#i've got like...four and a half scenes left to write.

[direwombat]

tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton (tysm~!)

tagging @trench-rot, @cassietrn, @strangefable, @voidika, @madparadoxum, @adelaidedrubman, @aceghosts, @josephslittledeputy, @inafieldofdaisies, @g0dspeeed, @simplegenius042, @miyabilicious, @strafethesesinners, @confidentandgood, @jillvalentinesday, @poetikat, and anyone else with something to share! (to be added/removed from the taglist, please like/unlike this post here!)

once again i am bringing you some werewolf au, first a bit of syb just trying so hard to do her job, and another snippet from jacob's pov of him continuing to be a violent and possessive creep <3 (also just for context, at the start of the first snippet, they're talking about renovations being done to st francis.

“Quite the project you’ve got goin’ here,” she remarks. “How long’ve’ya been workin’ on the place?”

“Couple months,” he answers, but doesn’t offer anything further. 

Jesus, this is gonna be like pullin’ teeth, ain’t it? So, she tries again. “Y’all’ve worked fast,” she hums, pointedly admiring the work done and emphasizing her awe -- give his ego a little stroke. “Good craftsmanship too, by the look of it. Think you’ll finish it all before winter?”

He tilts his chin up, puffing his chest out -- preening ever so slightly at her words. Yeah, that’s what I thought, she thinks. 

“That’s the goal,” he nods. 

But, once again, he doesn’t volunteer any more information. So, she presses once more. “What’re ya gonna do with it once it’s done?”

He pulls to an abrupt stop outside a set of french doors and gives her a stern look and folds his arms over his chest. “Is this pertinent to your investigation, Deputy?”

She blinks, taken a bit back. “Well, no --” 

“Then I’m not obligated to answer that.” He grasps the door’s handle, pushes it open, and steps inside. 

Sybille narrows her eyes, focusing on the point on his back where his shoulder blades meet. “You realize that makes you sound suspicious,” she says evenly, and she follows him into a large office. The walls are covered in renovation plans -- blueprints, schematics, and various paint swatches cover every last inch. Even more documents and plans lay scattered across the desk, and tucked away in the corner is a small cot. The bed has been made, the corners of the worn green blanket are tucked neatly at the corners. Army regulation.

Wonder if he slept here last night?

“And you realize you can’t do a damn thing about it,” he says shortly. “Private property is private property, Deputy. What we do here is our business.” He strides over to the desk and fishes a ring of keys out from one of the top drawers. “Now, if you have any questions that are actually relevant to your investigation, I’d be happy to answer them. You and I both have more important things to do than engage in chit-chat.”Giving the bulk of the keys a little flip around where his finger is hooked through the ring, he walks back over to her and gestures to the door. “After you.” 

Were she a smaller or less hardened woman, she might have been cowed by how he towers over her. There are some people who intimidate as easily as they breathe, and it’s become clear to her that Jacob Seed is just That Kind of man. Even his “after you,” a phrase and gesture that’s so becoming of a Southern Gentleman from Georgia, hides within it a direct order. A command she is expected to obey, lest she break the social parlance.

It’s not a fight worth having, so she nods and shuffles out of the office. The door clicks shut behind the two of them, and they begin walking back towards the courtyard. 

“So,” she tries again, once again falling in step beside him, “how late were you here last night?”

“All night,” he grunts. 

So, he did sleep here last night. “Anyone else with you?” To confirm your alibi? She doesn’t say. 

“No.” 

“You hear anything strange last night?” 

“No,” he repeats. 

She frowns. “What about any wolves howlin’?” 

He glances down at her from the corner of his eye and snorts. “This is wolf country, Deputy. I hear wolves around here nightly. It’d be strange if I didn’t hear them howling.”

“How about screamin’? Or gunshots goin’ off?”

“Do you know what a mountain lion sounds like, Deputy?” Jacob asks. 

“Pardon?”

“If you don’t know what you’re hearing, the call of a mountain lion sounds a lot like a human scream. Most accounts of people claiming a forest is haunted because they heard shrieking, are just people hearing mountain lions,” he explains dismissively. 

“Fascinating,” she answers flatly. “Doesn’t answer my question, though.” 

