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runningfrom2am · 7 months

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cold nights // twenty-one

summary: you showed him colours he knows he can't see with anyone else.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 4.2k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: tribute!reader and mentor!coriolanus, r is very sweet (too kind for this world. literally.), sunshine x grumpy trope kinda, he falls first, violence typical for the source material, depictions of mental illness, also she's is very smart (as she should), district twelve!reader.

a/n: oh- you guys wanted them to be happy and in love in peace?? my bad. anyway, good a time as any to wish you guys a happy valentines day! lol

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // playlist

"Where are ya takin' those?" Lennox asks you as you're quickly scanning through your piles of books, pulling out one or two at a time and holding onto them.

"I will bring them to Coryo and Sejanus." You smile to yourself, standing up straight as you finish picking out most of your favourites.

"Coryo." Lennox scrunches his nose up. "Why bother? They can't read that many books in a week. Especially when he'll hardly get his hands off you long enough to do literally anything else."

"Oh, Lennox hush. That is not true." You shake your head pointedly, cheeks burning red.

"It is true."

You had kind of explained to Lennox what happened, that Coryo explained, apologized, and that you were wrong about him. Your mother was right, of course, but Lennox still wasn't buying any of it. Although, he wouldn't deny that you seemed happier.

"Ma!" You call out, coming out of your bedroom with the stack of books in your arms. Trying to talk to Lennox about this would never end in him actually listening to you.

"Just out back, honey!"

You follow her voice out onto the back porch. "Ma, do you know if there's a limit of things you can take on the train?"

She looks up at the question, laughing at the stack of books you have steadied under your chin.

"It's not a passenger train, honey. I don't know." She chuckles. "You want to give him all of those? Won't you miss them?"

"Well..." You think about it, placing them down on the ground to rest your arms for a moment. "I don't know when I'll see him again, and books are expensive to post. Besides, I know they'll be in safe hands, and if I want to read them again I can take them from the library."

Your mom smiles sadly at you. "I suppose that's true."

"Yes." You grin, crouching down to pick the books up again carefully. "I shall go drop these off."

"When will you be back?" She asks, just as you're about to walk back inside.

"Uh, I'm uncertain, but I shouldn't be long! We don't have any plans."

"Maybe you should take your brother with you, he can carry those." She suggests and you sigh.

"No, Ma. He's mean." You pout.

"He only wants to keep you safe. Take him with you, please. He'll be driven mad here waiting for you to get back." She insists and you groan, dropping your head back. "I won't ask again, I promise."

"Okay, Ma." You relent, stepping back into the house and letting the door swing shut behind you. "Len! Ma says you're coming with me!"

"So... how do you know where they are staying?" Lennox asks you, half the books in his arms as you practically skip ahead of him.

"Coryo showed me the other day."

"Oh, he did. Of course he did." You can practically see him rolling his eyes behind your back. "Have you ever considered that he could just be using you? I mean-"

"Lennox, that's not a rational thought process. I have nothing that he would want, he already won his prize." You interrupt. "He just came here to spend time with me, we talked about that when I was in the Capitol."

"I can think of something he wants..."

"Lennox!" You turn on your heel, pointing a finger in his face so fast he almost stumbles as he stops. "That is enough. You have so little trust in me!"

"It's not like we haven't been down this road before!" He argues, and you quickly look around as he raises his voice. The path is deserted this time of day.

"And you don't think me capable of learning?"

"Clearly not! Him and Cole are practically the same person!"

"Don't you say that- I didn't like Cole and you know it." You narrow your eyes at him. "Coryo is different. He wouldn't hurt me."

"You do realize that those are like, the famous last words that every teenage girl ever has said and regretted it, right?"

"Do you just not want me to be happy?" You ask bitterly. That wasn't true and you knew it, but you were upset and you knew it would get your point across. He was being cruel.

"The opposite, actually! I just want you to think realistically about fallin' into the open arms of your 'knight in shining armour' who you've literally had nightmares about for weeks on end."

"I am not a child! I am an adult, and I am capable of making my own decisions." You spit. "He's not using me. He loves me, and I love him."

"Yeah, I'm sure he'll say that until-"

"Lennox you are such a.. boy!" You groan. "If you must know, if you must insist that I am so stupid, no, I have not slept with him. Is that what you needed so desperately to hear?"

"Gross." He mumbles, shaking his head with disgust. "I don't care what you do with your alone time, actually I'd really rather not know! All I'm saying is you need to be more careful."

"I'm not going to fight with you. You can trust my decisions or not." You grumble, turning back around to keep walking. He follows behind you silently, neither of you saying another word the whole walk there.

You knock on the door, taking a step back while you wait for it to open. You can hear your brother breathing behind you and it's driving you up the wall. You would drop off the books and send him home- maybe you would stay for a while, go for a walk, something.

The door creaks open and you smile when you see Sejanus. "Y/N!" He grins, opening the door wider for you to come in. "Coryo! Your girlfriend is here!" You blush at the term as you walk in past him.

You hadn't discussed any kind of title to what you had, the looming ache of him leaving again so soon holding you back from wanting to mention it. You assumed he didn't want to discuss it either, both of you silently agreeing just to enjoy the time you still had together.

"Y/N/N." Coryo grins, eyes lighting up as he enters the room.

"Hi." You smile, ignoring your brother pretending to gag behind you.

"What brings you?" Coryo asks. "I didn't expect to see you today, I was thinking of coming to see you myself."

"Yes, well, I went through my books and brought some over that I would like you to take." You look back over your shoulder as Lennox is placing the large pile of books on the dining table.

Coryo hums as he wraps his arms around you, resting his chin on your head. "That's a lot of books." He chuckles.

"You don't have to rush through them, keep them as long as you'd like." You assure him. "I just thought they were some you may enjoy."

"I'm sure I'll love them." He kisses the top of your head. "Thank you."

You turn in his arms to look up at him, ticking your head slightly when you hear Sejanus speak quietly. Clearly, not to either of you. "Hey, I just want to show you something. Come outside with me?" And then the door is shut, and you and Coryo are left alone.

"What's he showing him?" You ask, and Coryo watches through the window as his friend and your brother circle around to the side of the house.

"I am not sure." He answers. Immediately, he's thinking of the note Sejanus had scribbled out for himself. It included your brother's name alongside the dates and times, and those dates were creeping up quickly, the seventeenth being in three days- if he had today's date correct.

"Coryo?"

"Hm?" He looks down at you again. "You were thinkin' for a minute there. What's wrong?"

You were always so concerned. All he had done was take a moment to think, and you seemed genuinely worried. Maybe there was something in his face that showcased his confusion. "Nothing, love." He assures you, but you don't seem inclined to believe it. "Okay, uh, just... Come with me." He grabs your hand, watching out the window to make sure they aren't coming back yet as he leads you to his room.

You step into the small space and smile. He wasn't here for long, but the room already had little touches of him. The bed was made, and there was nothing on the walls but the bedside table had the copy of Romeo and Juliet he had got for you, a folded-up note, and a comb for his hair he had yet to put back in his bag despite him not needing it anymore.

You turn to face him after he shuts the door, smiling. He almost looked normal here, now. Like he was getting used to being here with you, living your life. It certainly wasn't like what he left behind in the Capitol, but to you it was special.

"Y/N, I have something to tell you." Coryo says, serious with a lowered voice. He didn't want anyone to hear it, even though you were still likely alone in the home.

"Okay." You reply, feeling your brow crease as you nod at him. His tone makes you nervous- your heart skips a beat in your chest. For a moment, you feel trapped. Tell him what you need. He won't mind.

"Can you... can you move away from the door, please?" You ask quietly before he has the chance to speak again.

He nods, not wasting a second before passing you and you turn with him, now with the door to your own back. "Is that better? You okay?" He asks and you nod.

"Fine just fine." You smile, trying to be reassuring. "What were you going to tell me?"

"Right, so..." You watch as he runs a hand over his head, still in the habit of pushing back his hair. "I was in Sejanus's room the other day, and I found this note. It had two dates and places on it, and then your brother's name and that was it."

"Oh." That's the only thing you can think of to say. "Well... do you remember the places? Maybe he was just trying to remember Len's name?"

"I don't know, I was hoping you'd know more." Coryo sighs, reaching for the bedside drawer. He had written down what he remembered from the dates and times, because he did want to ask you about it. "But he's been leaving and coming back at odd hours, he won't tell me what he's doing. Is he with Lucy Gray?"

"I don't think so." You frown, shaking your head. "But they have been getting close."

"But that doesn't really feel relevant to the note, or your brother."

"No... It certainly doesn't seem that way."

"Here, so... I wrote it down. Uh... The Hob, August seventeenth at ten pm, and broken fence August eighteenth at four am." He reads off what he remembered enough from the note to write down.

You tilt your head.

"Does that mean anything to you?"

"Well, on the seventeenth The Covey is performing at the Hob, so maybe he planned on going to that." You explain. "But broken fence... there's so many of those around here I couldn't tell you. Although, four am is an incredibly odd time to be meeting anyone."

"That's three hours before our train leaves."

"Oh." You shake your head slightly. "That's very weird."

"I know." Coryo sighs. "He won't tell me either, I've asked if he has any plans that night and he said no."

"Well... We should go." You offer. "Tell him that we're going to the meadow that night, and we'll just go after him. See who he's with."

Coryo raises his eyebrows at you. "I didn't take you for the nosy type."

"Well, I'm a big sister at heart and if it possibly involves Lennox I have to know." You argue. "It could be dangerous. He's always had a few friends I didn't love."

"Are you okay to go back there? I can go without you." He offers.

