinks, all attributing them to the success of the most recently released song you’d worked on, and of course, you had to take it all with two hands, a polite smile, and the burn of the liquid on its way down. even if the taxi ride home had sobered you up slightly, your head still remains fuzzy and unfocused by the time you find the right key to your apartment and fumble with it before opening up the door.

you kick off your shoes by the front and drop your bag somewhere by the kitchen before making your way to the living room, coat thrown on the ground as you crumple yourself in the space between your coffee table and the foot of the couch. slipping your phone out of your pocket, you wince at the sudden brightness of the screen as it lights up. the apartment always seemed loneliest, like this.

it’s late, almost two in the morning from what you can make out from the glare of the screen, but you only look at it for a second before you swipe up, squinting as you enter your passcode. everything after this, you know, has morphed its way into being muscle memory more than anything else.

you ignore the warning that pops in the corner of your phone in a red-laced ‘20% remaining’ and you let the practiced motions take over, tapping phone, then voicemail, and before you know it you’re back where you always are, staring at the only recording in your inbox before you press play.

a few seconds of silence fill the air, static crackling over the speaker, and then a voice speaks.

“hey.” it comes out shaky, just barely enough for you to tell. you want to say you probably wouldn’t have been able to hear it if you hadn’t listened to it so many times by now, but truthfully, you’d heard the slight tremble in the voice since the very first time.

(it was sunwoo, after all. how could you not know?)

sunwoo takes in a sharp breath, the beginning of an apology readying to end the call caught in his throat; you sometimes try to imagine a world where the apology goes through, where he instead tells you sorry, i shouldn’t have called and hangs up before the point of no return, but you’re glad this is the world you live in instead. the one where sunwoo swallows past the regret and starts to speak again, too light and full of faux casualness for his easy demeanor to be sincere, the one where you have the chance to hear his voice again. “strange hearing from me, right? shit, i don’t even know if this is still your number—i guess i could have asked chanhee-hyung to make sure but i’m not sure he would have been too happy to hear me ask about you.”

he pauses, and from the amount of times you’ve listened to it you’ve made into something resembling a little game, filling in the gaps of what he could have done in the pockets of silence—like he’d squeezed his eyes shut at the thought, or he’d pressed into the spot between his eyes to fight away the image of chanhee’s disapproving stare. “he always did that, you know. for a long time after…” sunwoo bites his tongue. “i think it was pity, like he felt bad. not that he needed to, or anything, but you know how he is.”

he pauses again, as if scrambling for what to say next, what direction to take the one-sided conversation. “i, um, i don’t know if you heard, but we recently moved to a new dorm. we split into three separate ones, so we all got our own room, and you think that’d be great and everything after sharing a room with kevin-hyung for the past few years but we played rock, paper, scissors for our room picks and—” indignancy sneaks its way into his cadence, and you smile at this part always “—i really think i got the smallest room. i’m pretty sure it’s smaller than the bathroom. and jacob-hyung got the biggest room!” sunwoo continues, grumbling. “i’m not mad about it or anything, it’s fine… it just seems a little unfair, don’t you think? and, and…”

your eyes flicker, watching the seconds on the timestamp tick by as sunwoo continues to ramble about the most miniscule of things: more dorm shenanigans that sunwoo insists he was completely innocent in, how he’d run into jihoon backstage during a music show after not seeing him for a while, the pictures his members had posted for his birthday that he claims could have potentially ruined his ‘sexy and charismatic’ image with the fans forever. it all feels like he’s scraping the surface, the real reason he called still buried deep beneath all the frivolous hedging; it’s become almost obvious, given the amount of times you’ve listened to it, how each word is just another second stalled trying to build up enough courage.

and finally, when all of sunwoo’s pretense dies, when the lull at the other end of the line comes again, whatever he was planning on saying next deflates as he goes quiet, finally gathering enough courage for the whole truth. you mouth the words, ears buzzing, the timing and cadence seared into your memory.

“you were in my dream last night.”

you remember the morning you’d woken up to this voicemail, remember your thumb hovering over play but not finding it in yourself to press it. you know—you’ve known since the beginning that the recording would only add to your troubles, but on a night like tonight where the noise of the work party still echoes in your head and the apartment feels lonelier than ever after a tipsy ride home, the bruise feels too tender for you to do anything but press into it, over and over and over again.

“i’m not even sure why i called you just to tell you that—i didn’t even get to say it to you.” sunwoo lets out a wry laugh. “i mean, of course you wouldn’t pick up, it’s five in the morning, i don’t really know what i was expecting, but i…no.” the confession tumbles from his lips, shaky and vulnerable and no matter how many countless times you’ve heard it, it still feels like slicing open an old wound. “i think i just wanted to hear your voice.”

sometimes, you let this section play out fully, his words like tiny shards of glass forming cuts on your skin without stopping; other times, you press pause just to replay it, just to hear him say it again, just to feel the sting and ache as you try to recreate the rawness you’d felt the very first time you heard it. salt in a wound is still salt no matter what name it tries to go by, but you suppose that’s why you’ve trapped yourself in this routine in the first place—to make sure the bruise still hurts, to pick at the scab just to see it bleed.

“i guess it just didn’t work out though, did it? your voicemail’s still the same automated message it’s been since high school, so all i’m really doing here is embarrassing myself.” everything laid down and exposed with no walls left to hide behind, sunwoo’s words come quiet and fragile. “i think a part of me expected it to still be the same, but—maybe the other part of me hoped things had changed. isn’t that ironic?” he breathes out a small resigned laugh. “change is what got us here in the first place, and now here i am, talking to myself and leaving a voicemail to a number that i’m not even sure is yours. pretty stupid of me, right?”

sunwoo swallows hard and so do you, the memory of the words ringing in your ears before he speaks them. “i miss you,” he says eventually. “i’m sorry.”

the faint static on the other end of the line tapers on for one, two, three seconds more before the recording finally ends, stretching into true silence. the first few times you had listened to it, you’d kept your ear pressed to the speaker, replaying those last few seconds desperate for anything else you could have missed, anything you could make out after his final words. now, you simply stare at the screen, still burning bright in the dark.

it’s almost funny, the way this has formed itself into something resembling a bad habit. every time, you go through the motions like they’re old and used and worn because they are, no matter how much you refuse to admit it; and each time, you take the shame and the guilt that curls in your stomach and ball it up inside of you, letting it seep into your bones, so that the next morning when you wake up, you can look at yourself with your newly polished and clean exterior and pretend that it’s merely something left in the past.

but for now, you hit play on the recording again, watching the seconds tick by once more.

(the next morning, you wake up to your phone still in your hands, battery completely dead, the previous night nothing but a pounding headache and a blur of what might have been. a new day, and yet it all feels like the same motions all over again.

you ignore the calcified shame within you, play ignorant to the cycle that will inevitably repeat itself the next time a night like that comes again, and you pretend that this is the one thing you won’t let go of, even if it turns into all you have left.)

before. (—you were my youth.)

it’s a tuesday night when you see sunwoo again.

dressed only in sweats and a jacket for extra warmth, you had just finished your regularly scheduled convenience store snack run, plastic bag in hand, when you turn the corner and see a glimpse of him: backpack slung over his shoulder, trudging steps, wearing single gray hoodie that was no doubt too thin for him to not catch a cold on an early spring night. blinking, you register the familiar face for a split second before you call out after him, half-jogging to catch up.

“hey! hey, sunwoo!”

for a moment, it’s almost as if he doesn’t hear you; and then, his foot stops in front of the other, hand moving to take out an earbud. sunwoo turns around, gaze wandering until he meets your gaze. his eyes light up in recognition as he makes out your face in the residual light from the convenience store windows, the glow of the street lamp a few feet away.

he holds up a hand for a polite wave. “oh, hey.”

“heading home?” you ask, peering at him. you hadn’t really seen much of him these past few months, other than the increasingly sparse times you’d spot him in class.

“yeah,” sunwoo nods, a slight smile to go along with it. “just got back from training.”

“ah, i see.” it’s a little strange, looking at him now. even if you hadn’t taken a good look at him recently, you could still tell something was a little off about him; maybe in the way he was carrying himself, the heaviness of his step, the half-hearted way his smile didn’t look quite like the one you were used to.

then again, what did you know? it wasn’t as if you were best friends or anything—after you’d partnered with him for that one project months ago, you’d only talked to him a handful of times, either in passing or when you saw each other around. calling him a close friend would be far from the truth, but calling him just a classmate wouldn’t exactly be accurate either. you suppose he stood in a strange middle ground, one you didn’t seem to mind.

but even so, maybe even just the implication of friendship was enough for the concern to fully settle itself into your mind, the reason why you can’t bring yourself to just brush off his exhaustion as a result of the late hour, and why you impulsively jab your thumb towards the neighborhood playground a block away, the plastic bag in your hands rustling from the motion. “you wanna make a small pitstop before you go?”

and surprisingly, despite a moment’s hesitation, sunwoo takes you up on the offer.

it’s how you find yourself sitting together on the swingset, the subtle squeak of metal on metal almost serving as a familiar comfort as you rock back and forth, heels digging into the bark beneath. “i heard you got into loen, right?” you try, peeling your awkward stare from the chipped paint on the side of the swing over to the boy next to you. “how is that going? i never really got the chance to congratulate you on it.”