He sighs heavily, as if frustrated that his half-assed question for an answer wasn’t satisfactory to her. “No, Deputy. I didn’t hear any screaming or gunshots last night.” 

and a bonus jakey pov of him continuing to be creepy <;e3

As tempted as he is to give the Deputy the run around -- to see just how fast and far she’d run to catch him -- she doesn’t give him the option to. Her cruiser’s front bumper never strays more than a few feet of his own back one, making it explicitly clear that she isn’t just going to let him take off with the beast currently held on the bed of his truck. 

Besides, after smelling the shift in her scent when he picked the Feral up and carried it to his truck, he decided that playing nice, at least for the time being, would give him what he wants. The quickening of her pulse and the sweet, albeit suppressed smell of her arousal at his display of strength told him everything he needed to know. She’ll deny it -- loyal women like her always will -- but there’s a part of her that’s drawn to him. 

She likes that he’s strong. 

Picking up a dead body is nothing, his Wolf salivates. Let her see what we could do to Eli. Show her how strong we really are.

His grip around the steering wheel tightens until his knuckles turn white and he glances at his rear-view mirror. She’s driving with one hand on the wheel while her other arm is draped through her open window, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Do it, the Wolf urges. We know where he lives. We can end this little problem right now. His fingers move of their own accord and he barely catches himself before subconsciously flipping his signal to turn back north. 

No, he barks back. She’s human and has human sensibilities. She wouldn’t react to the normal mating rituals the same way a fellow werewolf would. He needs to be patient. Careful. If he’s going to pursue her, he has to treat it more akin to a hunt, rather than a courtship. He needs to lure her out; get her to trust him so that when she gets injured or frightened she comes running to him rather than Eli -- he needs to prove to her that he can protect and provide for her. 

It isn’t enough to force her to be his. He needs her to choose him over Eli. Her submission to him needs to be voluntary. That way, when he finally does destroy the Hunter, he’ll do it in every way conceivable. He’ll break his spirit first, then his body. Maybe he’ll claim her in front of him. Just to see the betrayed look in his eyes when Jacob kills the love he thought he had. Just to make him hear how his dear, sweet Deputy howls like a bitch in heat, begging him to bury his knot inside her cunt and fill her with his pups.

Eli Palmer will die a humiliated and broken man.

His Wolf makes a low, pleased growl and is placated by the thought. Fine. The sheep suit can stay on, for now.

[pxpecxdy]

Calendar Dates

Paring: Jack Abbot x Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: Somno (with signs of reader encouraging it), breeding, implied fertility problems, Jack sleeps nude (because I didn't want to write him taking his boxers off), p in v, established relationship, no beta we die like men

AN: Hope you guys enjoy! Started off with a concept and then tried to figure out who it would work best for. Didn't think I'd be writing for Jack yet here we are! It's been a long time since I've actually written fics and I'm enjoying it so much!

It's the fourth Wednesday of the month. A little heart drawn around the date on the calendar attached to the fridge. Normally, it was reserved for work schedules, birthdays, and the like. But the past few months have been different. Little hearts drawn in fun colors around seemingly meaningless days every month. To the unsuspecting person, it's probably date night. And it is but it's also more.

Jack tried his best to get the night off. Tried. This month he was unsuccessful. It was nearly morning when he got home. The winter sun hadn't bothered to begin to rise before he left the hospital. After a shift like tonight's, he was usually wiped. But the little pink heart was keeping him awake.

The floors creaked under his footsteps. The TV hummed with the sound of old sitcom reruns. There was no sign of you immediately.

Everything had been cleaned up, put away, and tidied. No dishes left on the coffee table. No mugs sticky with tea and half drank. No books laid face down on the arm of the chair. Nothing that would signify you were still awake. He's disappointed but understanding, it's late.

Jack walked past the refrigerator on his way to the bedroom. His hands already working on undoing the button on his cargo pants. With a sigh, he glanced at the calendar that had been plastered in his mind all night. He pauses. Something is different than when he last looked at it this evening. A little sticky note pressed against the center of the calendar.

I missed you

That's all he needed to know. Jack's lips upturned into a small smile. He slips into the bedroom. His clothes are following him like a trail of breadcrumbs to the bed. It's a bad habit he picked up after too many long shifts. He'll pick them up in the morning, but he knows you'll wake up before him and throw them into the hamper. It's something he didn't leave when he left the bachelor life.