"I'll be fine." You insist. It's more so out of necessity, you have no choice but to be fine. You have to know- you have to make sure your brother and friend are safe.

"Are you sure about this?" Coryo asks, stopping you outside the entrance to the Hob. "If you want to go home I can take you, I just want you to feel safe."

"I know." You give him a small, reassuring smile as you squeeze his hand. "If I need to leave I'll tell you. I promise."

He nods, taking one last look at you to make sure you still seem okay before he pushes the door open and you both head in.

The building is buzzing- as it usually is when The Covey performs. You smile at the music, letting Coryo pull you close to the side wall as he scans the crowded room for his friend.

"Do you see him?" You ask, and he somehow hears you over the music and shakes his head.

You frown, looking around as well. No sign of Sejanus, no sign of Lennox. Lennox isn't even old enough to be here, but he wasn't at home when you left- and it's not exactly hard to sneak in.

"There," Coryo says, nodding in the direction of the opposite side of the room. You follow his eyes, and spot Sejanus talking to someone you recognize. "Who's he with?"

"Spruce." You explain. "His sister is scheduled to be executed tomorrow afternoon." You add, leaning closer so no one else will hear.

You watch as they head toward the back hall, the same one you ran down just a couple of weeks ago. "Should we go after them?" You ask when Coryo doesn't reply and he nods, watching them as he pulls you down the outside wall toward them.

You make it back to the hall without Lucy Gray spotting you, as far as you can tell. Standing outside the door, you hear shouting. You watch Coryo as he clenches his jaw, shaking his head.

"Wait out here." He tells you, dropping your hand.

"No- I, I should come." You shake your head and he grabs your cheeks, lifting your head to look into your eyes.

"I don't know what they're fighting about but it doesn't sound good. Wait out here." He's stern as he gently brushes his thumbs over your cheeks. "Listen to Lucy Gray, just watch the door. Okay, love?"

"Okay." You agree quietly, slightly nodding.

He kisses your forehead before letting you go, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open and disappearing behind it.

You chew your nails as you wait with your ear to the door, trying to decipher who is inside with them. It's hard to tell with all the shouting going on, but you hadn't heard Lennox.

"Y/N." You hear your name, quickly jumping back from the door and turning to face the voice. "What are you doin' here?"

You chew your cheek, trying to avoid Cole's gaze. "Just waitin' for Lucy Gray." You lie, looking down.

"Ah." He hums, nodding slightly as he steps closer to you. "Where's your purebred Capitol attack dog?"

"What are you doing here, Cole?" You ask, ignoring his question.

"We got leave passes for the weekend." He answers. "Hoff said something about 'boosting morale'."

"That's nice." You smile nervously. "Well, I don't want to keep you, so..."

"You aren't." He smirks, tilting his head as he looks down at you. "I'm not gonna hurt ya, you know that, right?"

"I know." You say softly.

"We're friends, aren't we?"

"Cole..." You sigh, looking down again. "We talked about this I just... We're too different. I'm sorry."

"Oh, because you have so much more in common with that prick- right?" He laughs sarcastically. "He's Capitol! He'll never know you like I do. Honestly, I'm offended that you'd choose him over me."

"I'm not choosing him over you." You frown. "I already knew we wouldn't work before I ever met him. This is very, very different. I'm sorry."

"You are? Oh, I'm glad to hear that." He nods and you eye him suspiciously. "Maybe then after he leaves, you'll give me another chance. He's taking the next train, tomorrow morning, right?"

"I can't do that, Cole." You shake your head.

"That's an awful shame." The evil smile on his face doesn't fade. "I'll have no choice but to report your father."

Your heart drops. "My Pa hasn't done anything."

He sucks in through his teeth. "Well, suspicion is enough to charge, and I don't know... I get a bit of an off feeling from him. It's actually my duty to report any suspicions we have, so honestly I've been protecting you, and I'd like to keep doing that, you know?"

You finally picked up on what he was saying, and immediately could taste the bitterness of fear on your tongue, a metallic tang that seemed to linger in the air.

"So? Do we have a date?"

"Sure." You mutter through gritted teeth.

"Sweet, thanks for finally coming to your senses, bug." Cole smiles, patting your shoulder. "I'll see you tomorrow afternoon!" He calls back as he walks away.

You don't even care what's going on inside, you can't be alone in this dark hallway anymore.

You pull the door open and rush in, but you're quickly stopped by Coryo's arm as he takes a few steps back, pushing you behind him. "What- what's-"

"She can't be in here!" Spruce spits at Coryo as you look past him, gasping at the sight of several guns on the table and the one in his arms.

"Listen, she's not involved." Sejanus promises.

"Her brother is gonna help us, it's cool. She won't tell." You look at Billy Taupe when he speaks, eyes wide.

"No- this is crazy." Mayfair shakes her head. "She's not coming with us. We're not bringing her or Lucy Gray. I'm leaving."

"No, they aren't coming. I just said I'd ask. Now she knows, so she probably should." Billy Taupe replies and your eyes flick between the couple. You had no idea what was going on, where he wanted you to go, and what this had to do with Sejanus or your brother.

"No! My daddy will have you all strung up for this." She throws her hands up and starts to walk toward the back door. Your heart is pounding in your chest as Coryo reaches for one of the guns.

"Don't!" You cry out, forcing yourself in front of him just as he aims the gun at her. At you.

"Y/N, you gotta move right now." He says quickly, and you hear her footsteps stop behind you.

You can only look at his eyes as they flit between anger, instinct, and fear.

"Coryo." You say, voice cracking and it's only then that you feel the tears dampening your cheeks.

The barrel of the gun is under an inch from your chest, and you can see his hands shaking as he holds the heavy weapon in his hands. He won't shoot you- he won't.

The world around you seems to blur as your focus narrows on the overwhelming sense of fear gripping you tightly. Right now, if someone asked where you were, you wouldn't know. You just as easily could have been standing in the arena.

He doesn't dare move as he stares at you, eyes wide. He doesn't want to hurt you, but that's why he has to do this. He can't let whoever that girl was have you killed. Still, you stand in front of him. Shaking, but not moving. This was the girl he knew from the games who offered a rose to Coral who in the moments before was threatening her. The girl who so thoroughly hated the idea of bringing harm to others that her own mind blocked it out completely and replaced the story with something else. This was the girl who was willing to give up her life just to be able to give the other tributes an honourable burial that she knew they wouldn't otherwise receive.

The girl who saw him kill another boy and despite all of that, still had it in her heart to forgive him.

You don't even hear Mayfair laugh and begin to walk away again, you only hear the gunshot that follows. You jump, immediately looking down to assess the damage. Coryo wasn't pointing the gun at you anymore, he had dropped his arms in defeat- and you had mistaken the loud noise for an impact you were expecting.

He didn't shoot you.

"What did you do?" You turn as Billy Taupe screams, eyes widening as you see Mayfair bleeding out on the floor.

"Oh god- oh god..." You mumble, stepping back until you bump into Coryo. He drops the gun back onto the table, pulling you into his arms.

"Don't look, don't look..." He tells you, turning you and pressing your head to his chest so you can't see anymore even if you wanted to.

You can't even make out what Spruce and Billy Taupe are yelling at each other over the sound of your blood pumping through your veins. Until the second gunshot.

You must be sobbing now, clinging onto the front of Coryo's shirt so tight your knuckles are burning. "You're okay, it's okay." He tells you. You don't know what's going on- you don't want to.

Coryo stares between Spruce and the body of Billy Taupe now slumped down next to Mayfair. He needs to get you out of here, now, but he doesn't know how. This has to be handled first.

He's letting you go only to grab your cheeks and get you to look at him. "Go back outside, you have to go back outside, I will handle this."

You can't even speak- can't even move. You try and shake your head. You couldn't leave him, not right now. You feel like you'd die the moment he ceased touching you.

The door slides open again, followed by an angry voice you know too well. "What the fuck?" Cole must have been watching you. He must have heard.

"No..." You cry, shaking your head. If Cole saw this you were absolutely all screwed.

"What the fuck did you do?" Cole shouts again. "Nobody fucking move! You're all-"

Another gunshot. Silence.

"Oh no, no, no..." You try and look behind Coryo but he doesn't let you, holding your head firmly into his chest again.

"It's okay. Don't look." He says again, staring at Sejanus who looks like he's panicking just as much as you are now.

"Why'd you tell them where we were? Now you've gone and screwed us all over! I just shot a peacekeeper!"

"He didn't tell anyone." Coryo defends him. "We followed him, Cole followed us."

"Fuck." Spruce sighs, throwing the gun onto the pile of others still laid across the table. "We gotta bump this up. We have to get Lil now, go tell Lennox to get the stuff and hide it for us like we said."

"Get rid of the guns and pretend this never happened."Coryo hisses. "And leave the kid out of this. It's too late for whatever plan you had now- we don't know where he is."

You can't even hear a single thing going on anymore. You're actually sure you might faint.

When you go from shaking to completely still in Coryo's arms, he knows you have. "Shit..." He mumbles, trying to steady you as your knees give out. He quickly readjusts so he can lift you with an arm under your knees and the other under your back.

"I gotta get her out of here and you have to move quick. Get rid of the guns. Now." He instructs, and surprisingly, Spruce listens. He throws the weapons into a bag and steps over the two bodies by the door before leaving.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this." Sejanus cries, gripping onto his hair and breathing heavily. "No one was supposed to get hurt!"

"Sejanus, for once just shut up!" He grabs his attention from where his friend is staring at the dead couple, clearly losing his mind. Coryo doesn't have time for this- an unconscious girl in his arms and his friend looking like he's about to be in the same state in a matter of moments.

"It's all my fault..."