“it’s good,” sunwoo replies, almost on instinct, but before he can continue, he closes his mouth instead. the rest of the sentence tapers off into an awkward silence, leaving you to fill in the gaps.

“tough?” you ask, more of a rhetorical than anything else. maybe you were overstepping your bounds by prying, but the least you could do is offer a lending ear, especially now that you were both here anyway. “i might not be a trainee,” you offer, “but i know it can’t be easy.”

sunwoo presses his lips into a line, swallowing in contemplation, before nodding.

“i don’t know,” he confesses, the toe of his shoe digging a hole into the woodchips. “it’s definitely hard, but it’s not just that… i like that it’s hard, you know? it means i’m challenging myself and it means i’m learning, it’s just—they said they’re selecting the debut lineup soon.” the swing chain squeaks between the rustling of the bark. “what if i don’t make it?”

(what if i never make it?)

you get it—the uncertainty that haunts every step of this path. you’ve seen enough of your friends and classmates drop everything to pursue their dreams, only to have it thrown back in their face, failures either resulting in a renewed perseverance or the battering of their soul. and even if you weren’t taking part in the same rigorous and merciless training process that plagues them, the crumbling foothold follows you too, at times, all for a dream you can’t ensure will spare you even pennies in return.

but you do it because you want to, because you have to, because you love it too much for there to be any other option you’d be willing to fathom. and in spite of the short time you’ve gotten to know him, you’re sure the same holds true for sunwoo, too.

“then you try again.” his head shoots up, and you meet his eyes with a smile. “and you keep trying and trying until you can’t anymore—because you love it, right? dancing, singing, performing? you wouldn’t be doing this if you didn’t.”

you watch his expression carefully as your words land, waiting for the smallest sign to back off, but instead, sunwoo gives you a resolute nod, taking each word to heart.

“you can do it,” you tell him, every word sincere. “i know you can.”

there’s a certain weight in his gaze afterwards that almost makes you regret having said it, almost like you’ve overstepped in your own direction instead. what were you even doing?

the sudden intimacy of the moment settles into your stomach all at once, and you try to grasp at anything to bring back the lighthearted mood of a few minutes ago—for your own sake. clearing your throat, you try to dispel the sudden heaviness in the air.

“in any case,” you start, rifling through your bag. fishing out a container of strawberry milk, you stand up and walk over to sunwoo, pressing it against his cheek; he jumps from the sudden cold against his skin. “you know we have exams coming up, right?”

sunwoo groans, raising a hand to take the milk. “what if i just dropped out like jihoon?”

before he can grab it, you press the container harder into his face, frowning. “don’t even think about it!”

“but…” sunwoo looks up at you with sad, shining eyes, panhandling for a single ounce of pity. “that means no more exams…”

“and then what,” you reply dryly.

he finally takes the milk from your hands, pressing it to his forehead with his eyebrows furrowed, the beads of condensation threatening to slip down his palm. “okay, you have a good point.”

you roll your eyes, but sunwoo snaps his head up after a second of thinking longer, milk sloshing in the container at the sudden motion. “you wouldn’t leave me out to die all on my own, would you?”

“huh—”

sunwoo pleads your name in a dramatic fashion, hesitating a little before grabbing your hands to continue his spiel. you have a brief yet vivid image of his resemblance to a raccoon digging through your trashcan in your front yard. begging for scraps… “you have to remember me when you’re famous, okay…”

“sunwoo,” you exasperate, trying to pry your hands away from his, freezing and wet from the cold milk. “you aren’t dropping out and you are not becoming homeless.”

he nods enthusiastically. “right, because i’d have you!”

“don’t you have any other friends?”

sunwoo looks you dead in the eye, his grip tightening. “i have friends, but you would have the songwriting royalties.”

“for the last time,” you groan, finally slipping your hand away from his grasp. “you’re not gonna drop out, and you’re not going to become homeless! and you’re going to make it!” you rub your hand gingerly on the side of your jacket to wipe off the excess condensation. “enjoy the strawberry milk, i’m gonna head home.”

you turn and take a few steps, only for sunwoo to call out to you again. “hey, wait.”

pausing, you look back curiously. “yeah?”

“if…” he starts slowly, staring at the milk in his hands. “when i debut,” he rescinds, meeting your eyes. “will you listen? to me, i mean—even if you’re the only one?”

“i definitely won’t be the only one,” you chide, stuffing your hands in your pockets. the night air was growing colder by the second, remnants of winter lingering in the beginnings of spring. funnily enough, you don’t really seem to mind the chill. “we’ll make it, okay? we’ll make it together.”

you attempt to leave it at that, but the way he looks back at you, sunwoo holds the question between the two of you, still waiting for your answer—like he would have waited forever for it, if he needed to. and despite your previous unfamiliarity with sunwoo in this sort of setting, you figured it would be cruel to deny him of at least an earnest answer.

“to answer your question, though.” you try to look away to break the weight of his gaze, but you find yourself pulled back to it anyway. finding the resolve to match his, you step forward again. he needed to hear this; and maybe, you needed to say it, too.

“of course i will.” tonight’s moon waxes, its light peeking through the clouds. “i’ll always be rooting for you, kim sunwoo.”

after. (yet. love is always, always, a choice.)

the first few times you see the video on your recommended page, you try to ignore it.

you shove it to the back of your mind and you tell yourself it can wait just a little longer, that there’s no difference from watching it a few days from now. except the days stretch on into weeks, and it still remains untouched, lingering forever in an endless present. the video itself isn’t anything big, objectively speaking, but the heaviness of it weighs on you every time you see the title, knowing what it consists of: special release from kim sunwoo of the boyz, self-composed track.

it’s not exactly breaking the promise you had made to him all those years ago, more like putting it on hold. and maybe it’s for the best, the waiting period, but the longer you wait, the more things just keep piling on and shoved into the shelf to collect dust over the past few months—their last single, the mini-album that followed after, and now this. you had tried, that first time chanhee had asked you about it. you couldn’t make it far before you had to turn it off.

you tell yourself you’ll get around to it when it stops hurting, a soft assurance to still keep your promise, but you know it’s hypocritical to give yourself that easing comfort when in the same breath you’ve been pressing into the bruise again and again, never giving it the time and space to heal. the pain has never stopped you before, rather, you’ve grown close with the ache, the faint memory of the wound, but there’s something distinctly different about listening to his music that hurts too much for you to continue.

maybe it’s the way it brings you back to that classroom and that swingset and everything you know you can never go back to; or maybe, despite the voicemail that you still come back to on the loneliest of nights and the wrinkled shirt that remains crumpled in the corner of your room, a part of you knows that the salt in the wound would be nothing compared to digging an even deeper, uglier wound in a cut scabbed over. that’s only what it could feel like, if you listened to him before you were ready.

you want the memories as a lingering taste alone, but you’re scared that if you go back to that promise with two feet planted and an open heart, if you delve into the memories completely, you won’t be able to come back out.

tonight is different, though.

you want to blame it on the hour that hosts the beginning of dawn, or the way you can’t go back to sleep, or the dream you’d had before you had woken up, the details fading more each second. but when the video appears once again, thumbnail ingrained into your mind, you don’t even need to look at the title before you finally click on it.

(you had dreamt of him, that night.

it was a good dream, you think, at least in the moment—more of an old memory than anything else. sunwoo had come over the night before his birthday for an early celebration, insisting on being congratulated by you first thing once the clock struck twelve. you remember it being a small celebration, just the two of you in your apartment together with cheesy decorations and balloons blown up spelling out his name and a golden ‘hbd’ strung along the walls.

the rest of it comes in and blurs together in flashes: the strawberry cake you’d bought to share together, the way you’d wiped the frosting on his nose only for him to smear a bigger chunk onto your cheek, the shoddy match that came with the cake that sunwoo couldn’t light, no matter how hard he tried to save himself from the embarrassment.

and usually when you wake up from a good dream, you fall asleep again soon after, just to catch the traces of the dream before it’s gone forever. but you’re trying, slowly in your own way, to not do things like that anymore. after all, eventually the shirt needs to become just another shirt, and your voicemail will one day go back to having no more recordings saved.

you want to think you have it in you—to let the wound finish scabbing over and heal, to finally let it fade into almost nothing but a brief mark of time in your skin.)

the music starts the second the video starts to play, and you feel a pull at your gut, an inner voice whispering. you can still back out, it says, soothing. you haven’t hit the point of no return yet. it’s okay if you’re still not ready.

but then sunwoo’s voice cuts through the noise, each word sung with his heart on his sleeve, and that part of you grasping for any form of protection left instantly goes quiet. if it were about anything else, maybe you could have rationalized it to yourself and clicked out of the video, convince yourself to go back to sleep and that it was okay to wait. another time, another day, another world.

when he sings, he sings of you, he sings to you, and you remember that you had never truly listened to the words he’d wanted to say to you since you’d sent that text that ended everything that night—not really. didn’t you owe him, then, at least this?

so you swallow hard, and you blink until lights dot the inside of your eyelids, and you listen.