Your body is illuminated with the glow of the TV. It's such a peaceful scene. The faint blue light softens the features of your face. Jack stands for a moment and just watches his wife sleep. He knows you're deep asleep by the sound of the little puffs that pass your lips with every exhale. The remote to the TV is thrown haphazardly onto the bed. He picks it up but hesitates to turn it off. He prefers it off but he knows you sleep better with the noise. Jack decides against it, he doesn't want to wake you. You deserve the rest

He sets the remote on the nightstand as he pulls back the covers. He blinks long when he sees you tucked under the blankets. You're wrapped up in that little sheer chiffon nightgown he loves. It's a present for him. It's purposeful and he's aware of it. He slides into the bed next to you, his hands grazing the fabric.

He presses his lips against the shell of your ear. It's a welcoming kiss, one he'd normally place on your forehead if you weren't facing away from him.

All he can think about is that shared calendar and you. It's the first time he wasn't able to trade shifts since you both agreed to this. These little hearts had been appearing on the calendar for four months now. He didn't think it would last this long. Neither of you did.

His hand ran across the light material. The fabric ruffled and lifted higher up your body. He couldn't see you underneath the covers but his hands had mapped out every dip, every curve, every scar, he didn't need to see to know his way around.

The movements are awkward as he attempts to make room for himself. There's plenty of room in the bed. More than enough for each of you to sleep comfortably. This isn't about sleep. His leg slides between yours. There's something missing, soft cotton. Can something be missing if you knew it wouldn't be there? He turns his head away, needing a moment to breathe air that's not yours.

One arm slips around your waist. He pulls you close to him. His hand wanders further. The tips of his fingers dip below and between the softness of your thighs. They dance across your folds before finding your clit. Little circles traced around the spot. Jack can feel the way your breathing deepens in your sleep. Your chest rises and falls with every movement he makes.

He pulls his hand away, only for a second, to move your thigh further, to make things easier for the both of you.

"Jack..." It's sleepy. It's lost somewhere between the world of the conscious and the depths of sleep. It's muffled by the pillow pressed to the side of your face.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't know how awake you are, if you are at all. It doesn't matter. Not tonight.

The bed creaks as he shifts. One hand stays on your thigh. The other hand is wrapped around the base of his cock. Jack is careful as he moves, trying his hardest not to press any weight on you, avoiding waking you further, working around the awkward yet intimate position. Slowly, the tip of his cock slips in. His eyes close as he pushes the rest in. It's always better than he remembers.

He's not going to last long. The day, or rather night, has dragged his stamina away from him. His lips find the corner of your jaw just under your ear. Jack's hips move smoothly against the curve of your ass. Each roll pushing as deep as he possibly can. With every thrust, his hand slips further from your thigh. He can't get a good grip like this, not when he's lost in the feeling of your waiting cunt.

Your breath catches. Jack bites back a groan. He can feel you tighten around him. That's what does it. His arm that had been failing to hold your thigh has all its strength and grip back. He's pulling it back, angling it, making room for him to drive as far in as possible. He grunts as he stuffs your pussy full and empties himself, flooding your hole with his spend.

He waits a moment. He needs a moment. His hand lets go of your thigh. It traces up your body, skimming over the soft skin. He stretches a bit more, awkwardly leaning over you. His face is in your face. He presses a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips before taking a moment just to watch you lay there peacefully. Slowly, he untangles himself from your body, smoothing down the sheer nightgown as he moves away.

He reaches over and grabs the remote, turning off the early morning hour infomerical. His hand pressed against your stomach, slipping under the nightgown as he pulls you close once again. There's a moment of reflection as the sun makes its way over the buildings.

He hopes it works this time. The little doodles of hearts on the calendar haunt him. Jack wants them to disappear, wants them to turn into milestones and doctor's appointments. A due date. It's been too long. His thumb rubs across the softness of your belly before finally joining you in the realm of unconsciousness.

AN: Thank you for reading! I'm not the best at writing p in v but I muscled through it, literally is what took me the longest to write and it's three sentences pretty much lol. If anyone has any advice I am gladly taking it

[wordsmeetwbb]

Mine, Forever

Word count: 5.1k (everybody cheer)

Content: smut (choking, strap, degradation, possessive!Paige, sub!Azzi, actually one of the filthiest things i've ever written)

Pairing: Pazzi

Notes: I got tagged in this post a while ago and had to write it. it's actually filthy. please give me all the reactions in my inbox, they feed me. sorry for the wait lol

________

Warmups are still going on when Azzi takes her courtside seat at College Park Center. Paige doesn’t see her immediately, too focused on shooting free throw after methodical free throw. It’s not until the commotion from fans forming a line to take pictures with Azzi grows loud enough to reach the court that Paige glances over.