"All of this is your fault!" Coryo agrees, looking around at the mess of the room. "It's only gonna get worse if you don't pull yourself together."

"Oh, god..."

"If you breathe a word now, all three of us are finished. Just like in the arena. We came here to see her. If we go down, she goes with us." He holds you tighter to his chest as your hair falls over the curve of his arm, your head limp against his skin. "So now we have to go back to the house, gather all our shit, and act like nothing is wrong. We have to board the train tomorrow like nothing is wrong. Do you understand?"

"I- I don't know." Sejanus sniffs.

"Hey." Coryo says, taking a few steps closer. "Look at me. You have to pull it together. I know you wanted to go with them but now they aren't going. We've got to stick together. You won't get in trouble. I won't let anything happen to you, but you have to listen to me." It was obvious that it didn't matter that none of you pulled the trigger- being in the room was enough; especially when a peacekeeper had been murdered. If you were caught, you'd all be executed. "We're brothers, yeah? Brothers. Whatever you've done, I swear I will keep you safe."

"Brothers. Yeah." Sejanus mutters, still obviously in shock.

"Those guns were the only loose ends besides the four of us, so we're gonna be okay as long as we leave tomorrow." He breathes. "Okay? Not a word."

"O-Okay." Sejanus nods slightly, trying to keep his focus on the boy in front of him rather than their unconscious friend in his arms.

Coryo tried to give him a reassuring smile, but inside he was panicking too. They could escape it all on the train tomorrow, but now came the problem of what to do with you.

taglist: @soulessjourney , @that-veela-girl , @dreamyysouls, @rockstarbfs , @maysileeewrites , @baybieruth , @kitscutie , @fratboyharrysgf0201 , @totallynotkaibiased , @stelleduarte , @secretsicanthideanymore , @bejeweledreverie , @drewsandsebastianswife , @niicole-87 , @queenofshinigamis , @innercreationflower , @nallasstuff , @iovemoonyy , @thatmarvelchick19 , @wearemadeofstardust0 , @regulusblackcore , @puredreamagination , @fantasticchaosthing , @becauseseaotters , @secretsicanthideanymore

okay suddenly tumblr isn't letting me tag more people than this so i just made some cuts unfortunately :') i just left the max amount of people i could whose users i recognized and see in my notifs all the time :) if you're not on here and you should be i'm so sorry!

also this taglist is closed now!! if you’d like to get a notification when i update, turn on my post notifications!! i promise i won’t spam y'all :,)

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sunboki · 8 months

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You and Han Jisung are the ultimate best friends. While he’s busy nerding away, you’re filling him in on the latest and greatest drama. That’s until he brings up crushes. And I mean, what’re you supposed to say when he asks you that? It’s not like Jisung’s your crush… right?

📓 » Han Jisung x f. reader

GENRE┊non idol au, friends to lovers, (kinda) enemies to lovers, two idiots being oblivious, fake relationship au, highschool au, angst, fluff, slowburn

WORD COUNT┊5.1k words

PLAYLIST

WARNINGS┊profanity, lack of communication, childish pettiness, stupidity at insane levels

AUG’S NOTES┊valentine’s day with ji :(( take this as my tribute to hurting my own feelings with this fic 😭

THE BOYFRIEND STATUS TAGLIST — CLOSED

The first night of your downfall all started in mid-January.

All was well and had been going well, until it wasn’t.

You’ve known Han Jisung since second grade, starting with having to apologize for knocking over his castle and him proceeding to cry even louder in the sandbox, snotty in his red and white striped shirt.

You swear that shirt is still in his closet.

And when he was wimping away in a corner, you were the one that got him out of his shell. To this day you’re convinced you’re the first person to ever witness the true Han Jisung, who starts slapping things when he laughs really hard, who gets overly competitive during board games, who keeps hundreds of mind-blowing tracks he’s produced to himself, and who (you wouldn’t admit it) has one of the prettiest smiles in the world.

Freshman year of high school you met Jisung again in your Geography class.

Initially, it took you a moment to recognize his face, having changed quite a bit over the years. And certainly not a bad kind of change. Although, his nerdy personality was all the assurance you needed to figure out it was him, apart from that he switched to contacts, grew his hair out more, and looked, y’know, “older.”

Older as in: what happened to you? ..Why are you so attractive?

But you won’t get too far into that.

Through the years he tutored you. Jisung had a knack for studying since day one, and despite occasionally looking like he could pass as a dropout (usually the week before finals), no one else could maintain better grades than him.

So, on a night both you and Jisung were slouched over your desk, procrastinating school work by rating people at school from most to least kissable, he turns to you, face halfway illuminated by your lamp.

“Do you like anyone?” Your boba-eyed friend asks while you aimlessly scroll through your camera roll in search of the photo you’d been talking about, mumbling a quiet “of course” in response.

Jisung makes an unconvinced noise and clasps his hands together, leaning forward.

“No like, like like anybody.”

Finally escaping your ‘rating people’s kissing-capabilities’ headspace and now entering into your ‘is this the question i think it is?’ one, you wipe your sweaty palms on your jeans.

It’s a strange question, not a Jisung-question, and you find yourself growing increasingly nervous the longer he stares at you.

You’ve never even thought about it really, so why are you so sweaty? Why does your heart feel as if it may just beat out of your chest, why is your mouth so dry?

Questions.

Clearing your throat and secretly praying it didn’t give away your piling anxiety, you feign a roll of your eyes, tapping your fingernail on the cool desk.

God, why are you so nervous?

“Um, nobody, why?” You retort, ignoring the scrutinizing squint of his eyes watching you.

It’s never like this. You’re the one that teases, gets him all shy, stumbling over his words. So now you suddenly feel like Jerry and he’s Tom.

Abnormal.

“C’mon, there has to be someone you think is cute,” He whines, and before you can stop it one word smacks you upside the head.

You.

“It’s Minho!” You shout, hurried and barely audible as if trying to tune out your inner panic.

Han looks stunned.

Han as in best friend, not crush. Right.

What were you thinking?

“..Min.. Minho?” He phrases slowly, evidently surprised.

Being completely honest, you’re just as surprised as he is. Minho is attractive, sure, but never in your life did you consider him like that.

Oh how you wished you could erase all of this from ever happening.

It doesn’t make sense. Because it’s not like you’re into Jisung. Or are you?

Nope. Nuh-uh. You were just caught off guard and unprepared. Not to mention it was an unexpected question, that’s all.

Fuck.

You like Jisung. There’s no point of lying to yourself anymore. From the start of seeing him again, those “friendly” gestures weren’t friendly anymore, they were intentional, pursuing. Walking from class to class together, constantly checking your texts, meeting his eyes only to smile like fools.

“Yep. Minho. That’s the guy,” Cutting each sentence shorter than the last, you nod fervently, avoiding his gaze.

Both soaking in utterly hellish silence, the tension was likely seeping through the cracks in your door at this rate.

He really shouldn’t have ever brought this up, and you shouldn’t have said Minho. So on the bright side, at least you’re both at fault here in the grand scheme of things.

“..Alright then.” He shrugs and goes back to writing down notes, ignoring how the room feels a hundred degrees hotter and that every inch of your soul is drenched in a cold sweat, plagued with the situation you landed yourself in.

What has gotten into you?

Why Minho was the first name you said couldn’t be explained, and, with your amazing fortune, Minho happened to be Jisung’s friend in their shared engineering program.

Any name. You could’ve said any name.

Great.

“Psst!” You hiss, lingering behind the door, waiting for your victim to finally finish his day-long conversation with Mr. Hong.

Said victim (a.k.a Minho) delivering a venomous glare from the corner of his eye, you gesture for him to come nearer (much to his obvious dislike) once the coast had cleared. Thankfully, the classroom was a distance from Jisung’s, providing ample time to strike your plan before they joined sixth period together.

A plan that had been devised throughout the many hours you spent sleeplessly investigating your ceiling last night.

“I need your help.”

Wait for it. Here comes the questions.

“Is this about Jisung?”

Before you can open your mouth, he cuts you off.

“You got in trouble again, didn’t you?”

You sigh.

“I-“

“Are you pregnant?”

“SHUT— up.” Grabbing a strong hold onto your one opportunity to speak, you clamber both him and yourself into the nearest seat, dreading this experience the longer Minho stares daggers into your soul.

The idea is a stretch, but if the boy in front of you cooperates, at least a few bases might get covered.

“Minho, I need your help with Jisung.”

Anticipatory eyebrows (looking freaky similar to a cat) urge you further.

“Alright, first things first,” You huff, fishing in your bag prior to sliding the notebook in front of him. His eyes widen, breathing an esteemed “wow” upon reading each line.

“Rules For Our Fake Relationship”, The title reads in messy sharpie marker. A silly, first-grade clique idea, although, if wielded correctly, could very easily quell your.. “problem” for a bit while you brainstormed the next step.

Problem being, how can I make sure, at all costs, my best friend doesn’t know I’m in love with him?

“You really thought this one through, huh.”

“I do what I have to.” Cracking your knuckles and stretching your neck, you ignore Minho’s judgemental eyeball and begin setting down some basic rules.

#1 Under no circumstances should we ever kiss.

He seems to whole-heartedly agree on that one, pretty much gagging at the thought.

#2 No one but us is allowed to know this is fake.

The rest is history, so by the time you’ve reached twenty and he adds a “No acting lovey-dovey around me” rule, you realize you might as well make this a “Rules For Worst Enemies” list instead.

But just as you hand him the pen, awaiting his signature with an eager gaze, he deflates, popping the cap back on much to your displeasure.

“Before I sign my life away to your Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, you have to promise me something.”

“..Okay.”