(sunwoo’s lyrics talk of love, how he had wanted to be yours. he had wanted to be yours forever, and yet he ended up losing you and maybe that was his fault; maybe if he had shown you his love better then you wouldn’t have let him go, then you would still be by his side instead of appearing only when he closes his eyes, unsure to call you a dream or a nightmare. not that it mattered, you were still his universe, no matter what. even in the hurt, it was still love)

it’s all wrapped up in pretty lyricism and intricate metaphors to keep the listener guessing for the true meaning, but you’ve always understood him best when it was through song. you think you had forgotten that, after so many years together and knowing him through everything else, but with the music playing through your headphones and the screen of your computer flashing the images in the silence of your apartment, it was like coming back to your roots. like you were in that classroom with a pen and paper and that playground with the chill of spring still warm on your beating hearts and how you’ve known him intimately before you even knew you could.

it all felt so simple, back then. like budding love was all you would ever need, before everything else got in the way, but—no. you stop at the thought. that’s not quite it.

(pause, rewind, play.)

it was always simple to sunwoo. he was a star burning bright and blind to you, growing farther from your reach each passing day, but to him, you were never anything less than the universe itself. was it truly so horrible—bearing attachment to his youth? you were still growing beside him, right? you were the home he wanted to return to, weren’t you?

and yet you were the one who had smeared the paint before it could finish drying, the one who had felt so alone in watching the wear of a bridge you had deemed impossible to save. and at the end of the day, maybe the fault fell partly on both of you, stepping onto that unsteady footing together with the rope of the bridge fraying with the weight of time, but you were the one who had taken that last step to the other end without him even knowing.

lit match in your hands, you had burned that bridge for what you’d perceived to be the greater good, to destroy it before it could collapse and take both of you with it. an act of cowardice disguised as selflessness, you’re left to stare at nothing but the ashes and cinders you had set aflame. but in the wreckage, only after everything do you finally understand what that indiscernible emotion was in his eyes when he looked at you, what he had meant that night by choosing to love you.

in the silence, daylight breaks, your once dark apartment beginning to tinge a soft yellow glow.

(the ground beneath your feet steady, you look to the other end of what once was, carrying the pieces of wood in your hands. if you tried to build that bridge towards sunwoo again, panel by panel, could you rebuild something stronger from the ashes? would sunwoo help if he knew, repairing each step together with you?

you’re not afraid of finding out the answer—not anymore.)

epilogue. (love is gravity.)

the sun rises fully soon after, the sky turning into a brighter, deeper shade of blue as the hour passes. still lingering along the edge of dawn, you know if you looked outside you would see the frost beginning to melt on the blades of grass, the slow trickle of cars onto the road as people were starting to head to work. it’s subtle, the difference between five a.m. and six a.m., but it’s enough for you to feel the shift in the air.

gnawing at your lip, you reach for the phone lying on the table. it’s an aching sense of déjà vu as you unlock your phone and scroll through your contacts, searching for a single name. you can only imagine if this is what sunwoo felt like, the night he’d called you, half-hopeless as you press the phone to your ear, the first dial tone ringing.

(you want to let yourself not hurt anymore—to allow the wound to heal, to finally let go of all the shame inside of you. it’s your first step in trying to repair that bridge you had once burnt down, your first choice where you try to move forward. but sometimes, to move forward is really to move back to where you want to be, back where you belong.)

each additional ring that repeats comes with decreasing expectation, and you brace yourself for the voicemail message that will inevitably come. of course he wouldn’t pick up this early in the morning, you tell yourself, another ring echoing. you wonder if this will become a new pattern, one voicemail to another, always barely missing each other in efforts to reconcile, always a little too late. trading in one bad habit for another, maybe this was just how it was meant to be.

but you suppose it’s always been like this, ever since the night you broke up with him—how sunwoo has been choosing to love you still, even after, and how you’ve been choosing to still love him too by refusing to truly let him go, orbiting around each other like how gravity is both the reason why a planet circles a star and why they can never ever fall into one another (again). perhaps this is just where the frayed edges of fate have left you, coming together only once before your ends are split away forever.

but when the sixth ring sounds and you prepare to hear the automated message, drawing in a breath to scramble together a message to leave at the beep, you hear a single voice instead. your breath hitches.

“hello?”

your lip trembles as you press the phone harder to your ear, heat surging to the bridge of your nose, the back of your eyes. you try to keep your voice steady but it comes out watery instead, words spilling over before you know it. “hi. it’s me.”

and despite everything, gravity fails, just for an instant, and you and sunwoo collide into each other once again.

#sunwoo x reader #tbz x reader #sunwoo fanfic #tbz fanfic #sunwoo angst #the boyz x reader #sunwoo scenarios #tbz scenarios #tbz angst #tbz imagines #sunwoo imagines

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team-118 · 1 month

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ok I decided I don't actually care if I get prompted or not I'm just gonna start writing so. lmao. enjoy!

Eddie-centric, Chris and Eddie, pre-201, 1.1k, on ao3

Inspired by this post by @hunybody which gave me fucking brainworms.

65. I'll help you study.

Tomorrow, he starts at the 118.

The words had started swimming off the page hours ago. Eddie’s temple is fucking throbbing, but he can't look away from the textbook splayed out in front of him. He knows that if he looks up now, he'll come face to face with the brick of a digital clock he's had since high school - reading some ungodly time like three in the morning, probably.

Instead, he rubs his knuckles over his blurry eyes and starts tracing another diagram. At this point, he could draw the blood vessels in the human arm in his sleep - and honestly, he might be doing it asleep right now - but he refuses to take any chances.

Tomorrow, he starts at the 118.

Eddie can't really remember the last time he wanted something to go well so badly. He was a good student until senior year, kept his grades up enough to keep his mother happy and to earn the occasional nod of approval from his father. He had half-formed dreams, this wispy idea of the person he grew up wanting to be. He knows how to study. (Knows this isn't it.)

But then there was Shannon, and then the army, and then Chris, God, Chris. He wouldn’t take it back, not when it gave him Chris. But sometimes, he misses the feeling of being…genuinely good at something. Working his ass off, and then watching it pay off. Burning himself up with how bad he wants something, until his eyes sting and his fingers burn and there's the cold, fiery satisfaction of knowing he's truly given it his all. Knowing what the fuck he’s doing with his hands. Eddie doesn't really get that, these days - not between three dead-end jobs and the voice that keeps telling him to quit while he's ahead, which sounds a little too much like his mother for comfort. Maybe he could get it in LA.

And he's good at firefighting, is the thing. He didn't really keep in touch with anyone from the Academy, doesn’t have much to compare to, but he figures that having two stations fighting over him is a good sign. And when that one instructor had kept him after class (while Eddie distractedly checked for texts about Christopher) and told him to consider the paramedic route, it hadn't been for nothing. And when he had the fastest time in his class for that baby fire rescue drill, forcing himself to control his breathing when all he could hear were Christopher’s cries, it meant something.

Eddie could do this. He could really do this. He wasn't going to strut into the firehouse with an ego - had too much shit on his plate to even pull it off, really - but he wasn't about to spend his probie year as the man behind on all his shifts. Talk is cheap, though, and Eddie is a man of his word, which brings him back to this: anatomy diagram, flashcards scattered, the dim light of his bedside table lamp and the dogged kind of determination that Eddie hasn't really felt about his career in, well, maybe ever. And the clock next to him, which reads 3:17 AM.

He forces himself to exhale. The little crescent moons his nails are digging into his palms are going to leave a mark, but they'll be gone by the time his alarm rings. Tomorrow, he's Staff Sergeant Diaz, on his way to Firefighter Diaz - competent, unflappable, earning his title. No one needs to know how fucking hard he's fighting to tread water.

Eddie finishes up the drawing, goes to flip the page, and ends up knocking over the glass of water he'd sat down with. Thankfully, the plastic doesn't shatter, but the liquid soaks into his socks in seconds. The cold hardwood under him does nothing to muffle the clatter as it falls.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Eddie mutters to himself, clearing his notes and books out of the way. Shit, Christopher. He freezes, halfway crouched, not daring to breathe in case his son stirs.

