#and the plan for it is far more actionable and simple than my last two books which were Ordeals to write tho worthy ones

[drdemonprince]

i think in the past few weeks i finally overcame the long slow soul curshing burnout i fell into after writing my last two books and breaking up with a partner of over 10 years. lately i have been feeling ENERGIZED and excited by future projects rather than bitter and resentful about needing to do anything, and im more tolerant of stimulation rather than being so extremely stress averse that i cancel anything that requires much energy. my energy is feeding into itself now. perfect time to fuck it all up by writing another book.

[likeumeanit9497]

please baby | c. s. |

chris sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: chris and y/n have always had what felt like a perfect relationship. that is, until a few weeks ago. chris had been treating y/n poorly, and after one especially hurtful conversation, she is forced to make a difficult decision. when chris comes to the realization that he is about to lose it all, will he swallow his pride and do what he needs to win her back?

warnings: established relationship; smut; angst; fighting; (relatively) toxic chris; crying; unprotected sex; fluff; 18+

notes: based on this request by 🎀. i've never rlly written an angsty fic before, so let me know what u all think! also wrote this super quick so i don't think it's my best work, but still i hope u enjoy <333

ᵕᵕᵕᵕ୨♡︎୧ᵕᵕᵕᵕ

Through tears, I stared blankly at my phone. My eyes had been glued to my lit up screen for the past two minutes — unmoving, and unable to register what I was reading. Even with blurry vision, Chris’ last message to me was seared into my memory.

Chris: Ffs Y/n, just shut up. I said I’ll get there when i get there jesus.

Just as my brimmed tears finally spilled over, so did the water I was boiling on the stove. The immediate steam and sizzling noises pulled me from my phone, and frustrated for more than one reason, I raced over to the stove and shoved the pot off of the element; leaving the boiling pasta noodles to sit in the water. Just looking at my failed attempt at dinner brought on a new level of pain, as it was a reminder of what I hoped that the night could be.

Chris, my boyfriend of almost one year, was supposed to be coming over tonight. I had been super excited, because both of our schedules had been especially busy lately and we hadn’t been able to spend much time together over the past three weeks, plus I had some good news to share with him about my work. I had wanted to make the night special, so I had decided to cook one of Chris’ favourite meals — chicken alfredo — to surprise him with once he arrived.

He was currently stuck at the warehouse for a merch meeting with Nick, Matt, and his manager, and he had told me that he would come over and spend the night once he was done there. That was a few hours ago, and I had been patiently waiting for an update from him until about thirty minutes ago, when I sent him a simple message asking if he had any idea when he would be done at the warehouse. Little did I know, that singular message would cause a massive storm to erupt.

Y/n: hey babe! just wondering if you have an idea on when you can come over?

Chris: Not rlly sure

Y/n: okay…rough estimate maybe?

Y/n: just have some things i need to get done before u get here hehe

Chris: I’ll get there when I get there.

Y/n: uh..is something wrong?

Chris: No why

Y/n: ur being kinda mean???

Chris: No I’m not

Y/n: ok

Chris: My god Y/n I don’t have time for this rn

Y/n: i just said ok

Y/n: you go ahead and go back to your meeting

Y/n: i was just asking for an update, that’s all.

Y/n: didn’t realize that was such a horrible thing.

Chris: Ffs Y/n, just shut up. I said I’ll get there when i get there jesus.

Even though I hate to admit it, this wasn’t the first time that Chris had been an absolute asshole to me lately. Just last week, he had started a fight that ended with him hanging up the phone on me; only to call back a little while later to apologize. And then a few days before that, he had put zero effort into making time for me when I had tried to make plans for us to go to the movies. And during all of this, he has been incredibly dry over messages. It had been bothering me for a while now, because to me it was clear that he was losing interest. I knew that our relationship would be far from perfect going in to it, considering Chris had never been in a real relationship before me, but deep down I hoped that it would always be as perfect as it was at the beginning. Unfortunately for my hopes and dreams, his actions — or lack thereof — were shattering.

I wasn’t some oblivious girlfriend either; it was clear to me that Chris was going through something. I knew that for a fact, but every time I tried to get him to open up to me about it all, he shut me down with lame excuses: “Oh, I’m just tired,” or, “I’ve just been stressed lately”. I figured that he just needed time, and that eventually he would come to me and explain exactly what had been going on so that I could help him through it.

But now, after his hurtful words to me tonight, I was seriously considering my other options. I had been in far too many toxic relationships in the past, and had learned that I deserve more than what I had been accepting. I wouldn’t let myself be Chris’ punching bag anymore, and I knew right then and there that I had an incredibly painful task to do.

Allowing myself to be overtaken by my build up of tears, I slowly walked into my bedroom; turning off the lights and covering myself with my comforter. My shoulders heaved as I let the tears stream down my face; my brain accepting what I needed to do but my body rejecting it in every way possible. Through the tears, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick text to Chris — telling him that I was tired and that he might as well not come at all tonight, but we should talk tomorrow — before curling into a ball and wallowing in my own sorrows.

I stayed in the exact same position for what felt like ages; allowing myself to get all of the emotions out now so that when I had to do what I had to do tomorrow I could do so without breaking down so hard. Eventually, my tears slowed and I felt my burning eyes begin to grow heavy. Sleep was beginning to overtake me, and as I gave into my exhaustion my mind filled with scenes of the nightmare that I was going to have to face tomorrow.

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I was startled out of my sleep by the sound of keys jangling from the direction of my front door. Disoriented, it took me a moment to be overtaken by the feeling of dread that came from hearing that noise. The only person who had a key to my apartment was Chris. Before, hearing his keys at my door filled my stomach with undeniable excitement — now, my stomach did anxious flips knowing what had to be done.

As I heard the door open and close, I rolled over so that I was facing away from my bedroom door and glued my eyes shut; pretending to still be asleep. I heard his soft footsteps on the other side of the door as he wandered through my dark apartment, before a hushed “shit!” broke the silence. After a few moments, I listened as his footsteps grew closer and closer to my bedroom door, and as I heard it slowly creak open, I braced for impact.

The room stayed silent, though I couldn’t really say that for sure since I couldn’t hear anything above the sound of my own racing heart in my ears. I did my best to stay completely still, though it felt like every part of my body was vibrating; waiting for his next move. Suddenly, I felt a shift in my mattress as his body leaned against it, and physically jumped at the feeling of his hand on my shoulder; shaking it gently.

“Y/n, wake up.” He spoke in a faux whisper, and, even though I had been pretending, I felt my body grow hot in anger that he would have the audacity to wake me from my sleep after showing up to my apartment uninvited. However, my body still not understanding that it wouldn’t belong to him much longer, I shot up from my place on the bed and searched for his eyes. The room was pitch black, but I could sense exactly where he was in front of me.

Rubbing my eyes, I searched the bed for my phone, checking the time to find that it was already nearly 2 a.m. I felt the mattress shift once again and watched his faint outline as he sat on his side of my bed. “Y/n, you left the stove on.” He was still whispering, and his sentence ended in a slight chuckle; clearly oblivious to the decision that I had made on my own just hours before.

Too heartbroken to really care about the stove, I shrugged my shoulders. “Whoops.” Was all I said to the silent room. “What happened? You fall asleep in the middle of making dinner or something?” His voice was still light-hearted, and was far from a tone that matched his previous texts to me. It made it so difficult for me to remember what I had to do.

“Turn the lamp on please.” I said simply, using every ounce of strength in my body to keep my tone monotonous. Chris stayed still for a moment, clearly thrown off by my behaviour. “Uh, okay.” He finally said as he leaned toward the bedside table closest to him and switched on the warm-toned light. After allowing my eyes time to adjust to the sudden brightness, they immediately fell on him.

Oh, my Chris.

His beautiful blue eyes were so kind and bright, his long hair was wet and messily draped across his forehead, and his matching oversized sweat set made me want nothing more than to curl into him and breathe him in. He stared at me blankly for a moment, clearly beginning to register that I was upset, before finally speaking. “I’m really sorry about earlier, baby. I had been in the meeting for hours and was getting really stressed out.” I felt the lump in my throat begin to grow. Some variation of that exact sentence had been the same excuse he had given me each and every time he had hurt me over the past few weeks, and it had lost its sincerity long ago. So, instead of giving into his cheap apology, I sat up in my bed and faced him; taking a deep breath before speaking.

“I have to tell you something. And I need you to let me say this without interrupting, or else I’m scared I won’t be able to go through with it. I’ve had to say this for a while now, and now that we are where we are I know it has to be done. So please, let me say it, okay?” His light eyes were focused intensely on me, he was clearly trying to figure out where this conversation was going. But finally, he swallowed before tentatively nodding his head. “O-okay.”

I closed my eyes, feeling my lower lip quiver as I tried to find my footing on this conversation. After taking a shaky breath, I finally found my voice. “I can’t do this anymore, Chris.” Immediately, my attempt at getting all my tears out of the way earlier proved to be a failure; because as soon as the heavy words left my mouth I broke down into sobs.

Over my crying, I heard Chris’ disbelieving voice. “What do you mean you’re done with this? With what? Me?” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, clearly being hit with the same emotions that I was. I stayed silent — my eyes screwed shut as I wrapped my arms around my torso; doing my best to comfort myself. “Y/n, please tell me what you’re talking about.” He pleaded, and I felt him scoot closer to me on the bed; placing a hesitant hand on my knee.

After catching my breath, I wiped my tears away and opened my eyes to find his frantically searching my face like an uncertain creature. “I know you’re going through something right now,” My voice was coming out nearly silent, but I continued, “And I tried so hard to be there for you, I really did Chris. But you won’t talk to me! Instead, you’ve been taking out all of your frustrations on me and treating me like absolute shit. Do you really think that’s okay?” I fought the lump in my throat as I got my words out, his shattered face no help in that department. Frantically, Chris shook his head. “No. No, it’s not okay, baby, and I’m really sorry. But please, please don’t do this.” His tone tugged at my heart strings as his desperation grew more and more transparent.

Shaking my head and closing my eyes, I shut him down. “Can you tell me why you’ve been acting the way you have?” I knew my question was pointless before I even asked it, but his silence confirmed it. Releasing an ironic chuckle, I continued. “I promised myself that I would never let another man treat me badly. I’ve put up with it far too many times, and no matter how much I love you, Chris, I can’t allow you to speak to me the way you have been lately.”

I opened my eyes and felt my heart sink at his ghostly expression, clearly on the verge of losing his shit. I brought a hand up to his cheek and stroked it for a moment, and as I did he closed his eyes and let a few tears fall. “I want you to get better, I really do. But I clearly can’t help you, so you need to do it on your own.” My own words felt like a stab in the chest, and I couldn’t help the tears as they streamed down my face. “Come to me when you’ve worked through your shit, and we can see if we can repair things. But for now, I need you to leave.”

At that, Chris’ eyes shot open in a panic and he immediately grabbed onto my leg. “No, Y/n, please. Don’t do this.” I turned my head away from him as his desperation became too much to bear. His hands traveled across my body in anguish, clearly losing all control of his emotions as the reality of our situation began to set in for him. His body slid off of the bed as he dissolved into tears against my comforter. Still having the instinct to comfort him, I scooted towards the edge of the bed, where I let my legs stretch out beside him as I ran my hands through his beautiful curls.

“Please, please baby, I swear to god I can’t do this shit without you.” He wretchedly pleaded with me, clutching my leg and trailing distressed kisses along it. I looked up at the sky, too pained by the scene that was playing out in front of me. “Chris, please, I need you to go.” I begged him, needing to put him out of his misery so that I could hurt in private. He maintained his grasp on my leg, sobbing inconsolably against it. I gave him a moment, in which he slowly began to regain control of his emotions. I watched as his sobbing grew quieter and his breathing slowed, before finally watching as he pulled himself up to his feet; the weight of our conversation evident in the way he held himself weakly.

He glanced down at me quickly, his blue eyes red and puffy, before turning away in what looked like shame. In utter silence, he turned and began walking slowly in the direction of my bedroom door. With his hand on the door knob, he paused for a moment. “I’m sorry.” His words were so quiet I could have easily missed them, but the sincerity cut through my heart like a knife. That sincerity hadn’t been present in any of the other apologies he gave me, and I was gutted that it appeared too late.

And then just like that, he was gone. I felt all the air leave my chest at the realization of what I had just done, and let my body fall back against my bed as tears once again poured down my cheeks. I couldn’t help but immediately question whether or not I had done the right thing. Was I a horrible person for abandoning the man I loved when he was so clearly dealing with something? Did I allow my fears of repeating my past distort my current reality? Were the things he said to me really that bad?

I was pulled out of my tormenting thoughts by a soft voice coming from my doorway.

“My meeting today wasn’t about merch.”

That was all that he said. That was all it took for my heart to begin to beat for him again. One small hint of vulnerability. Feeling humiliated internally, I sat up on my elbows and found him hovering in the doorway. “Talk to me about it Chris.” I sounded exacerbated even to my own ears, feeling frustrated from all of the overwhelming emotions that the evening held. Tentatively, he walked over to the bed and sat beside me on the edge, arms resting on his knees. After clearing his throat, he began to explain. “The meeting today wasn’t about merch, it wasn’t really about anything to be honest.” Confused, I waited in silence for him to continue.

“A few weeks ago, Laura brought up the idea of going on another tour. A European tour.” He paused for a moment. “Nick and Matt immediately agreed and wanted to start planning everything so that we could do it this summer, but I said I didn’t want to do it.” I watched the back of his head, slightly shocked by his words since I knew that he had enjoyed the previous tours so much. “We would be overseas for a month, and I didn’t want to be so far away from you for that long. So I told them I didn’t wanna do it.” He took a deep breath. “Now, Matt and Nick are super pissed at me. They’ve both been giving me the silent treatment for weeks outside of the few times when they’ve just tore me a new one. And sure, we’ve all fought before, but never this bad. It’s been going on for so long, and I feel like I’ve lost sight of everything without having them be there for me.” His voice grew thick with emotion, and I fought the urge to cry along with him.

“Things have gotten so bad between us, that Laura forced us all to come in tonight to basically have a supervised argument. We sat there for hours, Y/n, just screaming at each other. And we got nowhere. I stood firm in what I wanted and so did they, so that’s why it went on for so long. And that’s also why I have been treating you like a complete dick lately. Because even though you had no clue what was going on, I think a part of me was kinda blaming you for all this shit. And I know that wasn’t fair, I really do. I just didn’t know how to tell you all of this because I’ve never been in a situation like this before.”

He turned to look at me, grabbing at my hand that was lying dormant in the space between us. “And I’m so, so sorry that I treated you the way I did. You didn’t deserve it. At all. But please baby, please don’t leave me. Because if you do, I will be completely lost. You are my anchor, and I need you to be there for me.” Tears rolled down my face as his voice cracked in desperation. “And I swear, baby, I won’t treat you like shit ever again. If you can’t believe me, and if you’re really truly done, I’ll understand. But please, Y/n, if there’s any part of you that believes me, please don’t leave.” He dropped his head into my lap, wrapping his arm around my waist and gripping onto my oversized t-shirt. Out of instinct, I brought my hand to his face and began stroking it softly; wiping away his tears as I did.

We stayed that way for a long time, both of us sniffling, heaving messes. I couldn’t lie, his honesty truly impacted me. I knew that he had to have gone against every single one of his instincts to finally tell me what had been going on in his life, and the fact that he did meant so much to me. I knew that Chris was extremely reliant on his brothers being a constant in his life, and couldn’t even imagine how lost he must feel knowing that they’re against him. His problem was much more severe than I thought it would have been prior to him opening up, and I felt an overwhelming amount of empathy for him. I knew that his poor treatment of me — as wrong as it was — had been completely out of character, and as I sat there stroking his soft cheek, I decided that I would believe him.

“Come up here.” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. Immediately, Chris lifted his head off of my thighs and sat up, his face inches from mine. Without a moment of hesitation, I leaned forward and engulfed his lips with my own. He immediately reciprocated, and both of our tongues worked in unison to lap up the salty taste of each other’s tears. Chris leaned forward, encouraging me to fall back against my pillows as he continued his passionate assault on my lips. His mouth travelled down my neck, where I shuddered as I felt him place sucks and nibbles sure to leave a trail of purple bruises. His body was warm on top of mine, and I had never before felt so present with him; so aware of his every movement.

He moved down my body, stopping briefly at my chest to remove my shirt, before continuing down below my waist. With his tongue, he created a path from just below my belly button to my right hip bone, where he left another purple bruise; causing my skin to break out in goose bumps. Lifting my hips, he wasted no time in pulling my boy shorts off of my body and leaving me completely bare. He continued to leave gentle kisses along each square inch of my body surrounding my core, but making sure to leave the place where I needed his mouth the most completely untouched.

I began to grow impatient, my body temperature increasing as my body filled with arousal. As he placed a kiss on my inner thigh, I bucked my hips up in frustration; practically begging for contact. Noticing my agitation, Chris almost immediately obliged, and I gasped out in pleasure as his tongue began working its magic against my clit. With each hand holding up my thighs, Chris swirled his tongue relentlessly against my bundle of nerves. I struggled to keep my body still as his movements continued, and failed miserably once he inserted two of his fingers into my core. “Fuck Chris, t-that’s so good.” I moaned out as his tongue and fingers worked my cunt in harmony. The wet sounds of my arousal grew louder and louder as I began to approach my orgasm, and in reflex my hands tangled in his hair; doing everything I could to keep him exactly where I needed him.

“Gonna cum, baby.” I cried out, and his encouraging hum against my clit was enough to get me there. My back arched off of the bed as my body began to convulse. To keep me in place, Chris took his free hand and placed it firmly on my lower stomach; causing me to scream out in pleasure. His mouth and fingers continued to push me through my orgasm, and didn’t stop even after my nerves became over sensitive. “C-Chris please. Can’t take anymore.” I struggled to get out the words, but he listened. Detaching his mouth from my core, he dragged his body back up my own and came face to face with me.

With the glean of my arousal still on his lips, he kissed me so deep I felt my lungs inflate. I could taste myself on his tongue, and my eyes nearly rolled to the back of my head from the intensity of the moment. I broke the kiss for only a moment to pull his hoodie over his head; relishing in the feeling of his bare chest against my own. Through his sweatpants, I could feel his bulging member press against my pelvis, and I reached in between our bodies and pulled his waistband down along with his boxers. Now completely free, his cock dribbled pre-cum down my stomach. With my hand still between us, I collected what was left of his fluid along his slit before slowly stroking my hand up and down his swollen shaft.

His breath hitched as I continued my movements, and he thoughtlessly bucked his hips into my hand to increase the friction along his trembling member. My hand twisted around his dick for a few more pumps, before I slowly guided it down toward my entrance. Once Chris felt the heat of my core at the tip of his cock, he looked down at me with darkened eyes — still slightly puffy from his previous tears — and dropped his jaw as he began to slide into me.

I gasped at the feeling of my walls stretching around his sizeable girth, and released a breathy moan as he bottomed out. Laying on top of me, he grabbed both sides of my face in between his hands and held it firmly as he began thrusting into me. His eyes never left mine as his hips rolled into me, and I watched in ecstasy at the pleasure visible on his face — as I’m sure he was doing to me. Our bodies smacked together in a steady rhythm and the wet sounds filled the room, adding an additional sensation to my arousal.

“I-I’m so sorry, baby.” Grunted Chris through deep thrusts. “It’s — oh fuck — it’s okay Chris.” I replied as I wrapped my legs around his waist. “Just please — please tell me you’re mine.” His voice sounded desperate and choppy, most likely caused by a combination of arousal and real distress. His choice of words and the tone at which he said them caused my stomach to do a flip, and I felt my second orgasm approach. Fighting the urge to give into the overwhelming feeling, I reached up and swiped his glistening lip with my thumb. “I’m yours baby, always.” I managed to respond through my cries of pleasure. Chris smiled down at me lazily before burying his face in my neck; leaving sloppy, breathy kisses along its thin skin.

My walls began to pulse and my skin started to feel like it was being lit on fire; both clear signs that I was extremely overstimulated as I was approaching my orgasm. “Shit, gonna cum again.” I blurted out just as I was hit with a tsunami of an orgasm. My legs tightened around his waist and my nails dug into his arms as I fought to keep my head above water, but my mind grew fuzzy as I spewed guttural profanities into the room as I came in waves.

It didn’t take long for Chris’ orgasm to follow, and that was made clear by his throaty grunts and sloppy pace before he stopped entirely; shouting breathless 'I love yous' into my neck as his cock shot its warm fluid deep inside of me. He eventually pulled out, before curling two fingers into me and shoving all of our conjoined juices up to my cervix. His eyes stayed glued to my cunt as he did so, seemingly in awe of the view.

“You’re all mine, and I’m all yours.” He said it so quiet that he might have just been saying it to himself, before he leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on the crest of my heat; earning a full-body flinch from me.

He came back up to the top of the bed where he laid down beside me, pulling me towards his chest and running a hand up and down my naked back. I felt so secure in his arms — his familiar smell filling my nostrils and calming my mind — that I nearly forgot everything that had happened prior to the past 15 minutes or so. That is, until he spoke.

“So, are we okay?” His voice was tentative, and he was very clearly afraid to hear my answer. I uncurled myself from his body so that I could look up at his lovely face, his desperate eyes scanning my poker face for any sort of hint.

“You will never, ever, speak to me like that again, no matter what.” I kept my voice firm, even when his face immediately relaxed into a grin. “I swear, I won’t baby.” He responded, trying to tuck me back into his chest, but I pushed back slightly. “And, I need you to talk to me about shit you’re going through, Chris. I’m your girlfriend. That’s my job. You need to promise me, you will come to me about anything, and I will do everything I can to help you through it.” He continued to gaze at me, though his wavering eyes and his chewing on his lower lip made it clear that the idea made him anxious. “Promise me, Chris.” I repeated, making it clear how serious I was.

Finally, Chris nodded his head. “I promise, baby. I’ll tell you everything.” I smiled, then, finally feeling secure in our relationship for the first time in weeks. “Then yes, we’re okay.” I responded before planting a soft kiss to his pink lips. “And you and your brothers are going to be okay, too.” His worried expression deepened at the reminder of his conflict with Nick and Matt. “We’ll talk about it more tomorrow once we get some rest, but we can make the tour work. You know, I’ve always wanted to visit Europe.” I watched as his lips began to turn up into a soft smile. “Plus,” I leaned forward to whisper in his ear, “I wouldn’t mind being your groupie.”

He dissolved into giggles at that. “But what about your job?” He asked tentatively. I shrugged. “I actually got promoted today. I was gonna tell you earlier, but y’know.” His face fell momentarily. “I got a raise, but more importantly I got more benefits. Including thirty vacation days.” His face lit up once again, and it was almost like I could see the weight lift off of his shoulders before he attacked my face with kisses. “So let’s have another meeting with Laura and your brothers tomorrow and work this all out. I can come, and we can fix this easily together.” Tears welled in his eyes, and he nodded his head before kissing me hard. “I love you, Y/n.”

I curled myself back into his chest and sighed, taking in the feeling of him mindlessly drawing random shapes on my back. This was the Chris that I knew and loved, and I knew that this is who he really was. He wasn’t perfect, but I never expected him to be. Problems come with every relationship, and of course there was never any guarantee, but I had a feeling that this night would vastly change our relationship for the better.

ᵕᵕᵕᵕ୨♡︎୧ᵕᵕᵕᵕ

[taexual]

sleepwalking ● 20 | jjk

pairing: jungkook x fem!reader

summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.

genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers

warnings: explicit language, suggestive themes, mentions of drugs, fluff, some angst, SLOW BURN

words: 17.9k

read from the beginning ○ masterlist

chapter 20 ► so if your wings won't find you heaven, i will bring it down like an ancient bygone

The next morning arrived very quickly and not even five hours after your nightly rendezvous in the garden, you saw Jungkook again in the corridor of the hotel.

“Your room is right next to mine,” you observed with a certain surprised amusement. “Yet you thought it would be wiser to go out, find some rocks, and toss those at my window?”

Jungkook glanced at the door of his room as if he hadn’t noticed it before.

“Much more private that way,” he said with a shrug—but a mischievous grin betrayed his attempt at nonchalance. “No one suspected a thing.”

“If someone had seen you doing that, they would have probably suspected a lot more,” you said. “Compared to you just knocking on my door like a normal person.”

“I’m a romantic,” he declared, clutching his chest to emphasise his dedication to his actions, which he preferred to regard as whimsical and sweet, rather than unusual and unnecessary. “I prefer my way.”

You looked away and he wondered if he’d taken it too far. But he relaxed when he saw the corners of your lips curve into an already familiar smile as your gaze wandered from the carpeted floors to the fraying edges of the wallpaper near the entrance to the staircase.

His predilection for extravagant gestures and dramatic moves rather than simple, everyday things had been a consistent part of his personality for as long as you’ve known him. And however much you teased him about it, you still found it endearing.

Although to be fair, you found the wildflowers that he’d brought you endearing, too. Pictures that he sent you, captioned ‘us.’ The look in his eyes when he teased you about something. The way he held your hand so absentmindedly sometimes, almost forgetting about it as though your hand was a part of him.

“Should we go, then?” you asked, a little breathless. The old hotel didn’t have an elevator, and you gestured at the staircase. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to climb into the restaurant through the window.”

Jungkook took the teasing in stride, maintaining a dignified grin. “Stairs will work, I’m sure.”

“Well, if you’re sure.”

He followed you, beaming as if he were a ten-year-old who had just held hands with a pretty girl for the first time during fifth-grade recess. He didn’t know how to contain everything he was feeling. He might have actually stopped, dropped, and rolled down the stairs like an exhilarated sack of potatoes if he’d known you were feeling the same.

“So,” you said, keeping your eyes on your feet as the two of you climbed down the narrow, creaking staircase. There were small, foggy windows scattered here and there, filtering beams of tired sunlight. “Escape from New York.”

It took Jungkook a few seconds to recognise that this was the film you’d talked about last night. His mind seemed to consider this information secondary—overshadowed, understandably, by his grandmother’s voice after she called him and the lingering memory of the scent of your hair.

“Yeah,” he said, stopping in front of the arch that led from the stairwell into the lobby. “I’m thinking the odds of catching it in cinemas are very slim, right?”

“They are,” you confirmed, stopping, too. “But it’s on Amazon like I suspected. We could watch it tomorrow if you’d like?”

A childlike excitement ignited in his eyes, but a sudden memory dimmed them.

He recalled you telling him that you had plans with Luna and Maggie tonight, and before that—his hands trembled a little at this particular memory—he recalled you saying that you had set an alarm to call your mum.

He was anxious, he realised, on your behalf.

“Tomorrow, uh—” he stammered, lost in the shadows on the staircase behind you as the two of you lingered by the archway. “T-that sounds good.”

You smiled and nodded—that was essentially all you did, but he felt the change. He felt how close you were, he felt your relaxed posture, your easy smile, your calm, confident eyes.

His gaze met yours for no more than a fleeting moment, but he felt the uncertainty in his chest lift, almost inexplicably so. Likely because, despite everything, you were here and nothing else really mattered. You’d be okay.

“You’re going out tonight, right?” he asked and you nodded. He tsk tsk-ed in response, feigning disapproval. “It's a school night. How very irresponsible.”

Your smile grew wider; he noticed it out of the corner of his eye. Something creaked with excitement on the stairs and inside his chest.

“You guys have a day off tomorrow, so I don’t have to babysit,” you bit. “The girls and I had actually been planning this since before we even arrived in Europe.”

“Okay, fair enough,” he said. “How’d you find a bar that’s open long enough on a Wednesday, though?”

“Maggie said she found a cool spot that’s not really a nightclub and not really a bar,” you explained, shrugging. “I’m not sure. We’ll give it a try.”

“Alright. That sounds cool. Let’s do our thing tomorrow,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Is it, uh, a girls’ night, then?”

You began to walk, crossing the threshold but slowing down so he could catch up.

“Well, yeah,” you said. “Because if I invite you, then Taehyung will insist on joining, and Luna will inevitably invite him. And then you and I will end up third-wheeling those two all night, while also comforting Maggie. She’ll have one tequila shot and spend the whole night near tears because she misses Rue.”

Jungkook decided not to admit how pleased he was that in a hypothetical scenario where Luna would bring her boyfriend and Maggie would cry about her girlfriend, he was your equivalent partner. Of course, he would have made sure to keep you company so that you wouldn’t feel like anyone’s third-wheel or shoulder to cry on, but he understood the essence of your point.

“That’s alright. I’ll keep myself busy,” he said, a bit concerned about the colour of his face. He reached up, feeling his cheeks with the back of his hand. “I, uh—I hope you guys have fun. Call me if you get into trouble.”

You raised your eyebrows, recognising his way of turning your words against you.

“As if,” you retorted. “I know how to drink responsibly.”