Please don’t say your credit card, please don’t say your credit card please don’t say your credit ca-

“No matter how long this,” he gestures to your page-full of rules, “lasts, you have to find a way to explain yourself to him before Valentine’s Day, deal?”

Valentine’s day gives you a full two weeks to keep up your act, and as much as you want to deny and tell him that would technically break Rule #2, you doubt he’ll agree any other way. It’s Minho for goodness sake, you could throw a brick at his head and he’d wake up in the hospital the next day still remembering to feed his cats.

You’ll make an excuse.. or something like that.

Fine.

“Deal.”

Finally signing the bottom of the notebook paper, the bell rings for your next class to begin and your hand has already started to cramp horribly, a telltale sign your job here is done.

Stashing the illegitimate document in your bag and parting in opposite directions, your movements halt when Minho shouts your name, his flannel-clad form sporting a mildly smug grin.

“Hey! Don’t fall in love with me, okay?” He yells, and you make a disgusted face before both erupting into laughter.

After a rather ungrateful attempt of explaining your tardiness to English class, you drop your backpack down beside your desk, notifications buzzing with texts Jisung sent earlier today asking about where you want to sit for lunch tomorrow and your weekly tutoring sessions amongst other things.

A frown tugged at your lips.

You shouldn’t have lied, really really shouldn't have. So deep inside you hope; pray this’ll be your solution.

Fuck.

Jisung likes you.

Scratch that, he’s liked you. Liked you ever since fifth grade, when he skinned his knee wrecking his favorite captain america bicycle and you patched him up with multiple superhero bandaids.

So when he finds out it’s Minho you’re interested in, Lee Minho who in a billion years he didn’t expect you to be interested in, he’s astonished.

Because it’s not every day your best friend who you’ve been harboring the fattest crush on tells you she’s interested in another guy, especially not your other good friend, so he feels entitled to feeling a tad bit upset.

It’s not your fault and he knows it. You don’t know he likes you because he’s too much of a coward to say anything, do anything.

But somehow, in some majestic, all-knowing way, he wishes you had said his name instead.

Whether it was Summer Camp in middle school or all those times he’d sat behind you in Algebra just to talk to you, it was inevitable. Because before either of you knew it, he was falling in love, and apparently you were falling in love too; with someone else.

“Alright, and? Are you gonna tell me, y’know, why you like her?”

Awaiting the dismissal bell, he folded, desperately needing some kind of assurance. First person he usually went to was you, but that wasn’t possible now, since it’s not like he could simply run up to you and shout out his feelings, could he?

Duh, of course he could. Which is another reason why he won’t, and why he doubts he ever will.

Hell, merely talking to you on the phone whenever Minho passes by amounts to a mini heart-attack.

Instead, Seo Changbin stepped in, and in the midst of a barely occupied cafe, Han Jisung found himself spilling his guts. Spilling his guts as in: venting and brainwashing himself into thinking he could win you over.

“I mean, everything.”

His friend makes a hopeless sort of sound, head resting on his hand.

“She’s like…” Han forks a bit of the cheesecake, Changbin’s expression spurring his cynical seat-mate to continue.

“Cheesecake.”

The level-headed of the two chokes on his drink.

“..Cheese– Cheesecake?”

Han affirmatively nods. “And I love Cheesecake.”

Changbin rises from the table with a frantic Jisung in tow, pleading for his friend to hear him out.

“Look! Look wait, Changbin please-“

He swore the man’s eye twitched.

Although, they’ve known each other for four years, and he was quick thinking up a solution.

“I’ll work out with you for a month.”

He’s never seen a man sit himself down faster.

And as a result, their two hours of utterly senseless talk turned into short-lived (yet greatly appreciated) relief, filled with bits and pieces of advice granted by the matchmaker (Seo Changbin) himself. Plus, he made a good point in advocating you weren’t going out with Minho yet, right? Meaning, despite the possibility being sparse, he had a 1% on his side.

Rain pelted the campus upon his exit, the boy clambering his hood over his head, stepping a mere foot into the watery terrain for a text to vibrate his phone.

Usually he’d ignore it, but that was before he saw the number.

You.

Han stopped dead in his tracks, hoodie slipping off his head in the process—standing there, assailing droplets drenching his form, device clutched in a numb grasp.

Guess the relief wasn’t the only thing short-lived.

Y/N : You’ll never guess what happened Ji!! Minho asked me out!

Something about Jisung is different recently. You’re not sure if it’s an effect of your (fake) relationship, but he’s just.. different.

Distant.

Perhaps you should’ve expected it. This is the first time you’ve ever been in a relationship while being friends with Jisung, and the entire point of this after all is to keep your mushy feelings hidden.

But his entire “cold” persona was starting to get under your skin.

Yesterday he’d completely ditched you to talk to Chan, a fellow producer in the same class as Jisung which, might you add, never happened.

In fact, there was a time that your best friend had gotten so immersed in a conversation he slammed right into a pole. He still has a scar on his nose from it.

More so, a few months ago, leaning against the sink in his dorm the day after midterms when you’d be stressing and obsessing over precalculus, he reached up, cupped your cheek in a hand and rubbed his thumb along your skin.

..And you tumbled head first into those silly feelings the “he’s just a friend” Y/n had locked away and thrown out the key to.

Little did you know Jisung had a spare key all along.

“Eyelash,” He had said, but in your pounding eardrums the comment sounded more like a whisper, an invitation.

That night you lay in bed, trying incessantly to fall asleep to no avail, because every time you close your eyes the scene ran on replay, except in your fairytale he had leaned forward and kissed you—

A car alarm going off outside your window knocks your daydream awry, ushering you to give up on peaceful slumber after the three-hour trial period.

So why were you upset? You wanted this; you wanted to stay as friends out of the fear he didn’t feel the same—even more so that your friendship would dissipate along with it.

Easy.

It didn’t feel fair. You felt like, even though Jisung didn’t have any romantic intentions with you, you were technically (unintentionally) assigning his position as the third wheel without so much as a single vote.

And it didn’t feel fair, because a possibility remained.

A possibility that could mean Jisung liked you, and if that were the case, your efforts, not to mention your mind, would officially drift itself into a never ending orbit.

Albeit amongst your mental warfare, school ran right on schedule, blind to the infinitely deep shithole you had dug (and wished to bury) yourself in.

Thursday’s schedule consisted of a main topic.

Senior prom.

According to your firsthand accounts, prom in high school is either the best or the worst school event in the history of events.

The popular girls stick to tiny maxi dresses with overly tall heels and massive hoop earrings—granted, you don’t blame them for the dress, they’ve got snatched bodies, but sometimes (most of the time) the glitz and glam is a lot on the eyes.

Jocks will show up in cargo’s or dress pants thinking they’re the shit while their attire doesn’t even cut it when you look at their weekly exchange of a girlfriend, but hey, that’s high school.

If you were talking about yourself, you’d say prom was, well, prom. Not horrible, not amazing either.

Freshman year you spent way too much time rewatching “To All The Boys I’ve Loved Before” and filling your nights treating the approaching occasion like a sacred holiday. Sophomore year you began to lose interest, and as for Junior year, you nearly forgot it existed.

The more you thought about it though, Jisung would honestly rock a pair of heels.

Anyway, that’s besides the point.

Senior year, this year, there was a change in your rotation. Change, as in, big change. A what-about-Jisung-while-Minho’s-in-the-picture change.

It’s not like you were genuinely dating Minho, yet your wack job of a situation kept you from telling your best friend (crush) who is deliberately avoiding you at the moment, the truth.

Never in your life did you think you’d string yourself into something like this. That Han Jisung, that snotty-nosed boy, would be a constant reason for your incessant headaches, occupying every expanse of your mind on a continuous loop.

And by chance, fate of some kind, you finally run into the runaway culprit, tagging along with Changbin after the lunch break he normally spent with you.

Oh how the tables have turned.

So when the boy expertly dodges your first attempt to communicate, you don’t let him go, unwilling to let another unread message slip past without sparing a word.

“Jisung- wait.”

He turns to you, lips drawn in that straight line that always forms when he’s nervous.

Hundreds of possible questions you could ask in this moment, minimal time.

“Are you.. going to the prom?”

What kind of question is that you dumbass.

Fixating you with an equally incredulous stare, he tips his head slightly, a mocking, humorless chuckle following.

“Um, yeah?”

What. The. Fuck.

Maybe it’s the way he phrased his words, his cocky attitude when responding that irked your nerves. Regarding you like you’re three years old.

And maybe that’s your flaw, feeling like you’re supposed to be the one sending him beet red instead, used to that comforting casualness, your comforting casualness.

Together.

You wrinkle your nose, ripping your hand from his sleeve like you were stung.

Jisung seemed to feel it too, although only you could tell.

“Oh.. okay. I’m going with Minho, my- boyfriend, so don't worry about me!”

Aw shit, now you’re just embarrassing yourself. Shut up and leave, girl.

Jesus, why do you feel like crying?

You’d never sprinted off faster, long abandoning sympathizing with the now jerk-face Jisung and certainly trying to abandon the two days separating prom’s date and the three from Valentines, otherwise, your explanation deadline.

Talk about pressure.

Nonetheless, shopping for something couple-clique was hell. After never anticipating you’d be shopping for two in the first place, simply finding a flattering color proved itself challenging.

Minho was ungodly picky, and you refused to wear what this lunatic deemed prom-worthy. Also, simultaneously trying your hardest to welcome whatever prom season was (an occasion that felt disgustingly uncomfortable) and staying awake to tirelessly plan on how you would behave seeing Han there left no room for relaxing.

Oh, and telling him everything before Valentines too, adding another sleepless night to your February calendar.