The only sound is the tick of the clock in the hallway. He breathes again, trying to make as little noise as possible while he cleans up his mess. He almost gets away with it, too.

“Daddy?”

Eddie whirls around, gasping, hand to his heart on instinct. It makes Chris giggle.

“You look like someone out of Abuela's movies,” he tells Eddie around a smile. His crutches click on the floor as he comes closer, and Eddie’s glad the water is gone so he won't slip.

“Aren't you supposed to be asleep, Superman?” Eddie asks Chris lightly, pulling him in for a hug.

“You're not asleep,” Chris pouts, and Eddie can feel it in his shoulder. God, this kid.

“No,” Eddie admits, sighing. “No, I was thinking about tomorrow.”

“Are you nervous?” Chris's eyes are huge, round like a full moon.

“Yeah, buddy, I'm a little nervous,” Eddie tells him. “But I'll be okay. I've got my good luck charm right here, don't I?” He kisses Christopher’s cheek, wet and messy so Chris will squirm in his hold and laugh again.

“Daddy!” Chris squeals, and Eddie tickles him until Chris is kicking before he picks him up, spins him around, and deposits him safely on Eddie’s bed.

Chris looks up at him, breathless, bright. He picks up the diagram Eddie had been working on, discarded on the bed next to Chris. Chris looks at it intently, eyebrows furrowed, considering.

“I'll help you study,” he tells Eddie seriously.

“Chris, you need to be in bed.”

Chris crosses his little arms. “So do you. I'm not going if you're not going.”

And, well, the kid's got a point.

“Nothing gets past you,” Eddie sighs, lying down next to Chris. He grins back, big and toothy.

“What's that on your forehead?” Chris asks, reaching out to touch.

“Hm?”

“You have lines.” Chris’s little index finger runs between his eyebrows, smoothing out the creases.

“Oh, um,” Eddie falters. “I guess it happens sometimes when you get older and you worry about things. Your forehead gets all tense.”

Chris is fascinated. “Does it hurt?”

“Not really.” Chris pushes, testing. Eddie winces. “Okay, sometimes. Ouch. A little.”

Chris smiles up at him. “You'll fix them, Daddy. In your big red firetruck.”

“Yeah.” Eddie swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah, I'll try.”

“I know you can do it,” Chris tells him, voice fading into a sleepy whisper.

Eddie pulls him in by the back of his head, kissing his forehead. “Thank God for you, kid.”

“Love you,” Chris mumbles. “I helped,” he says, all quiet and proud.

Eddie laughs under his breath. “You always do, Superman.”

If you want to send me a prompt you can do it from here.

#eddie diaz #chris diaz #christopher diaz #911 abc #911 fanfic #team writes fic #prompt fic #diaz boys #i love you list #prompt fill

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new-berry · 7 months

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Going to give one last shot at Spain three. But with INTENT. I have cleared my calendar. (Lads and leafs hitting dim form sort of clearing it for me)

NSFW not even the warning should be over the line. Please take that as a warning.

Frank Lampard / Rio Ferdinand

Non con and period disregard of consent. I’m not sure how else to phrase it? People used to talk right over the top of “no” all the time. Little bit of gaslighting?

This is former lovers and one lover completely ignores what the other person is saying. I feel like this was the blind “what the fuck is consent?” That was pretty common 25 or more-ish years ago when this was set.

More from Rio’s POV than the frank centric Spain one and two. And again: consent issues warning.

….

Something about being on holiday gives Rio vivid dreams. He’s not going to dream about trees, he’s going to dream about a jungle full of parrots and monkeys or whatever. Probably being here in Spain, it’s so fucking hot even the locals look fed up.

He’s dreamt about sex before. Someone sexy who’s not exactly faceless. Like the hot Spanish girl he was dancing with last night, yesterday? In his dream he can’t quite hang on to her face. There’s a hint of beer in his dream that he doesn’t remember on her, she had a slippery glossy mouth and tasted sweet. Strawberries on her mouth and orange juice on her tongue.

Rio’s name had sounded so good in her mouth “Reeee-oh.” A little breathless, he should have taken her home. He’s still turned on but the dream is fading, that weird moment between being asleep and awake. He feels weighed down and anchored in.

He’s nearly awake and tries to flip the stiffing blanket off but there’s a soft noise of protest and he’s awake then, properly, Pressed against and anchored down, his dick is hard even though he never got that far with her. A looming ache in his ass.

When his eyes slide open he looks down to Frank’s mouth around his cock. Fingers slippery as eels wedged inside him. His mouth is dry and he’s trying to blink himself awake. “Ohhh.” It comes out like the second part of his name in her mouth, high and breathless. But it’s Frank’s name that comes out next, and he looks up, big eyes looking bigger than usual, all pupil in the low light, eyelashes fluttering.

It’s too much instantly, from the thought of it in a dream to Frank sucking too hard, fingers beavering away between his legs, sliding two in, slithery wet digits in shallow, pressing down trying to find his prostate.

Frank yanks his mouth off, so fast there’s the burn of teeth and Rio gasps. “Yeah baby.” Frank says back. His voice is wrecked either from the too harsh weed they were all smoking or from sucking Rio’s cock like he’s going to find god if he keeps doing it.

There is no good way to move, Frank’s fingers just slot further into him when he moves his hips, and his brain is catching up with how close to coming his dick is, heart racing as much from being shocked awake as his impending orgasm.

Rio shoves at Frank’s shoulder and when he doesn’t move his forehead. Frank uses the hand that isn’t two knuckles deep in him to put Rio’s hand in his head. “You can pull baby.” He says. Rio shudders as much from the brief respite to Frank sucking too hard on the top of his cock , as from the warm night air cooling the spit left behind, as Frank calling him baby. It’s gross, sleazy what they calls the girls before they take them back to the hotel then shove them in a taxi home. Or at least away.

Frank fumbles he find his prostate and rubs his fingers over it, too hard and sloppoy, Rio’s hand twists in his hair without meeting too and Frank gives a hum of satisfaction and that enough to have Rio almost shouting, biting his lips to hold it in in the quiet still night probably suffocating Frank with his hand pulling his head down and his cock filling Frank’s mouth with come.

Franks just coughs a couple of times and then laughs. Rio stares up, then at the window, wide open, grubby white curtains hanging limply in the lack of a sea breeze. Franks spits on the sheet and then nuzzles across Rio’s thigh. His stubble is rough on the skin inside Rio’s leg and his ass is burning where Frank hasn’t taken his fingers out.

In fact he’s nudging them further in, lying on Rio’s thigh, cheek smooshed and hair a mess from Rio’s hand when he let go after he came.

“The fuck? Frank?” The words are separated by rough mouthfuls of breath. He can’t move, Frank practically lying on his leg, too hot, hard dick on his leg. “Get the fuck off me.”

Franks grins at the protest. Pulls his fingers out to rest his ring finger at Rio’s ass with the other two resting just inside him.

“You wanna be on your stomach?” It’s like fucking Frank to pretend nothing is wrong, that this is like in the past when they would hook up. “No I want you the fuck off me you fucking nutter.”

Frank’s smile slides away and he looks petulant. It was cute the first few times Rio saw it. Now it’s fucking annoying. “I said it was over.” Rio shoves Frank’s forehead again, Frank stuffs a finger in him in retaliation and it’s so sudden that Rio clenches up and pants desperately.

“Fuck Frabk.” He gasps roughly. “What part of no more don’t you get.”

Frank smiles, his sharp little canines peeking out. Frank kisses up his leg, slurps at the sweat lying greasy on Rio’s stomach.

“You say no more but you never stop me.”

“I was sleeping.” Rio’s head pounds he gasps in gratitude when Frank’s fingers slip out of him.

“You were hard,” Frank nuzzles into Rio’s neck goes straight for the bottom of his ear which he knows is a weak point for Rio. “Moaning my name.” It’s bullshit, Rio’s knows it’s bullshit and Frank knows he knows, his head thumps again and Frank goes on “you’re the one who told me ‘“like old times,’ you’re the one with slick in your bag.”

Rio can’t make sense of the memory that Frank brings up. Laughing so loud they are about to be chucked out, football players spending big and attracting girls or not. Rio’s head rings, trying to get the night in order. He’d been swapping kisses with the girl with strawberry flavoured lips. Then she was gone and Frank was pressed to his side. Eyes too bright and voice too loud.

“How was I supposed to know you didn’t want this, kept your arm around me, cuddling me all night. Kept squeezing my leg.”

“I was drunk.” Frank hmmms “sure thing.” He bites on Rio’s collarbone when Rio puts his hands on Frank’s hips to shove him back. “Keep it down.” Frank mumbles around Rio’s nipple “you’ll wake the lads.”