He could remember times when the two of you were so drunk that the sense of responsibility resembled a dystopian concept rather than something people realistically possessed, but he enjoyed the smile on your face too much to bring it up. Even more than that, however, he enjoyed the fact that your smile did not falter, and you did not pull away to a more respectable distance when you entered the restaurant and reached the buffet table with dozens of other people around.

Things were good. They felt good.

You stayed at the buffet table to talk to Namjoon, and Jungkook went to find an empty table at the restaurant. But even as he walked away from you, he still couldn’t do anything about the tint on his cheeks.

He knew he was grinning like a proper maniac as he poured milk into his cereal. But then he met your eyes, and you were smiling at him from across the room, and your face looked radiant and glowing, and he was so in love with you that he didn’t care about his excitement coming off as threatening.

Just then, Minjun approached him with a concerned expression.

“Hey,” he said, sitting across from him at the empty table. “You look stupid. Did you put too much sugar in your cereal again?”

Jungkook snorted and let the spoon clatter into the bowl. “No. Just feeling good, I guess.”

“Huh.” Minjun looked over his shoulder and caught your gaze. He turned back to his friend with a knowing grin. “And, uh… your constant glances in your manager’s direction have something to do with that, I assume?”

“We’re going to watch a film tomorrow. It’s something my grandma suggested,” Jungkook announced with a grandeur that rivalled a lottery winner flaunting their newfound wealth.

It took Minjun a moment to process the whirlwind of changes in Jungkook’s life overnight. The last time he had seen him in Glasgow, Jungkook was, to put it kindly, a wreck. Now, his grandmother was calling him, and he was making plans to watch films with you.

“I’m—” Minjun stopped. He wanted to ask questions, but he did not know what to do with the expression on his face. “I feel like I’ve missed a few episodes of this TV show, but I’m very excited for you.”

Jungkook nodded eagerly—and then hesitated, his smile fading momentarily.

“It’s good, right?” he asked. “That we’re spending time together again.”

Minjun didn’t consider himself an expert in the field of relationships, even though he had some experience. However, when it came to this particular relationship, he didn’t even consider himself an amateur. You and Jungkook operated so utterly enigmatically that he wouldn’t even know where to begin guessing what the correct answer here was.

“Of course,” he affirmed nonetheless. “So, you’re… what? Friends, then?”

“Mhmm,” Jungkook replied with a mouthful of cereal.

“And, uh,” Minjun tapped his index finger on the dent in the lacquered table, “why is that?”

Jungkook swallowed first. “What do you mean wh—”

He noticed Minjun’s deadpan expression. Friendship was not the destination that his friend had imagined for the two of you.

“Fine,” he said, wiping his palms on his pants. “Well, first of all, it’s better than nothing. And—”

“Wait,” Minjun interrupted. “Why is ‘nothing’ the alternative to friendship?”

Jungkook clicked his tongue. “Because we’re complicated people with complicated problems.”

He almost expected Minjun to laugh at the oversimplified response, but his friend remained serious—he may not have known a lot, but he knew that there was a long story hidden behind these short words.

“Okay,” he said.

“Yeah. And second of all,” Jungkook continued, and Minjun wondered if he realised how much he resembled you in the way he spoke sometimes, “if we’re friends, then we can still work together, even if we don’t actually get back together. It’s just safe for us.”

“Ah.” Minjun nodded, recognising the subtle ways in which Jungkook was making this comfortable for you. “That’s the main thing, isn’t it?”

“It’s—well, I don’t know if that’s the main thing,” Jungkook said. For him, the main thing was you staying with Rated Riot. Everything else was an additional thing. “But it’s a—it’s a thing.”

“Hmm. The two of you are a far cry from friends, though,” Minjun remarked. Naturally, Jungkook was about to object, but his friend raised a hand, stopping him. “But I’m glad you two kids are working it out. That’s all I wanted to say.”

Jungkook released his breath and nodded instead of speaking.

He decided this was enough. He didn’t need anything else—neither a pat on the back nor an empty reassurance—to confirm that things were going well.

You had practically built a castle over the ruins in his chest overnight—things were going well.

After breakfast, Namjoon needed your help with the scheduling of recording rooms for the upcoming tour dates. The boys usually used the equipment they’d brought with them, but Yoongi had barricaded himself in his room—Jimin knocked on his door for fifteen minutes to drop off a croissant—so Namjoon, Hoseok, and you decided to book a studio to lure him out.

The scheduling took a while, because London and Paris, for no reason whatsoever, emerged as the two centres of musical innovation this month. Every studio in the vicinity of your accommodation had already been booked, so you were locked in your hotel room until late afternoon.

When you finally found several available spots, Luna and Maggie had already banished Taehyung from his and Luna’s suite—they had the largest one here—and you joined the girls in the bathroom to get ready for the night.

However, even though you joked and chatted with them, you couldn’t stop yourself from mentally counting down the minutes until your phone alarm rang. You’d set it for eight, hoping this would be a convenient time for your mum. You knew she wasn’t working today.

And, shortly after the three of you got ready—six minutes to eight—you left the girls to pre-game in Luna’s bathroom, and went back to your own dark room.

You felt very silly just sitting and staring at your screen, waiting. You could have called your mum early; you were ready for it anyway. But your hands were shaking, and you decided to wait.

You had already dressed and prepared for the rest of the night, but now, as you stared at your phone—two more minutes—you wondered if that had been a mistake. What if you cried? What if you didn’t even want to go anywhere anymore?

Two minutes, as it turned out, had a habit of passing slowly when you wanted them to pass, and passing very quickly when you wanted to prolong them. You pressed the line labelled ‘MUM’ on your phone and held your breath.

You were sitting on the floor—not because you wanted to fully embrace the dramatics of the situation or because the bed wasn’t good enough, but because your phone was charging next to the door, and you couldn’t reach the charger from the bed.

You had kept the light off, so the room was completely dark—now that was because you wanted to embrace the dramatics of the situation—and you hugged your knees to your chest, seemingly sinking deeper into the shadows.

Your mum picked up after the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hi, mum,” you said, and your voice shook despite your best attempts to control it.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she said. She sounded a little disoriented and confused. “Did something happen? Is everything okay?”

You moved your phone away from your head and wiped your cheek on the sleeve of your dark denim jacket. You felt nervous and fidgety.

“It’s—no, everything’s fine,” you replied. “Are you busy? H-how’s Kai?”

“I was just reading. And he’s playing with his friends, love,” your mum said softly—she always spoke as if she was in a crowded room, mindful of disturbing others. “Did you want to talk to him?”

“Oh. No—no, it’s okay,” you said, nibbling on your lower lip. “You, uh, changed your mind about grounding him?”

“Well, he’s awfully lonely,” she said almost apologetically. You figured she wouldn’t stay angry with him for long, especially if he complained about his broken leg—which you suspected he did. “He can’t walk much and he’s miserable.”

“Mhmm. Right.” You scratched under your chin. “I’ll, uh—I’ll check on him later.”

“Okay,” she said, hesitating for a moment. “How—well, how are you? Did something happen?”

The repeated question in place of small talk stung a little, but you knew you’d brought it on yourself. Jungkook had told you that she’d already tried to call you when you were sick in Manchester. And it was natural for her to assume something had happened when you called her yourself in any case. For a while now, you’d both had a tacit understanding: she’d text you if she wanted to know how you were, and only call if there was an emergency—such as your brother breaking his leg. But if you really needed her, you would be the one to call.

“No. No, I just—I wanted to talk to you,” you said. “I don’t, um—I don’t really know what to do, so I wanted to… talk to you and maybe that will be helpful. I don’t know, I’m—”

“Sweetheart, what’s going on?” Concern deepened her gentle voice. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m—no, I’m not hurt,” you said. You thought you knew what you had to talk about. But apparently, you hadn’t realised you’d have to articulate your thoughts to have this conversation. “It’s just… I wanted to ask about you and Dad.”

Your heartbeat echoed in your ears while your mum stayed silent on the other end.

“Oh,” she said after a minute. You heard shuffling in the background. You pictured her sitting up, putting her book on the coffee table in her living room, and pulling off the duvet. You pictured her reaching for the floor lamp next to the armchair and switching it on, wondering, all the while, what had happened. “What brought this on?”

You heard a cheerful cry from outside your room and glanced at the window. The stars behind it were obscured by dark clouds. You wondered how long it would take to recap the entirety of this past month for your mum.

“Jungkook and I were talking,” you started. You heard her hold her breath as you went on. “And I just—h-he made me realise that you and I have never really talked about this much.”

Her voice sounded distant. “Well, what is there to talk about?”

Your exhale turned into a half-choked scoff.

“A lot of things, mum,” you said.

She breathed out, then in, then out again in an uncomfortable attempt to keep her composure.

“Wh-what do you want me to say?” she asked.

“Well…” You tugged at the fabric of your black tights. “What was going through your mind when you decided to get back together with Dad?” You paused, sensing the implication in your question. “I’m—I don’t mean to insult you. I’m just—I want to understand your thought process. There seemed to be, um—so much at stake.”

“There was,” she replied with the precision of a teacher confirming that two times two was indeed four. “I had you and your brother. And I still went for it.”

An oppressive silence engulfed your dark room as your mother’s uncertainty made yours grow.

Often, when a marriage started to fall apart, the advice from well-meaning relatives—who, of course, knew more about the relationship than the people in it—revolved around the children. To you, the notion of “staying together for the kids” felt about as profound as a bumblebee repeatedly hitting the glass of a window. And the relationship that your parents had was so bad, so beyond any fixing, that no one even suggested they stayed together in the first place, not even for the children—actually, especially not for the children.

But because your mother had never received this advice—this cursed “do it for the kids”—she did not know how to explain herself to you right now.

“W-were you scared?” you forced yourself to ask.

“Every time,” your mum admitted. You felt a new, powerful surge of despair for this every time and all the years of repeated mistakes that it signified. “But I was still hopeful.”

“But you knew he didn’t change,” you said. “You knew he wouldn’t be a father, wouldn’t be your husband.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t think that’s something you know in the moment.”

You couldn’t tell whether she had convinced herself of this later—as a defence against all the relatives who shook their heads at her—or if this was something she believed from the very beginning.

“Mum, that’s—I don’t think I can ever understand that,” you said, your words pouring out in an uncontrollable torrent of agitation. “Not after what I saw you go through. It—I admire the love that you have. But I just—I can’t help but think it had always been obvious that you and Dad would never work.”

She was silent for another minute, and you were worried that you had really upset her. Then, finally, she spoke again—her voice gentle, warm. “You told me that much.”

“I’m—I did?”

“You were very smart, growing up,” she said. “Well, you still are.”

You felt an unwelcome lump in your throat and a tightness behind your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I probably hurt you.”

“You didn’t, sweetheart,” she said, because she always did. “I know it seems—well, difficult to understand. But I really wanted this to work. I wanted to give it a chance. But at a certain point, you finally realise that this is it. It’s enough. That’s when trying becomes pointless—when you can see that it won’t work. But you can’t reach that point if you don’t even try.”

But how many times, you wanted to ask, to yell, how many times did you have to try to reach that point?

“To be honest with you, my thought process was very… well, foolish, perhaps,” she continued. “Looking back, I realise that my judgement was clouded by many of the good moments we shared—because, believe it or not, it wasn’t always bad for us. We were together for… well, for many years. We had some good times.”

Once again, you felt a little disheartened that she avoided mentioning a specific date. You wondered what number of years she would have given—you knew your parents had already been on and off even before they got married.

“So, he wasn’t always like this?” you questioned. “Cold, detached, dismissive? Not worthy of you?”

Your mum seemed a little taken aback by the exhibition of adjectives—none of which came close to the words you wanted to use to describe the man who was theoretically supposed to be your father, and the words your mother had actually used to describe him herself—but she only allowed herself half of a surprised gasp before she pulled herself together.

“He was a lot more than that,” she said. “Both, in a good way and a bad way. And I wanted to try. Our circumstances had changed, we were in different stages of our lives. We’ve both grown. Clouded judgment or not, I thought that, even if he couldn’t be the person I fell in love with, maybe he could still be the person I could love right now.”

“You thought he’d changed,” you concluded. “Grown for you.”

“I did think that,” she agreed. “I believe that people can change—and they do, really. People can absolutely transform. But your father, he—well, he hadn’t. But I wouldn’t have known that for sure if I hadn’t tried.”

You shook your head. “But had he ever—you—never mind. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable with my—”

“No, you’re—you have every right to ask me these things,” she cut in. “I understand your—frustration. But I really wanted this, and I-I felt like I owed it to myself to try everything. Just so I would know that I’ve tried everything. And even though it didn’t work out, I learned more—so much more—about love, about people, and about myself. So, I don’t regret trying.”

You needed a minute to grasp that she really did not sound regretful. But you could not understand that.

You and your brother ended up in the crossfire of it all, and she was the one who put you there, repeatedly. And then she waited for over a decade for you to find the courage to ask her about this because she never volunteered this information herself.

Was there really nothing to regret about this?

“I’m... I’m still learning,” your mum continued after a while. “Because there are some things that we can learn only by experiencing them, and I—well, I want those experiences. I don’t want to look back on my life and wonder what it would have been like if I had tried something that I really wanted, but it really scared me. ‘What if I didn’t run from it, even though running away was safer?’ That was what I thought.”

She had to be brave, you thought, to try and to stop trying. And you knew that she really was. But more than that, she had to stay true to herself as an individual. She had to follow her dreams, her hopes, her wishes. And she did.

Yet, for some reason, you couldn’t find your words.

“I think that,” she said after not hearing your response, “aside from all the other things we do for love, we sometimes need to go through these unsuccessful experiences to truly understand our boundaries and get to know ourselves. And to find peace, really, knowing that we’ve done all that our hearts wanted. At least, that’s how it worked for me. Your dad might have had other motives. I don’t think I will ever truly understand them, but his motives are his own. These are mine. So—well, that was my thought process. I think that’s all I can say.”

“Hmm,” you finally said—just to signal that you've heard her, and now you needed a minute.

She’d told you everything, then.

She was listening to her heart when she got back together with your dad. And listening to one’s heart was not an easy thing to do, you’ve come to know that very well.

But now you wondered if you were okay with her explanation. If you were okay knowing that she did that because she wanted to. If you were okay with her erasing everyone else from the equation and just focusing on herself.

Lately, you’ve come to believe that people were made up of various roles, some of which were put on their gravestones after their death: daughter, sister, wife, mother. They could be more than that, so much more. But they couldn’t suddenly be less.

You thought your mother might have actually been trying to be less.

She was trying, it seemed, to be on her own, void of any roles that framed her into a certain behavioural pattern—the sister, the friend, the wife, the mother—because this way, she could get back together with your dad because she owed it to herself. Because she wanted to try.

It was important to listen to yourself, of course. But her relationship with your dad affected her in every role she had, every role she tried to escape from. It hurt her. And because it hurt her, it hurt those around her, too: her children, her brother, her friends.

And still, she did it again. And again. And again.

No, you didn’t think it was possible to escape all of your roles like that. You didn’t think a person could wake up and, without any repercussions whatsoever, suddenly decide to be an individual, but not a parent. A partner, but not a sibling.

A manager, but not an ex-girlfriend.

A shuddered breath passed your lips, and you closed your eyes. You heard your mum’s even breaths on the other end.

If you weren’t so overwhelmed, you might have admitted to your mum that you understood certain parts of her explanation, but not others.

You understood why she did all the things you’d criticised for years. She did them because she knew that was what she wanted. That was what she believed and hoped for. And precisely because she did what she wanted, she did not regret trying again even though it didn’t work out. She’d listened to her heart, and her heart was now at peace.

And, yet—you were there. Despite her pride about having followed her heart, you were there.

You were the one helping her pick up the pieces for years after your dad left. You were there when she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get up from the floor, couldn’t stop herself from crying.

You were happy that she was at peace now, happy that she did not regret it. But you did. You regretted it for her. You didn’t think you’d ever feel her peace.

That was what you didn’t understand: how she’d erased those nights, those years when you thought you went through everything she went through right with her. You didn’t understand how she didn’t regret any of it.

You could have asked her about it, but she would have probably repeated all that she’d already said. And maybe you’d never understand her because you weren’t her—you were her daughter, and you could never escape this role. You loved her and you could not feel peace for the suffering she had to endure. The suffering you tried to take away, but couldn’t.

Perhaps you were being unfair to her. But you could only judge her experiences through the lens of your own.

She made a mistake—the same one, several times. She tried to explain it to you, even tried to justify it, but ultimately, that was the way you understood it, and you could not make yourself understand it differently.

However—and it took you great effort to admit this to yourself—just because trying again was a mistake in your mother’s case, that did not necessarily mean it would be a mistake in yours, too. There was a bright side to your lack of understanding.

It certainly seemed that your mum would continue to believe her truth, and you would continue to believe yours, but now you identified a core difference between yourself and her: you could never listen to just your own heart; you had to take another heart into account.

Your heart was frightened. It did not know what to do. But you weren’t just his manager. You loved him. And you knew he loved you. You could not let your fear win.

You weren’t your mum, and you weren’t your dad. And Jungkook wasn’t one or the other, either.

You wondered if this precise moment—this clear distinction—would finally allow you to separate your experiences from your parents’.

“Sweetheart,” your mum said quietly. Your phone felt hot due to the duration of your conversation. “Did something happen that made you want to talk to me about this now? Did you and Jungkook fight?”

You were biting into the inside of your lip with so much force that you could almost taste blood.

“We did. At first,” you said. It was futile to evade her questions now, but your throat still felt scratchy. “But it’s different this time. We’re—I don’t know what we are. We’re trying. Well, he’s trying. And I—I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Well, scared that someone will get hurt if we get back together.” You tightened your arm around your calves and rested your chin on your knees. Your room had darkened even more; it was very late. “Scared that I won’t be able to keep going if we don’t. I-I don’t know how to explain it. I’m just scared of what will happen.”

“Darling, sometimes, taking the risk is the only way to know what will happen,” she said. “You have to be brave. There are always two kinds of ‘what ifs.’ One good, one bad.”

You ran your fingers through the braids in your ponytail, nearly ruining Maggie’s work.

“You always hoped for the good one,” you said.

“I did.”

“Hmm.”

“I hope for that even now,” she replied. You closed your eyes and exhaled. “I know for certain that your dad and I cannot be together, but I know that precisely because I tried. It’s terrifying, though. I know it is. But I think that a lot of times, fear is an inherent part of love. You’re afraid of losing this person, afraid of hurting them. But you choose them anyway.”

Your hands were so cold that you could feel them over your tights when you ran your nervous fingers across your calves. You watched the hotel floorboards, attempting to make sense of your thoughts.

“Well, it—that doesn’t always make sense,” you said carefully. “Choosing to be together isn’t always, uh, the right decision.”

“Sweetheart,” she said, and you could tell from her tone that she did not understand your allusion to her own relationship. “How can it be the wrong decision for you? I know you’re really calling me because you’re scared you’re hurting him.” You inhaled so sharply here that she had to pause for a moment and continue in a gentler tone. “But you won’t hurt him by being with him. You would hurt him if you pushed him away.”

Your eyes blurred with a sudden moisture that you tried to blink away. You were determined not to succumb to your emotions—not for your parents’ failed relationship, not for the relentless gap between you and your mother that one conversation could not fix, and not for the haunting what-ifs that loomed in the back of your mind.

“I don’t know what exactly happened between you two,” your mum continued. “But I do know this: Jungkook thought you didn’t love him anymore when you broke up. He was, well—broken. But he wants to try again. That was—well, it was not the case for your dad and me. So, I think your odds are very good.”

You straightened, pressing your shoulder blades against the wall.

It was only in Amsterdam that Jungkook told you he had thought you broke up with him because you didn’t love him anymore. Before that, you’d assumed he was the one who no longer cared.

Was this what he talked to your mum about? Or was she just guessing?

“Where—how do you—h-how do you know what he thought after we broke up?” you stammered.

Another silence enveloped the conversation, and you wondered what your mum needed it for.

“That’s…” she started slowly, “another thing that sets you two apart from us.”

A secret. That’s why your mum needed the silence—to figure out how to talk to you about this.

“What is it?” you asked.

It took her another moment—six and a half heartbeats to be precise—to start speaking again.

“Your dad never wrote me anything,” she said. “Not a letter, let alone a poem. Honestly, he could barely write my name on a birthday card.”

You didn’t immediately understand what she was insinuating because you were too busy screaming inside about the irony of your mum being the one who pointed out all the times when your dad did not care about her. And yet she chose him again, and again, and—

You gripped your legs tighter to focus. “How do you know that Jungkook—”

“He sent them to me.”

“What?” You let go of your legs. “What do you—what did he send you?”

“The songs,” she explained patiently. You were too overwhelmed to notice the caution in her words; she could sense your hyperventilation over the phone. “Well, the verses of the songs that he wrote about you.”

You were quiet for a minute. Then another minute. Your mum had to gently coax, “love?” to remind you that you were on a call.

Jungkook said he had talked to your mum because he needed her help. You simply could not fathom the possibility that she was helping him with his song lyrics.

“Why…” You swallowed, trying to come up with a question that wouldn’t make your stomach clench harder. “Why did he send you that?”

“Because I told him he could if he wanted to,” she said. You appreciated her even tone. It helped to slow down the rapid beating of your heart.

“But,” you said, “we were broken up.”

“That’s one side of the story,” she replied. “The other side is that you were still in love. So, while you locked yourself in your room and forbid his name from being spoken around you, he was coping in a different way.”

The air in the room felt dense. You couldn’t tell if you were getting too much oxygen or not enough. Your head was spinning, attacked by the voices in your head, all of them shouting at you in languages you did not understand.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked—the question was heavy, and your voice lowered significantly.

“I asked him if I should tell you,” she explained. “He said only if you asked about him.”

Your heart was in your throat. Your arms were numb. You felt like you were running late for something very important, and you were not going to make it in time.

“I never did,” you whispered.

“No,” she said softly. “You never did. And I didn’t think it was my place to tell.”

“Well, how—what did he say?” you pressed. “Why did he send you th-the songs?”

“He texted me, asking for permission at first,” she recounted. “He wanted to know if—if the lyrics were okay, if they weren’t too obvious, if I would mind and if I thought you would mind.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you might drop everything and move to the Arctic if you found out the songs were about you,” she said. You could hear the smile in her voice. “He said that’s why he asked me instead.”

“Hmm. But that only happened once o-or... you know, twice?” you asked. “Haunting” and “Cursed”—those were the two songs he’d told you he wrote with you in mind. “Right?”

You were almost desperate for her to agree with you. To say that this was it, just these two songs. It was a lot, but you already knew about them. You’d manage to carry on.

Your mum sensed the hope in your voice. Almost unwillingly, she admitted, “at first.”

You were glad, suddenly, that you were sitting on the floor as the hotel room seemed to tremble around you. The realisation that Jungkook had been in touch with your mum, that he was writing about you this whole time—that your mum knew he was writing about you—was a little too strong.

Yoongi wasn’t far off, as it turned out. He thought it was you who looked through Jungkook’s lyrics for him. Apparently, it was your mum.

“The first time he reached out was right when Rated Riot first started making music,” your mum resumed, her words sharp against the lingering silence. “He apologised, and I didn’t think he would contact me again.”

“But he did,” you concluded, almost voiceless as your words stuck in the dryness of your throat.

“He did,” she confirmed. “I think, a lot of times, he was doing it to find out if you were seeing anyone else.”

The voices in your head were quick to latch onto this phrase – a lot of times! a lot of times! a lot of times! – and they yelled it at you from every crevice of your mind.

“Every time he wrote something new about you—a song, or a verse, or even a line that he ended up never including in any of their songs—he’d contact me and ask if it was okay,” your mum said. “But I don’t think he was only asking about the lyrics. He was also asking if I was okay with him still being in love with you. He was, it felt like, trying to see if I’d tell him to stop. To meet someone new.”

You had a pained frown on your face as you brought a hand over your forehead, wondering if what you were feeling was nausea or vertigo.

“Why didn’t you say that to him?” you asked. “To stop? It’s been four years.”

“For the same reason I didn’t say it to you.”

Your lips parted, but you could not find your voice. “W-wh—what—”

“Four years is just a raw number,” your mum said. “It does not account for the days you spent intentionally avoiding each other, remembering everything, and eventually working together. It is neither big nor small, and it is completely irrelevant compared to what you feel inside.”

It seemed to you, for an unthinkable second, that your mum had been waiting for your call about Jungkook—like she knew it would come. Jungkook had called her, and you would, too. It was inevitable.

But how much time has passed between his first call to your mum, and yours, right now? You wanted to claw at your chest until you ripped out every painful needle in your heart for all the years he waited for you, and for all the years you waited for yourself, too.

“And I’ve noticed that he also tried very hard to act like he no longer had any feelings for you when he wrote many of these songs,” your mum added with a conviction that only fuelled the intense turmoil inside of you. “He always claimed that he just needed something for his lyrics. He was just drawing inspiration from personal experience. But I don’t believe that was the entire truth. The lyrics he sent me… they’re a broken heart on paper. They’re a love confession.

“Mum—”

“He tried to tell himself that he’d moved on,” she continued, “but I could tell he hadn’t. You don’t write songs like that about someone you no longer care about.”

You were shaking your head even though she couldn’t see you. You knew your mum was a hopeless romantic, you thought her understanding of love differed from yours very much, and you desperately wanted to believe that you had a rational reason to argue with her.

But really, you were just trying to trick your heart into feeling better. Into believing that you didn’t have nearly as much of an impact on him as he continuously showed you that you did.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I haven’t heard from him in a while until just recently,” your mum said, gently breaking the silence. “Ask him about the song he’s working on now, sweetheart.”

Your heart exploded again. “He—he sent you something else?”

“A few nights ago,” she said. “He said he’s done with the lyrics; he has the demo. He wants to record it now. It’s called—hold on, the title was a mouthful.” You heard some shuffling on her end, overshadowed partially by your racing heart. “Ah, here. It’s called “The Puddle of Champagne on the Bathroom Floor.””

The force of her words made your stomach plummet as goosebumps battled the heat for precedence over your skin.

The past month rushed back to you in disordered flashes – Amsterdam. Your hotel room. Hoseok’s party. Boxes of champagne in the bathroom of Hoseok’s room. The motorcycle ride in Tilburg. The bet. The IV drip in Manchester. Jungkook’s irreparable tendency for big gestures. The pebbles he’d thrown at your window. The kiss in the garden outside the hotel.

You weren’t just his manager. You’d never been just his manager.

“I—I have to go, mum,” you managed to say, leaning against the wall in an attempt to stand up.

You didn’t actually have to go; the girls had promised to wait for you. But your whole body itched with an unrelenting restlessness, and you thought your legs would turn themselves inside out if you didn’t set them in motion right this second.

“Yeah?” she asked with traces of obvious concern in her words. “Call me later, sweetheart, okay?”

“I will,” you promised, lightheaded as you stood and bumped your thigh into the nightstand next to the bed. You unplugged your phone, letting the charger dangle, and navigated the room to the bathroom. Your fingers felt numb as you clutched your phone to your ear. “I—thank you. I love you.”

“Be brave, okay?” your mum said, sending another shiver down your spine. “I love you so much.”

You mumbled something—or may have actually opened your mouth to reply, you weren’t sure of anything anymore—as you ended the call and tossed your phone onto the bed from the doorway of the bathroom.

You needed water first—to wash your face, to drink, and to possibly drown your feelings in.

You weren’t sure, after all, if you were ready to go out with Luna and Maggie tonight. You weren’t sure if you were ready to leave your bathroom at all.

And that was how the girls discovered you twenty minutes later—perched on the counter next to the sink in your bathroom, cradling a towel on your lap as your mind vacillated between impressive emptiness and a thick fog of thoughts that refused to dissipate.

“Hey,” Luna whispered as the two girls slipped into the room. Now that they were here, you thought you could remember hearing a faint knock on the door. “What’s wrong?”

The question finally forced the racing thoughts in your head to stop.

“Nothing,” you responded, using the towel to wipe the water on your face, even though most of it had already dripped onto your black tights a long time ago. You missed the look that Luna and Maggie exchanged. “Sorry, were you—”

“Babe, you’re crying,” Maggie pointed out, carefully pulling your ponytail away from your face and over your shoulder.

You instinctively reached up to your eyes.

“I’m not, this is—it’s water.” You raised the towel as evidence. “I was washing—”

Maggie rubbed your arm patiently. “It’s water coming out of your eyes, babe.”

You glanced over at Luna, but she stood with her arms crossed over her chest and a concerned expression on her face.

We’ll be here a while, her stance was saying. But we’ll get to the bottom of it.

You looked down. “Sorry. I’m really okay.”

“I know you think that if you say you’re okay enough times, people will believe you,” Luna said firmly because her heart had dropped to her heels when Maggie threw the door open, and they found you here, completely dissociated, with a dangerous vacancy in your eyes. “But that’s not what happens. People just pretend to believe you, so you’d feel better. We know you’re not okay.”