Insomnia much?

“Yah! The tie is what makes us look like a couple!” You groan, pressing the dark green bow tie to his shirt while his grabby hands attempt at prying you off.

February 12th arrived dangerously fast, to the point you managed to snag a somewhat-similar tie and dress shade at the last minute, a tie of which you were straining to attach to Minho while standing in an adjacent room to the packed auditorium.

He childishly whines, complaining that it’s too much before all of a sudden the door springs open, figure standing frozen in the entrance.

A figure none other than Jisung.

Best part? Your hands are pressed to Minho’s chest, stuck in a rather compromising position now that you mention it.

“Oh— sorry, um,” He steps back, frantically closing the door in his wake.

This is what you wanted though, isn’t it? Payback for how rude he’d been, for him to believe you were dating Minho, that you weren’t remotely interested in him.

Regardless, it feels like betrayal.

Your companion’s mildly concerned look speaks your mind.

In the midst of your mental tormenting session however, Minho slammed his hip into the side of the door while leaving, gritting out a hushed curse.

“Want me to kiss it for you?” You automatically tease, puckering up your lips in an attempt to block out the voice in your head calling you heartless.

Well, it’s not like Jisung likes you. The only feelings you’re hurting here are yours.

“I. Would. Rather. Die.” He retaliates, nose scrunched while nursing the wound.

‘What a sweetheart’ you want to call back, but the weight on your chest seals your lips shut, and with a nervous nod you stiffly head toward the opening hall.

Something to blame. Right about now, you need something to blame that would at least provide some breathing room considering the blasting of a bass shaking the floor and just how many people are crammed in here.

Everything feels too tight, too much. Minho’s got a loose hold on your hand to keep up the act, but for who? You can’t spot Jisung anywhere.

The fake boyfriend to your side caught on relatively early, sending you a troubled expression you mirror back.

An hour in and there was no enjoying yourself, no laughing and slipping drinks somebody stole from their parents, no dancing around or sending the same compliment to seventy girls on repeat.

Han wasn’t here even after he had told you (asshole-like) he’d come. The entire reason you went these lengths.

Amidst your frustration, you spot a man in the crowd.

Aha.

Chan.

I’m not looking for Jisung I’m not looking for Jisung I’m not looking for Jisung—

“Where’s Jisung?”

You’re kidding.

Chan narrows his eyes, giving your wavering, obviously upset frame a once over.

“Jisung? He dropped off something for Felix. Didn’t he tell you he wasn’t coming?”

Again, you’re kidding.

What a liar.

And maybe you shouldn't have yourself get so mad. Jisung didn’t even know the half of it, nonetheless how far you’ve gone to secure his suspicions were out of your hair.

But you did go that far, and to think he didn’t show up after all left your tribulations useless.

Calm down, the sensible Y/n would scold.

This wasn’t the sensible Y/n.

Racing from the auditorium to the neighboring apartment complex a block or so away, you utilize the extra key he’d given to you, bursting through the door while ripping off your gloves and kicking off your mud-stained heels along the way.

Han spins around, clad in regular clothes—somewhat regular clothes apart from how incredible he looks—with his biceps straining against the sleeves of his t-shirt, glasses adorning his face, plate of leftovers in hand.

He’s been working out recently, or maybe the majority of the Jisung you’d seen wore hoodies and baggy tees.

You’ll thank whoever got him to the gym later. Presently, number one is Jisung. You and Minho can be dealt with afterward.

“Look, I know you really don’t want to hear this right now, but Minho and I broke up and—“

The words sound like vomit on your tongue, especially from the look Jisung gives you in return.

Fake, It’s all fake. Yet, it feels so real. Yes, you’re still mad, but it’s Jisung, and who are you to deny you still aren’t into him.

You don’t have to be sensible to know that.

“So?”

So? He asks. This Jisung asks, not the one who would’ve, at the drop of a hat, asked if you were alright, asked if you needed anything like a friend does. This is cocky Jisung, jerk-face Jisung.

You’re spoiled with the old Jisung, were spoiled.

But this isn’t him, this is somebody else.

Your frustration levels might breach out of your ears at this rate.

“Don’t look at me like that,” He scoffs, carding a hand through soft strands of hair. “I’m not Minho. I’m not someone you can drag along just for the fun of it, alright?”

Who are you?

Wildly, you wrack your brain for any plausible explanation.

“What- What do you mean drag you along? I would never—”

“Then why?!” He cries, slamming the plate against the table hard enough you notice a crack wedged on the side.

Breaking point.

Come to think of it, this is the first time you’ve ever heard Jisung yell.

What felt to be months and months on end of this lying and stifling came out to this, huh.

Screw it.

“Because! Because I like you, no, I love you Jisung, I love you so fucking much it kills me! Minho and I were fake! I set up all this bullshit just because I was scared of what we have disappearing, can’t you understand that?!”

He’s seething; fat, crocodile tears dotting his waterline. And you stand there pathetically, waiting to hear it, hear something.

“Turn around.”

Huh?

He raises his eyebrows expectantly, and you slowly do as told, awkwardly shuffling around till your back faces him.

His fingers sift across your back, chills spreading along your skin.

“You’ve been uncomfortable all night, haven’t you? Why didn’t you tell Min— Tell me?” He grumbles, unzipping the back of your dress and simultaneously allowing much needed air to re-enter your lungs.

You don’t need to respond for him to know, another of the many things you’ve fallen for when it comes to Jisung.

Although, another reason added to that list would be his arms wrapping around your waist, cozying to your back. And another when you shift around, your own arms slipping to his neck, savoring a hug you hadn’t realized how horribly you missed.

“Can you go back to being just Y/n and not Minho’s fake girlfriend?” He mutters, head buried in your neck.

“Yeah yeah.” You respond, voice wavering the longer you stay pressed in his embrace.

Jisung pulls back slightly, studying your face.

“Can I…” He begins trailing off, eyes suddenly laser-focused on your face.

A roaring pit of deja vu swallows you whole.

His thumb does that, that thing again. That careful caress on your cheek, that close proximity.

“Eyelash.”

Everything feels like it’s on loop.

Only difference is when he begins to lean forward, and you swear it’s your imagination when he pulls the glasses off his face, lips barely ghosting over yours.

“Can I kiss you, please?” His tone slightly breathless, you don’t have to say a word by the way you’re looking at him for Jisung to take initiative.

Yet, his feather-light peck to your forehead catches you off guard, preparing to laugh before a careful hand slips to hold your neck, maneuvering your face into a kiss you’re certain you’ll remember.

Jisung, whom, quite frankly, squealed every time the two main characters confessed their love to each other, who was emotional and fragile, was kissing you.

He kisses you, just like that stupid fantasy.

It’s messy, inexperienced, but it’s Jisung. That’s enough.

And then, even worse for your sanity, his hands slip beneath your thighs to pick you up—an action that wouldn’t have been this detrimental if he hadn’t gained so much muscle recently—but it does.

Basically breathing him in, you’re slow to separate, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, sending chills down your spine.

Your nerves are on fire.

If anything, the world could burn and you’re certain you wouldn’t even notice, not when Jisung had you caged between his arms on the bar stool, positively enamored with every slight huff and gasp of air, the squeezing grip you had on his arms.

Ignorant to the point you forgot about his gym-partner (likely responsible for helping Jisung grow muscle, you’d thank him later for that) otherwise roommate who wouldn’t appreciate his best friend hogging in the kitchen.

Luckily, it only took the clattering of keys lodging into the doorknob to pull you two off of each other, scrambling to grab clothing while you raced to the bathroom, slamming the door behind you.

Mere seconds after your hasty escape does the man, the myth, and the legend walk in, duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

Jisung awkwardly grins, leaning back on the island as if you hadn’t just been sitting there, all pretty and perfect.

Han had always thought Changbin would be some type of dog in his past life—maybe a Rottweiler. And by the way he seemed to practically smell something was up, he was certain of it.

“Did I.. walk in on something?”

Nearly slipping half-way through his reply, Jisung (non)chalantly wiped a bout of sweat from his hairline.

“Nope! Just uh.. organizing?”

He would get weeks of shit if anyone caught on, nonetheless his roommate.

Instead of interrogating him further, Changbin grunted, bending down to pick up what the younger thought to be a piece of trash, only for one of your heels to be pinched between his fingertips, expression reading: “Seriously? Organizing?”

Color draining from his face, Jisung humorlessly chuckled, likely sweating enough to fill the Atlantic ocean.

“Did I ever tell you about my secret life as a drag queen?”

Hastily snatching the shoe away at the older boy’s face palm, his face flushing ten thousand degrees upon the cuff to the shoulder he received.

“Y/n?” His friend called loudly, met with your pitiful “here…” from the bathroom and a smug giggle from an amused gym-rat.

Yeah. Shit for weeks.

“Do you think Minho’s a good kisser?” Jisung piques, sprawled out on the couch with a bag of potato chips in hand.

The first official night of your relationship with Han started in mid-February. Tonight, you planned a movie date.

You, almost suffocating from how fast you inhaled, threw a not-so-kind slipper at him, the boy screaming avidly in response.

Through a fake relationship, pettiness, and a sad attempt at making-out, in a sense, you did explain yourself.

Hah. Suck it Minho.

“Hey! I’m just asking!”

FIC TAGLIST. @liknws @itshannjisung @spearbinnie0327 @manuosorioh @dearly-somber @thefangirloncrack @ivydoesit23 @thisrandomgoofy15 @thisisnotjacinta @palindrome969 @shycreationdreamland @j-oneseungz @hyperpixie @eyearebee @cupidcures @gumiess @loxgirl2004

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anamelessfool · 3 months

Text

Papa IV "Copia" x GN! Reader (AO3 Link)

Domestic Fluff, GEN with some strong language.