That sends a cold fizzle down Rio’s spine. The house they have rented has four bedrooms but at any point one of them is usually sleeping or passed out in the living room and that’s only a door and half a hall between the couch and the room Rio claimed.

“No more Frank.” Frank switches sides, lo ks his nipple and ruts against Rio, “don’t be selfish.” Frank says “you got off. Don’t be a dick. Leading me on with all your ‘like old times’ and you wanna kick me out when only you got to come.”

Rio looks at the door ajar. “Keep it down.” He hisses . “Can you be quiet?”

Frank grinds into his leg, “yeah I’ll bite when I come no one will hear.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

Frank rolls his hips, “come on I’m so wound up from how pretty you sound, how good you feel, it’s only going to last a minute.”

Franks dick is leaving little snail trails of come behind, and experience has thought Rio he’s really not far off coming.

“Just rub one out.” Rio says finally. Heartbeat calming, thigh protesting when Frank’s weight is holding it out and down.

“Let me fuck you.” Frank’s voice is needy and too loud. There aren’t even cicadas making a sound tonight.

“Keep it down.” Rio whispers but Frank stubborly keeps his voice a regular pitch. “Come on. Wanna screw.”

Rio sighs and relaxes against the bed. Frank’s grin is triumphant and he climbs off Rio’s leg to lie between them, the shape of his body opening Rio’s legs further. “Wanna be on your stomach?” He’s at least whispering, voice the kind of low intent that gets girls going.

He’s holding lube in his hand, a type Rio has never seen before and he shakes his head.

“Just don’t take forever.” Rio’s face screws up at the drip of cold lube on him. “This is a one time thing. Last time.” Frank nods and kisses Rio, gentle and reverent, ignoring the foul taste in Rio’s mouth, may not even notice it over the taste of Rio’s come.

“Go easy,” Rio doesn’t add it’s been a while, doesn’t want Frank putting together that the last time was Frank as well.

“So good.” Franks slides in inch by inch, fingers running over Rui’s shoulders and arms, soothing him through getting opened up on his dick “no one else is this good.” Frank rests his forehead down, mumbles into Rio’s neck “I love you. I always have.”

Rio doesn’t clench up at that because he was expecting it. It makes his heart drop as Frank starts a slow smooth rythum, it won’t be over in a minute Rio thinks. Then he just thinks ‘shit fuck no’ as Frank mumbles he loves him again

#Spain 3

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muzzlemouths · 2 years

Text

Untitled

You weather a storm... with some help.

Eclipse centric // Wordcount: 2640

Sun makes you your favorite warm drink. He does so wordlessly, first thing in the morning at the sight of you, which ought to be a bad sign on its own. He makes it just how you like it without having to be asked or told, and he carries the single mug to you from the kitchen to the bedroom, extending it with a weak and pleading smile.

“Sunshine, won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” The mug is placed to the side of you, hint taken that you aren’t going to accept the gift quite yet, it slides in between some knick-knacks and pens. “Let me help,” he bends to one knee, shortening himself to your height, and delicately takes one of your hands in both of his own, “it’s what I’m best at, you know.” It’s meant to be said with a kick of humor, and maybe he winks, too, but you aren’t looking. This makes him go still again. “Darling?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Your knees would have tucked into your chest were they not already bent over the edge of the bed, trapped between the mattress and him, “I already told Moon last night,” you don’t fight the hand-holding, but you don’t engage, either, and it remains limp in his hold, “There’s nothing to talk about.”

His face crumbles, a startling contrast to the usual. He squeezes your hand ever tighter. “Yes, Moon told me…” Though there wasn’t much to tell; another nightmare, same as the day before, and the day before that. You stayed up far too early and slept in too late in the day, and when you were awake it was in passing, like a ghost.

Moon brought you to rest each night as well as he could, and Sun worked tirelessly throughout each day to bring back your smile, to help you remember your energy. Neither dared overstep the line that had been drawn, nor say the word on everyone’s mind. They knew as well as you did – what depression looked like.

“I wish you didn’t care,” comes your response, bitten through teeth. It breaks Sun from his thoughts, the conversation he was inevitably having with Moon; they had been doing that more often, lately. Little conversations during the day. Problem solving in a place where the problem couldn’t hear them. That’s how it felt, anyway. “It’s not even a big deal. Why won’t you and Moon just drop it?”

“Oh, dewdrop, you know why,” His thumb rubs in soothing circles over your knuckles, voice strained as it fills the room, “you’re hurting. Are we meant to just ignore that?”

“I want you to.”

“We can’t do that.” He follows your eyes as they avoid him, “If you only let us help–”

“You can’t!” From your lowered gaze you see him shrink back an inch, your outburst alarming. Guilt rips into your stomach and joins the swirl of emotions already wreaking havoc there. “You can’t. There’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing Moon can do. I just–” you sniffle, the first sign that the dam is breaking, and try with twice the effort to get him out of earshot before that happens – “I just need to be left alone, okay? Is that too much to ask?”

Pointedly, you avoid his eyes. You can still feel their betrayal, regardless, the way you’ve hurt him clear in the sag of his joints. Still, patient to a fault, he answers you with a quiet nod and releases your hand, settling it on your knee with a gentle pat. “Okay, starlight,” he croaks – you don’t miss the change of nickname, nor the shift in his voice, “We’ll give you your space for now,” He says it with a stand, “let us know if you need anything, alright?”

You don’t answer beyond a subtle bob of your head and that, too, pains Sun, but he follows through regardless, offering you a final look before shutting your bedroom door behind him. You resist the urge to get up and lock it; that would make them hate you for sure.

Instead, you fall to the mattress and stare up at the chipped mug on your bedside table, not bothering to pursue a drink. Your knees take the opportunity to fall against your chest at last and it’s there that you stay, alone with your emotions, for an indeterminable amount of time. An hour, at least. Maybe two.

Behind the door, you’re privy to the sound of another of their meetings; you aren’t able to make out what’s being said, but Sun’s heavy pacing is hard to miss, and the back-and-forth of conversation is made obvious when it sounds like he’s just talking to himself.

You aren’t worried about Moon interrupting you. You knew he normally could – and had, once before — when Sun’s words weren’t convincing enough. But your room was illuminated by a ceiling light, the blinds drawn out. He wasn’t getting in.

So when the doorknob moved, you knew it had to be Sun.

You hear it rather than see it - your back turned to the door - but that doesn’t stop you from calling out when the door inevitably opens, “I told you to leave me alone,” your words come like a frog’s croak, the voice of someone fighting through tears. It makes you feel stupid. This experience is already embarrassing enough as it is, “Go away.”

You don’t hear an answer. That’s out of character for Sun – not so much for Moon, but again, his presence wasn’t possible – so their silence is nearly alarming enough to make you turn over. Almost. You remain firmly on your side, however, not having the energy for whatever it was that they’d come up with to get you out of the episode this time.

The hand to your shoulder makes you flinch, yet still, you remain, burying your face into the blankets so they won’t see you like this. Their other hand brushes through your hair, soothing, careful, while another, still, falls to the small of your back and drifts up your spine, then tucks around you, pulling you in close. The mattress dips beside you where another hand rests for balance.

It takes you a few breaths to realize; one at your shoulder, one on your head, another along your back, then by your waist, and a final resting beside you. Four hands.

“Oh,” it’s enough to finally make you look over your shoulder, “it’s you.” Eclipse stares back.

This isn’t the first time you’ve met them. It had been a couple times before, just once or twice, when things got bad. When they needed a togetherness that couldn’t be achieved through conversations alone.

Their hands change direction. Eclipse carries you the rest of the way onto your back.

“What happened to Sun?” You ask, wiping your palm over your face, “I didn’t upset him that much, did I?”

“Nothing he could do.” Eclipse echoes your words back at you. It stirs the guilt in your belly again, drawing more tears from your eyes, and you do your best to get rid of them as soon as they arrive. Two of Eclipse’s hands lift at once to help, thumbs sweeping beneath your eyes to wipe the streaks away, “Here to help instead.”

Another sniffle. You don’t fight them, but it’s hard not to with how they’re staring. “I already said I didn’t want to talk about it,” you insist, but it’s obvious they aren’t listening.

Especially when they shift, bringing themselves up onto the bed with you, and forcibly cram their way into the spot behind you; something akin to a big spoon. It’s awkward, as they take up most of the mattress and you’re practically smooshed against the wall, and the bed creaks beneath your combined weight like it might give out any moment.

You try to argue with them – you really do – but Eclipse’s arms wrap around you like a warm cocoon, their fourth reaching around to pull a blanket over you just before, and you fall victim to the trap of comforts. It doesn’t make the pain any easier to bear, or the ache in your stomach go away, but it’s warm, and like this you don’t feel so exposed. “I know what you’re doing,” you tell them around another sniffle, “loosening my tongue so I give in and tell you what’s wrong, and you can say something textbook worthy back and it’ll solve all my problems. Well, I’m telling you right now, it won’t work.”