You have started to realise that over the last few days.

So, taking an uncertain breath, you told them most of what your mum had just told you: about Jungkook’s heartbreak, and about your own. About his conversations with her, and about your self-imposed vow of silence. About his songs, and about your deliberate blindness for the lyricism, which had always been saturated with sentiments from the past seven years.

You chose not to mention the emptiness you felt after your mum had explained her reasoning for getting back together with your dad because you were worried you would not have enough water or towels to conceal your emotions.

After you finished speaking, Maggie, in her typical manner, made a profound summary of it all: “Well, shit.”

Luna nodded in agreement and tilted her head.

“But wait,” she said. “Why—why is this—but why are you crying about this?”

“I’m not,” you replied. You felt the childish defiance in your tone, but it was so intrinsic for you that you just said it and gave your friend an apologetic look.

“Right.” Luna glanced at her reflection in the mirror behind you, reminding herself that you’d sooner drown yourself in the flood of your tears than admit to crying. “Why are you trying so hard to pretend you’re not crying, then?”

You had to battle yourself a little more until you finally exhaled and leaned your back against the mirror.

“I—well—mostly because it’s just been so long. Fucking ages. And I was, you know. All this time, I was playing my little game.” You raised the pitch of your voice to imitate yourself, “oh, I’m such a great manager, I’m so insanely professional that you wouldn’t even think he’s my fucking ex-boyfriend.” You scoffed, shaking your head. Luna observed the way your hands trembled when you lifted them to your neck. “And he was—he was writing fucking songs about—a-and sending them to my mum to ask for her approval. Her permission. Her—just fucking talking to her. While I wasn’t talking to anyone. While I was acting like I lived in a magic fucking kingdom with purple ponies and rainbows, and no ex-boyfriends.”

The girls shared a look and half of a whole conversation—albeit in different languages, because when Luna opened her mouth to offer comforting words, Maggie placed her hand on your arm and shook her head.

“To be fair,” she said, “before I found out he’s your ex, I would have never suspected it.”

You raised your eyes. “You—well, see! That’s because I was—”

“No, wait, that’s—” Luna interjected, then paused to frown at Maggie. “Actually, hold on. How did you find out?”

You tightened your lips and returned your attention to Maggie. Most of the staff seemed to just know about you and Jungkook—like they knew most things—and you had obviously preferred to pretend like your relationship had never happened, so you’d never asked how they learned about it. But now you were curious.

“He told me,” Maggie stated simply, pulling away from you to straighten her dress. She kept her eyes on the ground.

“Jungkook?” Luna clarified.

Maggie nodded and looked up at you, tentative. “Yeah. A-and I’m afraid I might have mentioned it to Seokjin after that. And a few people might have overheard, and it, um—well, I think the news spread. But, in my defence, the band already knew.”

“The—” You blinked. “Well, I was the one who told the band. I thought I had to, or it wouldn’t be fair.”

“Oh.” She pondered that for a moment. “Okay. So—okay.”

“But how did you find out about it?” Luna pressed.

“Right.” Maggie bit her lip. She looked at you as she spoke. “It was a little over a year ago. We were drunk one night after a gig, and you were outside with Namjoon and Seokjin, having a smoke or whatever. And one of the roadies made a joke, something about how you three always disappear together. You know, a suggestive joke.”

You groaned. Most of the road crew was not affiliated with the company, so you hired new people for each tour. You recalled a few awful experiences with them and wondered if this would be another one.

“Yeah,” Maggie agreed with your scrunched-up nose. “That’s how I reacted, too. But the roadies kept going, because, you know, it was a joke, they didn’t realise it was hurting anybody. So, they were saying how they’ve heard that you had dated some producer from the label before. And they wondered if Namjoon could have been the guy, and Jin’s just the third wheel to kind of throw everybody off your scent.”

Your frown deepened. “Oh, my God.”

“Right,” she said again, nodding. “Well, Jungkook suddenly stood up and left. I didn’t even realise he was upset or anything, but Hoseok leaned over and asked if I could go check on him, so I went. I found him in the parking lot and asked him what was up, why was he looking so irritated or whatever. And he said he’s the guy you dated, not Namjoon. He said it with so much pride, too, kind of like it was an achievement or something.”

This was the moment when you looked down, and Maggie turned to look at Luna instead. Luna was positively glowing as she processed the new information and made mental notes.

“I think I mentioned that to him, actually,” Maggie went on, “because he later said, “it’s not an achievement if I’ve lost it.” But I was so drunk that I didn’t realise what he was talking about. I asked, “what’s ‘it’? What did you lose?” and he just stopped speaking and pulled out another cigarette.”

Something already tight seemed to tighten even more in your stomach.

Luna was the one who replied with a shake of her head and an affectionate observation: “The two of you have some productive discussions when you’re drunk.”

“Hmmm.” Maggie pulled on the skin around her nail. Her mind was focused on the events that happened later and she turned back to you, admitting, “I-I’m sorry I might have been the one who started the chain of—well, I shouldn’t have told anyone. I only meant to ask Jin if he knew about it, and it—”

“It’s okay,” you cut her off. “No one’s ever said anything to me about it.”

Maggie bit her lip again, still uneasy. “I’m—honestly, up until a few days ago when this whole mess with the bet started, I didn’t even think about that conversation with Jungkook, because—I mean, both of you seemed so normal around each other. Well, you know. He flirted with you all the time, I now realise, but he’s kind of a little shit in general, so it didn’t feel weird. And it didn’t even occur to me to think that the reason he was upset that night was because he was drunk and angry about not being with you anymore. I thought he was just irritated for no reason.”

Your eyes were fixed on the bathroom carpet—hoping, irrationally, that if you stared at it hard enough, it would absorb the fact that Maggie had witnessed Jungkook like this in the very prime of your insistence that you could remain professional and your past relationship would never be a problem. In the very prime of your hopeless attempt to run away from yourself.

“Yeah,” Luna said to her, understanding. “He does that sometimes. Gets upset randomly.”

“Yeah.” Maggie nodded. “A little moody. Comes with the job, I guess.”

Luna nodded back. “Yeah.”

This exchange finally snapped you out of your daze and you shook your head with a resigned smile. Luna’s face brightened as she leaned her hip against the counter next to you, and Maggie chuckled, pressing her shoulder against the wall on your other side.

“You know,” Luna said, turning to look at you. “I always wondered how he managed to resist for so long. I mean, you’ve been with the band for over two years now, right? And all he did was just tease you and make jokes. Like a middle-schooler, pulling the hair of his crush. But, really. How did he hold back from doing more?”

You tried, “but why—”

“I’m sure he was doing it for her,” Maggie interjected, pointing at you as though you were an inanimate object—something placed on the bathroom counter for decoration and easily picked up to discuss. “Maybe because he didn’t think she would want him back.”

“Well, what changed?” Luna questioned. “Why did he suddenly act on his feelings?”

“Well, Sid came along.”

“Ah.” Luna nodded, remembering suddenly how Jungkook told her that the bet had given him the push he needed. “That’s right.”

Your gaze ricocheted from one girl to the other. Your mind processed their conversation as if it were the plot of a series you had watched rather than something you had lived through.

“Yeah, and look, it may not have been that hard for him to hold back,” Maggie speculated. “Jungkook is the King of Bottled Emotions.”

“That’s true,” Luna agreed. “And he put all his feelings into his songs, which probably helped for the time being.”

“Yeah. That’s probably exactly it. And I think—”

“Okay!” you interjected, smacking your palms against your thighs. You didn’t think you had it in you to handle another and. “Hi? I’m here, too.”

Both girls turned to you with grins that indicated they were well aware of what they were doing.

“How are you feeling?” Luna asked.

“Confused,” you replied, wiping the corners of your eyes with your fingers. They were stained with your wet eyeshadow.

Luna raised a curious eyebrow. “Is that better than what you were feeling before, or—”

“It’s different,” you said, exhaling with a great strain. “I have to talk to him.”

Luna looked startled as she glanced at Maggie. “Uh—r-right now?”

The unexpected question made you lose what little courage you had. “I—I don’t know?”

“I saw him in the lobby earlier,” Maggie admitted slowly, very upset to find herself as the bearer of bad news tonight. “With Minjun. They, um—they left together.”

“Oh.” You looked down. “Well, that—maybe that’s good.”

Neither of your friends thought that was good as they both looked at each other in alarm. For once, they both thought the same thing, and that was a plan of how to track Jungkook down for you. They knew you well enough to fear that if you two did not talk about it right now, you never would.

“Really?” Luna asked uncertainly. “Because we can try to—”

“No, no,” you said. “Maybe I need to calm down first. Somehow.”

The girls both exhaled quietly. Calming down first implied talking to him second.

“Would, um,” Maggie said, “getting wasted help with that?”

You looked at her, a small smile on your lips. “It might.”

It started raining while the girls helped you fix your make-up, and the three of you stepped into the empty street laughing as the wind played havoc with your umbrella while you waited for the taxi. You hadn’t had time to properly pack your handbag or take any obligatory group pictures together, but you still felt significantly better.

Once you arrived at the bar, you stopped to shake off your umbrella and briefly split from the group as the girls hurried into the warm, dry building. Standing under the canopy by the entrance, you caught something out of the corner of your eye and turned to look. It was a waft of smoke from someone’s cigarette in the smoking area by the side of the building. You didn’t think much of it.

But when you tapped your umbrella against the pavement one last time, the smoker poked his head, gazing somewhere opposite from you. You looked up to see a familiar jet-black hair, styled in an overly gelled quiff, eerily similar to the hairstyle Sid wore every day.

The person did not turn to look at you, but this was enough for dread to grip your stomach, casting a terrible shadow over your uplifted mood.

You tried to rationalise that there was no logical reason for Sid to be in London. This person just couldn’t be him. Sid had showed up in Manchester, sure, but Jungkook had been certain that this was over. Even Sid couldn’t be pathetic enough to follow him all the way to London.

A group of people obstructed your view of the smoker as they tried to pass you to enter the bar. Apologising, you opened the door and finally walked inside.

The place exuded an unexpected elegance. A bar, with numerous tables scattered about, claimed half the space, while a dancefloor was partially concealed behind a row of private mahogany booths. The music was loud, but not overwhelming, and the area was dimly lit by massive chandeliers suspended above each table in every booth. Their faint light barely illuminated the drink menus strewn across the tables.

There weren’t many people here, and this seemed like a lowkey, comfortable place for the night—provided the person outside wasn’t Sid.

“No fucking way,” a voice cried from your left.

Flinching, you turned and noticed the entrance to the men’s room first, and Jude’s expectant eyes next. A chill coursed through you, rendering your legs numb.

No.

No, no, no, no—

“What are the fucking odds?” he exclaimed, grinning. You realised how odd it was for Jude to talk to you without Sid initiating the conversation, and you dreaded, suddenly, that he might come in, too. “This must be—what’s it called when—something about kissing, I think. Kissling? You know? Destiny?”

You swallowed. “Kismet.”

“That’s the one, yeah!” Jude raised his hands victoriously. He appeared to be on something; he had never looked at you for longer than two seconds when he was sober, let alone moved around so vigorously. “Hey, are you here alone?”

“I’m not,” you replied.

“Do you want to join us?” he asked. You didn’t like the plural pronoun one bit.

This had to be a nightmare, you thought. You half-expected to glance down and find yourself standing naked in the middle of the room—and then you would wake up.

Jude’s grin widened when you didn’t respond, and looked around to see if your friends were near. They were, but they seemed to be busy choosing a table.

“You know we don’t bite,” Jude reassured as if your hesitation was about potential biting rather than the insurmountable headache that Sid and Jude collectively induced just by being in the same room with you.

You managed a weak smile. “I’ll pass. You’re hanging around here, then?”

“We were just leaving,” Jude said—who was this “we,” you wondered irritably—and, most impudently, he leaned closer. “We have some molly to keep us company for the rest of the night. They call it mandy in England, did you know? You mix it with speed, and you just fucking fly. You look like you could use some.”

He chuckled and pulled back. You wondered if your reaction showed on your face; Jude did not acknowledge it.

You did not think you needed club drugs. You thought you needed pepper spray.

“Thanks,” you said. “But I’d prefer it if you just left me alone if that’s not too much trouble.”

He laughed—a disturbing echo of Sid’s cackle—and a shiver of revulsion ran down your spine. While Jude wasn’t the most pleasant person to be around, he was usually tolerable when Sid wasn’t by his side. What had he done to him?

“Alright, well, suit yourself,” Jude responded, unfazed. “If you change your mind, you know where to find us.”

You suppressed the urge to rattle off a list of locations where you would look for them—the sewers, a dumpster, a toxic waste site—and pursed your lips.

“So, you’re staying in London?” you asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied cheerily.

You nodded. “Lovely.”

He turned towards the door with his unwavering smirk, but kept glancing back at you every few seconds, seemingly hesitating. You watched his movements like one might watch the launch of a spacecraft—counting down the seconds until it’s in the air and out of your sight.

“Well, we will see you later,” he said, one hand on the handle. He lingered by the door for a good ten seconds, letting the cold air in and clearly anticipating your response.

You cleared your throat. “Not unless I have a say in that.”

He snorted. “Funny. We’ll be thinking of you.”

You did not speak. He did not move.

“Don’t both—” you started and then stopped abruptly.

Jude raised his eyebrows in the doorway. There was something about the way he looked at you, the way he lingered here while Sid smoked outside.

God, this might have been the same instinct that Minjun had to save Jude from Sid, but you sighed and managed a quiet, “Jude, um—be careful, alright?”

A myriad of colours passed on his face as he tried to comprehend your words.

“Wha—why—what do you mean?” he asked, so wide-eyed and utterly astonished that you felt uncomfortable looking at him.

“I’m just saying,” you said awkwardly. “Sid doesn’t care about what happens to you. Make sure you look after yourself. Drink water if you’re going to be tripping on something.”

He stayed frozen, almost statuesque—not blinking, seemingly not even breathing—for so long that you were starting to worry he had astral projected, leaving his corporeal form behind.

“Thank you,” he said after a full minute, with an unexpected clarity that you hadn’t heard from him earlier.

You nodded in response and he finally stepped outside, lingering as if tethered by a new string of hesitation, before finally letting the door close behind him.

When you joined your friends at the table they had picked, you interrupted their conversation about the atmosphere inside the club. Maggie was the first to notice your expression.

“Jesus,” she said. “What happened to you?”

“Jude’s here.”

Both girls looked at each other in dramatic disbelief—Maggie even gasped—and instinctively rose from their seats to crowd around you.

“What? Did you talk to him?” Luna questioned as Maggie pulled you deeper into the booth. The two of them scanned the bar as though Jude was still here, hiding somewhere.

“I—yeah,” you said. “But he left. I think I saw Sid outside.”

Their surprise morphed into complete horror. You gestured for them to sit down.

“But wait—fuck,” Luna said, standing straight. “We can go somewhere else.”

“No, I’m—if they come back, then yes,” you said. “But if they don’t, then let’s just stay here so we don’t run into them elsewhere.”

They looked around warily once more—just in case—before reluctantly settling down. Maggie took a seat next to you, while Luna sat down across the table.

This was when the girls began to fire every question they had, and you repeated the only answer you could offer.

“So, they’re in London,” Maggie said, tapping her nails against the table. “Why?”

“I have no idea,” you said.

“Does Jungkook know?”

“I have no idea.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea.”

Maggie reclined in her seat, deciding she’s had enough of this game.

“Well,” she said, “that’s great. I need a fucking drink.”

You hummed and brought your hand over the cocktail menu. Luna offered to make the first run to the bar, effectively changing the subject.

But shortly after, when she returned with a tray full of colourful, fruity drinks, you and Maggie were already back to discussing the details of your exchange with Jude—how unusual he seemed, and the awkward turn the conversation took.

“I think that’s enough of Sid and Jude,” Luna said, sitting down across from the two of you and handing out the drinks. “Different topic?”

“Oh, but hold on—while we’re on the topic of awkward conversations,” Maggie said, earning a quizzical look from you both. She ignored it. “Have you talked to that guy? That supervisor guy—you know the one.”

“Oh, Nick?” you asked, picking up your strawberry daiquiri and sliding Maggie’s tequila sunrise towards her. You accidentally nudged the cherry on the rim, causing it to fall into the drink. “Sorry—”

“It’s fine,” she said, deftly rescuing the cherry on its stem and popping it into her mouth.

“I haven’t talked to him yet,” you replied. “But I’m not working for Reconnaissance, that’s decided already.”

“Yeah?” Maggie smirked, punctuating her words with a purposefully seductive sip of her drink. “Anyone in particular help you with that decision?”

Despite her ambiguous question, you took a sip of your drink and felt yourself slowly relax. You were here with your friends. There was no harm to be done to either of you.

“Well, Jin did, actually,” you said. “We had a very productive conversation.”

“Hmm.” Maggie gave Luna a suggestive glance. “And no one else?”

You shrugged. “Yoongi and Namjoon—”

“Okay, you queen of evasion,” Maggie gave up, prompting Luna to giggle on the other side of the table as she absentmindedly stirred her Martini with the paper umbrella. “Are you getting back together with Jungkook or not? After everything that happened tonight?”

The way she said it—almost giving you options, even—was so simple that it made you wonder how much better things might have been between you and Jungkook if the two of you hadn’t been so obnoxiously determined to tiptoe around your feelings and had asked each other questions the way Maggie asked them.

“Well, my mum thinks we should get back together,” you said slowly.

“I care about what you think,” Maggie said—just like that. Luna nodded to herself, making a note to keep drinking until she, too, could start asking complicated questions in such an effortless way.

You finished your drink before speaking.

“I want to try,” you said. “But I’m—you know. I’m also scared that we’ll end up going around in circles, making the same mistakes.”

Maggie regarded you as if you’d dropped your hat in horse shit and put it straight back on.

“Babe, that’s a One Direction song,” she said.

You scoffed and looked down at your glass. “I know. My mum’s favourite, actually. But what I’m trying to say is, I’m scared.”

“Isn’t everyone?” she challenged. “But they still try.”

“They…” Your confidence waned as you realised you might have to talk about the complexities of your parents’ history once again tonight. You wanted to leave that discussion behind, so you finished simply, “they don’t have unsuccessful relationships left, right and centre to get inspiration from.”

“Excuse me?” Maggie arched her brows. “Rue and I have been together for three years—”

“Four,” Luna interjected.

“For four years,” Maggie corrected, “and we couldn’t be happier. Are we not successful?”

Feeling a bit like prey cornered by a very determined predator, you leaned against the back of the booth and cleared your throat. “Well, y-you are, but—”

“Luna and Taehyung!” Maggie continued, fired up. “They’ve been together for a whole year and—”

“Almost two, actually,” Luna said.

“Jesus!” Maggie threw her hands in the air. “I’m bad with dates, okay? Let me live.” She turned back to you as Luna grinned. Exhaling, Maggie continued in a more patient tone, “I mean, there are successful relationships around you. You just choose not to look at them.”

She was right about that, but it didn’t seem quite as simple or straightforward to you.

“Neither of you broke up and then got back together again, though,” you said.

Maggie was mid-syllable (a very frustrated “tha—”) when she realised that she couldn’t really argue. She quieted and frowned, finding her straw with her tongue and taking a long sip of her drink.

Luna took over. “Taehyung and I did, actually.”

Both you and Maggie looked up in surprise.

“What?” Maggie inquired first. “Seriously?”

“Well, it was only for two days,” Luna explained, grabbing a napkin from the dispenser on the edge of the table. “So, I’m not sure if it counts.”

“What happened?” you asked.

She dabbed her lips with the napkin, painting it a gentle shade of plum from her lipstick, and crumpled it.

“We were together for about eight or nine months at the time,” she said. “Rated Riot were on their first cross-country tour. Remember? It was a big deal, and the guys were stressed.” She paused to wait for your nod of confirmation. “We hadn’t seen each other in weeks. He called me one night and just—he said he couldn’t do this to me, that I deserved someone better, that he couldn’t—well, you know. The textbook ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ stuff.”

You and Maggie both nodded.

“How did you make up?” you asked.

“He flew in to see me on his day off and took back everything he’d said.” A faint smile played on her lips as she spoke, but she avoided looking at either of you—the story still felt a little too intimate, too raw to share. “He said he was confused and scared, that’s why he thought it’d be better to break up. But then he said he realised he was even more afraid of losing what we had, so he had to make it right.”

“I remember him flying out to see you,” you said. You remembered yelling at him, too, for leaving the tour right before a concert—but Taehyung usually only listened to Taehyung. “I didn’t know that it was because you broke up. I’m sorry.”

Luna finally looked up, waving her hand dismissively.

“Don’t be, it’s fine,” she said. “We made up. And the break-up barely lasted a few days, I didn’t even have a chance to tell you about it.”

Maggie was smiling as she reached for the brightest remaining cocktail on the table—a Cosmopolitan—and collected the empty glasses, putting them back on the tray. She handed you and Luna glasses of faint pink, peach-flavoured cocktails and settled back in her seat.

You nodded in gratitude and turned to Luna once more. “Were you scared? To take him back?”

“No. I…” she trailed off, searching for a better way to explain herself. Maggie, in the meantime, threw her head back and finished her drink. “I don’t know. I kind of—maybe it didn’t sink in that we had broken up? It was very sudden, we hadn’t seen each other in a while, and I knew his tour schedule. I knew we wouldn’t be seeing each other again anytime soon anyway. So, it didn’t feel like a break-up. I was—I think the whole time, I felt like he would come back eventually. Is that weird?”

“It’s romantic,” Maggie exhaled, resting her head on her palms on the table, a wistful haze in her eyes.

“You’re drooling, Mags,” you pointed out, grinning.

She ran her tongue over her lips, then waved her hand around lazily. “Let me.”

Chuckling, Luna passed her a napkin.

“I don’t think it’s weird, either,” you said. “But I—I guess I never felt that certainty. I didn’t think Jungkook would come back.”

“No? Not even when you found out you’d be managing his band?” Luna asked, her smile widening. “Because—listen—I distinctly remember you calling me after you got the offer to work with them, and you were all panicked, asking me if I knew who they were.”

“Oh.” You felt your own lips stretch into a smile. “I remember, too.”

In hindsight, that day had been absurd. You were offered the manager position for a band that you had never heard of, and during the first meeting with the HR representative at the label, you pretended very passionately that you were familiar with their music and the band members themselves. And the rep, in turn, pretended very passionately that he believed you.

“I don’t,” Maggie spoke up. “You didn’t tell me. What happened?”

“Well, she asked me if I knew them,” Luna recalled and you took a moment to sip your neglected drink, “and I said I’ve heard of them. I liked “Haunting,” one of their early songs.”

The mention of the song triggered the memory of Jungkook humming it to you in the bar in Oslo when he told you that he’d written it about you. This memory, in turn, brought back the conversation you’ve had with your mum. Your pulse sped up, and you finished your drink in a futile attempt to slow it down.

“So, she came over after her meeting, and I played her the music video,” Luna continued. “At that point, I didn’t know the names of anyone in the band. “Haunting” was the only song I’d heard. So, I played the video for her, and I was talking about how I thought the bassist was cute—”

“Oh, that’s right, you weren’t dating Taehyung yet!” Maggie interjected, raising her head with a sudden excitement.

Luna nodded. “Yeah. And then I noticed that she’s just kind of staring at the screen, completely in awe. I thought she liked the song, that’s why. So, I asked, “what did you think? It’s good, right?” and she just turned to me, and said in the most blank tone, “that’s Jungkook.””

Maggie’s mouth hung open as she glanced at you. “You didn’t know he was in a band? In that band?!”

You were counting the lines on the mahogany table and stayed quiet. Maggie gestured speechlessly for Luna to please, for the love of God, continue.

“I was confused, too,” Luna said. “I asked, “what do you mean? Your Jungkook?” and she just said, “yeah,” and went quiet again. Well, she also tried to insist he’s not her Jungkook, but I’m trying to give you the short version of the story. Anyway. I played the video again to check for myself. But he had long hair in it, sort of curly. He looked completely different from what I had pictured in my head based on the few things she’d told me.”

Maggie turned to you again. “And you never showed her what he looked like?!”

“I think I did,” you replied uneasily. You had met Luna shortly after your break-up with Jungkook, but you wanted to believe that your secrecy about your relationship wasn’t that bad.

It was—and Luna grinned as she shook her head.

“She didn’t,” she said, turning to Maggie again. “She made sure to delete every single picture they had together. I only saw him once, when she and I took her dog to the vet. She was explaining the dog’s weight loss to the doctor and had to find a picture for reference. The only photo she could find on such short notice was an old screenshot from Snapchat where Jungkook was the one holding the dog. But he had… like, a bowl cut back then? Not the dog, I mean. Jungkook,” she clarified, and all three of you snorted. “He looked cute, of course. But nothing like the guy in the music video, so I didn’t even think about him when I watched it.”

For some reason, hearing about this random picture hurt. It’s been so long and, obviously, you and Jungkook have been through a lot more together—some of which was far worse than an old picture you stumbled upon in your phone by accident—and still, it hurt.

It wasn’t the memory itself that was painful, but the parts of you that were still alive in it. The parts of you that deleted all the pictures, but kept the screenshots. Threw out all the dried flowers, but kept the matching jackets. Blocked all his profiles, but not his phone number.

And there was another keepsake that you couldn’t bring yourself to delete: a video from that fateful birthday party where Jungkook had drunkenly performed a Backstreet Boys song; one of your friends had recorded it on your phone. As soon as he finished the song, Jungkook—wielding a half-empty bottle—chased after you, threatening to bathe you in champagne if you didn’t delete the video right this instant.

You still had it. You still watched it sometimes.

And then, years later, he walked into your office for the first time, his stupid silver necklace catching the sunlight and blinding you as soon as you looked up—just as it would every day for months to come—and there he was. Existing in your life all over again.

And it felt, you thought in retrospect, like he had never truly left. Every absence of him that you tried to manufacture by deleting your shared pictures only served to accentuate the fact that he’d been here once upon a time, and now he wasn’t. It was like missing a tooth—like pulling it out by force—and then continuously running your tongue over the gap.

“So, how come you still had that screenshot?” Maggie asked, her question snapping your attention back to the present.

You cleared your throat in an attempt to mask the undertow of emotions threatening to surface.

“For my dog,” you said. “He looked very chunky in that picture.”

Maggie grinned. “And what did Jungkook look like?”

“He was…” you looked for an adequate word, did not find one, and finished weakly, “there.”

“Hmm, right,” Luna said, with an ambiguous smile on her face. You were afraid of what she’d say next. “My favourite part about it all, is that you chose to accept the job even after you found out Jungkook is in the band.”

“I personally think that’s beautiful,” Maggie, who found everything beautiful after two drinks, chimed in.

You wanted to disagree, to bring up the fact that this job was a great opportunity—it really was!—and that this was the only reason you’d accepted it. Consciously, at least. But the girls were determined to fully ambush you.

“What did you feel when you saw him again as his manager?” Luna asked, shuffling to the very edge of her seat.

“Nothing,” you said, already a little dizzy from the drinks and the intense attention from your friends. You remembered feeling chaos back then; messy, uncontrollable mayhem roaming in your mind. But, compared to your feelings now, it might as well have been nothing. “I knew we’d have to work together, so I—nothing.”

“Oh!” Maggie groaned. “You’re so full of shit.”

You weren’t prepared for the abrupt shift in her tone. “Wh—”

“Let me show you,” she said, forcing the clasp on her purse open to retrieve her phone.

“Show me what?” you asked, still confused and now a little concerned.

“I’ll show you!” she cried out before proceeding to mumble under her breath with intermittent shouts, “oh, how I’ll show you—like no one’s ever shown you anything! before—you won’t know what hit! you when I show you—”

“We get it, Maggie,” Luna interrupted, reaching out to touch Maggie’s wrist. “Get on with it, please.”

“I’m looking—here!” She tapped her screen. “Here, look at this.”

She pointed her phone at Luna, who looked at it and appeared ever more confused than you felt, even though you hadn’t even seen what was on it.

“What—who is that?” she asked.

“That’s her and Jungkook!” Maggie bellowed, sweeping her arm so far back to point at you that she nearly yanked out your earring. “Sitting in an empty bathtub, drinking champagne, and laughing!”

A rush of heat surged through you as Luna gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, my God!”

You leaned across the table to grab Maggie’s phone from her.

The picture was beautiful, which was the first thing that you noticed. It was black and white with melancholic shadows swirling in the periphery. It was taken, you realised, from the corridor outside the bathroom during Hoseok’s party in Amsterdam.

Your stomach dropped once more tonight, because, of course, this was the night that Jungkook had named his latest song after.

Your skin felt wrong all of a sudden, and everything inside of you wanted to come out. You gripped Maggie’s phone tighter.