You’re in the middle of recovering from a broken leg, and after a few months of this every appointment feels more like a setback than a step forward. At least Copia had been there. This whole time, your man was there.

Dedicated to my friend @thew0man. I hope this domestic fluff instantly heals you. Thank you for all your support. Keep being your lovely self.

Tags: Gender Neutral, Established Relationship, Healing After Injury, Married Life, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff. Broken Bones, Wheelchairs, Medical Issues

The lift stops at the fourth floor with a final clunk that knocks a tired sigh from you. Your leg in its cast and new boot stirs and issues a dull ache as a reminder. Your love Copia is wedged in the corner by the buttons, his mismatched eyes blinking in their perplexed way as he waits just a bit more until he's sure the lift’s stopped. He meets your eyes, flashes you a tender smile and a little thumbs up. “Home sweet home, eh?” He chuckles. He squeezes his body around your wheelchair in the tiny service elevator of your flat, nearly stumbling backwards into the hall.

“There you go, I got you,” Copia mutters, placing his hands on either side of the chair to help pull you out.

“I'm fine, I'm fine Copia,” you reply, moving your hands along the hand rims to roll the wheels forward. You exit the lift with a thunk and wince. The painkillers have done their job but your leg still throbs in its boot. The boot is new, and it was a good step towards actually getting over this. In the car you admitted to Copia your exhaustion from today’s appointment, so like a gentleman he brought down the wheelchair.

“Now, amore, we spend the rest of our Saturday relaxing, si?” He says by your ear. “You eh— you need help?”

“No I'm fine.” You give him a weak smile. He's so attentive that those butterflies start to wake. The ones where you're worried for him. You feel a flush of nerves as he continues his friendly chatter as you wheel yourself down the hall towards your flat.

In a few moments you're inside your place and sitting once more on the couch. Copia has arranged a nest of blankets around you as carefully as a mama bird, settling you in for another late afternoon and evening to get through while you heal. Your leg in the cast itches. It always does at the worst time. You stare at it hoping just giving it a tired look will make it stop, but it continues, taunting you. You notice once more an old get well card over the television and its memory continues to sink your mood.

Happy Valentine’s Day, you say to yourself whenever you feel down about your situation. The red and pink, white lace and teddy bears were the decorations festooned across your earliest memories of your accident. The sweet little tributes filled the hospital room but also reminded you too much of how badly you miscalculated. If only I…if I had just…why didn’t I… Over and over the moments replayed themselves in your brain as you stared into the black plastic eyes of yet another “Grin and Bear It!” Plush delivered to your room. Happy Valentine’s Day but it was nearing July. And every time you returned from your doctor’s office it never felt like an improvement, just another problem.

At least Copia had been there. This whole time, your man was there. He had travelled to your hospital bedside as soon as he was able, clearing his schedule to spend time playing Uno and reading you books until you fell asleep. “My love…You'll be well soon,” he had said as he held your hands in his own over the rough hospital blanket. “Believe you'll be well and you'll be well, amore. That's most of it, si? The em— power of the mind and all. Getting you through.”

He's helped you to every appointment he can, kept you clean and fed and comfortable. His whole world was you, even though it had shrunk to the size of your apartment and the occasional wheel around the park to stay sane.

“Let’s get you comfortable, here em—yes, perfetto,” Copia murmurs. He's here even now, adjusting the pillows around you on the couch. He's wearing his Saturday best of ratty red sweatshirt that’s seen better days but over time has become impossibly soft. His freckled cheek is right beside yours, his eyes lowered as he works. He smells of lavender and Florida water aftershave as you lean forward and steal a kiss for yourself. He makes one of those little noises in his throat, frowning comically as he stands up.

“You're distracting me,” he says. “Although I know I am irresistible. As I um— as I seduce you with all of these em…couch cushions.” Copia ends his task with his own thoughtful little kiss on your forehead before moving on to the kitchen nearby.

You learned that when he can't touch you in the ways he wants, he'll stack your table high with food. You're not sure if it's an Italian thing or a Copia thing but watching him putter about in a kitchen calms you down after another long day of being stuck in your thoughts. “We can see that see that gangster film if you like em— which one was it? The one with the guy who…oh, he's in that other film…”

Copia continues his rambling as he chops things in the kitchen. There's the sizzle of oil and the comforting scent of your favorite meal wafts into the living room. You shake your head, laughing quietly to yourself. Spiced tagine chicken, your favorite. Copia's awful proud about how he's figured it out and so now you assume with another chuckle that this is what you're going to eat for the rest of your life.

Or at least until your leg was better. You stare at the new cast now, frowning at it propped up on the ottoman.

You were better, but you were far from recovered. And as sweet as he was, you were worried Copia wouldn’t keep his patience. At some point he’d get tired hauling you from one appointment to another. Would get frustrated from helping you to and from the car, would get bored from all the missed opportunities for sweet dinner dates, concerts or cocktail bars.

It was embarrassing enough asking him for the most basic things that just weeks ago you would do without a thought— damn, if only I—getting up the stairs, bathing, cooking meals. A part of you decided to tell you stories about what was going through Copia’s mind as he doted on you. Surely, this task would be the one to put him over the edge. Yes, this setback, this latest appointment will make his smiles and cheerful demeanor fade. When he wasn’t around you’d sleep. Or lie awake wondering.

Maybe you'll start with a game. Some Zelda or Phoenix Wright, you're not sure. Although you’re halfway through a court case in Phoenix Wright and you don't really remember all the little details anymore. Maybe not. Maybe you'll restart the chapter later, although filing through all that text seems tiring at this point. Fine, perhaps no video games.

Painting? Copia’s left your iPad on the side table within reach. But you're not sure what to paint. And the last one needs some color correction and the thought of fiddling with the smallest adjustments that nobody will notice except you is far from appealing. There's nothing on the TV of any interest to you at this hour. You pick up a book you've been planning on reading but after a few minutes the text swims in front of your eyes.

Or you could always do the jigsaw puzzles. Dear God not the jigsaw puzzles.

You click on the television just to have noise to fill the air. It's two women crowing about handbags on a home shopping network. That’ll do. You set it all down and stare at the ceiling.

“I will set my alarm for eh— the three times a day you need the small white round ones, and the twice a day the long pill capsules and of course the injections….how many do we need?” Copia stares at the doctor’s note, mouth slack like he's attempting to translate an ancient curse carved into the side of a pharaoh's sarcophagus. “How, how do they write like this, tesoro? Is this em— is this English? Cazzo, what is this…”

“Twice a day,” you sigh. You're not happy about the shots but at least your man's been a champ when it comes to helping you with them. However, last two times he made you laugh too much to hold still. “Look away, dear, I’m eh—too scared to look too,” he joked, covering his eyes.

Dinner is set to steam on the stove for a while. He returns from the kitchen, with his Kiss the Cook apron on with the matching tacky fish-shaped oven mitts you brought back from Brighton for him as a joke. The money was worth the polite, nervous smile he gave you when he opened the gift. Now he uses them with pride cooking every night. Getting better at your favorite spiced tagine chicken recipe. He's close, almost.

“Is there anything else? Anything I can get you em—before dinner?”

All this fussing, all the delicious smells of your favorite meal and the buzz of shows on the TV and the warmth of the blanket he's draped on you spins in your mind. You want to be happy. You want to be at peace, but the twist in your chest doesn't go away, and in fact the more he dotes on you and mutters sweet nothings the more that tightness winds.

And right now, it just snaps. You let out a sob, something that you thought wouldn't be detected but is too loud across the space. Copia freezes. He heard it. Fuck. The tears pour out like fizz from a shaken soda can.

“I just…Copia, I'm sorry!” The scene swims in the onslaught of your tired tears. He's frozen in his bewildered mismatched expression, holding onto an oven mitt like a life raft against a tsunami. It's all too much but you can't stop now. “I'm so sorry you have to see me like this. You have to…take care of me like this. After— God, I'm such an idiot! I wasn't thinking and now…now you have to…I'm like a helpless little nothing over here, and it's my fault!”

You don't want to look at him. You've already wasted enough of his time. He's seen you at your absolute worst, and even worse than that carried you around like you were his nonna. You have the image of him wheeling you around some Italian square, pigeons flying about while you tighten your old lady scarf around you. The idea of that injects you with a odd feeling of pity and mirth, and you utter a tired noise you're not sure is a laugh or another sob, but it's an embarrassing honk just the same.

“You’ve done too much. I…” And you say the quiet part out loud. “Copia I don't deserve all this.”

“Amore…is that it?” Copia settles in next to you and places his hand on your good leg.

You nod wordlessly, tears still streaming down your face. The people in the television laugh, unknowing of your inner turmoil. But the secret’s out now. To everyone, including yourself.

“In sickness and in health, si?” His mouth quirks as he struggles to stay serious. “That's ah…that's fifty percent of that sentence, yes? There's good times and there's em—well, not so good times.”

Now you want to apologize for being such a baby. From nonna to whining baby, the shame is giving you whiplash but his touch keeps you tethered in place. “Copia, I’m—”

“Sickness and in health. One hundred percent. I love you one hundred percent, amore,” he says bringing your hand to his lips. His eyes never leave yours as you feel his soft lips graze your knuckles. “Love is getting through the hard times, is it not?”

The moments of shame still dance in your head but his warm presence wards them off. His gaze has softened into something more, deeper. He knows all about you, he always has. So why not give into it. Give in to his gentle glance of love. “Amore….” he presses.

“Copia, thank you,” you whisper as he leans into an embrace.