They bring you in closer. Close enough to feel your heartbeat against their own chest. Close enough that you can feel the warm zap and whir of electricity as it moves through their frame. “Nothing to say.” they hum, ever soft, against your head. Had they any breath it would have stirred into your hair. “Won’t listen, after all. Nothing to say that you want to hear.”

It’s true. Painfully and regrettably so. That doesn’t mean you have to admit to it. “There’s really nothing you have locked and loaded for me?” You try to fight the bitterness in your voice, but each word is laced with venom - that of a snake on its last leg (irony unmissed) - wounded and cornered with no where to go, the bite is all it has left. You’re more angry at yourself than you are with them. They always had something to say; words of comfort or encouragement, a way of telling you it was all going to be okay. “C-Come on, there’s an entire library of therapeutic tools in your code. You’re telling me you aren’t even going to try?”

“Won’t listen.” Eclipse repeats. Voice soft, they’re sure to keep themselves from sounding confrontational, “There are many things to be said, but only if you listen. So, what is it that you want to hear?” They wait, and wait, but you don’t answer. You can’t think of anything to say. So they continue, “It will be okay, yes. You know this, already, you’ve heard it before. You want proof–”

“But you can’t give me that.”

They go quiet, if only for a brief moment, arms tightening around you. “Are you so sure?” They ask, “You want to see it in yourself; for the bad days to end, for the hurt to stop, but it isn’t so easy. Regardless, you will be okay.”

You don’t understand - maybe you don’t want to, or you aren’t trying hard enough. Maybe you’re actively fighting it. The dam breaks when you aren’t looking, wires snapping, emotions coming undone. You break into a sob. “It’s not fair. Everyone else is happy,” you breathe harshly through the words, tears abound in between, and you do nothing to stop their path, “I can’t even handle the little things anymore. I keep forgetting things and messing up. I can’t sleep because then it’s the next day, and the next, and the next – and that’s just more mess-ups. I want it to stop!” Your chest heaves with the effort it takes to keep going, “It hurts, everything fucking hurts all the time. How can you tell me that I’ll be okay?”

Their hands envelope you fully as you break into a thousand and one pieces. They don’t immediately say anything, it isn’t the time too - standing in the way of an oncoming wave does nothing but drag you underwater - instead they wait it out, allowing you the time to grieve. Their thumb traces the skin of your hip, drawing circles over the bone. Their other hands do not let go.

“We can’t promise happiness,” they whisper, at last, the words almost smothered beneath the labor of your breath, “just as you cannot promise the sun that it will always shine, or that the sky will never see rain. But the proof you seek is there.”

You choke back another sob, feeling yourself growing tired of this act already. Tears will take whatever small piece of energy you have left. You wipe them away bitterly and do your best not to blow your nose in Eclipse’s arm. “You sound like a psychiatrist,” you grunt, “Are you going to tell me I should look on the bright side, next?”

You don’t see it, but you can feel it; the way Eclipse’s body sighs, falling heavier against you, like they’re exasperated with your lack of effort. They aren’t, though, no matter how much you want them to be. No matter how badly you wish they would be mad at you, they are patient, still, and they keep going. Trying where you, yourself, no longer have the energy to. “To see the bright side…no,” they begin, “hard to look at the sun when it’s storming. But you have an umbrella.”

It catches you off guard. “An umbrella?”

They nod, hand stilling on your hip, “You can watch the rain pass from beneath it. Weather out the storm until it passes. Won’t make the rain stop, no, but it’ll keep you from getting wet.”

You sniffle, “I guess…”

“And you have a jacket to keep the cold away. Gloves to keep the chill off your fingers.” their faceplate tilts, a gentle kiss planted to your temple, “Kinder weather can feel distant when it’s cold, and wet, and raining, and you want to make it go away – many do, especially when the rain is never-ending – but you have ways to wait out the storm until the sun returns.”

You’re silent, not quite ready to hear the words. You force yourself to listen anyway.

“Sometimes, it’s all you can do. And when the warmth returns, if only briefly, it brings the birds, and the bugs, and puddles for you to splash in,” their body shifts to lean over you, finding your eyes, “that’s the proof you’re looking for. Don’t you think it’s worth the wait?”

You don’t answer just yet, but you want to - you’re struggling for the courage to. All you can muster, for now, is a nod, and a sniffle, this one quieter. Easier to bear.

With a smile, they tilt your face to meet theirs, “We promise it will be. And we will help you wait out the storm, each time. No matter how bad the weather.”

You wipe your nose on your sleeve and offer the barest of laughter. “I think my umbrella has holes in it.”

“Then we will patch it.”

“And the worms always come out after a storm, you have to avoid them on the sidewalk–”

“They take stride in the rain,” says Eclipse, tapping a finger to your forehead, “and maybe in time, you will too.”

Maybe. Just maybe. Your eyes don’t feel so much like they’re burning, now, the weight on your chest coming loose. You reach forward and take the edge of the blanket around you, untucking it and stretching it over, so it covers them, too - at least as much as it can. The drink on your table has long since gone cold, but you have a microwave to fix that, just as you have an umbrella.

“Thank you,” your body sags with exhaustion. They reciprocate by tucking more of your weight against them, carrying the burden for you as best they can. When you return their gaze it’s with tremendously less grief. “It’s hard to remember what it was like to be happy, before all of this,” you admit, and they nod, knowing the feeling all too well, “but if you’re sticking around, I’ll do my best to wait it out. I think I can do that.”

Their chin tucks over your head, two hands in yours, two keeping you near. “You always could, star,” they reply, “but rain is easier weathered together.”

You nod, relaxing in their hold at last, allowing yourself to be soothed by the thought.

“For now, we play in the puddles.”

#i'll tag this later #drabbles #hurt/comfort #fnaf eclipse

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the-ninja-legacy-whip · 1 year

Note

How would you rank each season and why? What did you like and dislike about them?(Including wildbrain if you want to)

ooooooooooh okaaaaaaaay fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine

*cracks knuckles* Just remember you asked for this

Buckle up bastards and bitches, we're tearing this shit apart!!! Going from worst to best so we can end on good taste!!! *loads my opinions into a bazooka like Lloyd with an Ice Cannon*

Rebooted- *drags hands down face* ....I really don't actually hate NS3, but as I mentioned on another post, a lot of things this season tried to pull off (read: practically everything) at least one other season did better. And I know it's not really this season's fault that it's such a mess, since it was whipped up in a whirlwind of unexpected serendipity, and it had less time to explore its ideas, but when people only truly remember and constantly bring up the worst parts about it, rather than few (if not far inbetween) good things that it brought to the table? Or people consistently straight up forget other things about it (primary shoutouts to Techno!Wu and the ninja going to literal space???) Yeah, probably not a great season overall.

Pros: Fun aesthetic, wasn't afraid to try new things, attempted to expand and build on previously introduced ideas, did well with the emotions and aftermath generated by Zane's sacrifice, Pixal, killer music, X-1 Ninja Charger, Sensei Garmadon, had the agenda of getting people back into Ninjago after it supposedly hit its grand finale and did succeed in that if nothing else Cons: Absolutely breakneck pacing to the point that its hard to recall what happens where, when, and even why, you could literally take out like 3-4 of the episodes (half the season!!!) and very little would be ultimately impacted, poor execution of: the established character arcs, dynamics, and motivations within the season (with exception of Garmadon); the attempts at further world building; and the ultimate impact of the antagonists (...people rave about Cryptor but he doesn't even really do anything!! And why did they need to bring the Overlord back at ALL—if this was really something of a Zane-centric season, Cryptor would've already been the perfect foil for him!! AND WHY PYTHOR. I AIN'T ACTUALLY MAD ABOUT THAT TBH BUT WHY THEN)

Hands of Time- This season's biggest issue is that it's...boring. Technically doesn't even do anything wrong, but even when trying to follow a mystery as big as what the heck happened to Nya and Kai's parents, or watching Lloyd begin to come into his own as a future master, or exploring the downfall of two ex-Elemental Masters who turned to evil...it comes off so...stilted and stale. Literally an episode is called 'The Attack'. The whole show is full of attacks, this gives me nothing!!! (But, to be fair, most of the other ep titles this season are pretty kickass). It's like NS6 in the way that a bunch of things happen (and not even nearly as incoherently) but 85% of it doesn't have any lasting or satisfying pay off, and most of it doesn't really mesh in a natural way either. A lot of it feels very contrived, with events happening just for the sake of it happening, and that probably contributes to why it's not quite as compelling as other seasons, despite absolutely having the foundation to be.