Her eyes flick over for only half a second before focusing back in on the rim and beginning the action of letting the ball fly forward off her fingertips, but by the time she’s in motion, her brain has registered the scene to her right. Paige’s eyes dart back to the stands as the ball leaves her hands. The ball barely makes it halfway to the basket before thudding against the floor, but Paige isn’t watching the airball. Her legs are carrying her towards the courtside seats where Azzi is now surrounded by fans before Paige even realizes what’s happening.

“P! Get over here!” Arike’s yell snaps Paige out of her trance, but not before her eyes catch on Azzi’s outfit.

Her hair is half up and half down with those four little braids and the slut strands that Paige loves. She’s in a low-waisted jean skirt, way too short to be appropriate and definitely shorter than anything Paige knew Azzi owned. And the shirt. Azzi is wearing a white Dallas Wings jersey with a number 5 on the front, and Paige knows what that means. It means her name is printed on the back of the jersey, on Azzi’s lower back, right above her ass, for everyone to see.

Azzi turns around right as Paige is managing to pry her eyes back to her teammates, and her vision snags on the word. Bueckers. In bold, dark blue ink, advertising her name to everyone in the arena. It fills Paige with a sickly sweet feeling of satisfaction, spreading through her limbs like honey.

“Paige!” It’s an assistant coach who yells at her this time, demanding Paige’s attention on some drill or another that she really couldn’t care less about at the moment. But as much as she wants to look at Azzi all day, stare at her jersey draped over the younger girl’s muscular frame, she knows she has a job to do.

Halfway through the first quarter, Paige and Arike are both on the bench, being given a breather while the Wings have a little bit of a lead over Chicago. It doesn’t take long for Arike to lean over and bump Paige’s shoulder with her own, a grin stretched from ear to ear across her face.

“Damn, you got your girl out here wearing your jersey during pride month? Is this the hard launch?” She teases. Paige doesn’t even have it in herself to blush. All she feels is pride, rushing through her bloodstream with an undercurrent of possession.

“I didn’t even know she was comin’ tonight, to be honest,” Paige mumbles, briefly glancing over to Azzi in her seat across the court, legs crossed carefully at the knee in a way that makes her skirt ride up. She’s finally been left alone by the fans and is scrolling on her phone, seemingly disinterested in the game in front of her.

“She hard launched by herself! Ouch, P. She really said if you’re not gonna do it, she will,” Arike laughs. Nalyssa leans over from Arike’s other side, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Nai owes me 20 bucks,” she quips. Paige raises an eyebrow.

“Y’all took bets on whether we’d hard launch?” Arike stifles a laugh behind her hand, and Nalyssa grins.

“Nah. The bet was for when y’all would launch. Nai said two weeks. I gave it a month. I win.” Arike holds up a hand in Nalyssa’s face, cutting her off.

“Wait, wait, wait. This is week three, so you’re not right either,” she argues. Paige’s eyes switch back and forth between her teammates, half forgetting that this debate is about her relationship.

“Winner is whoever is closest without going over,” Lyss says with a shrug.

“Hollup, I don’t think it counts as a launch if I wasn’t involved. This is just Az,” Paige defends. Arike’s eyebrows scrunch together, her face a perfect mask of disbelief.

“Girl, whose jersey is that? I don’t see my name on there, do you? Who’s Little Miss Hard Launch launching with, huh?” Arike taunts. Paige shrugs.

“Aight. That’s me. That’s my name,” she concedes. “Wearing my damn name,” she mumbles again, more to herself than her teammates. Lyss barks out a laugh.

“Keep it in your pants, P. Still got three quarters left,” Arike warns, but her voice is light and a smile curves the corners of her lips.

________

The rest of the game is torture. Slow, painful, beautiful, teasing torture. Paige plays 31 minutes. The other nine minutes are spent staring longingly across the court at her girlfriend, wishing the game could just end in a way that kind of makes her ashamed. But then she focuses on Azzi again, on the way her curls brush the tops of her shoulders, on the number 5 displayed proudly on her chest, and she stops feeling bad about her sudden hatred for how long basketball games are.