“We'll laugh about this one day,” he purrs in your ear, his scent enveloping you once more. You bring a hand up to run your fingers through his hair and he utters one of his pleased little myehs that usually make you chuckle.

“Yeah, we will,” you sniff.

“Laugh about it on the Amalfi. Over some gelato. And now I'm retired we can really get into it, you know? Doing nothing somewhere nice. Would you like that?”

You would. The blue sky and the pink gelato and the white sand. His handsome freckled face laughing in the sun. His gold cornicello on a chain against his chest barely covered by a crisp linen summer shirt. And his black socks. Those fucking dress socks in his old man slides. Your smile returns. “I really would, Copia.”

He meets your eyes and senses the change in you, returns your shy smile with his own. “I love you,” he murmurs. He leans in close once more as his mouth meets yours. That tender kiss never gets old. What your mind can't learn from his words its taught with his lips. And they're damn good at convincing you you're loved more than you’ll ever know.

He pulls back with a gentle caress of your cheek and your tears become happy ones. You love this man, and he loves you. He'll love you whether he's sitting at an exotic cafe or your bedside at the hospital. It's the same place in his mind, as long as he's with you.

“But until then we can bear a few Downton Abbey reruns, si?” He settles in next to you and curls his fingers around your own. “What is this…lord so and so? What's her face em— what is she up to now?”

“You'll have to actually watch instead of talk over it, Copia dear,” you reply.

“Right, right. I'm suffering more than you, tesoro,” he chuckles. “Let's ah…keep it all in perspective, here.”

“Of course,” you say, and you rest your head on his chest. He's still wearing his silly apron but you couldn't care less. You can hear his heart beat through it just the same.

My Fic List | My AO3

Thank you for all your thoughts, kudos, kind words, reblogs, all o it

#papa iv x reader #gn reader #cardinal copia #papa emeritus iv #ghost fandom #domestic fluff

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dangermousie · 4 months

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A love letter to late 00s/early10s kdramas? More likely than you may think

I have watched the first two eps (30m each) of the just premiered My Military Valentine with Nam Guyri and Kim Min Seok and I have discovered the most glorious time machine to 2008-2012.

A disclaimer - if you came to kdramas relatively recently, this really isn't a drama for you. But for those of us who used to watch and adore kdramas of mid-to-late 00s/very early 10s (I got into kdramas around 06), this is a very deliberate and knowing tribute and is designed to evoke a sense of nostalgia for back then dramas which it does brilliantly.

I feel as if I somehow time traveled to 15 years back or perhaps stumbled on a kdrama from that period I have not seen yet. It is such a delicious homage.

The premise is pretty straightforward - in an AU where South Korea and North Korea are close to reunification, a popular South Korean superstar and a North Korean commando cross paths and then he ends up having to serve in her unit. She's a consummate military officer, he's boyish and even immature but genuinely good-hearted. If you are screaming into your hands "this is off-brand King2Hearts with Spy MyungWol thrown in OMGGGGGGGG!" then you are the target audience.

EVERYTHING about this drama is old-school, deliberately so. The plot (even the idea of reunion was much more popular in dramas back then than it is now when I think it's much more fraught and distant), the setting (it is not set in 2024 but something like 2010), the characters (the ML is the immature protag romcoms in 00s used to love, FL is a good-hearted stern naive NK lady), the look (the way it's filmed is 100% from back then, with news montages, ML's frosted hair, the side part of the NK agent dude, the shots down from buildings, FL's whole vibe and look, the camera work, the lack of certain filters. Even the fact that neither of protags looks super polished and ML has a certain soft-faced and not starving look is reminiscent of early 00s dramas.)

Shot from the drama:

For comparison, here is Eric Mun in 2011 Spy Myung Wol as a top star in a drama about a North Korean Agent x SK celeb:

And with NK agent OTP:

Here is the OTP of 2012 King 2 Hearts, about a South Korean prince and NK commando:

Lee Byung Hun and his bleach blond hair in Beautiful Days from 2003:

Kim Rae Won and his soft face and light hair in Say You Love Me (2004):

And now, look at this song number from My Military Valentine. If it doesn't scream "Obama just got elected for his first term," I don't know what to tell you:

And the kiss as means of air transfer, old school style JUST I CAN'TTTTT:

#kdrama #nam guyri #my military valentine #kim min seok #king 2 hearts #spy myung wol #beautiful days #say you love me

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batsplat · 3 months

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always am obsessed with motorsport champions that decide to run the number 1 plate vs those who’ve stuck with their number. because it reveals so much of each of their inner philosophies, whether they are deeply superstitious, or seek a tangible everyday proof of their victory, or concerned with branding/legacies, or trampling the inner critic that believed deep inside of them that they were cut out to be a champion. just so interesting to parse through possible motivations

you're so right anon!!

of course, a big part of it is historical context... you can't really disentangle the choice of whether to run the number one plate or not from the era within which they made said choice. until fairly recently, it was entirely the norm to pick the number one plate - and beyond that, even those who didn't finish in first tended to just adopt the number that represented the place they had finished in during the previous year's championship. so for instance in 1987, gardner was first, mamola second, lawson third, haslam fourth, macckenzie fifth, and so on. in 1988, gardner ran the number 1 plate... mamola 2, lawson 3, haslam 4, mackenzie 5, etc etc. the only champion who broke with tradition was british racer barry sheene (500cc champion in 1976 and 1977), known for being a rebel - and even the styling of his iconic number 7 was apparently a wee bit controversial:

sheene stuck with the 7 both after his formula 750 title and then after his two 500cc titles:

there's some ways in which sheene is kinda the prototype of the modern rider, and he was the first to reap the benefits of having a distinctive number associated with him

in the eighties and nineties, it was all back to number one plates - but then of course another rider decided to break with tradition

incidentally, the generally purported story for why valentino took the number 46 is that it was his father's number. if his autobiography is to be believed, the truth is a little different:

I am Valentino. Graziano chose that name for me because he wanted to honour the memory of his best friend, who drowned at sea, near Pesaro, at the age of eighteen. The fact that St Valentine's Day is just two days before my birthday was also a reason. Number 46 originated when I raced minibikes. I was on a team with two kids from Gatteo a Mare, Marco and Maurizio Pagano. They are the brothers who lent me the Aprilia 125, which I used for my debut at Misano. All three of us had number 46 because we raced in three different categories. They too loved Japan and Japanese riders. One day we were mesmerised by a wild-card entrant at the Japanese Grand Prix who pulled off the most amazing tricks and seemed to have no fear whatsoever. He was number 46. And from that day on, so were we. For me, that lasted until I moved up to the Italian championship and, later, the European series. But when I finally made it to the world championship, I was asked to choose a number. I discovered that 46 was Graziano’s number when he won his first Grand Prix on a Morbidelli 250cc, back in 1979. Which was the year I was born. That’s why I decided that I, too, would be number 46. For me that number represents my career and, partly, my life. It certainly symbolises my massive, incredible, adventure.

so valentino was only the second premier class rider who stuck with his number. the norm of just following the previous year's standings to choose your number was kinda starting to die out in the late nineties anyway. by 2002, when valentino was defending his title for the first time, if you look down the list it's basically personal numbers all the way. still, valentino was the one to break tradition for champions - the first to do so in a couple of decades. valentino did also know sheene personally as a result of the link through his father, who was a friend of sheene's and had raced him:

^valentino with sheene, valentino wearing a tribute helmet with the iconic '7' on it after sheene's passing (also with the rainbow helmet colours and the word 'pace' or 'peace' on the back during the 2003 invasion of iraq), and valentino's 2005 championship celebrations for his seventh title, his shirt again featuring sheene's seven

hayden didn't follow valentino's example and instead went for the number one plate in 2007. casey made the same choice for the 2008 season, then jorge in 2011... so for a hot moment it really did look like valentino had been just another blip. if anything, the trend was going the other way, with a couple of high profile instances of riders who hadn't won the title rejecting their established numbers:

this particular trend didn't catch on, and from 2010 onward dani decided to just stick with the 26. because all the non-valentino aliens just couldn't stop faffing about with their numbers, 2010 is the only year in which all four aliens are actually concurrently running the numbers we most commonly associate them with

then, by 2012 apparently people were starting to get a bit superstitious about the number one plate. here, from an interview with casey:

the idea is that you can't defend the title if you're sporting the number one plate. which is true! in the 21st century, three guys chose the number one plate, and they defended their titles a grand total of zero times. one bloke stuck to his number, and he defended his title five out of seven times. so yes, it is technically correct that nobody with the number one plate had defended their title, though it is equally true that nobody not called valentino rossi had defended their title. I suppose we'll never know what the bigger factor was

anyways, if picking the number one plate was already a sure thing before, I reckon this sort of silly talk about 'jinxes' would have made casey even less likely to change his mind for 2012. not only is he stubborn, but he also takes an extremely dim view on superstitions

That race was the twelfth in a row that had been won by a rider not starting from pole, which was a new record. People were making a big deal about it and questioning whether, psychologically speaking, it wasn't a good thing to qualify on pole position at all. Maybe to the superstitious riders out there it had become an issue but I have never allowed myself to be affected by outside influences like that and I put an end to the stat by winning from pole in the next round at Laguna Seca in California. It is amazing how many riders have superstitions, which to me are completely ridiculous. Pretty much every one of them has a little mascot or a lucky pair of undies that they once had a good result in and have been stuck with ever since (so to speak!). Superstition is basically just fear and as an athlete my view is that by allowing it to enter your mind you are effectively handing over control. My approach has always been to deliberately tackle it by doing things differently to the last time, just to make sure I don't get into a restrictive habit. Some riders look at their qualifying position and think, I never go well from fifth position, or arrive at a circuit thinking about past results there and say, 'I've never done well here before, it's not my favourite circuit.' You have to be in the mindset that every day is a new day, a new set of circumstances. Every corner is different, every situation is different, and if you are not prepared to open your mind to that then you will always struggle more than necessary. You might have been through one particular corner a thousand times before but with a slight change in temperature, a new bike, a different tyre or a rider trying to pass you on the inside it becomes a completely different challenge and you have to be ready to deal with that.