In the picture, both you and Jungkook had your backs to the camera, only visible from the shoulders up because the bathtub concealed the rest. You were holding glasses of champagne.

Jungkook’s gaze, captured in the dimly lit frame, was fixed on you. His head was turned slightly, and if it weren’t for the bright smile on his face, you might not have known it was him; the photograph was too dark. You, on the other hand, had your head thrown back in laughter and blended seamlessly into an unrecognisable silhouette.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you looked up from your friend’s phone. “When—how did you even take this?”

“You left the door open, you idiots,” Maggie replied.

“Let me see it again,” Luna asked, taking the phone from your shaking hands. “This looks like it could be an actual film poster for an indie romantic drama.”

“Titled,” Maggie added, “When In Bath…”

The two girls snickered, cracking each other up by nodding along to the joke until they were pounding their fists into the table in laughter. You wondered if this was the alcohol.

“Alright, alright,” you interrupted. “It—it’s a great picture. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means you’ve been in love with each other from the very beginning,” Maggie said, seizing the opportunity to play the role of a triumphant attorney, delivering a powerful closing statement in court. “And you can try to act like you haven’t been, like it all came as such a big shock, like you’d moved on, so, oh my God,” she gasped theatrically, “where are all these feelings coming from?!”

You groaned, but Maggie was undeterred, revelling in the dramatic momentum she had built.

“But this,” she lifted her phone as though in a poor production of The Lion King, “speaks louder than words. We know he’s loved you the whole time, your mum confirms it. But look at this. Look at how you’re leaning into him as you laugh. Look at how you’re touching his shoulder. You’ve loved him all along, too.”

Luna, definitely tipsy already, burst into energetic applause, and Maggie took a dramatic bow, her necklace clattering against the table. In her flourish, she nudged her empty cocktail glass with her shoulder, and you leaned over to catch it before it knocked your bag off the table. A few people from nearby booths turned in your direction.

“So, you see,” Maggie continued before you could ask the two of them to take it easy, “all you’re doing is just making excuses.”

“Well. Here’s another one,” you said, sliding out of the booth. “I’m going to grab us some snacks.”

The girls groaned and made various comments about how they knew this would happen—but their complaints soon transformed into a list of drinks they wanted you to bring back. You smiled, grateful for their short attention span, and diligently noted down their orders on Maggie’s phone, since you’d left yours at the hotel.

And still, even as you walked away, your heart refused to rest.

Jungkook had been right when he said that you needed to talk to your mum. Really, you did. But it wasn’t just her words, her experiences, and her arbitrary decisions that convinced you that you should have listened to the beating in your chest when he was in the room with you.

It was your friends, too—the family you had found and did not even realise it. It was their patience, their courage, their certainty, and their belief.

You felt a lot more determined to see what would happen. A lot more daring to make it happen. And a lot more convinced that it would be okay, eventually.

As soon as you reached the bar, you immediately noticed the change in atmosphere. The club, initially laid-back, had completely transformed as the clock struck midnight. Groups of young people filled the space, hanging out by the bar, dancing, or just chatting loudly at their tables. It took you a while to navigate through the lively crowd and return to your table with your order.

When you did, the girls grabbed the cocktails as if they had never seen any sort of liquor in their lives. They downed them in several big gulps, and, amused by their enthusiasm, you joined in, too.

As the glasses—and the bowls of roasted pistachios—on the tray emptied, the rest of the night blurred into swirls of clapping, laughing, spinning around on the dancefloor, meeting Mick Jagger’s doppelganger, buying drinks, swapping shoes with each other, losing your jackets somewhere around the club, having a Macarena dance battle, buying more drinks, recording yourselves singing along to an Elton John song that had no business being played in a club, starting a very successful conga line (not to an Elton John song), and stealing someone’s pink feather boa.

It was a night.

Jungkook had made plans with Minjun to distract himself from thoughts of you until tomorrow, and the two of them ended up doing very cultured things. But strolling around West End in the British drizzle wasn’t nearly as enjoyable as they had tried to convince themselves it’d be. Their enthusiasm about this excursion quickly faded, leading them to the nearest pub for a couple of drinks.

Several hours later, when they returned to the hotel, Jungkook didn’t see any light coming from under your door, indicating that you were still out with Luna and Maggie.

He wanted to text you the whole day, but he held back. Taehyung had told him to give you space; that was good advice. Jungkook only managed to follow it partly, but now that you were on proper speaking terms again, he didn’t want to ruin it by suffocating you.

He was bad at this, though.

He took a long shower and attempted to dry his hair, but the second his phone lit up with a text message, he dropped everything he was holding and executed a very intricate leap for the device—slamming his knee into the bedframe in his excitement.

Hissing in pain, he tumbled pitifully onto the carpet, turned on his back, fixed the towel around his waist, and hoisted himself with a grunt.

Droplets of water from his hair splattered on the screen as he unlocked his phone and momentarily confused the facial recognition. Cursing, he entered his passcode to check the sender and cursed once more when he saw that the text hadn’t come from you.

It was yet another message from the same unknown number, and Jungkook threw his phone back on the bed without bothering to read it.

He dried his hair first, then changed into sweats. It was then—while he was pulling his hoodie over his head—that the realisation struck him: unlike the previous texts from this same number, this one wasn’t fully capitalised.

Tentatively, he picked up his phone again and opened the one-sided conversation. He found that, throughout the evening, he’d received four messages from this number. The first contained a video attachment—the preview screen was black, and Jungkook did not want to click on it—followed by three taunting texts:

Remember this? :)

Come on, take a nice trip down memory lane with me, it’s a cute little clip

Do you think your manager would like to see this too? ❤️

He scrolled back up to the attachment and realised that his hands had begun to shake. Even though he had a feeling what he was going to see, he still clicked on the video and held his breath.

Honestly, it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. Although to be fair, his expectations might have been unrealistic. Unless Sid had resorted to secret cameras, which was extreme even for him, Jungkook had no reason to get this panicked.

But this video was still not good.

It was filmed in a nightclub and the scenes played out in short flashes under the flickering strobe lights, illuminating the dancing bodies around the person recording it. The camera panned to Jungkook and the two people he was dancing with—both dressed in dark leather jumpsuits.

Latex, he saw then. Not leather.

The dancing itself wasn’t the worst part of the video, but Jungkook struggled to decide what was. First, his heartbeat faltered as he watched one of his dance partners pour champagne into his mouth, licking off the excess that missed his lips. Then, he nearly blacked out as the video concluded with him on top of a table—dancing alone at first, and then with his tongue down someone else’s throat, and his hands—

He had a vague recollection of what happened next and stopped the video before he could see it.

It was clear that Sid had to be the one with the voyeuristic lens. Jungkook had gone clubbing with him that night; Jude was sick and Minjun didn’t want to go.

Two things happened then, and Jungkook was vividly aware of both. First, his phone froze: despite turning the video off, it continued to play the faint melody of an old Benny Benassi remix. And then a disconcerting acceleration seized his heart as though the video itself had seeped into his bloodstream.

Instinctively, he turned his phone off and tried to breathe. The hotel room around him fell into a pleasant silence, but that only made the thumping in his chest more pronounced.

Attempting to ease his rising nausea, Jungkook tried to keep his mind clear: the video had been filmed years ago. He wasn’t sure if he was in Rated Riot yet, but he was sure that the two of you were no longer together. Another helpful fact was that, since you became his manager, you have witnessed him in far worse situations—and rescued him from them, too.

And yet, he did not want you to see this.

He wanted to grow, to extricate himself from the clutches of toxic friendships, to find and build a future with you. And this video felt like a painful regression into his past. An embarrassing leap back.

Overwhelmed with discomfort, he chose to keep his phone off for the remainder of the night, even if that meant missing a text from you.

And then, later that night—or rather, in the early hours of the next day—Jungkook was jolted awake by a violent rattle of the doorknob.

Honestly, for an unsettling, half-asleep moment, he thought this was Sid barging in.

However, as his mind gradually woke up, he felt a more realistic concern: other bands had overzealous fans breaking into their hotel rooms. No one on the staff thought that Rated Riot were on a level where they’d need extra security measures, but now he worried that was a mistake.

Just to be safe—in case this was Sid, after all—Jungkook grabbed the nearest available weapon: a lamp from his bedside table. But the cable limited his reach, forcing him to crouch and lean forward to push the handle down and open the door before jumping back into a defensive position.

He nearly dropped the lamp when the door swung open, and he saw you outside.

It was your presence, in general, that he noticed first. Then it was your outfit: the short black satin dress with thin shoulder straps and thick, black tights with a curious embroidery around your thighs. Then it was your tied-back hair. Your dark eyeshadow and glistening lip gloss. A pink feather stuck to your earring.

He didn’t have it in him to move or to return the lamp to its place.

“Oh, shit,” you said, trying to make sense of the scene before you. You propped yourself against the doorframe. “My key wasn’t turning. I thought I left my room unlocked. What are you—wait. Wait, wait.”

You closed your eyes and squeezed the bridge of your nose with your right hand. Jungkook lowered the lamp to the floor, keeping his gaze on you.

“Okay, I’m good,” you decided. “The room was spinning really fast for a second there.” You chuckled, then stopped abruptly and narrowed your eyes at him. “Am I on the right floor?”

Jungkook blinked, then scoffed at the unexpected question.

“You are,” he confirmed, but, even drunk, you recognised the peculiar look on his face—as though there was something else he was waiting for you to realise.

“Shit.” Your eyes widened. You whispered, “I am still in London, right?”

This time, he couldn’t help a small laugh as he approached you. First, he plucked the feather out of your earring. Then, he led you into his room, his arm around your shoulders.

“You are,” he assured again. “You just got the wrong room.”

You exhaled in relief. “Oh, thank fuck.”

Amused, Jungkook directed you towards the bed, which was the only comfortable piece of furniture here. You plopped down on it, bouncing slightly from the force of your energetic descent.

“Can I sit down for a second?” you asked belatedly. “Fuck these shoes. They’re not even—not even mine.”

Jungkook glanced down at your feet. There was a black platform heel with an ankle strap on your left foot, and a burgundy counterpart on your right.

He lifted his eyes back to your face, very confused. “They’re—whose shoes are they?”

“The black one is Maggie’s,” you explained, reaching for the strap, but struggling because the bed was too soft, and the room spun too much. “The other one is Luna’s. We thought it would be funny.”

He bit his lip. It wasn’t the mismatched shoes that entertained him in particular—not while he was sober, at least—but rather your sense of humour when you were drunk.

“Lucky that they’re the same height,” he observed.

“No, no, no, no. We saw that they were, that is why.” You hiccupped and it veered you away from the topic at hand. “Anyway, it’s not funny anymore. Now it hurts.”

You finally reached the strap of the black heel, but could not figure out the intricate workings of the clasp on it. Jungkook lowered himself to his knees in front of you.

“Let me help you,” he said.

You shook your head, maintaining your grip on the strap as you felt his fingertips ghost over yours.

“I can do it,” you insisted, passionate about your independence even when you could not tell what city you were in.

“I’m sure you can,” he said, gracefully pulling your hand away from the shoe. “But let me do it anyway.”

You huffed—in fervent protest or in reluctant agreement, he wasn’t sure. After another half-sigh, half-groan, you moved your hand to your lap and dropped down on your back on his bed.

He smiled softly as he unbuckled the strap and slid the black heel off. As he did, he noticed that the embroidery on your tights was a thin row of roses—and it wrapped around your thigh.

He found that very interesting and looked away immediately.

“So, anyway,” he said, fighting with the strap on the other shoe. “What happened to drinking responsibly?”

You hiccupped again. “Famous last words.”

He chuckled, lifting your leg onto his knee to get a better look at the stubborn clasp. Your contented sigh was the only indication of you being aware that one of your shoes was already off.

“I spoke to my mum,” you announced without any sort of transition or buildup.

Jungkook tightened his grip on your ankle in uncontrollable surprise, forcing you to lift your head off the bed with a puzzled look.

“Oh,” he managed, releasing his hold. “Yeah?”

Another dreamy sigh passed your lips as your thoughts clouded with memories, then cleared in a blissful, inebriated ignorance once more.

“Yeah,” you said, lowering your head again. The mattress was hard, but it felt very nice. “And then to Luna and Maggie.”

“And, uh, what did they say?” he asked, finally pulling the shoe off.

He got up to place the heels in a corner by the nightstand, so you wouldn’t trip over them when—if?—you stood up.

“A lot of things,” you replied, your words floating somewhere on the edges of consciousness, leaving Jungkook to grapple with the unpredictability of your confessions.

“Okay,” he said. “Maybe we should talk about all of that tomorrow.”

A smile started to form on your lips, but it was swiftly interrupted by a yawn. “Ye—yeah. That’d be good.”

Trying to push Sid’s messages away from resurfacing in his mind at the mention of your upcoming conversation, Jungkook observed your futile attempt to sit up. Having been there before—fairly recently—he empathised with the challenge of keeping your head up when you were drunk.

“Are you sure you want to stand?” he asked as you wriggled on your back, stretching out your hands helplessly—sort of like a tipsy turtle that had tipped over on its shell.

It was dangerous, he realised, just how completely infatuated with you he was to still find this incredibly endearing.

“I must,” you declared with an angry determination. Your anger was largely fuelled by the strain in your neck, caused by your perplexing attempts to lift your head and your legs at the same time. “This isn’t my room.”

It could be, Jungkook thought, at least for tonight.

However, the right thing to do was to guide you back to your own room.

“Come on,” he said, taking your hand and settling beside you to wrap his other arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get you to your bed, then.”

“That would be—” you began, gasping when he abruptly pulled you to your feet and the entire room decided to flip upside down. “Oh—you know what? I’m not sure I’m enjoying this spinning much.”

He looked at you in alarm. “Are you going to be sick?”

“I would prefer not to.”

Jungkook pursed his lips to restrain his amusement.

“I don’t remember the last time I saw you this drunk,” he noted.

“Pity,” you mumbled, your eyes closed. You tried to move your lips as little as possible, convinced that this would help with the dizziness. “If you remembered, maybe you could make the spinning stop.”

He tried to take a step forward with you in his arms. “Can you walk? Or I can carry you.”

You opened your eyes and took a deep breath. Dizzy or not, this was now a matter of pride.

“I have—” You peered down as if to check and the carpet by his bed seemed to wobble. “I have legs. Of course, I can walk.”

The proclamation proved short-lived as you stumbled over the edge of the carpet almost immediately. Jungkook shook his head and tightened his hold on you.

“Alright, come here.” He lowered his hands to your midriff. “Ready? One, two—”

“No, no, no,” you protested, pressing your palms firmly against his hands. He felt the cold metal of your room key against his skin; you must have slipped the keyring onto your finger after you tried to use it on his door. “Either I walk, or I crawl. No carrying. Too much spinning as it is.”

He doubted if carrying you would really make your dizziness worse, but he relented nonetheless.

“Come on, then,” he said. “Hold onto me.”

You finally agreed, leaning against him with nearly your whole strength as you attempted to set one foot in front of the other. Your limbs felt wooden and numb.

“You know—it might’ve been nice if you came with us,” you said.

Jungkook felt his heart rate pick up again. You probably felt it too, since your body was pressed into his, but he trusted that alcohol had rendered you oblivious to everything outside of yourself, so he did not worry about it.

“Yeah?” he replied. “I don’t think I could have walked home in your heels, though.”

You laughed so heartily that he had to pause in front of the door before opening it, a cautious—and almost possessive—instinct to shield this moment from prying ears.

“No, no. I meant because it would have been nice,” you clarified meaningfully.

His smile was warm when he looked at you. “Yeah, you said that.”

Dazed, you turned your head to meet his gaze, inadvertently granting him an opportunity to lift you over the threshold as your attention on your feet wavered. “I did?”

“Mmhmm.” He continued to look at you—while holding you so close that you were starting to question how many drinks you’ve really had tonight—as he removed the keyring from your finger. You looked down, confused. You’d forgotten you were clutching your keys in your palm. “So why did you want me to come? Did you miss me that much?”

“Hmm,” you lifted your eyes and poked his cheek in a rare moment of bold affection, “I’m not drunk enough.”

He smiled again. Holding you to him—his grip around your waist was tenacious; not even the slippery satin of your dress posed a challenge—he managed to unlock your door and open it. He wondered if you remembered that your room was three steps away from his.

“Okay,” he said, walking you to your bed in complete darkness with impressive skill. Neither of you bumped into anything or tripped. “Let’s get you into bed until you’re not drunk at all. How does that sound?”

A nod was all you could muster.

Your eyes were barely open when you felt him gently lower you on the bed. Your body, of course, succumbed to gravity with a great eagerness and you dropped onto your back with a grunt the second he let go of you. You felt a sharp corner digging into your side and exhaled in relief when you realised that was your phone. This must have been where you had left it.

Face buried into the pillows, you mumbled, “ffank-oo.”

He deciphered that as an expression of gratitude and carefully rolled you onto your back by pulling the duvet from underneath you. You were still in your dress, but he didn’t dare to go as far as helping you change. You looked half-asleep anyway.

“I’m right there if you need me, okay?” he said, untangling the dark grey duvet and throwing it over you in one swift motion. “Behind the wall.”

Peering at him with half-closed eyes, you turned onto your side.

“I’ll knock,” you said as he tucked the duvet around you in a manner that felt almost familiar, almost routine.

“You do that,” he replied. “Goodn—”

“I think Sid’s in London.”

Your words sucked the air out of the room and locked his breath in his throat.

This sudden lack of filter—or any warning on your face that you were about to say something completely shocking—unnerved him. He had forgotten what a rollercoaster your intoxication could be.

“What?” he blurted out and shook his head. “No. No, that can’t be true.”

You shrugged one of your shoulders against the pillow. Your eyes were still closed.

“I talked to Jude,” you said. “And he said he wasn’t there alone.”

Jungkook turned a few shades paler—a few more and he might have become completely transparent.

“You talked to Jude?” he repeated. “A-about what?”

“Nothing much,” you said. Irony flashed briefly across your features when you opened your eyes. “Just if I’d like to do ecstasy with them. They mix it with speed. And then they fly.”

The surprise on Jungkook’s face was loud. He could not fathom that Jude—of all people—would invite you—of all people!—to do this with them, when you never even drank sparkling water if Sid was in the room.

“Ecstasy?” he repeated.

“MDMA,” you clarified helpfully.

“No—I know what—he—what did you say?”

Your gaze met his for a moment, and the look on your face suddenly appeared very sober.

“I obviously agreed,” you said, “and a beautiful pink unicorn took me back to the hotel.”

He gave you a look and you closed your eyes again, smirking.

“I told him no,” you said. “Or something to that effect.”

Jungkook finally exhaled.

“Okay,” he murmured, glancing at the door of your room. “That—that’s good. I-I’ll take care of it.”

Your eyes flew open, alarm creeping onto your tired expression.

“No,” you said—the steel in your tone made him turn back to you. “Don’t—leave them be.”

“But they’re—”

He stopped when you reached out from under the duvet to put your hand over his outstretched wrist. He hadn’t even realised he was gesticulating—too lost in his sudden panic—but your touch grounded him right away.

“I don’t care,” you reiterated, your words slightly slurred but very firm, a bit like you were talking in your sleep—saving him in the midst of a nightmare that you didn’t realise you were having. “I don’t want you near them.”

“Okay,” he said easily. And again, “okay.”

You watched him for another few seconds, silently witnessing the storm of thoughts behind his eyes. But your own heavy eyelids soon overpowered the few semi-sober areas of your brain.

As you settled back against your pillow and let go of his hand, Jungkook grew even more aware of the texts—and the video—that Sid had sent him.

“Go to sleep,” you mumbled as if sensing his apprehension.

“I will,” he said. Your lips parted as you breathed slowly and he could tell that you’ve told him all that you could manage tonight.

“Thank you for helping me,” you added quietly.

“No problem. That’s what friends do, right?”

You snickered softly and a hazy memory of all that you did as friends rose to the surface of your drunken, tired mind.

“Hmmm.” You buried your face in the pillow, whispering wearily, “I want to kiss you. But I’m so drunk.”

Oh, he realised, breathless. So, that wasn’t all that you could manage to tell him tonight, after all.

Inhaling sharply, he sat down on the edge of your bed because he didn’t trust his legs anymore.

Your intoxication, he thought, should have come with a warning: not suitable for young children and those with faint hearts.

“You—you are,” he said. “You’re really drunk.”

“Tomorrow,” you promised.

Jungkook realised that merely sitting might not be enough to prevent his head from floating away from his body as he gripped your mattress tighter.

“Oh,” he said.

A hint of concern flickered in your drunken mind, and you lifted your heavy head. “Okay?”

“Ye—okay. Of course,” he said, rising to his feet so you wouldn’t strain to look at him. The room seemed to sway, and he wondered if your intoxication was contagious. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

His next actions were reflexive as he leaned down to press a soft kiss on your forehead before drawing the duvet up to your chest. You hummed in content and Jungkook had to turn away, frightened by his own elated expression in the reflection of your hotel room window.

Over the years, you had been the one taking care of him—almost all the time. He couldn’t even remember a lot of the times when you found him, completely wasted, and helped him get back to his hotel room. Or to the bedroom in his family’s house. But even though the details of those nights were blurred in his memory, he remembered every morning – when he woke up tucked in his bed, and the faint scent of your apple shampoo still lingered in his room.

He wondered, as he paused in the doorway, turning to look at you over his shoulder, if you’d remember much from this night.

For a minute, he watched the gentle rhythm of your chest rising and falling as you drifted into sleep, and he was alive with the realisation that the two of you finally had something that he thought you’d lost forever.

You had tomorrow.

chapter title credits: sleep token, “euclid”

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[ceilidhtransing]

As someone from the UK I'm stunned that there are still people talking about “boycotting” the [US presidential] election in order to “send a message”. No one in politics actually interprets low turnout as some kind of message and that's pretty obvious from the general election we just had over here.

We had crashingly low voter turnout, at 59.9% - down 7.4 percentage points since the last one. But it's worse than that makes it look: 59.9% is just the percentage of actually registered voters who turned up; the proportion of total UK adults who voted was 52%, the lowest since 1928.

Yet Labour still took a massive victory (with fewer votes than in both 2019 and 2017). There has been a little mention in the media of the extremely low turnout, but overall the Story Of This Election as it's being presented by both the media and politicians is not “wow, looks like half the British adult population wanted to send a message that they were dissatisfied with the options” but rather “what an incredible Labour landslide”.

And the fact that Labour won power despite only 52% of adults actually voting is not going to affect the way they run things. They're not going to water down their plans, they're not going to say they have a smaller mandate, they're not going to try to work with smaller parties who took votes from them, they're certainly not going to “move left” to try to scoop up lefties who are decidedly unenthusiastic about the current state of the Labour Party (in fact, if anything they're likely to move even further to the right to try to attract voters who went to the far-right Reform UK). Staying at home and not voting has not “sent anyone a message”. The attitude of politicians towards non-voters is overwhelmingly “why bother trying to appeal to people who aren't inclined to use their political voice”, not “wow we need to enact change right now in order to appeal to people who feel unheard and disenfranchised”. Non-voters are assumed to be apathetic uninterested people who couldn't be bothered voting, not a bloc of highly motivated people with strong views who are refusing to vote in order to make a point. And I'm not saying this is a good thing! Ideally politicians would try to connect with people who don't feel politically represented, especially since non-voters are more likely to be marginalised in some way*. But that's the state of affairs we have. The inaction of not voting is not treated as some special kind of protest action; it's just treated as inaction.

*In this election, turnout was 7% lower in constituencies with the highest proportion of BME people, compared with the lowest, and 10% lower in constituencies with the highest proportion of Muslims, compared with the lowest. Compare this with turnout being 11% higher in constituencies with the highest proportion of >64-year-olds and 13% higher in constituencies with the highest proportion of homeowners.

Trump cannot be allowed to get into power again. And I know that Americans have the horrible quandary of “well how on earth are we supposed to communicate to Democrats that we don't like what they're offering other than not voting for them”. This is one of the many flaws with the US electoral system; it's a simple two-horse race and there's no realistic way to send a message that actually you don't like either option without just making it more likely that the candidate you most hate will win. It's not a great situation to be in, especially since there are very valid reasons not to like Biden and not exactly be hyped to vote for him. But oh my god NOW is not the time to be trying to “send Democrats a message” by not voting (or voting third party). You won't be sending anything and you'll just be handing Trump a second term because that is, very unfortunately, how it works. The best-case scenario of a Trump second term is “merely” an intensification of violence towards people of colour, crackdowns on LGBTQ rights, the further stripping away of reproductive freedoms, heinous crimes at the border and towards migrants and undocumented people, dangerous and apeshit foreign policy that will further endanger vulnerable oppressed groups everywhere, the emboldening of fascism and Christian nationalism not only across America but across the entire world, the list goes on. The worst-case scenario is the straight-up end of the last vestiges of representative democracy the US still has. None of this is a price worth paying in order to “send Democrats a message” and “move them to the left”. And I would feel the same way if Reform UK - a party whose supporters talk about wanting to gun down asylum seekers in the sea - were at the gates of power and the only realistic way to stop them was to vote for the current deeply flawed incarnation of the Labour Party. Some prices are too high.

(And I've seen a few people seem to embrace the notion of a Trump second term with the idea that “then we'll just form the antifascist resistance”. Trust me, you don't want to have to become “the resistance” to a fascist state. That is a last resort. So many people will die if it gets to the point where Trump or some other far-right ghoul is a dictator presiding over an authoritarian one-party state. This stance of “bring on the fascist nightmare so then we can be The Resistance” feels like it comes from people who get their idea of political action from Star Wars rather than from those familiar with the harrowing stories of real-life historical antifascist resistance. It's not hanging out at the secret HQ with your friends and blowing stuff up and having fun; it's being thrown in a camp and executed.)

It's good to want the Democrats to move left, to want to tell them that you're dissatisfied with Biden as a candidate, to want to let them know that you're profoundly furious with their handling of Gaza. But the way the system is set up means that “not voting” is not sending a message at all; it's just handing a victory to their opponents. And again: some prices are too high.

[iloveaustinelvisandmannymore]

Pretty admirer.

Pairing: Toji Fushiguro x chubby reader

Warning: Augst, Fluff, Stalking, Death Threats, Kidnapping, Bondage, Housewife kink, Breeding kink, Daddy kink, Toji's kinda sadistic, Unconsent-photo taking, Masturbation, Yandere!reader, reader's a little creep, stalkerish gifts, Creampie, Slapping, Oral(Male), Degrading kink, Mean Toji, Baby-trapping, Fingering, Multiple orgasms, Face-fucking, Choking, Dirty talk, Overstimulation, Rough sex. Part 2.

Summary: Your love story with Toji Fushiguro was far from normal but you come to love it. By god, do you love it.

Dark, gloomy clouds blocked the Illuminating sun, It was like the weather felt what you were brewing inside. 'It's perfect' you glowered in your mind while you took a sip of the bitter coffee, watching as the sky reflected your mood. Your beloved ex and you were crazy for each other until he met his true love, You wanted to do something to her and you would have done so if he hadn't warned you of what would happen, and you knew better than to test him.

You rolled your eyes at the memory, Now you boredly watched people walk by the cafe window you sat in, the people looked just as boring as you felt. Until he strolled by, you would've missed him at first glance, simply because he was wearing such casual clothes if it wasn't for the flashy woman under his arm you'd completely miss him, through my. He was gorgeous, unbearable mesmerizing the clouds moved for the heavens to shine on him.

Ebony hair reached his ears and nearly covered his irises, they were green like the rainforest, and a scar on his right lip. it made him look ragged yet handsome, and certainly, his masculine body didn't help. His white shirt was two sizes down, every muscle of his was outlined and he wore simple blue jeans.

Your heartbeat quickened, and your breath shorted, it felt like you couldn't breathe, you needed him to live, he was your lifeline. he. was. yours.

You fumbled to get your stuff and rushed out of the cafe, Staying only a few feet behind you followed the couple to a modern, traditional Japanese-style house. The two entered the house, while you stayed back and wrote down the mysterious man's address in the notepad you carried around 'Fushiguro? So that's his last name.' you hummed, checking once again that nobody was watching you and no one was. Everything in you screamed to stay and learn more, watch him but it was daytime people would notice you snooping and you couldn't risk being caught. You left with one last glance at the Fushiguro household.

Day by day, you learned about your love, His full name is Toji Fushiguro, and he's in his early 30s, he has a son named Megumi, who's in college, his number and his hobbies consist of going to the gym your favorite, gambling, and your least favorite, fucking that homewrecker. There was still much more to learn, like his favorite things and what was his job, his work demanded most of his time. You overheard that Toji would be gone for a week on a business trip as he spoke to his employer in his favorite gambling place and you could finally put your plan in action.