Pros: Has an interesting way of drawing parallels between several characters, added a good chunk of lore that generated fresh interest, Kai and Nya Sibling duo, introduced villains with unique motivations and complex history with the main character (directly or indirectly), Jay got that cool bike moment, getting to meet Ray and Maya, actually mention of Skylor being a "bad guy" previously and exploring some of her insight of that, previous EM info + flashbacks, Cons: ...executes a lot of the best things about it in such bland and unsatisfying ways, and could have been much tighter with tying its events all together–would've helped the ending (whether it was a "cliffhanger" or not) feel a lot more deserved and less....empty.

(Also not a real con for the season itself and its literally just a nitpick but I hate those outfits. How are they simultaneously overly-detailed yet so monotone??? There's no pleasing contrast nor a place for the eye to comfortably rest! How are my eyes to last beholding a season with THAT fashion?? This is literally the only time where the gi are a distraction to me because they're...clunky, in a way? But...y'know, given that impression, I suppose they do fit the season to a t, then— *bricked*)

March of the Oni- This season is like a collections of puzzle pieces for a good finale season...but, someone lost a few pieces from the box. Or a lot of them. Isolated, there's a lot of good bits that could've really thrived in a normal season format...but, once again, the limited number of episodes strangled the potential out of its own plotline, SO. Plus, it feels extra weak following off the heels of Hunted's already high stakes, and with these stakes supposed to be even higher, it just doesn't quite hit in the way it's supposed to. That being said, there's a lot of fun and/or intense character dynamics and moments interspersed throughout, and the ending was so cozy and bittersweet but lovely that I can't be too upset with it. It stuck the landing it wanted to, and I can respect that!

Pros: Very strong character moments, (mostly) well-placed use of nostalgia, beautiful music, and overall a suitable little wrap up to "Masters of Spinjitzu" Cons: Not enough room/time to let some plot points breathe (a problem common to a few other seasons as well), and the antagonists could have done more, especially given their previous build up.

The Island- I don't even really count it as a season but it's going here. It was just...okay. Not actually all that bad, but not out-of-this-world great either. Laid the foundation for lore expansion for Seabound which is appreciated, utilized the characters well (EXCEPT RONIN WHAT THE FUCK NO), and again, I can respect it for what it was trying to do. Just didn't do anything that really stuck with me in a mind-blowingly positive way.

Secrets of the Forbidden Spinjitzu- Kiiiiinda wish this season was strictly about "Forbidden Spinjitzu and it's secrets", rather than the "Forbidden Spinjitzu" leading to...assorted shenanigans. Could've made for a good Wu season, honestly. Also kinda wish they'd taken the concepts for the Fire and Ice Chapters and made them into more focused stories on Kai and Zane (especially if they were going to go on and do or attempt that exact thing for Jay, Cole, Nya, and Lloyd properly). Wishing aside, while there was a bit of a lull getting things started, the excitement did pick up soon enough. This season did eventually introduce some fun twists, (mostly) enjoyable character dynamics, and having a little lighter of an adventure until it wasn't after MotO was a refreshing change of pace.

Pros: Lots of individual moments to dig into and get invested in, a nice expansion on the lore of Wu's past + other realms beyond Ninjago, Cons: A little hard to initially get into, and can be even harder to keep wanting to push through and watch to the end. Both the Fire and Ice Chapter have points where they feel a bit "aimless" in their middle portions of their acts, and the season as a whole simultaneously feels like it's longer than it needed to be + didn't always use the time it had efficiently.

Legacy of the Green Ninja- Fellas as I've been finishing up my planning for Legacy!S2, I have to confess this Season isn't quite the masterpiece we remember it as snksnksnksnk. There's literally 2-3 episodes that are ENTIRELY pointless, and none of them are even the """"filler"""" ones. It felt like it was trying to be a wacky shenanigan-of-the-week thing and a "dramatic world-ending thriller adventure" at the same time in both halves of the season, and that didn't always pan out in its favor, giving this season a bit of a lost/confused identity—especially one that so explicitly implicates Lloyd as being important, and yet most of the episodes are spent following the escapades of the Core Four still (which is not inherently a bad thing, but WHERE'S THE SO-CALLED LEGACY?!?! WHERE'S THE GREEN NINJA?!) ........anywho, negativity-fueled-by-recency-bias aside, even its short-comings still make for a highly enjoyable watch and rewatch, which isn't something that can be easily said for the previously mentioned seasons. And, there is still a LOT of funny, heartwarming, heartbreaking, and downright epic moments! But, not always immediately memorable ones.

(but also like please you have to UNDERSTAND there's literally a scene during the final battle where Wu, Misako, and Julien are on the ultra dragon and one of em's like "WE HAVE TO HELP" and, i swear i timed this this is legitimately accurate, TWO SECONDS LATER they make like two wing flaps going nowhere and Wu or Misako's like "THIS AS FAR AS WE GO" LIKE WHAAAAAAT?!?!?!!?! HELP LMAO)

Pros: Easy to get into, easy to keep watching, god-level music, and the simple ass humor still makes me laugh like a lunatic all these years later ("O'GRANDMA???" "I can make a little extra if I do the human piñata." "BEQUEATH! BEQUEATH!" *wordlessly using Zane as a battering ram* *the entire absurdity of Wrong Place, Wrong Time* *Dareth's existence*) Cons: The inconsistency of its overall direction still gives me whiplash all these years later, and I wish it had better embraced a singular identity, as that probably would've helped immensely both with character focus and the at times odd pacing of the plot.

Prime Empire- Finally, some good food! Similar to SotFS, this season took a while to kickstart and find its groove and keep it, but by the end it was sooooo much off-the-walls fun that it's hard to actually hate it. Lots of missed opportunities to expand on Jay's character though, especially when those Prime Empire shorts primarily focused on Jay released alongside the season would've been GREAT to see in actual episodes, and probably could've been what tipped it higher onto this list. While what we did get towards the end was super cool, it would've have MUCH more impact if it had better prior buildup. But, this season is incredibly solid in ways that may not be immediately obvious, though does still a bit to be desires at times too.

Pros: Fun and glorious setting for adventure, some very potent and very memorable character moments, SUPERSTAR ROCKIN' JAY, and a very strong finish that still gets me buzzed when it think about it. Cons: Slow start, many missed opportunities, left me wanting just a bit more (in the not-good way) despite the satisfying finish.

Crystalized- *folds hands in front of face* I probably should put this lower than Prime Empire overall quality-wise, but idk man, Crystalized scratched a lot of my personal itches...and also sent me banging my head into a wall, so. While I genuinely, honestly did enjoy my time with this season (I laughed, I cried, I "what the fuck"ed), there's the other half of my mind that just couldn't stop questioning sooooooo many decisions for the direction of the main characters, and constantly doing so did take me out of it way, way too often. For something that was going to serve as (another) big, grand send off...this one may have stuck the landing better than Hands of Time, but. IDK. Something still felt off at the end of everything.

Pros: (Mostly) incredible fight scenes, and action moments, we got to see perspectives of certain character dynamics that hadn't been explored before or not as often, there really is a lot of cool shit in here, loved the return of so many old faces, honestly very enjoyable if you're able to turn your brain off just a bit Cons: WHAT THE HELL DID THEY DO TO NYA, WHY ARE Y'ALL SLEEPING SO HARD ON THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY TO FINALLY GIVE LLOYD SOME REAL ACTUAL DEVELOPMENT THAT MADE SENSE, IF YOU WERE REALLY PLANNING ON "REDEEMING" HARUMI WHY DIDN'T YOU PACE IT OUT BETTER, WHY ARE THE CORE FOUR NEAR USELESS, DID WE REALLY HAVE TO SPEND A FOURTH OF THE SEASON IN A PRISON WAS THERE NO BETTER WAY TO GET OLD VILLAINS INVOLVED OR FOR RUMI TO INTIMIDATE LLOYD FROM THE SHADOWS, WHAT WAS THE POINT OF THE NEW NINJA, THERE'S SOOOO MUCH MISSED STUFF SURROUNDING NYA'S SACRIFICE/RETURN, AND WHY DID THEY SCRAP SO MANY ACTUALLY NEAT IDEAS FOR THISSSSSSS *dies*

Hunted- Gonna be honest, it's been a hot second since I've watched NS9 because everyone being in such distress stresses ME out just thinking about it (I'm apparently the people Jay was worried about lmao) and I haven't quite brought myself to subject myself to it again. However, I do remember it being an incredible watch and every episode bringing something epic to the table, and honestly I just see it as a sequel or a part 2 to SoG. Good music, strong character beats, satisfying in pacing all the way through; a great and surprisingly introspective season, just got outshined a bit by some of the pure spectacle and overall enjoyment of other seasons.

Not gonna give Pros/Cons here because I genuinely don't remember specifics—not because any of it was "Forgettable"; I literally just technically only watched it once snksnksnk. I know it's mostly nothing but good stuff with maybe a few snags here or there, but a superbly solid season.