Arike only calls her out for staring twice, and Paige actually thanks the woman for it when the game finally ends and they’re all heading back to the locker room. She’s walking fast, as if she doesn’t have to go sit at a table with Chris and Myisha for too long for post-game press anyway. As if walking faster now will get her to Azzi any sooner.

To Paige’s surprise, her speedwalking actually does accomplish her intended goal. Azzi is waiting inside the tunnel, tucked into a back corner near the door to the locker room. Her skirt is high on her thighs, and now that she’s not covered by a row of seats, Paige can clearly see the muscles of her calves, highlighted by smooth, tan skin. She licks her lips, swallows hard, and slows as she approaches.

“You tryna break the internet with your lil outfit there, ma?” Paige murmurs as she stops in front of Azzi. There’s not enough space between them, not anywhere close to a friendly distance separating their bodies. Paige can feel Azzi’s warmth radiating through the air and settling into her skin.

“Not the internet. Just trying to break you,” Azzi replies. Paige’s eyes wander down the younger girl’s frame, catching on the smooth skin of her biceps first, then the belly piercing glinting above the waistband on her denim skirt, then the strong expanse of her thighs, before she drags her gaze back up.

“And the hard launch was just a bonus?” Paige shoots back. Azzi shrugs, a smirk curving the corners of her mouth up.

“You say that like you don’t want everybody to know I’m yours anyway.”

That does it for Paige. Her hands are on Azzi in a heartbeat, grabbing her wrists with sweaty hands, veins still prominent from the exertion of the game. It doesn’t take long at all to drag Azzi into the locker room, which is miraculously still empty, and into the bathroom at the back, pressing her up against one of the shower stall doors and locking it swiftly.

Paige’s hands are still wrapped around Azzi’s wrists, so she pins the younger girl’s arms to the wall, squeezing just a little as she does so. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to make her feel a little discomfort.

“You knew what you were doin’ in my jersey. This ain’t for nobody else, is it ma?” Azzi looks up at Paige, eyes big and dark, shadows falling across her face from the dim lighting in the shower. “Nah, this is for you. You wanna show up to my game without telling me in my jersey and that sorry fucking excuse for a skirt and think I won’t fuck you about it? You’re smart, Azzi. Don’t lie and say this was for everybody else to know you’re mine,” Paige murmurs. Her voice is low and dark, a little scratchy from yelling during the game and maybe from something else.

Azzi shakes her head, still denying it. Paige switches to pin both of Azzi’s wrists above her head and brings her free hand up to the perfect, unblemished skin of her throat. Her hand circles it, fingers resting on the sides of her neck. Azzi’s pulse drums against Paige’s thumb. Paige presses in just a little bit, teasing more than anything, but Azzi gasps as her head tips back to rest against the tiled wall of the shower.

“Fucking slut. Wanted to show yourself off, huh? Show off who you belong to?” Azzi nods quickly, desperately. Her mouth is open slightly, and she’s breathing heavily. Paige’s focus draws down to her lips, and before she even decides to do it, she’s kissing Azzi.

It’s not gentle, or loving, or careful. Their teeth clash when Azzi opens her mouth, and when Paige licks into Azzi’s mouth, the younger girl lets her teeth nip. It makes Paige groan, soothing the sting by licking further into Azzi’s mouth, tasting peppermint and vanilla.

Paige pulls away for a moment to pant– “You want it? Want me to fuck you right here in the bathroom like the whore you are?” –and it’s all Azzi can do to nod desperately again like she doesn’t remember how to form words. Maybe she doesn’t. Either way, Paige’s chest fills with frustration.

She moves the hand on Azzi’s neck up slightly so her fingers grip Azzi’s jaw, squeezing tightly. Azzi’s mouth falls open as she breathes, jaw forced wide by Paige’s grip.

“No. Tell me. I haven’t even touched you yet. You can be so dumb already that you can’t talk, so be a good girl and use your words.”

That pulls a pathetic little noise from Azzi’s throat, as she scrambles to form a sentence. All she manages is a few words at a time, though.

“Please, Paige. Fuck me, please. Right here, right now, need it.” She’s throbbing between her legs, thighs pressed together tightly to try to relieve the ache, but it’s not working. The other thing that helps is when Paige shoves her legs apart and one of her hands immediately darts under her skirt, pulls her panties to the side, and slides through the wetness she finds there.