You waited for him to leave, wishing him silently to be safe, and hurried to his door after the taxi he left in was out of sight, you took the copy key that you had printed out of the spare key he left under a rock, out of your bag and unlocked the door. You walked in and shut the door unworried that anyone would see you, it was six in the morning and still dark. You leaned on the closed door, a grin on your face, a warmth in your chest, and butterflies in your stomach, you felt like a kid in a candy store. You pushed off the door and walked around his home, clicking your tongue and shaking your head at the small messes around the house .'This can't do. When I'm his wife, I will make sure it is clean around here-' your cheeks heated up, you needed to focus! inhaling you continued. You passed the rooms you were least interested in, and stopped once you stumbled upon the laundry room, it was surprisingly clean, some clothes were on the dryer, towels were on the washer door, and a bin of dirty clothes. You gripped the sliding door and bit your lip, should you? It's not like he'd notice, it was wrong to steal but- without giving any more debate you grabbed a tank top, its dark green with a strong scent of musk, a smell of comfort.

You put it in your bag and moved on. The upstairs, had a second bathroom, a bedroom that looked like would be his son's room, your heart beating fast as you walked down the mini hall, into a master room, his room greeted you. the bed inside was at least a queen, he had a flat-screen TV opposite from his bed. A dark oak dresser and strangely a few weapons lying against or on the dresser, a closet, and a bedside table that had a basic lamb. Overall it was basic and little of characteristics. You sat down your bag and lay on the bed, your eyes slowly closed, you could nearly imagine him beside you, his arm around your naked body after passionate lovemaking, imagine him pushing your rotund thighs to your chest as he humped your pussy, and his balls covered in your slick, smacking against your ass, you imagine-a ring- wait, a ring? Your eyes shoot up as the doorbell rings. You rushed downstairs with your bag "Toji!" a high-pitched voice shrieked, the homewrecker you scowled "TOJI?!" she banged on the door, what the hell is she doing? She is trying to make him look bad? Your eyes widened as you hid as she used the spare key "God he's a fucking jerk, he didn't even tell me he was gone." She huffed walking to the laundry room, unaware of you following her.

You glared at her backside as she bent down in his dirty clothes picking out some of her panties, each more scandalous than the last, she was so..so pretty, seemed just like his type, you wanted to hurt her, you placed a foot in the door, No! no..not here, soon. you reassured yourself, slipping into the other room as she moved to turn to leave the room and the house altogether. You left a minute later, you had some planning to do. Instead of basking in Toji's home, you had to stalk your love's little fuck buddy Mayu, she seemed to like partying, getting shit-faced drunk, and sleeping around, you couldn't believe it. Did Toji have feelings for her? She isn't remotely marriage material. Scoffing you watched her stumbled and trip into her apartment, 'pathetic' You rolled your eyes and put the black hoodie over your head and walked across the street, the door was left unlocked. you quietly walked to the kitchen you had mapped in your head the first time you broke in, the knife block was like a twinkle that shone on a gold bar in your eyes, but what to choose? A thud came from her bedroom, you grabbed a long, sharp jagged knife and sauntered to her room with purpose.

The door of her bedroom was opened a jar and she laid on the bed in a star pose, unaware of the danger she was in. You sneaked in, your stare trained on her akin to a predator, waiting for the right time to pounce on unfortunate prey, Her eyes closed and her breathing evened out. You straddled her waist, pointed the blade to her throat, and slapped your hand over her mouth, her eyes filled with terror shot open "Don't even try." you hissed as she struggled under you, pressing the knife to her neck, enough to scare her to stop. "Now listen. You're gonna stop seeing Toji, and I wouldn't tell him about me, or of course, you want that neck of yours slit." you smiled as she began to cry and frantically nodded. "And just to make sure that you listen." you cut her chest before she could react, ultimately making her cry more. You left her there sobbing, with a wicked grin on your face, and sick joy pumping in your veins. Despite her wild side, she was smart, and knew enough to know you'd do more than simply scare her if you visited her again.

The rest of the week flew by, he came home unexpectedly barely giving you time to hide in his double-door closet. Toji mumbled something you couldn't make out though you wouldn't find yourself caring as you watched with wide eyes, Toji threw off his black shirt on the floor then plopped down on the bed, and his fingers ran through his raven hair. Scars littered his build, big and small, it didn't if not only add to his beauty, but the simple action of moving his bangs heated your core, you wanted to pull on those locks as he took his pleasure from your body. you take your phone from your back pocket, turn off the volume, and flash, you begin taking photos, two, three, or four times. You almost whimpered as he took off his pants and left the room to what you think bathroom, you had to go before you outed yourself.

Even at night, his very being was stuck with you, turning and twisting to get comfortable was futile, sighing you stared at the wall, you itched to do something, show him he was loved, how? You shot up with a smile, love letters! Of course! You tear the blanket away and get out of your bed, you grab some paper and a pencil, turn on the lamp on your desk.

My beloved Toji.

You don't know me, but I know you, and I have come to love you. I fell for your snarky and coarse personality, you can't estimate the length that my love stretches. Nobody would love you like me. I'll show you exactly that.

I'll take care of those who fail to be everything you could want, you deserve the best, and I can be the best for you, only you. I'll spend every waking instant to prove that.

Yours Truly, your devoted admirer.

You hummed this would do for now. You kiss the paper, hoping the love you feel transfers. You folded it and began another. You sent these letters with a flower of different meanings, one with roses, another orchid, and another with Tuberose. Some letters with pictures taken of his beauty. The days you're able to break into his house, the flowers you send are in vases, and your letters are in the bedside drawer, videos of you using his pillow to rub your throbbing clit, yet..yet he continued to find quick fucks, the bitter, burning rage you felt was worse than you found out your ex cheated, the women were met with threats, some times more. He was yours and they won't forget that.

My dear Toji.

Why do you like hurting me so? You know of my feelings yet you keep fucking those unworthy women, you are mine. I should be the only thing you think about when you pleasure yourself. Think about how tight I would be, how the thickness of my body would feel against you.

I will rid those girls of you. You. Are. Mine.

Your devoted admirer.

You sent this with a dead flower, if you had to kill them, you would. You won't live in a world where he wasn't in your life, sure you didn't introduce yourself but you will, it will be so cute, that what you thought.

Toji was gone for another business trip, and you took it upon yourself to watch over his house, it seemed to be in a bigger dilemma than the last time you visited, but you didn't put too much thought into it. You beelined it to Toji's room, tiredness of the hardships of love, became unbaring. You wanted to smell him all around you, once your sight landed on his bed, you flopped on it and giggled as the bed bounced your soft, pudgy body. The comfortable scent of your beloved carried you to sleep, and dreams of him danced in your unconscious mind. When you came to, a few things made themselves known, the bed you laid on was now a swing of some kind, the ground was black marble, and a couple inches away, your ankles and arms were tied together in a thick rope. Looking up from the floor view, you realized that you were in a basement, not a normal one but a sex dungeon, and as naked as the day you were born. a bed with a pillory between the pillars of the bed frames, set a few feet ahead of you, and on the walls were paddles of different sizes, leather whips, and horse whips "Sleepin' beauty finally awoke?" a deep baritone voice mocked, pushing the swing just a tad to have you in motion. Your heart flattered and jumped up your throat, carnivorous butterflies ate at your stomach "Oh the possessive whore can't speak now? Y're fine telling me what I can and can't do in that little letter." it was him, this wasn't how you were supposed to meet! You had it all planned- you yelped, a sudden sharp sting was left on your ass cheek from Toji's hand "Speak." that one word spoke pure, unmoving authority "I-I'm sorry! I-" A smack cut you off "You're sorry? You're sorry? Nah but I'll make you sorry." he gave your ass one last hit before he walked in front of you. You only saw him from afar, never this close or bare..no pants, no underwear nor shirt blocked his sculptured body, his length stood proud, twitching to be touched and licked, and a small bead of pre-cum poured from the pinkish slit, his balls hang shapely, and heavily, a mass of dark hair surrounded the base. Your mouth watered "Like what you see?" Toji chuckled cruelly taking his shaft and giving a jerk "Y-yes. It's so beautiful." you admitted in a trance-like state "Then be a good girl and open wide." he grinned lazily poking your bottom lip with his tip. Your mouth dropped and he didn't waste any time to shove it in, your eyes rolled back and you gagged, it so hard, hot, and heavy, his hands held onto your hand as he humped his cock down your throat, the saltness of his pre-come dragging against your taste buds. Deep grunts and groans heaved out of his chest, his head thrown back and his cum-filed balls smacked your drool-covered chin while he used your mouth as a fleshlight. Drool escaped the sides of your lips and pornographic gagging sounds intertwined with his pleased noises.

He was close, his groans raised in volume and his fingers tightened a bit around your head "Fuck!fuck!fucccck!!" he growled as a thick load shot down your throat, almost causing you to choke. Once he pulled out a string of saliva and cum followed before snapping, landing on the floor. "Ya like that huh?" Toji chuckled looking into your lust-glazed eyes "Answer" "Loved it s'happy..Daddy" you muttered the last part, tasting out what the girls he fucked called him, this wasn't lost on him "Fuckin' whore." he hissed, his dick twitched, he's been called that for so long but the way rolled off your tongue made him want to ruin you, not just ruin you but destroy you for any man. He pulled your hair back and forced you to look him in the eyes "'m finna ruin you." his voice dropped a little lower, he let go of your hair and walked behind you. For a second nothing happened until a big finger forced itself way into your drenched core "So fuckin' wet, might just make ya my personal slut." toji groaned, his finger thrusted into your fat cunt, his other hand kneading the flesh of your ass. You whined and clenched at his words, "More..please Daddy!" you begged tearfully which rewarded you with a harsh smack and a second finger "Since ya asked so nicely." he said, tone akin to conceding, his fingers sped up and a curled right on that spot "yes" you cried, the sound of your squelching pussy brought heat to your cheeks at the filthy noise, a third finger joined the two and it seemed like Toji was holding up against you before because his fingers pounded your vagina. The knot inside became so tight that it snapped, and your juices gushed out, spilling all over Toji's digits and the smooth floor "So messy." Toji tsked, you looked over your shoulder and moaned as he slowly licked his hand clean of your slick, his big hand took hold of your hip while he guided his tip to breach your hot sex once the head entered you, his other hand took its place on your hip and he snapped his hips, forcing himself entirely inside you. "Ya want to be mine?" he groaned, slowly pulled out then slammed back, and set a ruthless pace "Yes, please I'll be a good girl f'you Daddy." you cried as Toji growled and pounded into your cunt, your breast bounced out the slit in the swing "I'll make yar dreams come true, make you my baby mama" he grunted, using the sex swing to reach deeper, his cock head bullying your cervix harder "'m gonna make ya my fuckin' slutty housewife, waitn' for me and clean after me." he hissed, your tight sex clenching at his words, "Please..please! I'll be the perfect wife and m-mama" you babbled, tears falling down your puffy cheeks, Toji's hips quickened, driving his cock into your sweet spot and cervix, his fingers came to rubbed at your clitoris. The overestimation was becoming too much and the knot was about to snap "I'm gonna cum Daddy!" you moaned "Cum." Toji ordered, feeling his own inching closer. Just as the words left Toji's lips, your juices coated his cock, and your walls pulsed uncontrollably, milking Toji's cum as he spilled into you.

You were in a state between unconscious and consciousness, you felt the ropes that tied your arms and ankles together cut free. You felt yourself being picked up and carried to a bed, "Toji?" you muttered as you felt a wet cloth clean your puffy pussy and a stern "Sleep." Was all you got in return. The offer was too tempting to pass up.

You fall asleep in the comfort of Toji's bed.

Toji groaned as he stretched his muscles in the door of his house, his stomach growled and the thought of food was appetizing, Toji set his weapon by the door, took off his shoes, and made his way to the kitchen. Toji felt a small smile come onto his face as soon as he saw your portly body cooking dinner with a baby sitting on your hip, a baby girl that had your skin tone with your eye color, his hair, and eye shape. "I'm home," Toji called out, smile growing more as you made a happy noise and rushed to hug him "Welcome home my love!" you greeted with a smile "We missed you," you said as you handed over his daughter who immediately started to play with his bangs "Dinner will be ready in a minute. Sit." you smiles and kissed his cheek before going back to cooking. Toji sighed contently and sat down in the dining with his daughter, since he had let you live with him and eventually made you his wife, the cold and lonely house was now lively with love, laughter, and pitter-patter of feet.

Toji groaned as he rolled off you after showing how much he missed you and pulled you into him, your head on his pectoral "My love." you spoke up a few seconds of silence, drawing shapes on his other spec "Hmm?" Toji simply hummed as he rubbed his thumb on your love handle "How long did you know I was following you?" you asked, Toji had long ago told you off his occupation, being a hitman. It was a part of his job to beware of his surroundings "Since the beginn'." he answered honestly, you looked up in shock "Why didn't you do something sooner?" And why didn't you kill me? You wondered, "You were intriguing," He smirked "Nobody, no woman had tried that before besides..with a body like that how could not let you have your fun?" he chuckled. You rolled your eyes and kissed his scar "It's time for bed, we have so much to do tomorrow..." you laid your head back on his chest before mumbling "I love you." and like that sleep had taken hold of you. Toji kissed your head and whispered "I love ya too." he fell asleep soon after with you in his embrace.

Taglist: @18lkpeters , @ablondehoe.

A/n: Hey guys, sorry it took so long to upload. I hope you guys liked this like I did writing it. The reason I posted this instead of Guilty Love Three is because the poll I posted ended in a tie so I picked this story. I am still working on Guilty Love it will be out soon. If you'd like to be tagged for more of my toji fanfics you can ask here or in my ask and I will immediately add you to the list.

[mysteria157]

Chapter 17

Pairing: Nanami Kento x Black Fem Reader

Word Count: ~7.7k

CW: brief sexual content, profanity, lots of fluff &lt;3

Summary: You work hard to bring life to something dear to Nanami.

Notes: Thank you to all who have been supportive so far. Reblogs, likes, or comments are always appreciated but not necessary <3 Almost there! Happy reading!

Divider: @cafekitsune

Previous Chapter | Ao3 | Next Chapter

It Had To Be You Masterlist

**Do not plagiarize any of my works or translate without my permission!**

You gave your mother an olive branch a few days after Christmas. 

A small part of you felt bad for not inviting her over for dinner that night. You planned a nice Christmas meal, and everyone was in attendance. Kento’s mother and father, his grandfather from Denmark, Ome and the rest of your friends, even Choso and Jin. 

But you couldn’t have her there. It was too intimate, too close to home from the last Christmas you spent with her sliding scathing words across her long and elaborate dining table a year ago. You wanted to start small, to give her small chances to test her change in behavior so you could make a decision yourself. 

Kento—who had no wish to entertain her after the little stint almost a year ago in Sendai—was more than happy to see less of her. 

“My love, if you wish to spend more time with her, then that is a decision I will readily support,” he had mumbled against the crown of your hair the night before as you both lay in bed, waiting for sleep to take you. “But don’t give her too much. If she hurts you again, I’ll get the restraining order myself.” There wasn’t a trace of softness in his tone, not an ounce of sincerity or joke in the way he spoke.

So, your first olive branch manifested in the cool and barely touched air of Yu’s bakery. The floor was layered with a tarp, four buckets of paint unsealed, both of your hands holding long paint brushes as you rolled beige paint along one of the walls. 

The air was tense, the most you two had spoken was a simple good morning when your mother walked inside earlier that day. But now, an hour later with two walls already done, you could barely breathe through the thickness of awkwardness around you.

Should you say something? Maybe ask her how her week had been. 

No.

You repeated Ome’s mantra in your head over and over, pressing a little harder on your upward stroke, gripping the metal rod a little tighter between your fingers. 

“How was your Christmas?” she asked, her voice unusually soft, lacking its usual arrogance when directed at you. A bitter taste of disdain settled in your mouth, but you swallowed it down, allowing it to simmer in your stomach for the time being.

“It was fine.” Your words were rushed and curt, barreling out of your mouth before you could stop them and had you faltering, staggering your strokes for an uneven coat. “We had dinner. Kento’s family and a few friends came over.”

She was silent, brown hands pushing the rod up, her eyes following the movement as she watched the pain smear with her actions. “Do you own this bakery?” 

“No. It belonged to a friend who passed. It was given to Kento. I wanted to fix it up for him.”

Your mother hummed a soft noise that was rare for her. You were used to huffs of impatience, grunts of disapproval, a tsk, and a shake of her head when you had disappointed her. 

“I’m sure he’s happy you’re doing this for him,” she spoke instead, contradicting your inner thoughts and making you a little angrier.

In truth, Kento had no idea that you were here. Since that night he expressed his readiness to consider reopening the bakery, you meticulously planned your next moves. Between caring for Ulani and having more confidence to handle the influx of commissions, you had the power to determine your schedule and work around what you wanted. 

Kento had no idea that you were listening when he joked about the terrible paint Yu had chosen all those years ago before opening the grand opening. He had no idea you wrote down every single pastry item he envisioned on his menu. He had no idea that while he joked and teased of minor details, you were soaking them all up.

And now you were ready to make it a reality. 

“It’s a surprise,” you admitted, words slipping like gooey slime past your lips as you chastised yourself again for being so open. “So…don’t say anything.”

“I won’t.” You ignored the smile that you could feel grace her features even though your back was turned. It cut through the tense air around her, the corners of her mouth pushing against tension that was suffocating you. “This is a nice thing that you’re doing—”

“I know,” you interrupted, harshly. Your eyebrows furrowed from your actions, a general sensation of upset sliding along your arms as you closed in on what was left of the old paint on the walls.

“I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing!” you hissed at her, the disdain in your belly now a little more pungent as it shot up and out of your throat. “I just—why do you care all of a sudden?!” 

You yanked the rolling brush from the wall, careful not to whack your mother with the wet end even though the thought was a shrieking siren in your mind. She set her own down gracefully, without stumble in a way that made you seethe. 

“I told you why I care. I told you what I’m trying to do. So, excuse me if I apologize for insinuating things about your life. It’s not my place to offer you praise out of the blue and expect you to accept it. So, I’m going to apologize for the times I make you uncomfortable.”

Your mind was reeling from her words. Self-sacrificing and self-aware to a degree that it felt like a smack in the face. Even with her sarcastic quip, it was still filled with a level of sincerity that made you nauseous. 

The mental and emotional whiplash was too powerful, curling and bunching into a migraine that began to ebb between your eyes. Your fingers dug into the black cotton of your overalls, squeezing the fabric between suddenly sweaty fingers as you felt those dormant tendrils of anxiety dance along the skin of your shoulders with mocking movements.

Maybe this had been a bad idea. Maybe you weren’t as ready as you thought.

“You want me to stop apologizing? Done.” Her hand not on the metal rod lifted in concession. “You want me to only talk when you speak to me? I can do that too. Just let me at least…be here.”

Those tendrils whispered in your ears to kick her out, to make a fool of yourself and let you wallow in self-pity. 

But you did this for a reason. Stuck yourself out there for a reason. Got out of your comfort zone with her for a reason.

And you wouldn’t be able to see any results whatsoever if you had already made it up in your mind that she wasn’t worth the effort.

So, you pulled in a deep breath, the cold air sifting into your nostrils to wash away the irritation inside of you. You picked up your brush and dipped it into the paint bucket once and then twice before bringing it back against the wall.

“How about you start the accent wall behind the register? Once I’m done here, I’ll move onto the other side of the room.” 

You didn’t have much else to say, realizing that until you could control your emotions better, remaining silent was the best option.

You watched her nod, picking up a new rolling brush and a bucket of maroon paint, before offering a gentle smile towards you. You couldn’t help the flutters of warmth that erupted in your chest. It was foreign coming from her, unwanted and trespassing inside of you. You didn’t want to show her that despite your frustration, you were glad she was here to try with you.

So, you didn’t

And with a wavering glance away from her, you turned back to the wall, brushing the roller against it once more.

***

You could only do so much while Kento was at work because of Ulani. So, when you were at the bakery doing renovations, Chiyo and Santo offered to watch her since Ome had to work as well. You kept your work down to only two hours a day, careful not to run his parents ragged with something you still hadn’t told them about. 

No one knew your plans. You couldn’t risk it.

As much as you loved Ome, she would be quick to let something slip in the heat of conversation when she wasn’t paying attention. As much as you could have used Yuji’s strength for some tasks, he was too loose on the tongue and excitable, and it made him an unreliable confidant who was around his sensei far too much. 

You had to pick and choose your people carefully and track your movements without leaving traces behind.

So, you prayed to whoever was listening that the white-haired man in front of you would keep his mouth shut. 

He cradled a Tupperware container in long lanky arms, pressing it against his black Armani long sleeve as he stared down at the contents inside with glee.

“Taste one,” you demanded, admiring the way he ripped off the plastic cover before you could finish speaking. A thumb and pointer finger held a steaming piece of sweet bread, the golden brown flaky texture decorated with drizzles of honey. All sense of decorum left the second he inhaled thick billows of sweet steam, and with only two bites the treat was gone, and he was digging into the container for another. “Gojo, I need you to actually taste the sweet bread, please. You’re huffing it down like a dog.”

He was chewing on a large piece as he tilted his head down, white hair brushing against pale skin as he observed you. His bright blue eyes peeked at you from behind his glasses, cusped over the tops of round dark blue shades as they slid down his nose.

“Did Ome say something about me?”

“No?”

“Did I fuck something up when I watched Ulani a few days ago?”

“No. Gojo—”

“So why are you giving me sweet bread? I love your cooking, but you never cook only for me. So, what’s the catch?”

Your teeth dug into the side of your cheek, biting hard on the wet gummy texture as you watched him start on his third piece. He would be done with the entire container before he walked out of your door and you needed to think fast.

“If I tell you, promise not to say anything.” His eyes were still as he pondered you, blue ocean irises vast and overwhelming that you had to look away. “I’m trying to make sweet bread. For Kento. But I want to make it the way Yu did. And you’re the only person I know that has an affinity for sweets that borders on the need for clinical study.” He shrugged in indifference, somehow—but not surprisingly—flattered by the insult. “I just want to get it right. Would you be willing to taste-test all my batches? Your reward is the entire container each time.”

He scoffed, blemish-free cheeks puffed from the dough behind them, chewing thoughtfully as he considered your ask. Gojo missed Yu and thought about him almost every day. But he was never as close to him as Kento and Geto, never as understanding and pure when they were kids. And as a result, his recovery from grief was much quicker. He bounced back with a quickness that worried you but was no surprise to his friends around him.

“These are a lot of sweets; don’t you care about my health?”

“You are a thirty-one-year-old man with not even a hint of pre-diabetes despite the amount of glucose you ingest. You’ll be fine.”

Gojo was too busy stuffing another piece in his mouth to argue with you.

***

“Your hands are dryer than usual, love,” Kento spoke against the skin of them, kissing your knuckles and the deep cracks along the sides of your fingers. You were blissfully relaxed, pliant, and warm beneath the covers of your bed as you let him caress you. 

It was undeniable that your hands had become unusually dry. You took care of your skin with the amount of throwing you performed for commissions. But lately, you had been crafting more than usual.

Kento thought you were finishing piece after piece for the prolific ceramic artists who shoved their contact info in your hands at Choso’s exhibit a few weeks prior.

In reality, you were actually crafting pieces for the bakery. Specifically, vases of various shapes and designs intended to grace the center of the individual tables that Yu had sanded and stained himself. 

Day after day when Kento was at work and when Ulani was down for her nap, you were hunched over in the studio, wet hands molding against clay as it spun on your pottery wheel. 

You finished your last vase earlier that evening. But you were so exhausted and achy that even though you craved Kento’s touch and the feeling of him inside you, you settled for the soft and practiced movement of his lips and tongue between your legs instead. Letting him coax you in only the way he knew until you were arching into the sheets and moaning your orgasm into the night air of your bedroom.

His thumb smoothed along the sunken skin beneath your eyes, frowning at the sight. 

“You’ve been so tired. Do you need me to cut back on my hours? Extend my lunch too so I’m home more?” 

You snorted, burrowing deeper beneath your duvet and closer to him. He pulled you in without thought, wrapping muscular arms around your waist before yanking into him so that your lips brushed along the skin of his clavicle. You melted further into the warm woodsy scent of him, savoring the lingering hints of eucalyptus that clung to him from his shampoo.

“I’ve just had more commissions lately. I’m okay.”

It wasn’t a complete lie, but you still felt bad when he frowned deeper in response, the corners of his lips down turning, narrow eyes intensifying in worry. “Do not take on so much.”

“Yea yea old man,” you sighed against the pillow on your cheek, closing your eyes slowly. 

You could feel his gaze on you even though you couldn’t see him, and you forced your lips together to avoid laughing as the eye not pressed into your pillow cracked open to look at him.

Burnt umber eyes glared at you, jerking a sharp chuckle from deep within your belly that pierced through the thin veil between your lips. 

Watching him fuss had been one of the many things you found yourself craving as your relationship with each other grew. You loved to tease him. Despite Kento’s typically stoic and serious demeanor, there were moments when his seriousness seemed out of place. And the fact that most of the time he was unaware of it, made it all the more humorous to you. 

So, you rolled with it every time and he voiced his fake irritation because it made you smile and laugh.

“Stop laughing,” he grumbled.

Right on cue. 

And like he expected, it made you laugh harder, deep chuckles morphing into giggles when large hands squeezed your waist in reproach, a sensation that only made you wheeze against him. 

The frown on his face twitched, threatening to curl into a smile, responding to the soft giggles that wafted onto his skin as he wiggled nimble fingers against you.

***

It was late February when everything finally came together. 

Twelve batches of sweet bread all either too sweet or missing a secret ingredient that you could never figure out. Gojo could only offer so much. While he didn’t know the exact ingredient that was missing, he could still determine if it ever tasted like Yu’s.

But it was the thirteenth batch that finally stuck.

You were used to drizzling the honey atop the bread when it was fresh out of the oven. But on a whim, you decided to add a tablespoon and halve the serving of vanilla to the yeast mixture instead. 

You were exhausted, swallowing frustration week after week for the sake of doing this for him. Because you wanted to bring this small piece of Yu back to him. Wanted to watch his eyes be a little less dim on his bad days. 

After all, doesn’t every baker need a prized recipe?

You didn’t think much else of it. You were already content with the somber thought that batch number fourteen would be better.

At first, you thought it was a trick of the light against Gojo’s handsome face when he chewed a piece of batch thirteen. His cerulean irises glimmered with a familiarity that made him pause, made him pull back the uneaten half between his fingers to look as if it had spoken a secret to him.

And then, with each movement of his jaw, as he ate the entire batch in front of you, you realized that you just might have gotten it right.

And it was Gojo sliding his hands across your kitchen island to clasp around yours. It was sticky fingers tapping along your brown skin and pearly whites shining brightly at you when you knew for sure that your efforts had finally paid off. 

“Tastes like you got it.”

You were so excited that you could hardly contain yourself, whipping up another batch with your remaining dough, uncaring of the chatterbox of a man sitting at your island as he began to pry questions about Ome from you, inhaling the rest of batch thirteen.

You were too happy. Too proud of yourself and riding on a high when an hour later you were knocking on Kaya’s door and silently offering the batch of sweet bread to her.

You had been at her house a few times since Christmas. Happy to know that the plants were alive and well and that she was coping as best as she could. Even though she had lost the love of her life, she pushed forward for Aiko, who held resilience in the face of despair that must have come from her father.

So, when she sniffed softly as you both sat in her kitchen, small sounds becoming more insistent and congested, you knew for sure that you perfected a recipe that only Yu knew. So, she became the second person you told your plans to, and her hazel eyes filled with tears as she listened, her smile stretched across round cheeks before she yanked you into a tight hug.

“I’ll bring the plants by tomorrow.” You were rubbing her back in soothing circular motions when she muttered the words over your shoulder. You felt faint echoes of her grief vibrating against you, but the resonances weren’t as strong as before. They weren’t as crippling. Not as suffocating as that first day she had broken down in the waiting room almost a year ago. 

You could smell the scent of strawberries from her shampoo flutter beneath your nose as her hair brushed against your cheek. You could feel the shoulder of your shirt becoming damp from what was no doubt her tears against you.

“Kento will be so happy. Yu…Yu would be so happy. Thank you—you have no idea how much this means to me.”

And even though you were exhausted beyond belief. Even though your hands were dry and painful and cracking from throwing and not moisturizing correctly. Even though you had done more renovations than you could stomach for probably a long time. Feeling Kaya squeezing you tighter, seeping happiness through your clothes and into the pores of your skin made your heart swell. 

***

A cold Saturday evening in March is when you set your plans in motion. 

The air brushed against your cheeks, sharp and biting and drying your skin, but you couldn’t use your hands to shield your cheeks. Because those hands were occupied, holding both of Kento’s as you guided his blindfolded form inside the bakery. He was under the impression that you were both on your way to have dinner with friends. So, he was more than surprised when you decided to drive and forced a piece of cloth over his eyes.