Sons of Garmadon- Ah yes, one of two fan favorites. And a favorite of mine as well! Just...well, it's not really a Season I ever have the urge to go back to often, which is something the following seasons to come are about to have in common. It's got a rock solid plot, delicious twists, always kept me on the edge of my seat, had a lot fascinating locations and new lore...all wrapped up in a gripping entertaining time to be had. Though, it's kind of a season where you watch it once, are completely satisfied with, and then maybe only come back to it if and when you're rewatching the whole series (at least for me—that being said, I've watched season 8 waaay more than I've watch season 9 snksnk).

Pros: Well-thoughtout plot, fully compelling antagonists, another shout out to the music, dared to take some risks as the show entered a new era, and for once everyone felt like they were contributing as a single group, which was nice to see until they weren't Cons: As stated, already a very solid season; it's just a few scenes that probably could've used some polish for extra impact in hindsight.

Way of the Ninja- Well, if I'm including the Island, might as well include the Pilots! It's only above Hunted/SOG here because *I* happen to like it more and have rewatched it a great many times haha. Honestly the only cons are that I wished we'd had some little adventures in the Ice Fortress/Floating Ruins, and that the ninja themselves had more of a presence in the ultimate confrontation with Garmadon. Otherwise the Pilots did an absolutely fantastic job of laying the groundwork for the show to come, and using witchcraft to hook many of us into adoring these characters with insane chemistry from the get-go with nothing but the bare minimum. Nothing but love and respect for my pilots! <3

Skybound- Only reason this is higher than the previous three on this list is because *I* personally enjoyed it more, that's all. For overall quality and consistency, Hunted, Pilots, and SoG clear it easily. ANYWAY I LOVE SKYBOUND. It's probably actually my second favorite season these days but I'm already about to be crucified for putting it this high on the list rip. Oh there's plenty of things wrong with this season: out of character moments including but not limited to misogyny, contradictory statements, contradictory actions, saying things they would never say prior to this season; the antagonist has wildly changing motivations almost every episode along with uncomfy tendencies, every episode feels wildly different and/or disconnected from the others, the things are happening all over the place at any given time...it's chaotic, messy, and I LOVE IT. It's a mess but it's my mess and if you dig deep enough there's a lot to love buried in the muck that I, as an individual, feel that makes the season worth it all <3

Pros: PIRATES, everything about Jay, Watching Jaya develop over the course of the season for better or worse, getting some insight into the other characters via the wishes they make, watching Jay get his moments to be the absolute badass and even Nadakhan acknowledging that (just with some horribly misguided but well-meaning intentions of the heart but he's HUMAN), the HUMOR, the Ninja Replacements and Jay getting to show off some leadership FINALLY, Jay whump, Lloyd's pirate impression, Lil Nelson!!!, Jay with an eyepatch, crashing a wedding, Echo Zane!, a commentary on how people perceive us and how we perceive ourselves can lead to great inner and outer conflict, pretty ass animation scenes esp for being in the earlier era, we got the greatest gi to ever grace our unworthy presence despite being folded the wrong way, did I mention Jay— Cons: Literally everything stated previously and probably more I'm sure you already know. But also why did they randomly MAKE DARETH LIKE THAT GOOD LORD WHY this is on par with Ronin in the Island IS2G

Rise of the Snakes- The vintage classic!!! Not ~perfect~ by any means BUT it told a cohesive story while giving everyone (even including Nya!) a little bit of spotlight and some significance and brought it all together so neatly with emotion and FUN that of course it had the power to reshape our childhoods (or teenhoods. Or adulthoods. Or nowhoods). Really its biggest flaw is simply that it was first, thus of course having a little less polish and therefore had to pave the way for better seasons to follow, but it was still a mighty tough act to follow.

Pros: Many establishing moments for the main crew for their adventures to come, antagonists that were funny, threatening, and had some pretty convincing motivations, Lloyd, highly memorable overall, easy to jump back into, gave us the legendary Weekend Whip (unless that was in the credits to the pilots too i don't remember) Cons: A bit dated nowadays, and rough around the edges, but doesn't do anything inherently wrong either. I'd say the pacing is a little quick, but in this season in particular its masked so well that you really only notice if you're looking for it (which I had been)

Master of the Mountain- And now, the truly cream of the crop. NS13 was the thing we've always wanted and always knew we needed and finally the powers that be delivered. I could rave day in and day out about Cole finally getting some much deserved focus, but for as strong and heavy-hitting as his whole arc was, the stories of the other ninja pale a bit in comparison, leaving this season unable to break the top three. Otherwise a masterclass in storytelling. And Cole.

Pros: COLE SEASON, HYPE AF FIGHT SCENES, COLE'S MOMMY, VANIA, THE UPPLY, WU AND COLE DYNAMIC, ZANE THROWING ROCKS AT KAI, THE VOICE DIRECTION (esp Lloyd, Cole, and Kai), THE SUBTLE MYSTERY OF IT ALL, THE MUSIC, THE INTRIGUE, AAAAAAA Cons: NOT ENOUGH COLE, antagonist was a bit bleh (though those fight scenes he had SERVED), could have had a little better utilization of the characters outside of "Cole's crew"

Seabound- MMMMMMM EVERY SINGLE EPISODE HIT SO GOOOOOOOOOOOOD!!!! NYA EATING FOR REAL!!! THE GODDAMN INSANE FIGHT CHOREOGRAPHY!!!! THE PEAK VILLAIN!!! THE MUSIC! THE EMOTIONS! THE PAPERGIRL! THE BENTHO! THE PILLOW MINT! THE CRUMBLING COOKIE! THE JAY ALMOST DYING FOR HIS FRIENDS! THE NYA BASICALLY DYING FOR HER FRIENDS! THE SILENT I LOVE YOU!!! THE UTTERLY GUTTING WAY IT ENDED AND LEFT ME COMATOSE FOR THREE DAYS!!!!! IT WAS SO BEAUTIFULLLLLLLL WHO GAVE THEM PERMISSION TO POP THIS HARD

Pros: *gestures wildly* Cons: It made me sad

Possession- Here we have the other fan favorite season, the bible for all people Morro-obsessed. Essentially the Seabound of the older era but with significantly less emotional devastation snksnksnk. Top-notch characterization—the Core Four have never been better with their dynamics, humor, and teamwork, it's the first real time Nya (and if we wanna be picky, Cole) get some dedicated introspective time, Lloyd is truly put to a very personal test, Ronin is there, and Morro serves as both a fantastic antagonist and a foil for all those he opposes. Simply isn't the top spot strictly because when I think of my favorite season...this ain't it, though it absolutely deserves to be.

Pros: THE CHARACTERIZATION FOR ALL, AMAZING ANTAGONIST, ALSO BEAUTIFUL ANIMATIONS, HUMOR AND HORRORS IN ONE GO, EXTREMELY REWATCHABLE, MOAR MUSIC, ENDED BITTERSWEET BUT WITH HOPE AND A SICKASS QUOTE Cons: Perhaps a touch overhyped but that's not actually the season's fault nor is it actually a con I just needed to put something here this thing is honestly airtight perfect when it comes to seasons gfgsfddfdhfkls

Tournament of Elements- yes. Yes. YEEEEEEES. To be fair this should be #3 or #4 overall quality wise MMMMMBUT I THINK ITS POTENCY CLEARS THE GAP! Season 4 ran so Season 5 could fly!!!! THE RECIPE FOR A PERFECT STORY, just, perhaps a touch undercooked, BUT THE INTENTIONS WERE FELT AND I VIBE WITH THEM H A R D

Pros: IN A SEASON WHERE THE VILLAIN DIVIDES PEOPLE WE LEARN THAT THERE IS STRENGTH IN KEEPING AND MAINTAINING MANY DIFFERENT KIND OF RELATIONSHIPS EVEN IF IT SEEMS HARD AND IMPOSSIBLE AND IN SPITE OF OUR DIFFERENCES AND EVEN IF WE DO FIND OURSELVES DIVIDED, WE SEE WE ARE STRONGER WHEN WE ARE ABLE TO COME TOGETHER AS ONE. THESE THEMES ARE SUPPORTED BY THE CHARACTERS, MUSIC, PLOT, THE ANIMATION OF THE EXPRESSIONS, AND I THINK THIS IMPORTANT OVERARCHING MESSAGE TRIUMPHS OVER EVERYTHING ELSE AS IT TRULY RESTS AT THE HEART OF NINJAGO AS A WHOLE *mic drop* Cons: Wish it delved just a bit more into the other EMs–what in the world have they all been up to??? Also wish the season ran with the tournament theme throughout the whole season rather than suddenly bouncing around in like the last three or so episodes–that kind of killed its momentum when it needed it the most. But, it still definitely stuck the landing!

#ninjago #lego ninjago #idk what else to tag this #i'm going to bed bai #don't mock my typos

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