“Fuck, baby. So needy, and from what? My hands on your throat? Fucking pathetic,” Paige spits out. Azzi whines, hips bucking forward to try to get Paige to slip a finger in. Usually, that would send Paige into a rant about asking for what she wants, not doing anything without permission, and all the other things Azzi knew but rarely had the patience to comply with.

Paige must need it as bad as Azzi does, though, because she just shoves two fingers in at once, fucking in and out of her sopping cunt as Azzi clenches around her in an effort to adjust.

“Shit, so good P, ah.”

“I’m giving you what you want. What do you say to me, Az?” Paige taunts. Azzi replies on instinct alone.

“Thank you, thank you.” Paige grins, the expression cocky and satisfied. It’s the face of a woman who knows she has all the power. Just looking at the blonde forces another moan out of Azzi’s mouth. Her hips are moving of their own accord now, grinding against Paige’s hand while she thrusts in and out.

The sloppy sounds coming from between Azzi’s legs are absolutely sinful, but they’re both so needy they can’t even find the headspace to be embarrassed about it. That is, until somebody bangs on the door of the shower.

“Dude! Y’all are fucking disgusting, please get out of the locker room.” It’s Lyss’s voice, and the horror is clear in her tone even through the door. “Nobody wants to hear your freaky ass sex life. For the love of god, man…” Her voice trails off as she walks away, but Paige and Azzi are both still frozen against the shower wall.

Paige shifts on her feet slightly, which jostles the position of her fingers inside Azzi. Azzi groans and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Please take your fingers out of me and then shoot me. I’m serious,” she mutters. Paige barks out a laugh, even though her cheeks are still glowing. She does slide her fingers out, though, patting Azzi on the hip lightly to steady her as she tugs her panties back into place.

“Shit, I’m never gonna hear the end of this,” Paige says. Her voice is quiet, but still low and rough from arousal. Azzi closes her eyes and tries to get her body under control.

“Can we just hide in here forever? So I never have to see any of your teammates ever again in my life?” Azzi asks weakly. Paige’s face softens, and she brings her clean hand up to cup Azzi’s jaw.

“Hey, I got you. You’re mine, right? I’m gonna take care of you. Nobody here is gonna say anything, I swear.” Azzi looks at her skeptically until Paige holds out a hand, pinky up and curved. “Pinky promise?” A small smile slips onto Azzi’s face as she nods, hooking her pinky with Paige’s.

________

True to her word, Paige gets Azzi out of the locker room incident-free. She unfortunately doesn’t manage to talk her way out of doing post-game press. So it’s late when Paige finally makes her way back to Azzi, who has been waiting in the hallway outside the locker room since she escaped an hour ago.

Paige is freshly showered, blonde hair hanging wet around her shoulders, dressed in a lavender Nike sweatsuit. It’s a good color on her, but Azzi is a little frustrated that more of her skin isn’t showing. She’s half naked in her miniskirt and Paige’s jersey tucked into her bra to crop it, and in a moment of insecurity, she tugs the jersey free.

The fabric is a little crumpled as it falls, hiding the tan skin of her stomach and the belly piercing Paige loves so much, but Azzi immediately feels better.

“You comin’ back with me?” Paige confirms. Azzi nods, and they start to make their way to Paige’s car.

The entire drive to Paige’s apartment is tense. The air feels too thick, Paige keeps looking over at the skin of Azzi’s legs on display in the passenger seat, and the glances are making Azzi’s blood heat quickly. She shifts in her seat, pressing her thighs together. She never truly calmed down from earlier if she’s honest, even after being interrupted and embarrassed. She can already feel herself soaking through her underwear, probably getting the leather seat of Paige’s car wet, and somehow that just makes her feel hotter.

Paige notices, because of course she does, but all she does is settle her right hand onto Azzi’s upper thigh, fingers curving in dangerously, but she doesn’t move. She brushes her thumb over the smooth skin on the top of Azzi’s thigh, but her fingers that are so close to where Azzi is throbbing and needy stay disappointingly still. They don’t talk about it, though. Paige just reaches over and turns the music up.

By the time they actually enter Paige’s apartment, Azzi is dripping through her panties and down her thigh. The sound of Paige locking the door clicks behind her, and it snaps something inside the younger girl. She spins, pushing Paige up against the door and kissing her hard.

Paige doesn’t hesitate to kiss back, sliding her tongue into Azzi’s mouth and dragging a hand over her waist and hip teasingly.