You ignored every single protest that he muttered to you, pulling him to stand in the center of the lit room. 

For once, the air hadn’t been cold and reeking of painful traces of its past. Instead, cinnamon colored the air faintly, drifting around you both as you steeled your nerves, squared your shoulders and took a silent breath in front of his oblivious figure. 

“Okay. You can take it off.”

He did so immediately, brows furrowed in light irritation and worry before the expression fell from his face just as fast. 

The beige walls were a good choice, and the maroon accent on the wall behind the register created a warm aura that you were sure would make customers feel more comfortable and willing to stay.

You left the countertops untouched but meticulously restored the shine to the cabinets and replaced the metal accents along the sides of the display case below the register. The floor was redone—an act that you had no choice but to hire help for—and shining beneath your feet. The certificates of achievements and cherished photographs of families, employees, and friends no longer resided in their old frames, having been replaced with brand new ones that added a touch of freshness to the walls they hung on. 

The painstakingly crafted vases, which had taken you weeks to throw, fire, and glaze, had become the focal points of each table, radiating with an assortment of vibrant colors and intricate designs made by your hand. And in each vase laid the plants that Kaya brought back. 

Those same Peperomias and Hoya Carnosas had their bases wrapped in your ceramic art, the long philodendrons that were previously adorning the walls of Yu’s house had been returned to their original home between the crevices between cabinets and displayed in knitted holders suspending from the ceiling. Yu’s prized fiddle leaf had flourished despite his time away, its large, lush green leaves reaching out from its dedicated spot in the corner of the bakery, basking in the gentle March low lights that streamed through the nearby glass windows. 

You were proud. It was an indescribable satisfaction, knowing that every detail had been attended to with an unwavering dedication and care. 

You only hoped Kento would think the same.

Because the man in question was still silent and stone-faced from his perch, Chukka boots rooted to the floor, gelled and parted hair exposing deep brown eyes incredulous and unblinking as he looked around. 

You tried to quell the nerves zapping to life in your body, synapses firing chaotically, causing your fingers to twitch against your thighs, an uneasy silence lingering between the two of you.

“Well…say something,” your words trembled on the ends with an uneasy chuckle, tumultuous waves of anxiety roaring to life inside of you.

“I…” his voice trailed off, his gaze swept across the once missed vibrant plants around him, the upgraded display case, and the freshly painted walls. His heart thumped against his chest, like a bird yearning to be set free, as shock and astonishment surged through his veins, sending a chill down his spine. The weight of your gaze bore down on him, your increasing apprehension palpable as he struggled to find his words. He knew you deserved his undivided attention. 

Surprised or not. 

Overwhelmed or not.

“Is…is that new paint?” He mentally kicked himself, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at his own obliviousness while stating the obvious.

But you smiled bashfully at him instead, eager to do whatever it took to reassure him and help him regain his composure. “It is. I painted it. Well…my mother and I did.” You frowned briefly, your eyebrows twitching with the urge to furrow at the mention of her. She didn’t need to occupy your thoughts at that moment. Not now. 

His eyes shifted down, fixating on the tile beneath his feet. The once familiar, plain linoleum that he had grown accustomed to over the years had not been replaced. The new floor was now made of a creamy-toned linoleum designed to mimic tiles.

“New flooring?” he asked, his voice stronger even though it wavered.

“That one I had to hire help for,” you excitedly told him, maintaining a safe distance, standing a few paces ahead to allow him time to take in his surroundings. “But I picked out the color and style and I even got to rip out a few chunks. I took a bunch of pictures.”

He couldn’t help the huff that puffed from his nose, a small noise of a laugh as his mind continued to struggle to keep up. You watched as he attempted to speak, lips forming words that his throat stubbornly refused to release. 

Sensing his need for guidance, you closed the distance between you, reaching out to slide a hand into one of his larger ones and squeezing gently. He didn’t try to speak again, realized that he couldn’t, but the way his eyes caught yours and held your gaze briefly assured you at that moment that he was here, and he was listening, he just needed you to pilot him in that way only you could do with ease.

So, you did.

You brought a few vases for him to hold and trace his fingers against, animatedly explaining the firing techniques you chose for each one. You pulled him to the kitchen, proudly presenting the recently polished equipment that bore freshly stamped inspection approvals. The pots and pans, put away to avoid dust not even a day after Yu’s death, now hung gleaming and ready to be used from the pot rack above cool concrete countertops. The stainless steel ovens were ready to be turned on, the large refrigerator ready to be filled with chilled dough and meat for savory buns.

With brush of your fingers against him, his skin tingled; overwhelming and strong, forcing currents of electricity along his dermis. His chest tightened with each step you led him away from the kitchen, walking in the direction of Yu’s office.

Faint memories were suddenly rich in his mind when he stepped into the small room. Vivid flashbacks of Yu’s slouched figure, head resting on a hand as he gazed out the only large window in the room. 

That familiar nerve plan, known to dramatically droop the minute it was off its watering schedule, sat once again on the windowsill. However, alongside it stood a new addition—a simple cactus, with curved and drooping spiky branches.

You spoke up as you watched his eyes take in the unfamiliar plant. “Ulani reached for it when I went to the nursery with Ome last week. I figured you would be happy knowing she picked it out for you.”

He didn’t speak, he still couldn’t.

Instead, he allowed his legs to guide him around the oak desk, which had been cleared of its usual clutter of paper and books. For the first time since Yu had bought this bakery, the stained surface was visible to him, and he reached out to run his hand along it, feeling the rough texture beneath his fingertips. 

But his eyes stopped, freezing at the three small picture frames that sat on the corner of his desk. Picture frames that hadn’t been there before.

The first was of you both. You were in the corner of the photo and holding the camera at an angle to take a selfie, your smile bright as the sun, those familiar glints of mischief coloring your eyes. And he’s behind you, sprawled out on the couch with his legs spread and arms resting along the back of the sofa, head tilted back and mouth slightly parted as he was—despite how much he vehemently denied—snoring. 

It was so mundane, so informal, and not like him to have a photo like this out in the open. But it was so you. And the smile that curved faintly along the edges of his mouth as he took in the photo was more than enough for you to slink closer to him.

The second frame is of you and Ulani. She sat in your lap, her blue onesie covered in drool, light brown curls thick and messy, her gummy mouth smiling and showing the beginnings of a front tooth. Her hands were reaching for her father, who stood behind the camera. Vividly he recalled the playful antics he needed to elicit her infectious laughter for the perfect shot. Kento traced his fingertips along the edges of the frame, his smile pulling a little tighter on his face.

But it was the last photo that made his throat catch because he remembered it like it was yesterday. He and Yu were standing in front of the bakery, and he recalled how excited Yu was when he signed the lease, dragging Kento to stand in front of the empty building with Kaya ready with her camera. 

They were younger, Kento a little less bulky, Yu with a little more hair on his head than what you usually used to see from him. Yu’s arm was draped around Kento’s neck, both hands throwing peace signs, his smile just as bright and lively. 

“Why must I be in the picture if I don’t even own the bakery?”

“You will someday!”

“No.”

“Yes! Now are you going to smile for me? Or are you going to frown like the old man you refuse to admit you are?”

“I am not an old man.”

“You are!”

“Yu—”

“Smile!”

Those words reverberated in his mind, echoing ceaselessly as he gazed at his younger self frozen in the photograph. Because even though his posture was stiff, and his arms were folded over his chest. And even though the blue shirt and brown slacks were a little too big on him and his yellow and black spotted tie and glasses made him look old just like Yu had teased…he was smiling. 

Close-lipped and weak, but he was smiling.

Before he could fully be washed over with the overwhelming surge of emotions that boiled in the core of his stomach, you gently tugged him away, leading him out of the office and through the kitchen. The cinnamon-tinged air enveloped you both again as you entered the front of the bakery. 

Kento blinked away the blurriness in his eyes, and tried hard to focus on soft, billowing curls that peeked out from under your wool beanie.

He knew he needed to say something to you. 

He had to say something to you.

But once again you held him still and commanded him to close his eyes again. And when he complied, the sensation of his eyes closing softly, he sagged against the wooden counter behind him. His heart continued to race uncontrollably, refusing to calm down. Despite the deafening ringing in his ears and the tight, parched feeling in his throat, he found himself still standing. 

When he was told to open his eyes again, he found you holding what looked to be one of the chalkboard slabs that would hang on the wall behind the counter.

“A bakery wouldn’t be complete without a menu,” you declared with a grin, turning the chalkboard slab around for him to see. You soaked up every expression from him as he scanned the list.

Melon Pan, Anpan, Yakisoba Pan, and even Shu Kurimu; each item was meticulously written in delicate calligraphy. 

You cherished the moments you spent together that inspired the menu, with him patiently guiding you through the art of kneading, braiding, and perfecting other techniques during Ulani’s naptime. With every recipe, he absentmindedly spoke about which ones he would like to add to his menu.

And you had soaked it up like a sponge. 

The prices next to each food item were modest, and as he read line by line, item after item, the irresistible emotion to scoop you up into his arms became more palpable.

But when he got to the bottom, he froze. 

Because at the bottom of the menu, written in chalk and clear as day, was something that didn’t make sense to him but demanded his attention, nonetheless.

Yu’s Famous Sweet Bread: Daily Special

He shook his head, mind faltering and struggling to put the pieces together because those words shouldn’t be there. You shouldn’t have written that. He couldn’t make Yu’s sweet bread because he never got the recipe. And he wouldn’t fabricate his own iteration and tarnish his best friend’s memory. 

Flickers of irritation flared inside of him, completely unnecessary and unwarranted, waves of embarrassment bubbling in his stomach from the thought of being upset with you. But with tremendous effort, he managed to swallow it down. 

The sight was enough to make you lean over the edge of the counter, reaching for the Tupperware hidden beneath.

For weeks, it had been Gojo who would eagerly tear open the top and devour every batch that didn’t quite meet the mark. But now, it was Kento who stood there, staring at the Tupperware, blinking as you tore off the top and gestured the container towards him, his hands curling hesitantly around the edges of the plastic.

The aroma was heavenly, still steaming and flaky and he couldn’t help but reach inside and pull out a piece. He faltered, uncertainty clouding his face, unease bubbling in his gut, before finally taking a bit.

The flavors exploded on his tongue—buttery, not overly sweet, with hints of honey and cinnamon, just like he remembered. Just like how Yu used to make. A treasured recipe, perfected and replicated as if Yu had somehow manifested and made a batch just for him.

And suddenly his chest pulled tight once again, his throat constricted, and his heart hammered against his ribcage. He wasn’t upset, not even close. The unease that simmered in his belly fizzled away, died town as swirling waves of nostalgia took its place. 

It was too much. He couldn’t—

“It took me a few weeks. But Gojo was a good test subject.” You chuckled, wringing your hands around a clump of your curls in faint motions of anxiousness as you offered him a gentle smile. “I figured the man who only ingests sweets would be able to tell me if what I made tasted like Yu’s. And Kaya was a good final judge. It was a hunch, but it worked.” 

Nervously, you fidgeted, releasing your hands from the ends of your hair and burying them deep into the cozy embrace of your thick wool coat. You tried to convince yourself that his dumbfounded expression was a good thing. 

“I hope—was I wrong? I wanted the recipe to be perfect before I cooked some for you.”

You were fumbling and restless, finally taking the brunt of his lack of response and letting it fester within you. Maybe you had gone too far, overwhelmed him, and made him angry.

You shouldn’t have done this. You should have pulled back, and let him do things at his own pace.

While you were slowly beginning to despair from your spot in front of him, Kento was trying his best to move. To speak. To do something. 

Nothing could have prepared him for something like this. If someone were to tell him that all of this would be possible again, he would have turned around without another word and walked the other way. 

But it was possible. 

Here in the form of a bakery that had been brought back to life with newly painted walls, long-missed plants, a handcrafted menu, and a special recipe that he thought would have died along with the best friend who made it.

And you had done it all. Alone and without an ounce of assistance. And he had no idea. 

You had taken his dreams and shaped them into a reality.

Just like he did with you.

And for the first time, since he walked into the bakery, blindfolded and unaware, he finally moved of his own volition.

He set the container of sweet bread on the counter behind you and pulled you into a kiss so blinding, so searing, so overpowering that you were caught in between breaths, your lungs aching to stretch.

It was the only thing he could think to do. The only way he could try to say thank you for being the one constant in his life that had brought him nothing but consuming happiness when he believed he would only see and feel pain and grief. 

His touch was fervent against you, his hands cradling your cheeks, gliding along your neck, tilting your head up, up sharply so he could fall into you. And you reciprocated and caught him with the way your arms wrapped around him and the way your fingers tangled through the growing undercut at the nape of his neck.

The feel of wetness on your cheeks made you pull away from him, your hands descending from his hair to cup his cheeks, thumbing away faint traces of tears as he breathed shakily against you. He couldn’t stop them and didn’t shy away as you wiped them away as quickly as they fell. 

You were that beacon of light that he always looked for when he couldn’t seem to hold himself together. Even though he could barely open his mouth to express his gratitude, you still illuminated with unwavering brightness, seamlessly intertwining your fingers with his, guiding him forward without hesitation. 

You let out a gentle hum, feeling the remnants of familiar teasing tones vibrating along the skin of your lips. “I didn’t bring any tissues. Gojo won’t let you live this down if he sees your cheeks tear-stained,” you playfully remarked.

A harsh and wet chuckle bubbled from the middle of his chest, erupting from his throat as he sniffed pathetically and shot you an unheated glower.

“Stop teasing.”

A remark that might have seemed out of place to others but fit you both perfectly. Two words that he always murmured against your skin or playfully glared at you when you purposefully made him uncomfortable. It was something he loved, took pleasure in, and couldn’t imagine sharing those little mundane exchanges with anyone else.

“I love you,” he spoke softly, his words carrying an unwavering conviction and strength. 

You echoed the sentiment back just as strongly, your fingertips gliding along his sharp cheekbones, tracing down the slight upturned angle of his nose. 

The silence of the bakery was for once not as imposing as you rubbed your hands down his back, and Kento melted into your touch, his arms wrapping around your waist and drawing you closer. The scent and feel of you, unyielding and powerful against him, was still something he struggled to grasp—was only for him. 

He had his own plans for tonight. Had expected things to go a lot differently after dinner. Had worked through it in his mind over and over.

But as always, you had plans of your own. And, without complaint, he relinquished control and let you guide him.

“While I love you very much, Ken, we’re gonna be late for dinner if you don’t let go.” 

Those words, colored with a touch of humor, drifted into his ears and elicited another gentle chuckle from his chest before he pulled back and pressed his lips against yours. You were content to let him have just one more minute before pulling him out the door when—

“Oh!” you exclaimed, withdrawing from his lips abruptly. A surge of excitement coursed through your veins as you ignored his surprised expression, dark blonde eyebrows twitching with the urge to pout at being pulled from you too soon. Your hand instinctively dove into your coat pocket, retrieving your phone with nimble fingers. You eagerly sifted through emails until your eyes finally landed on what you had been searching for, flipping the phone around and pressing it to his chest. He gingerly took it from you, glancing over the contents and trying his best to ignore the sharp return of thumping in his chest.

“It’s just a drafted advertisement that I made with Jin,” you spoke proudly, fiddling with the lapels of his own dark brown wool trench coat. “I was able to organize a meeting with all of Yu’s previous employees, and they’ve all agreed to return whenever you decide to reopen.”

As you rambled on, your gaze remained fixated on the exquisite fabric of his coat—a gift from her mother—as you grounded yourself with its presence.

Kento was once again floored, his eyes tracing every detail that oozed your touch from your years of marketing experience. It was an ad that could be posted on social media, featuring a picture of the bakery and a short explanation of its upcoming reopening. 

To you, it was simple, quick to do, and without effort for many others. 

But to him, it was another token of your love freely given.

“The assistant manager even agreed to take over all morning shifts if you are still working at the company whenever it opens. We can do a ribbon cutting if you want! Or maybe a soft opening. I didn’t put a date for when it would open, but I was thinking after Ulani’s first birthday we could—”

“My love,” his voice cut you off, firm and tender. The hand not holding your phone cupped your cheek, guiding your gaze up to meet his. His naturally narrow eyes radiated affection, drawing you in with their burnt-umber warmth. “You’re rambling.”

Your voice caught in your throat, excitement and anxiety coiling and thrumming in equal rhythm. “I know,” you whispered. “I wanted to give you the option to submit it. It goes straight to Jin and he’ll have the company’s social media manager distribute it.” 

Your eyes flickered down to your phone in his hands, drawing Kento’s gaze back to the perfectly crafted advertisement on the screen, a bright green button labeled ‘SUBMIT’ catching his attention.

If you hadn’t gone above and beyond to turn the bakery into something Kento could call his own, he might have continued to stall for as long as possible. He would have lingered to order paint for the walls and waited until the last minute to redo the floors. Because even with his firm resolution when weeks ago he said to you that he was ready, a tinge of fear still lingered within him.

But seeing how much effort and support you had offered, showing him time and time again that he was ready, that you would be there to catch him if he ever fell, made him realize that he could face that fear with you by his side. And you were always by his side. 

Unquestionably. 

Unwaveringly.

In just a second, he pressed ‘submit’, a profound sense of accomplishment filling his chest, a feeling that never would have manifested if it weren’t for you. 

He gently placed the phone back into your coat pocket, his other hand cupping your exposed cheek. The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, heating the blood beneath and lighting an inferno behind your eyes, the heat licking against them to coax a prickle of tears to bubble at the bottom of your lashes.

“Did you submit it?” you whispered, the heat of his breath caressing your lips.

“I did.”

“I’m glad.”

It was a familiar exchange between the two of you, reminiscent of the last time you had walked into the bakery after rushing from Rory’s studio with Ulani strapped to your chest. Back then, he had been somber, searching for answers from Yu’s spirit that still lingered within the walls. 

But now. Now as you responded, a sense of satisfaction flowed through you, knowing that he had his answer and could show Yu, in some way—if he was even watching—that his efforts had not been in vain.

“The fact that you did all of this for me…words cannot express how grateful I am for this. For you,” he uttered, his words washing over you effortlessly, brimming with adoration that only you would ever truly understand. You smiled up at him, wordlessly expressing your own gratitude and contentment that he was happy.

“You can show me how grateful you are. How about,” you began, enveloping your arms around his neck. You playfully tugged at the tip of one of his ears as his eyes traced over the features of your face, a smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “After dinner, you take on all responsibilities with Ulani tonight, draw me a bath, and then later…” you trailed off, a playful purr dancing in your words as your fingers traced a featherlight touch along his ear, watching with barely contained glee as he shuddered. “Later after we know Ulani is asleep…you do that thing I like.”

That thing in question was something that he only used for rare occasions, and the flickering memories of it had him blushing quickly and his hands sliding down to wrap around your waist, pulling you into him. 

You couldn’t help the laugh that shook from your chest as he leaned down to place a wet kiss on your cheek once and then twice on the other side, before drawing back, your lips only a few centimeters apart and that recognizable faint smile on his face.

“Deal,” he whispered, slanting slightly chapped lips against yours, dragging you impossibly closer until there was no space between you both. 

Distantly, you remembered your reservations that you both would definitely be late for. 

And even though you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket with a text probably from Ome asking where you both were, the feel of his tongue sliding along your bottom lip in his well-known request for entrance made you ignore the second buzz that rattled your coat pocket.

Your friends could wait a few more minutes.

[bunny-hoodlum]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

This honestly feels difficult to fill out becuz I feel like I have more ideas than stories, what with all the new things that haven't gone past one or two chapters or haven't reached their plot yet. But I'll include those things anyways. 🥲

Powerless - My ultimate love-letter to Naruto, that I will eventually repost in full and get off the ground. 😅 Multiverse, Modern Era, govt conspiracies and conscription, Naruto from birth to young adulthood, slow burn, action/suspense, Missing Hinata, shady mentors. 🤭

21 Days - my return to smut after a long ass hiatus, but of course the somewhat unintended plot and parallel backstory reveal steered me away from my original plans. 🙈 For my 'Hinata has moved on/Naruto can't stand not being the center of attention' angst. 🤭 Messy family dynamics and military brat!Naruto too, was so much fun to write.

Asynchronous With You - Becuz two anons liked my Secret Santa to Szjanie, they asked for more and so far this is what they got. The pseudo-sibling drama really intrigues me here, it's like Childhood Friends but with more obstacles. 🤭 I also like the pervy aspect of how they gonna sneak around later on. 🤤

A Girl Should Never Be Without a Father - This one really surprised me and I wanna keep exploring it. 🙈 It's such a simple hentai premise but omigod did DILFruto's angst and bad attitude sneak up on me. 🥵 Ahhhh! Idk why Ch 3 is such a struggle bus of a WIP but I really need more of this. XD (It's a toss-up at this point whether I stick with it or move onto an expansion. I was in a diff headspace and thought it sucked for about a week or two, and was thinking of doing a diff take on it as if it was broken or some nonsense. 😅 I kinda miss Slow Burns now tho, so maybe I will still looking into that expansion. 🤭)

So hard to pick the last one but...

Narutoland - It's like the most gimmicky idea I have but that's what makes it work. 🙈 Literal hentai island full of Naruto clones ready to seduce and use Hinata at their whims. 🤭💕 Lotta ppl already guessed the lore behind it, but that's okay I think. 😂 I hope to still surprise when I make it my full focus again. 😤

Thank you tagging me, Vulgar! 🥰

[ultrajaphunter]

Launched in 1923, the S-44 was one of few “old pigboats” that saw extensive service in WW2 when the US Navy was desperate for Submarines after the onset of Pearl Harbor.

Serving on such boats took extra courage! I find these boats unique in that they were not the more well-known modern Gato or Balao-class boats,

but already had 20 years of service behind them when asked again to serve their country in time of war!.

With the leaks and deficiencies in these older submarines

(e.g., limited depth, speed,

no rear tubes,

and range capability), these boats still nonetheless served with distinction in WW2. S-44 earned two battle stars and has the distinction of being the first US Submarine in WW2 to sink an enemy cruiser -

that of the IJN heavy cruiser Kako in 1942 during the Battle of Savo Island!

But she was also tragically, the only S-Class boat to be lost to enemy action when she was sunk on 7 October 1943, as a result of surface gunfire with the Japanese Destroyer Escort Ishigaki off the Kuril Islands.

She was lost with only 2 survivors out of a complement of 38 crew (Lt.Cdr. Francis Elwood Brown went down with the ship).

Given this unique history, I wanted to build this boat!

I originally wanted to build the resin 1/350 S-Class model by Blue Water Navy but,

found it is very rare (if anyone has one, I am still interested as I collect 1/350 USN WW2 submarines).

With no luck in getting the 1/350 BWN model,

I decided to scratch-build one in 1/72. Given I had more time than usual with Covid19,

I started this project only in June 2020 and expect to finish in a month or so –

a record for my scratch-built projects which can last about a year minimum.

Here are pictures of the model in-progress thus far. It is not yet finished as I STILL have to add the many rivets found on these old boats!!!

The model was based on an old vacuform kit of a generic S-Class boat by the now defunct Combat Models.

However I found the old vacuform kit),

was not accurate in shape nor detailed enough as a start.

So far, the approach was to use the Combat Models as a guide to re vacuform the hull based on new plans I bought.

Methods included thermo forming,

along with styrene,

bass wood,

metal,

photo-etch,

resin casting,

and lots of gizmology parts from the spares box!

There is no major definitive book outlining the details of these old boats!

I relied solely on two grainy photos that exist of her as she exited Philadelphia Naval Shipyard in her last refit in summer 1943.

I also used photos of her near sisters (S-42 to S-46),

to guess at the rest of the details that could not be ascertained in those two old photos...

You will note that the boat had many details that are not symmetrical and aligned such as the flood holes (remember this boat was constructed in 1920!).

This is replicated on the model on purpose based on period photos of her flood hole arrangements.

While I thought a submarine would be relatively easy to scratch build,

I take that back as she has tons of little deck details.

The conning tower alone has about 150 parts itself.

In total, there will be about 400 parts to this “simple” sub.

It is not all scratch…the deck gun is from White Ensign Models

(but with more details added),

and the AA gun is from UM.

The S-44 was the only boat to mount this massive 4”/50 deck gun,

and her near sisters had the smaller 3” guns.

The paint scheme is of utmost challenge as she was simply “all black”.

I do not know how to go about it, but will tackle it one step at a time.

Thus the model represents S-44 after her final refit in June 1943,

and in what she might have looked at the time of her loss near Japan –

an old boat with a more modern conning tower!

This model is a tribute to all the crew on that boat, and those submariners still on “eternal patrol”.

I hope to contribute it and find a home for it one day at some naval museum.

More Pics on FB - Harvey Low

[deliwrites]

ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕥 𝕊𝕝𝕦𝕥 // 𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔯𝔬 // Dream Team

// DATE // 26th of October 2022 // PAIRING // DreamTeam x fem!Reader, george x fem!reader, sapnap x fem!reader, dream x fem!reader // WARNING // flirty!reader, Mention of spicy time, snogging with George, use of real names, mention of tease!reader, playgirl(ish)!reader // WORDS // 1k+ // SUMMARY // You are part of the Dream Team, the team has been planning to move in together, but George receives his visa before you. So you "help" him pack. // SERIES // Intro // Part One // Part two // Part three // Part Four // I'm open for serie title suggestions for this one! Feel free to comment your suggestion here or sent it into my inbox!

// MASTERLIST // ANONLIST //

The four of us, aka the Dream Team, have been friends for ages. I first met George when we were kids. Our families happened to meet on vacation. Ever since we had been inseparable even though we lived in different countries.

Later we met Clay and Nick. The friendship was instant, it felt so natural. We started making YouTube videos together. Streaming Minecraft together. Overall we always had fun. Sometimes in more ways than one. I may or may not have been flirty with all three in private. I just like to tease them. It’s so much fun. ‘Cause my actions have no consequences. What are they gonna do while I’m miles away. Plus my attitude was always flirty, so I don’t think they know of the spicy times that have happened in private.

Anyways the conversation of moving in together happened far too often. But when was it actually happening?

“Okay, but when?” I ask one night in a discord call. Just the four of us. We had just finished recording another Manhunt video for Clay’s channel. Three of us had their cams on, Clay didn’t. We didn’t mind. Out of the three of us, only Nick knew what he looked like. Nick being the only one that was already able to move in with Clay into the Dream Team house.

“You two just need to apply for a visa,” Is Nick's simple answer.

“We understand, but it’s not that easy,” George says. “We have to leave family behind for one, along with that. We have other things we need to think about. Think about the entire move. What do we bring, what don’t we bring. Other important matters like government shit that needs to happen.”

“Oh, shit, I don’t think I even told my mom about this plan,” I mutter, grimacing at the thought. Clay wheezes at my face, most likely.

“How could you forget something like that?” He continues to laugh, Nick with him.

“Just ignore the idiots, Y/n,” George says taking away my pout.

“What!” Clay sounds offended though we know he isn’t. Chuckling a little before we continue. Me being the one to open a google docs, sharing it with all three. Putting down a plan and checklists of things that need to happen for this all to work.

Months later around the early evening, the Dream Team group chat starts ringing. George started a call.

“Guys, guys, guys,” he screams once we are all in the call. Again face cams on beside Clay.

“What’s got you all excited?” Nick says. From what I could tell, he was still in bed. His eyes half shut, blanket barely covering his chest. I bite my lip subtly at the sight. Quickly focusing on George again. It was currently 9 am in Florida, so I am not surprised that Nick and Clay are still in bed. I’m surprised they even picked up.

“I GOT MY VISA!” George screams, showing all of us his visa. I am excited, sure, but I can’t help the smile fading from my face. I hadn’t gotten mine yet, which means he can leave without me.

“Finally!” Clay exclaims in excitement. “At last one of you can finally be here.”

“This is great!” I end up saying, not wanting to let my mood ruin the excitement. “If you need me to, I can come over and help you pack whatever you want to bring.”

“We’ll talk about that later,” George says still smiling from ear to ear. “Have you heard anything about your visa?” he asks.

“I- sadly, no,” a pensive look on my face. “But, that’s okay,” I quickly change my mood. A fake but bright smile on my face. “You can go! And that’s great!” I tell him. “But, I’m sorry to leave you guys, I gotta go do something,” I don’t wait for an answer and leave the call.

I felt a little bit selfish at my action, but I didn’t want to drag the mood down. With me leaving the call they can chat amongst themselves. Figure out when he’ll fly over and move in with them. I’ll just wait here patiently.

The coming week I flew over to be with George. I helped him pack the stuff he wanted to bring. Either in boxes or into his suitcase.

“Have you heard anything yet?” he asks while I sit on his big suitcase as he zips it shut.