given that casey is like, neurotically anti-superstition - well, he was probably always going to do the same thing as he did in 2008, but now he definitely would never just stick with his number. unlike jorge... who did change his mind, having run the number one plate in 2011 - but decided against making the switch in 2013. funnily enough, this did not help him defend the title. the eventual 2013 champion ended up also opting to stick with his number... and, well, marc's title defence went a little bit more smoothly. after jorge's 2015 title, he once again stuck to his 99, while marc has used the number 93 throughout his career. by the time you get to 2020, it's easy to have a warped perception of how common it is to keep your number. if you're born in, say, 1997 or later, you think it's basically the done thing to stick to your number, and it's really only a few outliers who use the number one plate. but even in the 21st century... it's really just valentino and marc who were doing it, plus jorge two out of three times. but between the two of them, they sure were winning enough of the titles to make it feel like the established norm

by this point, there really was a bit of a superstition about how the number one plate was 'cursed'. obviously, this wasn't actually a 'curse' as much as it was 'the dominant force in the sport in the noughties decided this number one plate thing wasn't for him and the dominant force in the 2010s who also happens to a massive fan of the other guy also decided not to make the switch either so that probably explains it'. it's not 'you won't defend your title if you're sporting the number one plate', it's 'you won't defend your title if your name isn't valentino rossi or marc marquez'. but obviously, sports drives people insane, so it was always going to be something that prompted a lot of speculation until someone finally managed to defend the plate

following his 2020 championship, mir didn't depart from the new tradition, with a suzuki video to announce his decision:

and fabio did likewise after his 2021 title:

obviously, sticking to their numbers didn't actually help joan and fabio defend their titles, and after his 2022 championship it was pecco's turn to make the choice. pecco went about this in the most pecco way imaginable, with just a touch of public hand-wringing about the whole thing:

just as a quick reminder, before pecco there had been 28 premier class champions. five and two thirds decided against the number one plate - sheene, valentino, marc, joan, fabio, and jorge twice. "I have always been fascinated about riders with number one" describes something that until very recently had been completely normal. not even remotely noteworthy. cheers valentino

eventually, presumably after some extremely extensive introspection, pecco decided to go for the number one plate:

and also this:

and also this (look he's got a lot of thoughts on the matter, please allow him):

and talking about defending the number one:

pecco has continued talking about it sporadically since then. he's spoken about it in the context of defending his title, which as he points out he can only remember marc and valentino doing:

and then the pressure inherent to sporting that plate, from after he'd successfully completed his title defence:

hm. right. let's unpack

the thing about this whole 'running the number one plate' business is that in motogp, each rider's individual choice has to be read with that history in mind. for many years, this wasn't even really a question... it's just what you do when you win the title. sheene was the rebel, the one who decided to do things differently, who wanted to be associated with his very own number. and valentino, who himself knew sheene and was already attached to his own number and has always had a good sense for personal branding, decided to stick with 46. of course, valentino being valentino, he's inescapable enough within motogp that ever since he made that choice, every single champion after him has had to actively make a decision one way or another

so you've got jorge, who had used the number one plate in his title defence during his 250cc campaign in 2007 - and also used it in 2011 as motogp defending champion. he ended up changing his mind for his following two campaigns... remember, he only started using the number 99 in 2009 after his fractious split with his manager during 2008 (see more on numbers lore here). here was what he said about his decision in 2011:

versus his decision in 2015:

jorge in particular does of course have a bit of a complicated relationship with the numbers he's used during his career - and unsurprisingly he's clearly put quite a lot of thought into the whole matter. he's determined to still have the number 99 represent him in some way even in 2011, while also thinking about how he can integrate the number one into his initials - and since it's jorge, of course it's particularly important that his fans approve. he "won't forget" his 99, it was still on his leathers because it's still 'in his heart'... but he explains it by saying he has "earned the right", that it's a "unique opportunity". then, a few years later, his main cited reason for sticking with the number 99 is how it 'represents' him

very much a question of identity, then, something about how jorge made the choice to use the 99 and how it was an expression of liberation for him... he was tempted by the number one once and only once - a statement in itself, following on from jorge's title win in 2010 where the oppressively popular defending champion had been taken out of contention through injury. jorge says he's 'earned the right' because he feels like he deserves it and he wants to tell the world as much. did his failure to defend the title play into his decision not to run the plate again or did he just decide it wasn't really for him after all? did he realise he had grown so attached to the number 99, what it symbolised to him, that he didn't want to give it up again? or did he just realise it was better for personal branding?

last year, here's what casey had to say:

it's fun how the perception of it has changed so drastically, hasn't it? now it's kinda the brave decision to take it... and that's mainly the legacy of two blokes who happened to monopolise this century of racing and decided to make their numbers their own (you may have noticed that there's considerably less material out there on why they made the choice they did). it's gone from something that you just sort of did automatically to something that puts a bit of a target on your back. because that's the subtext, right - everyone wants to 'take the number one plate'... which obviously they do anyway, but all this talk of curses and jinxes attempts to give it a bit of extra weight. is it presumptuous to take that number? valentino and marc made the call to stick to their numbers - and years later it's become a statement to deviate from that path. in that fabio quote above, in context he's really just trying to say he feels like he's the number 20 and nothing other than that - but "I feel like I'm not number one" is still a teensy bit loaded. how did marc's injury affect the choice made by those in his absence?

casey is unsurprisingly very firm on the whole thing, "you are world champion and you should be wearing number one". as if doing anything else is shying away from this duty. defending the title is another "challenge" that he says he likes - almost like a way of putting extra pressure on himself. though in a different interview, casey also says this:

just a number after all, then? it's also interesting how they frame it in different ways, isn't it? for casey it's "recognition" of an achievement, for jorge it's something you've "earned"... and for pecco, it's something you "need to respect". it's about something that puts "pressure" on you... perhaps that's partly because so much of the discourse about the number one plate has become about defending the title (or failing to do so), but pecco discusses it more as a responsibility than something he deserves. you can tell that it's clearly preoccupied him for a while - it's something he's "fascinated" by, he's "admired" people who have done it, he's "always loved it". for both casey and pecco, part of it seems to be about respecting the history of all the blokes who have used the number in the past, like it's an act that pays tribute to that heritage. you'd think this shouldn't have been such a tough choice in the first place, wouldn't you? goes to show how much of a break with tradition it's become - tradition, of course, that was really started by pecco's own mentor. would it be that surprising if that's part of the reason for the reticence? and, at the same time, would it be that surprising that his mentor's long shadow might make him feel like he needs that big and bold number one? what does pecco think it's saying that he went a different way? all this public hand-wringing just because he's breaking a trend

for jorge, the number one plate was a public declaration that he'd made it, naysayers be damned. to pecco, "the number one plate means you need to demonstrate you are number one". it's like giving yourself a point to prove... is it mainly a matter of pride or giving yourself something to live up to? both of them go to great pains to stress their continued attachment to their original number, how they're continuing to integrate it into all their cute designs... and that is something that has changed pretty definitively - not entirely as a result of valentino, but around the same time as valentino emerged as the figurehead of the sport, and he's certainly a big part of it. even the riders who go with the number one still want to have their number and to be known by it. the numbers have become such an integral part of branding and rider identity that riders want to make clear how important they are to them, whether they stick with the number as defending champions or not

at the same time, the fact that taking the number one plate has been de-normalised means that this decision places extra focus on the challenge of defending the title. pecco might not frame his choice in opposition to valentino and marc's to keep their numbers, but he does repeatedly link it to how they alone had been able to win successive titles. for him, then, it becomes an indirect way of living up to a legacy - counterintuitively by doing the opposite of what they did. "since I remember, was just marc and vale have repeated the title" “I thought about it many times this season in all the races we were struggling that the only two riders able to win two years in a row were marc and valentino"... that's what he's trying to live up to, this simultaneous source of inspiration and insecurity. are you lacking confidence if you need to see the number one to believe yourself that you are the number one? or is it conversely shying away from something you have rightfully earned if you can't bring yourself to take the plate? is it an expression of ego if you think your personal number is more meaningful than the number one could ever be? personal branding decisions aside, wouldn't manufacturers much rather you display the number one plate proudly on their bikes?

kind of remarkable, isn't it? it should be such a simple choice... and yet. not only is it now a question of branding and identity, but within motogp it's also become one of how you relate to the legacy of two specific riders. maybe it'll gradually become more common again to take the plate - after all, the curse has now been broken. or maybe it will be the source of much hand-wringing forevermore... we shall see. we shall see

#personally I'd always keep my own number lol. but I also think pecco specifically made a good call #though maybe it would've helped to do a little bit less public introspection and hand wringing and soul searching #poor little ferret wants a number one on his bike. needs to write essays justifying it. buddy it's fine who cares #batsplat responds #//#brr brr #does it bother anyone else that valentino doesn't actually use a continental number seven? no? just me?#some of sheene's 7s didn't have the dash. which. there may be a good reason for this but it doesn't quite feel like ideal branding-wise #taking a massive sharpie to valentino's title winning shirt #incidentally schwantz generally stuck to his 34 until he won the title. thought it interrupted the flow too much to mention it but #current tag

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