“No,” I pout, “I’ll just have to be patient,” he chuckles loudly, stopping in front of me. Suitcase now closed.

“You and patient,” he says with a soft smirk playing on his lips. I sent him an exaggerated pout.

“I can be patient.”

“Yeah, right. And pigs can fly,” he shakes his head laughing and I can’t help but grin just slightly. “It’ll be okay. Just know that we’ll be waiting for you. And welcome you with open arms,” he tells me sincerely. I look up at him through my eyelashes, a boost of confidence strikes me. Cupping his face, I close the gap between us, my lips connecting with his soft ones’. He seems a little taken aback. He’s quick to recover from the initial shock. Kissing me back. His hands landing on my waist.

This isn’t the first time we’ve kissed. It’s happened before, we’ve done a lot more than kiss for that matter. Mostly online but whenever we were able to meet in real life. We would sneak kisses here and there. I can’t tell you exactly when it started, but for me, it had a lot to do with comfort.

For me, this particular kiss was a see you soon, hopefully, kiss. I wouldn’t be able to see him, hold him, kiss him for who knows how long once he’s left for America.

“Sorry,” I apologize when we pull away. “I just-”

“I know,” he says. “It’s alright, you know I would never say no to you anyways,” he grins. Close the gap between us once more, his lips are more dominant now. His grip on my waist becomes tighter, moving me closer to him. He is sat on his knees on the floor, my ass still on the suitcase. My legs on either side of him as he slots himself between them.

// MASTERLIST // ANONLIST //

// SERIES // Intro // Part One // Part two // Part three // Part Four //

I'm open for serie title suggestions for this one! Feel free to comment your suggestion here or send it to my inbox!

[bailey-orphic08]

Sander Sides Season Two Finale: Thoughts and Wants

    Okay, so if you’re here, you likely know how Sander Sides is doing. It’s broken all our hearts and all we can do is write fanfiction and theories as we slowly edge our way to the season two finale. Emphasis on slowly because anyone who’s been part of the fandom for at least a couple months knows Thomas is insanely slow when it comes to releasing new episodes. So slow that the last true Sander Sides episode was more than two years ago, and that was an Asides video. For two years we have been waiting for a follow up to Working THROUGH Intrusive Thoughts! But us Fanders don’t judge. Thomas is an adult, so should be allowed to take as much time as he needs for the sake of his health; and while he takes his sweet time, we have time to craft theories on what this season finale beholds. And that’s why we’re here today.

    Hello, I’m Bizarrio, and today I will share my predictions of what I think—and want—to happen in the Sander Sides season two finale. Quick disclaimer, the only two things we know for certain about the finale is that there will be a lot of songs and that it is planned to be four parts long. So there is no way I’ll be able to guess everything that’s going to happen. Anyways, I’ve stalled enough, let’s get to the part you’re here for.

The Structure

    Four parts is a lot of parts, but I think I’ve made a formula that the finale could follow.

    The first part will introduce the first problem, a simple problem that would be addressed in any Sander Sides episode, from dealing with an issue Thomas has to answering a question about life. In part one, the sides will try to find a solution to said problem. But as the episode goes on, it gets more and more clear that their action and the way they treat each other is stemming from something far deeper than this simple issue. And at the end of the episode, this is confirmed when one of the sides does something drastic, whether it be blurting out something they shouldn’t have or even physically hurting another side.

    This leads to part two, where everyone tries to discuss the real problem. In this part, they will try to find the problem and what’s causing it. After finding the problem, they will make a solution that leads to one of the sides being unhappy, which will lead to that side breaking down, causing the events of part three.

    In part three, the actual cause of the problem is revealed. And this side’s problems will be on full display, showing a level of despair we haven’t seen of him to this point.

    Now knowing the real root of the issue, the fourth and final part would be about Thomas and the other sides comforting the side in their breakdown. They would then find the true solution to the problem. And after they find this solution, Thomas gives his final speech about what he’s learned, kisses Hello Fresh’s feet, and shows us the end card, where we can finally prepare for season three.

The Plot

    So that’s what I think the structure will be, but that’s not a plot, so who’s it with?

    Well, for starters, the finale will likely focus on one side, and based on recent events, I think that this side will be Roman. Roman’s insecurity has been present since the very beginning and has only gotten worse. And throughout the entirety of season two, he’s been forced to compromise his wants or admit that he is in the wrong, especially in more recent episodes. So I feel like it would be suitable for the finale to be about him. I feel like with the structure I set up, he wouldn’t be the main focus of part one and a portion of part two, but the rest of the parts would definitely start to focus on him, putting him in full center.

    And since the finale is Roman centered, the first problem in part one is gonna have a lot to do with him. And that problem will be about Nico.

    I think the first conflict will be Thomas trying to decide if he should make a move on Nico. This could be anything from taking him somewhere to straight confessing. I don’t really know, but regardless, Roman is absolutely rooting for Thomas to go for it. Janus and Patton on the other hand, think that it would be a terrible mistake.

    Janus thinks that Thomas isn’t in the right headspace to start any relationships, and should be focusing on himself. And from what Patton said about Nico in the five year anniversary, we can tell that he isn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of him. I assume that he’s likely scared of the heartache that would occur if the relationship failed. And after some recent—and totally uninfluential not upsetting—events, I feel like he would also see the merit in Thomas focusing on Thomas.

    Things look bad for Roman(and they will be later)but it’s okay. He’s not outnumbered, for he has a very smart, and very cool guy on his side, who also believes that it is reasonable for Thomas to take this chance: Virgil.

    When confronted with the issue, Virgil sides with Roman almost immediately, which is a huge shock to everyone. Virgil says that Thomas should get it over with because Thomas has no way of knowing how much time he has, so if he doesn’t do it now, he may never get the chance.

    So yeah, part one would mainly be Roman and Virgil vs Patton and Janus as they try to convince Thomas why he should or shouldn’t make the moves on Nico. Patton and Janus’ argument is that it’s the wrong time to do it, while Roman and Virgil’s argument is that this may be the only time. And Roman and Virgil will be absolute couple goals as team up and absolutely obliterate Janus—figuratively. 

    Also, all the multiple-part episodes so far have involved going to another side’s room. And since this is a Roman centered finale, he’ll take Thomas and the other sides to his room to prove his point about taking risks, and that’s where they’ll be for the rest of the finale. I imagine his room to be vibrant and shiny, covered with shades of red and pink, white, and gold. It’s also very cluttered and messy, with discarded papers and costumes scattered all over the ground, and posters, artwork, and Thomas’ biggest accomplishments hung on every wall. So much stuff is in there, it almost feels claustrophobic. And the different rooms have different effects based on the side it represents. I think that Roman’s room would cause Thomas and the other sides to lose touch with reality, and become fixated on their desires.

    *Insert song about time and when you should and shouldn’t take chances.*

    But things aren’t all well, for as the episode goes on, the argument gets more and more tense, especially Virgil’s argument. And at the end of part one, Virgil blurts out something along the lines of, 

    “Of course it’s a bad idea! But which is worse? Losing one friend by making a bad choice, or losing all of your friends to him?” Virgil would be referring to Janus of course. This shocks everyone—especially Roman—and reveals Virgil’s true intentions.

    You see, there was more to Virgil’s quick decision than just time. In fact, he never thought Thomas should do it at all. The real reason he was telling Thomas to do it is because he didn’t want Thomas to listen to Janus. It’s clear through every interaction he and Janus have that Virgil hates him, and doesn’t believe that he should be trusted ever. And from recent episodes, it’s shown that Virgil has even started resenting Patton. So I feel like Virgil would be much more happy if Thomas listened to Roman than Patton and Janus.

    Then in part two, they discuss the real problem. After discussing this, Virgil finally accepts that it would be better if Thomas didn’t confess his love, and that it doesn’t make Thomas a bad person to listen to Janus this time. And it seems that everyone is satisfied…

    But wait.

    What about Roman? He’s not satisfied. He didn’t get what he wanted. Time and time again, Roman has given up on his desires, making compromise after compromise for Thomas’s sake. And once again, he’s the one who has to sacrifice his happiness. He’s the one who gets the short end of the stick. He’s the one who gets called out for his poor decisions. And do they even care? They act like they care, but it’s only really for their own gain.

    Nobody understands. Nobody cares.

   Tired of this cycle, Roman snaps. He kicks all the other sides out of his room, putting all focus on him. And in part three, Roman makes a pitiful final attempt at convincing Thomas to confess to Nico. And all of his insecurities are displayed.

    *Insert absolutely heartbreaking song about how everything Roman does is for Thomas and how he feels worthless because his contributions seem less important and even more harmful than the others.*

    Near the end of part three, or the beginning of part four, the other sides return. Or maybe Roman brings them back? Or maybe he never kicked them out in the first place and he shut them up a different way? I don’t know. But the sides are there. And in part four, they all comfort Roman, claiming that he is important and helpful, and that they wouldn’t be where they are now without him. Patton apologizes for misleading him, and Janus apologizes for taking advantage of him. And I think it would be cool if Virgil had a beautiful speech about Roman, similar to Roman’s speech about him in Accepting Anxiety. Considering that Virgil was Roman’s final straw, and that he hasn’t tried to be nice to Roman as Roman has to him, I think it would be a nice way to bring things all together.

    *Insert song about how everyone will always love and appreciate Roman and how he is just as important as everyone else and how Roman and Virgil should totally kiss when this is over.* 

    And after everyone says what they want to say, and Roman starts to feel better, they go back to Thomas’s living room. Thomas comes to a compromise that makes everyone happy, and he finishes the video off with what he’s learned: Acceptance and the merit to taking risks.

    And then he tells us about Hello Fresh and how it’s the superior way of eating.

    Wait a minute. I think I’m forgetting someone. Someone who’s really important to the series, and could add some really interesting—and even logical—points to the argument…

    Oh yeah, what about Remus?

Remus and the Orange Side

    If the finale is centered around Roman, then Remus has to be there by obligation. A main theme within it would be Roman’s insecurity, and we know that Remus is one of his biggest. So it simply wouldn’t make sense for him to not be there.

    In the finale, Remus is just gonna be himself. He’s not gonna pick a side or provide helpful information. No, he’s going to make the same discomforting jokes and taunt everyone, making them feel worse than they already do, especially Roman. 

    As entertaining as he is though, I don’t see him actually contributing to the plot, other than making things worse. I don’t even see him apologizing to Roman in part four. At most, he’ll begrudgingly apologize for killing him after Janus looks at him sternly.

    What I do see however, is some major foreshadowing. When Remus isn’t making inappropriate comments about the situation or blatantly insulting Roman, he’ll try to bring up completely random things that have absolutely nothing to do with the conversation. Thomas and the other sides will brush it off as Remus being his usual self, but those remarks will actually be information of the orange side, and foreshadowing of what he will do in season three.

    Speaking of the orange side, what will he be doing?

    Honestly, I have no clue, which is why I haven't talked about him so far. It’s pretty clear that the orange side is linked to anger and negativity in some way, and likely has the ability to take control of others when they're upset. And you can’t exactly say Roman’s content during the finale. So it would make sense for orange to reveal himself at this time.

    But apart from what he could represent and one of his abilities, we know absolutely nothing about him. And since we don’t know his personality or even his goals, I can’t tell you how he would act in the finale.

    Additionally, I also think that a lot has happened in season two so far. The series has grown to be really complex with all its different plot points. And this finale is definitely going to be the effect of all this complicated commotion. So adding the orange side into the mix might make it too complicated. I’m not saying that it couldn’t work or that Thomas can’t make it work, I just feel like the orange is an issue better left to address in season three.

The Other Stuff

    There’s also a couple of other things I want to talk about that didn’t really fit in with the other stuff, but weren’t big enough to earn their own section, so I put it all here.

    Firstly, I find it very possible that there will be a common analogy in the finale. I’m referring to how Logan and Roman used visuals to prove their points in Why Do We Get Out of Bed In The Morning?, and the whole video game theme in Putting Others First. I think it would be cool if it had a cartoon theme where every side has their own art style. Though, for the finale, it might be more fitting to reference different musicals, since Roman is deeply obsessed with theater. And it would explain why there’s so much music in the finale. But that’s more of a cool idea than an actual prediction.

    Second, I’d like to talk about Dark Roman, or Roman becoming an antagonist. I don’t think he can become a darkside, since the dark sides are just parts of Thomas that he hasn’t accepted as good yet, and Thomas already knows that Roman can be a positive influence, even if Roman doesn’t feel like it. That being said, I can definitely see him dealing with not being Thomas’s hero by doubling down on the antagonist thing, and becoming a “villain.” It would also be a good way to involve the orange side.

    However, I also feel like even if Roman really tried, he wouldn’t really be that big of an enemy. He may be trying to embrace his evil side, but at the end of the day, he still cares about the other sides and especially Thomas. And I feel like this care for them would hold him back from doing something truly evil. Besides, we already have an evil Roman! And I feel having one of those around is plenty enough.

    Also, I think Thomas’ living room should still be messy, showing that he still hasn’t cleaned it after Working THROUGH Intrusive Thoughts.

    And Janus should get his own song. It could be about literally anything, just give him a song. He’s earned it.

    So, yeah. Those are the things I think will and want to happen in the Sander Sides season two finale. Of course this doesn’t fill in every detail, it would be impossible to guess everything that will happen. And there’s no way everything I’ve said will actually happen. So I’d like to see your thoughts too. Anyways, that will be all, so goodbye every-

    Wait. Wait. Hold on a second. I’m forgetting something. Something I’ve seemed to ignore despite being very important to the series. Something that’s been here since the very beginning, and has been a part of some of the best moments in the show. Something all the fans have grown to love…

    What about the end credits!

The End Credits

    The end credits have shown us some of the cutest scenes within the whole series, and have provided some really interesting foreshadowing and tension as well. So we have to talk about them!

    The end credits of part one will be all the sides berating Thomas for leaving on such a cliffhanger. He’ll try to reassure them by saying that part two will come out really soon, but absolutely no one will believe him.

    The things I’ve said so far have been speculation or headcanon, but this one is actually correct. After all the time we’ve waited, it would be such a missed opportunity to not make the joke. So this will be the first end credit or else. No, no, I’m kidding… Or am I?

    We’re at the second end credit, and at this point, I’m sure you can tell I’ve been leaving someone out… And it’s Joan!

    No, this joke has gone on for long enough. As you can tell, I’ve been avoiding Logan. And it’s not just because I don’t see him having a place in a Roman centered episode. In fact, I do see him in it.

    He would call both sides irrational, and propose a compromise. (The same compromise they make in the final part…) But he would be ignored as the other sides try to talk over each other. And it would be especially bad this episode. So much that he would quit trying and leave the conversation, similar to how he did in Moving On and Putting Others First. Only this time, no one will be there to notice or care…

    And that’s where the end credits come in.

    The second end credit will show Logan right after he leaves to his room. He starts to talk to himself about how frustrated he is about being pushed aside so often. He talks about feeling unwanted and possibly unneeded as Janus is slowly taking his place as the voice of reason.

    The third end credit continues his monologue, showing him grow more and more upset. 

    We finally reach the fourth end credit and Logan is completely furious. But his monologue gets cut off when Remus enters his room, he of course immediately masks his anger. He tells Logan about everything he missed and how they came to the exact same conclusion he was trying to push, only to be ignored. This breaks Logan’s composure, and he starts lamenting all his frustrations to Remus. Remus interrupts him, claiming that the root of the issue is that he doesn’t stand out enough, and that all he needs to do is be as loud as they are. They then turn to Logan’s door as they hear footsteps; Remus smiles. We see a glimpse of the man at the door. Perhaps we see an orange-hazed silhouette, or a pair of shoes we have yet to see. Or maybe, just maybe, we even hear his voice,

    “I can help with that…”

Conclusion

    And that’s everything I think will and want to happen in the Sander Sides season two finale, for real this time.

    And as I said before, almost anything can happen, so I’m bound to be wrong about something. Thomas has also said that he plans to to get at least parts one and two out by the end of the year, so we’ll get to see any day now.

     And in the end, while I may not know exactly what will happen, I do know that this finale will leave us laughing, crying, and absolutely hyped for season three. I am so excited for the finale, and I know I’ll love it, regardless of what happens.

    Goodbye everyone.

[esta-elavaris]

Flufftober Day 14: "I hate it." "No you don't." - Cutler Beckett/OC [2,799 words]

My Flufftober '23 masterpost can be found here 💜✨

I was trying to figure out how the hell to write Beckett in a romantic setting and my brain gave me toxic power couple, enjoy. This is more hurt/comfort with eventual kinda-sorta fluff than anything else, but I did my best and so no one can judge me xoxo

It was the evening of her husband’s farewell party before he departed for the Caribbean, and Lady Clara Beckett was a woman on a mission. She had been ever since her dear husband had announced he would not be bringing her with him when he set sail, citing that it was too dangerous and that there was no real need for her to be there - wording that had earned him a look that said more than an earful ever might. But good reason had failed, her discussions with him had been for naught, and he had resolved not to listen. So now, there was only time left for dirty tactics.

He had no right to be too cross about that. It was something he often revelled in, and while she couldn’t give him the credit in saying she’d learned it from him, watching his actions certainly encouraged her. Clara suspected he found it charming at times – but she knew tonight would not be one of those times. She wasn’t even sure she wanted it to be one of those times, her annoyance at now being bloody well listened to warring with her fury at how calm and impassive he was as she’d argued her case. No, she couldn’t quite decide if her plan for the night was with the aim of ‘winning’, or just of royally annoying him.

Although with two goals, she was more likely to achieve at least one of them, was she not?

Her maid did not seem to think so, if the silence in which she dressed her was anything to go by. Clara cared little. It at least saved her from any inane conversation – focused instead on the overall effect. Straight from the court of Louis XV, the gown was red silk, simple and sophisticated without frills or lace. Primarily because none was needed, as the neckline spoke for itself, dipping so far down that it exposed the curve of the pale, smooth underside of her breasts. Were she more well-endowed, it would’ve appeared obscene. Thankfully, she was fairly certain she could just get away with it.

Rubies dangled from her ears, bringing out the warmth of her dark locks where they were piled artfully atop her head, but when the maid brought out the matching necklace, Clara waved her away. It would ruin the effect.

With the maid dismissed thereafter, she had a moment alone to steel herself for what lay ahead. Standing, she inspected her reflection one last time and found that she rather liked what she saw, her dark eyes staring cooly back at her. Then, she took in a deep breath – and found it was a good thing they were throwing a dinner party and not a ball, for the dress would never remain in place for something like dancing – and then made for the door.

 A footman was striding down the corridor as she stepped out, and when he saw her, he froze, and then did his utmost to keep his eyes firmly glued upon her face. Clara took that as a good sign, but kept any indication of that to herself.

“Lord Beckett?” she asked.

“His…study, my lady. Seeing to a handful of letters before your guests arrive.”

“Very well, thank you,” she nodded, and made her way there – her shoulders squaring and her chin raising more and more with every step.

Her husband was indeed in his study, alone behind the great mahogany desk, his eyes fixed firmly on whatever it was he was writing now. She knew not why he would leave any correspondence so late, but no doubt there was a reason behind it – there was a reason behind everything he did. They had that in common.

Stepping inside without announcing herself, she swept her way towards the chair before the desk and sank casually into it, leaning back and watching him with great patience. He looked up, his quill stilled, and a great splotch of ink fell down atop the letter.

Clara smiled. Cutler did not.

“Absolutely not,” he said firmly.

Only once he’d managed to lift his gaze to her eyes.

“It’s from Paris,” she said, her tone light.

“Then the French can let their wives wear them. Change, Clara. Immediately.”

“Take me with you to Jamaica. Tomorrow.”

Realisation hit him then – visibly, his jaw clenching as he heaved a great sigh, leaning back in his chair as he considered her like she was some new great opponent. His head was already in whatever games lay ahead, then. Or perhaps he simply saw her as good practise. There was something flattering in that.

“No,” he said.

Clara shrugged.

“Then it appears we’re at an impasse.”

“So that’s your plan, then, is it? To flounce around showing me precisely what it is I’ll be missing, as if I’m not already well aware?”

His tone might’ve been scathing if not for the certain note of excitement threatening to slip through his annoyance. He did so enjoy their little games.

“You, and everybody else,” she smirked.

Annoyance prevailed then, for he seemed to like that notion even less than his first assumption. Much to her delight. It wasn’t so much, she knew, about the prospect of other men seeing and desiring what was his – for what good was a beautiful wife if not for that very purpose? So long as she never let them think they had a chance in hell (and they never did – infuriating as he was, she was rather fond of her husband), he liked that aspect of things. No, his reservations here would lie in what his leaving behind a woman such as her suggested about his wits. Which was exactly what she intended. She wanted everybody to look at him tonight, after looking at her for a good long while, and wonder if he’d lost his mind in deciding to let her out of his sight.

“Change your dress, Clara,” he ordered. “You have countless other very becoming ones. Choose one of them, and wear that instead.”

Flattery would get him nowhere. Downstairs, the sound of the servants admitting the first of their guests into the house echoed throughout, and her smiled shifted into a smirk as she rose to her feet.

“Would you look at that? I’m afraid it’s too late.”

Turning, she strode to the door of his office before pausing and turning back to him, drawing herself up to her full height as she posed with all the elegance she could muster. Which, as it was, happened to be rather a lot.

“You haven’t said what you think of the dress.”

He scowled at her. “I hate it.”

Clara grinned, seeing through the assertion immediately – rather helped by how, despite his protests, his eyes were glued to her figure.

“No you don’t,” she said.

Their guests were more people whom they were supposed to like rather than those they really held in any high regard. Then again, did anybody really like anybody in London? Neighbours, business associates, and not quite anybody who would be offended at the lack of an invite but instead those whose offense would actually matter, should it come to that.

Lady Clara Beckett greeted them all warmly, tittering appropriately over the origins of their silverware, or the sofa on which they sat as they waited for dinner to be served, or the year on the fine bottles of wine served – and, of course, the dress.

If Cutler was still cross with her (which she knew he was) he did it almost immaculately well, engaging in small-talk over his upcoming journey, talking in serious tones about the threat of the pirate problem, and humming with a great deal of false humility over what his chances may or may not have been at stamping it all out.

Of course, she said “almost” immaculately, for there was one sore spot. One of his good friends – or allies, rather – a fellow Lord, had seen fit to bring his son along with him. Said son was but a year older than Clara, and had presented a rather strong case for her hand way back when she’d still had to endure things like courting and what her potential prospects were. Alexander had never had a chance at “winning” her, but he didn’t seem to know that. Nor did he seem to have much care for his own wife – a boring little Blowsabella who scarcely seemed able to say three words without blushing, as though fearing they were the wrong ones, leaving Clara pitying the lobster that had to die to feed such a bore tonight. Instead, Alexander instead spent much of the evening all but glued to Clara instead, doing his utmost to be charming.

To his credit, he was rather good at it.

No doubt he smelled blood in the water, knowing her husband would soon depart and leave her alone for what could be years.

The evening was a roaring success, as all evenings she put together were. The conversation flowed nicely, dinner was impeccable, and the drinks that followed were so jolly that they were all very reluctant to leave thereafter. She had to suppress a smirk when Alexander’s father leaned in close to Cutler as he left, his face flushed with drink, saying in what he likely thought was a whisper.

“You must be out of your mind to leave a woman like that behind, my dear fellow. Out of your mind!”

His son looked very self-satisfied to hear it, shooting her a look that could only be described as scheming as he herded his wife out of the door. It closed behind them, and she knew her husband had caught the look thanks to how his hands curled into fists at his sides.

“That went rather well, I thought,” she said happily.

“I suppose you were particularly pleased with those parting comments at the end, there,” his tone was scathing.

It rather warmed her.

“If the opinions men hold over your decision to leave me behind bothers you so greatly, perhaps you might rethink those very actions in the first place. When has what others said ever bothered you when you knew the course of action you were taking was the right one?”

“Perhaps the opinions of others bother me when those opinions were cajoled by my wife behaving like a common whore! Perhaps it’s not my present decisions that concern me, but instead the decision I made not one full year ago when I chose such a woman over one who would know her place and do as she was damn well told!”

Silence hung in the air when he was finished. Clara was content to let it remain there, watching him without respond, allowing him to fully consider precisely what it was he’d just said to her. For the first time ever – in all the time that she’d known him – her husband looked alarmed, the fury slipping from his face like rain from a windowpane.

“Clara…darling…” he sighed.

Darling, was it? He only broke out the terms of endearment in truly dire circumstances. Her expression must have been thunderous, then.

“I wish you safe passage on your travels, husband. I’m rather tired, so I’m afraid I won’t be awake to see you off come morning. You may write, if you so wish,” her tone was clipped, and there was a finality to her words.

Although it would be a good long while before he got any response beyond what was entirely necessary – information as to the running of the household, and so on.

The only way she allowed her temper to shine through was in how she snatched her hand away when he reached for it, rising to her feet and leaving the room. The maid noted the curl of her lip and her silence well enough, dressing her for bed and binding her thick dark hair into a long plait behind her head with no attempt at chit-chat, finally leaving the room swiftly thereafter.

Once the door clicked shut behind her, Clara rested her elbows atop the vanity and sighed heavily. How dare he? More infuriatingly still, he’d left her feeling as though she had done something wrong. Not in her manner of dress – she would wear whatever she damn well pleased within the bounds of good taste and propriety. And what did men know of fashion, anyhow? No, what she was questioning was the goodbye she'd offered. Paltry. Cold, even, considering it would be at least a year before they saw one another again. More, conceivably.

But what else could a man expect, upon likening his wife to a whore? And as for his other assertion – the mere suggestion that he’d ever be content with some insipid little fool who simpered and smiled and did not know precisely who and what he was. It would have been hilarious, were it not so insulting.

She been lying in her bed, glaring at the canopy for some time when a knock sounded at her door. Instantly she knew it was him, despite the fact that he never knocked. So she rolled over and put her back to the door, just in time for it to open. Footsteps, muffled by the rug, drew near and then the bed behind her sank as he sat down.

“I’ve spoken to your maid. She believes she can have your belongings packed and ready to go come morning.”

Clara scoffed.

“To what end?”

“You are my wife. Your place is by my side.”

“Yes, well I’m sure there’ll be many bored ladies in Port Royal eager to warm your bed when you make port, so you shan’t miss me. You said it yourself, I do not know my place. I should hate to change that now.”

“You know that isn’t true. None of it.”

“An hour ago, I might’ve thought not. Then, however, you likened me to a whore and everything was made quite clear.”

“You’re coming with me to Jamaica. Would I decide that if I thought you a whore?”

“I suppose it depends on the hourly rate. I’m not going.”

“Clara.”

“I’m not. And I’m not just saying it so that you might convince me otherwise, I’m saying it because I know you changed your mind solely to stop me from being cross with you. I don’t want to win – not anymore. Not that way, in any case. I’ll get up in the morning and see you off if that’ll convince you that I mean it. But I will not go.”

The bed behind her rose, indicating he’d stood, and something within Clara seized up – devastation outweighing the relief that he’d finally listened to her. But then he rounded the bed instead, coming to sit before her. She could not roll onto her other side without the display bordering on the ridiculous, so she forced her face to remain stony as she regarded him. He’d undressed before coming here – now in a nightshirt and devoid of his wig. It was almost easy to forget who he was, and what he was capable, without all of the finery and the accoutrements that went into Lord Beckett being Lord Beckett, his dark hair sticking up here and there.

She would not allow herself to be charmed by it; for that was likely his intention.

“Come with me to Jamaica,” he said. “Please. Not because you’re cross, and not because it shall mean you have won, but because you are my wife, and I’ve little wish to spend the next year or more without you. Tonight has shown me that well enough.”

Clara stared, pushing herself up so that she was sitting upright. Because he never said please. He’d proposed with less heart than what he’d just shown now. Her eyes lowered, and she angrily urged herself to get a grip – a fire blazing in her gaze when she met his eye again.

“Never use that word to refer to me again,” she warned.

He weighed the response, nodding slowly and then finding her hand amidst the covers. “So long as you never grow predictable. So long as you never bore me.”

She could promise well enough that she’d never do that. Based on the rueful smirk on his face as she slid over to admit him into her bed, he knew that well enough.

Links: AO3 -- FF.net -- flufftober masterpost -- dividers by cafekitsune

[lovelywingsart]

//AU// Final Revelations

-- Karl Heisenberg X OC (AFAB, She/They) --

This one is a lil short but I finally had the mental power to work on and edit... Maybe not the best, but I like it more than others!

Also: If you've read my updates before, that means yes- this is actually the 'final' written story until I start on the new sketch comic which will be the actual fight itself and takes place after this! It will be a monumental task and we'll see how long it takes me ALSKDJSAS-

Anyway, enjoy a smol chapter update!

**Remember, check out the Masterlist for more!**

-----

Warnings?: Mention of lies with explanation(and what those lies were), mild hostility, not much else???

Summary: The time has come, and meeting with the other current survivors is necessary... But so is confessing.

The sound of crumbling ground and curling mold was everywhere, filling what had once been a deafening silence after screams and gunfire. Long black tendrils covered the fields and houses, with Lycans running amok and even dying by the vary substance that created them as it erupted at random and impaled the poor creatures that ran over it. Emelia scurried her way through to a small clearing on the outskirts of the village itself, her chest heaving with occasional snarls and screeching at the creatures if they crossed her. She barked orders at the creatures in their own tongue to make them move, not slowing her own movements for a moment.

She had to hurry... She had left the now empty scrap metal heap left in the field of the factory once her family was safe, listening to the other sounds around her. ANY other sounds that weren't the ones that filled the air. Anything that could tell her where the rest of the small group of mutants remained.

She had ordered her son and partner to run. To go back to their hidden home. They HAD to run. The boy was far too young to fight, and his father... Her throat tightened as she heard frantic speaking above the mold as she neared the smallest clearing. His father had died once already. The man was worse for wear, barely walking by himself with the mangled prosthetic he managed to pull with him at the last second.

He was angry... He was PISSED. Pissed he wasn't able to fight like he wanted to, like he planned for years on doing. It stung him worse than being murdered by the very one those plans were for, but even he knew he had no choice with the state he was in. And so the two boys ran to a place the parents had only discussed while she chose to fight, a decision that even she wondered was for the best now- but she still had work to do. She made it known.

She came to a sudden, choked halt as she finally caught sight of the group she had left to meet, first noticing the now frazzled, once-white dress of Alcina. Her gaze moved between the remaining three Lords, her heart beating out of her chest with an angry anxiety as if finally settled on the one who brought them together-

Winters.

Ethan Winters.

The man who had beaten her partner close to death. The man who, despite having turned the other Lords against the common enemy they all were about to face with some mild reasoning, decided to look for their son and fight them both without speaking a goddamn word about it until the end. No, to him, Heisenberg was simply a threat, and so was she by extension until she had tobeg for her life- beg for her boys lives. It was his actions that weakened Heisenberg. That weakened HER. He didn't ask questions, he just moved, doing what they thought was trying to take their son. He didn't listen until the last moments, and it made her blood boil. Sure, he may not have known, but a simple question would have left them all fine...

But even then, despite all that, her rage towards him couldn't help but slowly trickle away into a small anger. She knew why he did what he did. And his simple reasoning was something even she couldn't argue with, even if it had caused them this pain that could have been so, so much worse.

She only started moving towards the group once more as the sounds of the mold grew, breaking her from her thoughts and forcing them to the back of her mind as she wiped away the last of the tears that had fallen without her noticing.

Donna had been the first to notice as she approached, her head snapping up with the sound of her footsteps as the Angie began to squirm in her grip.

"EMELIA!!!" She screeched, nearly hopping out of the woman's arms once the grip was loosened. Emelia flinched as all attention was suddenly on her as Angie darted towards her, and she kneeled to meet the doll in a light embrace before picking her up.

"We... We didn't think you'd make it..." the woman said quietly, her voice wavering from a mix of anxiety and fear as Moreau suddenly scuttled forward to follow the doll.

"Oh Emmy, where were you?? Are you ok???" The man said, instantly grabbing her other hand as Angie clung to her shoulders. The poor thing was almost as beaten as Karl, but he was still standing even with the green-ish red blood that covered his back and face. She managed a small smile to reassure him.

"I'm... I'm alright... I'm here." she said. She then looked up at Alcina, who's face had twisted into a strange mix of relief and confusion. "Where are the girls...?"

"With Duke." The woman said simply, though there was a clear amount of worry that appeared more on her face. "I only trust they will be safe with him, as much as I would like them to stay home..."

Emelia nodded.

"Good... Good. He knows where to go. Even I can promise they will be safe and away from this mess." She assured, and the tall woman seemed to let out a breath of full relief. She then looked to the side as she heard footsteps approach closer, only to see the stunned face of Ethan as he limped towards them.

"You..." he said, his own voice a mixture of confusion and caution. "I thought you said-"

"Save it, you bloody prick." She growled lowly. "I have a job to do, and you won't stop me from doing it..."

The other Lords were silent as she glared at him lightly, and he lifted his hands slowly in a surrendering motion while taking a step back.

"I won't. You made your point before." He spoke simply, and she nodded.

"Good..."

Her tone eased slightly as Donna approached on her other side for Angie. Alcina was the first to speak, her now suspicious gaze flicking between her and Winters.

"And, dare I ask... Where is that buffoon? Heisenberg?" She asked, the corner of her mouth twitching as Emelia flinched and Ethan began to speak.

"He's-"

"He's resting." Emelia interrupted quickly, glaring at him again with a silent warning. Another look of confusion entered the mans beaten features.

"But I saw him, he-"

"Leave it, you ignorant wanker." She snarled. "He is resting from his injuries that you had no help in. He's fine."

"But he was dead!!"

The words tumbled out of Ethans mouth before he could stop them despite the clear warning tone in her voice, and a sudden dead silence fell over them. The trio of Lords looked at him as Emelias face went slightly pale.

"D-... Dead...?" Donna nearly whispered, her voice that of mild horror as she stared at him with a wide eye. Ethan shook his head almost frantically, looking to Emelia with his own pale jolt.

"I-... It wasn't me who killed him...!! It was Miranda-"

"But you beat him to the point of weakness even more severe than them!! You LET him die by her hands!!" Emelia growled, her lip curling just slightly. She took an angry step towards him, feeling that small rage bubble up once more. "Had you listened to us, had you even bloody ASKED, he'd be HERE right now instead of-"

"Thats enough!!" Alcina raised her voice suddenly, causing the five heads to turn to her. She turned to Emelia. "If Winters claims he is dead, than how is he alive, according to you?" She asked, and her face fell immediately. "Not that I'd completely believe a man-thing, but he's managed to convince us all of his motives thus far, even by... questionable means..."

"I saw Miranda kill him...!" Ethan said, looking back at Emelia as well, who now looked mildly uncomfortable. "She tore him apart before she got to me. How the fuck is he still alive??"

More silence. All eyes were on her now, and an explanation for the given situation all but demanded simply by looks alone. She looked at them one by one, feeling her breaths become quick and panicked as her mind raced... and then her gaze fell upon Moreau.

Moreau, the only one who had known all those years ago, told a lie to save their skins. Moreau, the one who she knew would have kept the secret, who would have helped them if he could, chased off by anxieties and fear.

Moreau, the one she knew would be the most hurt if she told them all the truth now given the circumstances... but she had to.

She had no choice now.

She shook her head, taking a shaky breath and reaching to rub the back of her neck.

"He was... revived." She said finally, her voice quiet with a nervous tremble. She was met by silence once more, followed immediately by confusion.

"What do you mean 'revived'??" Ethan said, and she frowned.

"I mean exactly that." She spoke, attempting to regain what little confidence she had but failing. She froze as Moreau squeezed her hand.

"Revived... how??" The fish man asked, and she swallowed hard. She stared at the ground for a moment in attempt to think, only finally looking at him with a sad smile.

"By our son." She admitted quietly.

Ethan stared at her, slowly putting the pieces together in his head and the realization settling in his features.

"Wait, you mean... that kid in the factory...? Heisenbergs kid?" Ethan asked, his eyes widening. "You're his..."

"Yes, you bloody idiot. Who else would I have been speaking of when I begged for our bloody lives??" She snapped, only calming down as the fish Lord jumped next to her. She glanced at her friend briefly before returning to the man, keeping her gaze on Ethan hard, but steady. She watched as his face fell, and he took a step back. A small gasp was heard from Donna, and Alcinas brows raised. But she turned her gaze to Moreau, who's confusion grew almost exponentially as he listened.

"He is resting alongside Karl, as he should be..." Her voice suddenly dropped, a proud, calm expression on her face as she lifted her chin. "His power is greater than ours. More potent, even without a Cadou, though we are unsure how... Potent enough to save his father and still stand. He is far more capable than the two of us combined, but he's only a child... We won't let him fight."

"You had another baby??" Moreau asked suddenly, making her flinch while followed by a disbelieving scoff from Alcina.

"'Another'?!" The tall woman said, and the dollmaker whimpered.

"... There was... a first...?" She said quietly, as if events from years prior were suddenly clicking on her mind. Alcina crossed her arms.

"And when would we have learned of this information?!"

Emelia shook her head, waving her off just slightly.

"N-No, no... He isn't 'another', he was the only one... I..." she tried, feeling their eyes burn into her skin. She attempted to find the words, only to sigh and let her hand fall from Moreaus grip. She went quiet, her gaze falling to the ground once more.

"... I lied, Salvatore..." She whispered finally, heavy guilt evident in her voice as the confused- and now somewhat betrayed- stares made an unpleasant chill race up her spine. "I lied when I told you it was gone..."

He stared at her.

"... what...?"

The small squeak in his voice made her flinch.

"It wasn't my idea, and I regretted it every bloody day afterwards... Hated myself for it for years." she continued, looking up at him again to see a nearly hurt expression in the mans face. Fuck... "It was Karls suggestion, but... I agreed to it out of fear, even though I questioned it." She frowned. "I didn't want to lie to you, Sal... But we had to make sure she didn't find out. Every precaution had to have been taken to get this chance, to make sure she didn't rip it from me... And I listened to him."

"... I wouldn't have told her..." the man replied quietly, taking another step back. "I promised..."

"I... I-I know, Sal... I know, and I'm sorry..."she tried, kneeling down just slightly to stay level with him. "But she would have gotten suspicious if I continued to go to you, or bloody god forbid Heisenberg let you in often to check on me..." her voice was torn, that of regret and apology. "She would have known the moment she saw me... I couldn't have even gone to the surface and risk one of her damned birds catching that scent... Even the Lycans would have been tailing me."

The man was silent as she spoke, but nodded slowly as he let her words seep in. It seemed like he understood, but the hurt in his mangled face still sent a massive wave of guilt through her chest, amplifying it completely.

"It's not your fault, Sal. It was different than the shifting of Cadou effects..." she tried, earning another round of confused stares from the other two women. "I could hide that... Hell, I still can. But I couldn't hide the pregnancy... It changed me far too much, far too quickly. She would have known if she saw me a month later after we found out, and we couldn't risk anything... I didn't want to lose a chance at what I wanted for so long due to her selfish needs. I didn't want her destroying this chance like she had so many times before."

Her voice remained quiet as she spoke, the attention still causing shivers... But Moreau soon nodded, shifting slightly on his feet.

"I understand..." the fish Lord muttered, putting his hands together and fiddling with his fingers. He was quiet again before looking at her with the smallest spark of hope in the dark sea gaze. "What's his name...?"

He seemed to relax as she gave a warm smile.

"Adalwulf." She replied quietly. "He's 10 now... He was born healthy, and he's all I could have ever wanted."

"Adalwulf..." the man tried, struggling slightly with the name, but managing well. He seemed to ponder a moment before he managed a small smile and nodded. "I like that name..."

Emelia gave a quiet chuckle.

"He reminds me of his father, in the best possible way... he's a fine young man already." She held out her hand for him, relieved as he did the same. She held it tightly. "He's a kind boy... Always has been since he could walk and speak. I would love for you to finally meet him after this... I talk about all of you quite a bit."

Moreau opened his mouth to speak with a small growing excitement, but stopped as a small rumbling was heard. The group was startled as yet another mass of black mold tendrils erupted from the ground beside them, and Ethan cleared his throat.

"Look, I'm sorry to interrupt..." H started, gesturing to them. "This is... nice and all... But we need to hurry. I need to get my daughter back..." He looked at Emelia, "And you have a kid to raise."

She went quiet, but nodded as her demeanor changed almost instantly. Her expression hardened and she felt her parasite squirm in her chest, making her arm tremble just slightly in an oddly excited anticipation.

"And Miranda needs to die." She growled. Ethan nodded.

"At least we can still agree on something..." He muttered, simply looking at the other Lords. "We need a plan, and we need one quick..."

They looked at each other, their minds clearly working. Alcina frowned.

"We mustn't go in recklessly." She said. "Even I know she is powerful, even more so when desperate."

Ethan nodded.

"I got that..." he sighed, looking at the mold. "Any suggestions?"

There was silence for a moment as Emelia walked to him, joining his side as she examined the tendrils surrounding them. It only took her a few moments until something clicked, and she suddenly turned to them.

"I have an idea..." She said, earning looks once more. "It'll sound mad, and it's of the utmost importance that we're all careful... especially us." She looked at the three Lords before them as well as gesturing to herself. "But it may be insane enough to work."

Ethan looked between them, though nodded as they huddled together once more.

"Alright then. Let's hear it."

[stupid-boy-here]

Look who's back, after who knows how Long, and ofc here we are with a writing. Once again, English isn't my first lenguaje so the probability there are errors in the writing is high, any criticism is appreciated

Sweet like her lips

I'm not someone that can be called fond of gourmet food, sure it's good and whatnot but it just wasn't part of my liking.

Aswell that I have never understood why people were willing to pay so much for something that might not even be of their taste, something new each week must be exhausting. But I guess everyone has their own special way of living.

Yet, lately it has become a habit of my boss to give me leftovers. The first time he did it, it turned out to be weird.

I thought he hated my guts after all but I think it was just the pressure I felt during my first days.

It's a demanding job after all, being the only waiter in a place that could be called “popular” and often looked at by critics, but I managed, and somehow I ended up liking the job.

I had planned to leave after a week, I just needed money to treat my…”girlfriend” to a dinner date and win her again but all my attempts went into the trash.

Not a single call answered, I wanted to try again but, even I know a limit to my actions.

So I stopped and decided to continue working there.

It had good pay and my boss seemed more…gleeful than before, at least less grumpy, which was a surprise, considering how on the edge he has been the last few days.

He also has become more insistent on me trying his food, see how it tastes.

So i did and, well, it was somewhat bland

A little too simple in my opinion, something that's clearly not made for someone else and while, it's…good, it wasn't something I was super excited about.

And I guess Vincent noted that he became quieter for a day or two before inviting me to go to his place for a piece of steak.

He assured me it was special and made specially for me, so my curiosity began to peak.

So, I went there and it was a nice place. I have seen it before but I never had the chance to actually take a good look at it. It was a good apartment, even if the design could have been better.

When I arrived at the kitchen it was rather dirty, something surprising considering how usually neat and tidy Vince is in the kitchen, but I attempted to not look too forward to it.

When I sat down and in front of me Vince placed a plate with a rather good looking steak, and well i took a bite. The meat was so soft it almost surprised me the way I could just slide the knife in. It had a sweet smell and well, the taste was sweet and savory, it had what I would call a perfect balance.

It reminded me of her, of her sweet voice and those lips of hers, lips that always had a hint of honey in them

That's when I saw Vincent smiling at me, he explained how the whole process was made and why it made the dish so special.

It certainly was tastier than anything I have eaten from him before.

.

.

.

.

.

It shouldn't have been, i shouldn't have trusted him, i should have left when i could, i should have seen something was wrong when she didn't respond. I felt sick

My stomach became a mess and I just couldn't hold it in anymore, so I puked whatever remains of Manon were left in my stomach.

I felt the stomach acid sting my nose and my tongue.

My stomach was growling, it was empty now after all.

That's why he was smiling so much at me, that's why it was specially for me and me only.

That's why he waited until my shift was over to invite me over his home

Making me feel safe, making me feel like I should trust him.

But he wasn't smart enough, it's far too obvious… Or maybe he was smart enough and he wanted to play with me.

Mess with me and torture me, why else would he keep her bloody clothes around? Why would he not keep his kitchen clean?

Why else would he make it clear what he has done?

I feel dirty.

I am dirty.

I deserve to die.

He deserves to die.

[badescapeartist-blog]

3 - Consequences

I often tell myself that actions have consequences. I like the phrase. I don't remember when I first heard it, but one day it really clicked. I could almost see how my actions now could play out in the future and it got a lot easier to make conscious decisions. I keep the phrase (if you can even really call it that) in the back of my mind as a reminder to keep myself on track and out of trouble, and so far it's worked. At least, in my personal life.

For some reason chess is different. No matter how many games I play I still find myself giving my opponent a free piece. I've missed countless checkmates that were one or two moves away. Queens served on silver platters with a side of pawn. Needless to say, actions have consequences. If I make a bad move, it will be punished. There's no taking it back, or forgetting it either.

This is what my screen looks like as I'm reviewing. I can go through the whole game one move at a time or I can skip the fodder and focus on the highlights. It's a neat tool but It's an especially useful one for me as I try to improve. As a reminder, I decided not to use any chess theory or lessons to get better, to focus on personal improvement over learned improvement. But if I didn't get any direction at all, I'd probably make very little progress. So I use these reviews for retrospective lessons at least. Let's focus on the top right.

This screenshot was from a different moment in the same match. Do you notice the pattern developing? This avatar is very quick to point out when a move that doesn't make sense is played. I get a lot of them. It never gets less painful. It's bad enough to see a queen fall to a pawn, but then to have this guy say "That's a blunder" is sometimes soul crushing.

There is a silver lining however. I commit far fewer mistakes than I used to. Having my man right there point out every folly like a game of bingo has done a lot to point out the simple mistakes that are easier to address.

For instance, one of my biggest issues is focusing too much on saving my pieces instead of moving the game forward. Keeping powerful pieces is important, but not at the expense of a more advantageous position. What results is a prolonged game of cat and mouse. It's hard to recognize in the moment--I panic when my queen is threatened--but have it pointed out enough and eventually you learn.

Another bad habit of mine that is quick to be pointed out is my lack of "piece development." As the digitized gentlemen has explained many times before, developing a piece means moving it from its starting position. Doing so gives it more opportunity to be useful. I get so focused on my plan with one or two pieces that I forget about all the others. Then suddenly it's late-game and everything useful is either trapped or on the other side of the board.

Actions have consequences. Bad decisions result in bad outcomes. It's simple. It applies to chess as much as it does outside out of it. But just like real life the good decisions in chess also result in really satisfying wins. Who knew knights could be so fun with their funky little L movements?

I've started to notice a little improvement in my chess game in the last couple weeks. I do need to try and play more but that's besides the point. All of my bad chess moves have led me to some pretty good games. And that's progress.

[kanerallels]

My last fic for @monthly-challenge's Spring Fling is, technically, not actually a fic! I wrote a story set in the world of my fairy tale retelling book series, about the Huntsman from Snow White (his name is Breccan and he is a precious cinnamon roll, too good for this world, too pure, accidentally is working for an evil dictator)! Hope you guys enjoy it!

All his life, Breccan had loved to be in the forest. His father, the Huntsman before him, had taught him there, amongst the trees where they both felt at ease and at home. He’d learned to track and to move with the utmost stealth and to shoot a bow expertly, as well as the gist of a lot of other missile weapons. The forest was where he’d been made into who he was.

Which was why it was so strange to be there now, with two people from a part of his life he still wasn’t quite at ease with.

“This is a good spot,” Alec said. The taller man studied the trees around him with a thoughtful expression, then sent Breccan a grin. “Our targets will have a heck of a time spotting us. How’d you find it?”

“I grew up in these woods,” Breccan reminded him. “I know them better than anyone. So stick close to me, both of you.”

Their companion didn’t speak, but nodded quietly. Rapunzel seemed far from at ease, but she didn’t stick out like Alec did. Breccan had spent a lot of time wondering why, of all the royalty in Avena, the Empress had chosen Alec to be one of her assassins. He was friendly, good natured, and everyone liked him— but he also didn’t have a malicious bone in his body, and sneaking wasn’t exactly his greatest talent. Also, he wore glasses he was constantly having to clean.

Breccan had seen him in action— he was a good fighter, but not the best. Still, he’d rather have him at his side than Gavin, who would get bored in the middle of a stakeout and suggest they go get drinks, or Phillip, who seemed incapable of mustering enthusiasm for anything but killed with passionless ease. And he’d definitely rather have him than Charming. The man still hated Breccan over the whole sleeping spell incident with his wife. Not that Breccan could blame him.

“Hey,” Alec said, nudging him. “You fighting fit? You’re doing that broody thing again, which isn’t really your lane. Charming’s more of a brooder, right, El?”

Breccan laughed, and a flash of amusement crossed Rapunzel’s face, too. “I’m fine,” he assured him. “We should get out of sight, though. If we’re going to watch out for the arrival of the Cobalt Peninsula’s delegation, we shouldn’t let them see us.”

Nodding, Alec said, “Good point— not a very good look for assassins. What’s the plan when they show up?”

“I’ll shadow them through the trees, and you wait behind for a little while before going to the horses so you can meet them,” Breccan told him. “I’m the stealthiest out of all of us, after all.”

“You shouldn’t go alone.” Rapunzel spoke for the first time, her low voice steady and matter of fact. Alec nodded in agreement.

“Good point. We’re shadowing them because they’re potential threats— can’t be too careful. El, how’re you at stealth?”

“Better than you,” she said with the ghost of a smile.

Alec laughed. “Perfect. So it’s settled?”

“If you’re alright with that,” Breccan said, looking at Rapunzel. “How are you with heights?”

He remembered, as he spoke, how they’d first met, and the flash of humor in her eyes said she was remembering the same thing. “Just fine,” she told him.

“Then let’s get cracking,” Alec said. As one, they slipped away to their respective hiding spots— Alec to an alcove between some bushes and a tree, nicely out of sight. Breccan, in the meantime, headed towards a massive nearby tree. He’d been climbing trees all his life, so it was a simple matter to hoist himself up into the branches.

Pausing a few branches up, he turned back to offer Rapunzel a hand. She was already starting to climb after him, and looked surprised at his gesture. Slowly, she took his hand and let him help her up to the next branch.

They continued up the tree together, until they were several feet above the ground. Breccan found a spot, and Rapunzel settled nearby him.

It was odd— he hadn't known her for long, but it was surprisingly easy to be around Rapunzel. She was quiet, it was true. And, for a confident-acting woman, she could be shockingly nervous sometimes. But he liked her. Liked the real side of herself that only seemed to come out around him and Alec. He counted himself lucky to be part of the few.

“You're a good climber,” he said, keeping his voice low. He knew it was unlikely anyone would hear them, even the Cobalt delegations rolling by in their carriage. But it paid to be cautious. “Is it… wrong that I'm surprised?”

“Since I grew up in a tower? No, it's not wrong,” Rapunzel replied, her tone equally quiet. “I've done a lot of training since I got out, and when I was in there. There wasn't much else to do, after all.”

“Makes sense,” Breccan said. “It would be hard, stuck alone up there.” A smile twitched across his face. “My brother would have gone insane up there.”

“There were times when I felt like it,” she said with a small sigh. “But… I suppose you can get used to anything if it's all you've ever known.”

A pang went through Breccan at the resigned words. The way she just… accepted it, because what else could she do? He understood that feeling, in a small way. He knew what it was like to have a part of your life you couldn't wish away, no matter how hard you tried. 

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly.

This earned him another surprised look. “Has anyone ever told you you're… kind of strange?”

Breccan laughed. “I've gotten that a few times, yeah.”

“Hmm.” She was quiet for a minute, then added, “You climb well, too. I assume it's because you grew up out here?”

Smiling, Breccan said, “Yeah. It's one of many skills my dad made me work on a lot, but that wasn't one I was too upset about. I love being in and around the trees. It's quiet, peaceful. And nothing's more beautiful to me.”

He looked around, taking in the surroundings. The rippling clouds of green leaves rustling around them, the sturdiness of the branches beneath him. The cool breeze sending the musty smell of the forest floor and the sharp scent of growing things to his nose. This was home, where he was meant to be, more than the castle ever could be.

As wrapped up as he was in taking in the forest around him, he almost didn't hear Rapunzel's response. “It is beautiful”, she said softly.

Breccan glanced at her, and smiled. “It really is, isn't it?”

The clatter of hooves on cobblestones beneath them pulled his attention away, and Breccan turned his eyes back to the job. The carriage moving by slowly was embossed with a silver flower— the symbol of the royal family of Cobalt. Six guards on horses rode flanking the carriage, their gazes alert.

Breccan exchanged a look with Rapunzel. Ready? He mouthed, and she nodded, eyes alert, hand close to the knife on her belt.

Turning, Breccan rose into a half crouch, then stepped off of his tree branch and onto the next one. And the next, and the next, until he was officially out of tree. Locking his gaze onto the nearest branch of the next tree, he took a deep breath, then leapt.

His palms slapped into rough bark, and he grabbed on instinctively, using his momentum to swing himself forward and drop lightly onto the branch below. Scrambling up a few more branches, he turned to see if Rapunzel needed help— only to see her landing on the branch. She swayed a little, but caught her balance quickly, and Breccan bit back a smile. Just when he thought he knew all her tricks, she surprised him again.

Together, they made their way after the carriage through the forest, leaping from tree to tree. Falling into the rhythm, paying attention to nothing but the forest around him and his companion, Breccan could almost forget he was doing this in service of a queen who’d torn his life apart. He could almost forget everything he’d lost.

Keep it steady, Breccan. Don’t slip, not now. Breathing deeply, he made his next leap.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Get ready for Dobbs 2.0, a decision that will far exceed the damage done by the Supreme Court in Dobbs v. Jackson’s Women’s Health.

              In Dobbs v. Jackson’s Women’s Health, the radical majority on the Supreme Court ruled that there is no constitutional right to privacy that protects reproductive liberty. As a result, the debate over regulation of abortion was returned to the states. Or so we thought.

         It is likely that a single federal judge in Texas will issue a nationwide ban on Mifepristone, a drug approved by the FDA for more than two decades to induce therapeutic abortions. The ruling, if made, will effectively outlaw or deny access to abortions across vast swaths of the nation—even in states where legislation or the state constitution protects the right of reproductive liberty.        

         We have reached this sorry state of affairs because ultra-conservative federal judges in Texas have rigged the system to ensure that all challenges to reproductive liberty and LGBTQ rights are funneled to a single judge with extreme religious views. The situation is explained by Dennis Aftergut and Laurence Tribe in Slate, The Texas-Sized Loophole That Brought the Abortion Pill to the Brink of Doom.

         Aftergut and Tribe write,

The problem here goes beyond a single hearing, or even this single case. The real issue is systemic. Far-right groups have created a judicial pipeline to predictable triumph in one culture war battle after another: from Kacsmaryk in the plains of the Texas panhandle, to the hyperconservative U.S. Court of Appeals for the 5th Circuit, to the radically stacked majority on the Trump-packed U.S. Supreme Court. One Amarillo-based judge with carte blanche, virtually certain his extreme views will prevail on appeal, is apparently planning to curtail abortion access across the country.

[Here, there is] a coordinated national strategy, enabled by a district court federal bench, to bring right-wing legal causes into a single courtroom where a favorable result is a sure thing and where fair-minded appellate review has also been hijacked.

         There is a simple—albeit difficult to achieve—solution. We need only elect a Congress and president willing to enact legislation to reform the federal judiciary. That will require (in my view) a carve-out of the filibuster, an expansion of the Supreme Court, curbs on the ability of a single federal judge to issue nationwide injunctions, restrictions on the ability of the Supreme Court to issue merits-based decisions on its “shadow docket,” and enactment of an enforceable code of ethics on the Supreme Court (among many other reforms).

         At some point, the imposition of an extreme religious ideology on all Americans by a new class of judicial aristocrats—or “juristocrats” as described by Aftergut and Tribe—should cause Americans to reclaim their constitutional birthright. We have been too complacent in the face of a concerted assault over the last decade. Perhaps Dobbs 2.0 will be the decision that finally causes Americans to understand that the reactionary judges aren’t going stop until they have effectively codified their religious beliefs in federal law. The coming decision will hurt. Let’s turn our outrage into action.

North Carolina Supreme Court to reconsider case underlying Moore v. Harper.

         On Tuesday, March 14, the North Carolina Supreme Court will hold a hearing to reconsider its ruling in the case underlying Moore v. Harper, currently on appeal before the US Supreme Court. You may recall that Moore v. Harper raises the question of whether the Independent State Legislature theory insulates the NC state legislature from judicial oversight.

         Last year, the North Carolina Supreme Court overturned congressional district boundaries drawn by the state legislature. When the partisan composition of the NC Supreme Court flipped from Democratic to Republican, the new Republican majority on the court agreed to reconsider its ruling—for no good reason other than that it could.

         Chances are good that the NC Supreme Court will reverse its prior ruling, thereby mooting the appeal to the US Supreme Court. The complicated procedural background and possible outcomes are explained by Democracy Docket, North Carolina Supreme Court To Rehear State-Level Redistricting Case Underlying Moore v. Harper - Democracy Docket.

         Like the rogue federal judges in the Fifth Circuit, the Republican judges on the NC Supreme Court are making nakedly partisan rulings because they can. Like the solution for the federal judiciary, the solution in North Carolina is through the ballot box.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]