“You better be planning on fucking me now,” Azzi threatens. Paige steps back, letting her hand drop from Azzi’s body. She raises an eyebrow.

“Or what, Azzi?” A shiver runs through Azzi’s body. She isn’t prepared for the back and forth, but she scrambles for a response anyway.

“Or I’ll take myself somewhere else and find somebody who will fuck me.”

She’s bluffing. They both know that, but the idea lights a flame in Paige’s stomach. She walks forward quickly, grabbing Azzi’s hips and manhandling her into the living room. She shoves her against the side of the couch and then backs up without saying anything.

Azzi starts to turn around to face Paige, but ends that attempt quickly, gripping her with large, warm hands to stop her motion.

“Paige–” Azzi starts. Paige shushes her.

“Nah. You wanna act like a brat? You’re gonna get treated like a brat. Stand there and fucking listen to me,” Paige orders. Azzi’s knees get a little weak, and she grabs the arm of the couch to stabilize herself.

“Okay. Okay, yeah,” she whispers, more to herself than to Paige.

“Look at you. All dressed up for me, wearing my name, fucking advertising who you belong to. Tell me, baby.”

“Yes, all for you. This is for you, P. I’m yours,” Azzi promises. Her voice is already breathy, and Paige hasn’t even touched her. She’s still several feet behind her, eyes tracing the way the fabric with her own name drapes over Azzi’s curves. She whispers a curse to herself before coming up behind Azzi and shoving her down over the arm of the couch.

“Stay down, just like that,” she demands. Azzi’s nodding before she has really registered the words.

“Okay. Yeah, I can do that,” she babbles. Paige runs her hand over the letters of her name on the jersey carefully. The action is contrasted with her hands roughly shoving Azzi’s skirt down to her ankles only a second later. Azzi is left in a pair of light purple panties and Paige’s jersey. She starts moving to take the jersey off to help Paige speed up the process, but she doesn’t get far.

“Stop. Keep it on,” Paige orders. Azzi freezes, letting the jersey cover her briefly exposed skin again. “I wanna see my name on your body while I fuck you,” she murmurs. Azzi clenches around nothing as a gush of slick leaves her. Paige sees it, sees the way the wet spot on Azzi’s panties is suddenly darker and larger, and she grins.

“That sound good to you?” She taunts.

“Yes. Please. Sounds good,” Azzi pleads. Paige nods, seemingly satisfied with this answer, and pulls Azzi’s panties down to her ankles as well.

“Stay,” she commands. And, like a fucking dog, Azzi does. She stands completely still, bent over the side of the couch with her skirt and panties around her ankles while Paige leaves the room for a few moments, then returns with a noticeable bulge in her sweatpants. Azzi swallows, suddenly salivating.

“Good girl, Az. Good job staying still for me. Now bend over more and arch,” Paige commands. Azzi does as she’s told without thinking while the sounds of clothes shuffling and hitting the floor fill the space behind her. Her thighs twitch.

Azzi gasps when the thick head of the strap presses against her hole, dragging through her folds just to tease her. “Paige,” she pleads, arching her back further. Paige chuckles darkly.

“Tell me what you want.”

“Want you to fuck me, please, need your cock Paige.” Azzi’s hips stutter when Paige moves again, the tip of the cock catching on her clit. “Oh, please,” she tries again. Paige pulls her hips away, taking all the stimulation with her, and Azzi feels like she honestly might cry.

Then Paige is back, lining the tip of her cock up with Azzi’s hole and pressing in. It’s careful for all of three seconds, and then Paige is snapping her hips with a kind of force Azzi didn’t know she was capable of. It pushes her whole body forward, hips bumping into the couch, elbows sliding over the cushions as she tries to stay still.

It’s impossible not to move, though. Paige doesn’t slow down in the slightest. She thrusts into her hard and fast, dragging obscene squelching sounds from Azzi’s cunt that make her blush.

“Fuck, look at you. Wearing my name while I fuck you. Dirty fucking slut. Just want everybody to know who you belong to,” Paige says between heavy breaths. Azzi moans, mouth open, eyes shut, and grips the couch cushions. “Tell me, Azzi. Who do you belong to? Whose name are you wearing?”

Azzi tries desperately to form the words, but her brain is so caught up in the pleasure between her legs that all she can do is whine and push her hips back. Paige thrusts into Azzi again, so deep she can feel it in her stomach, and then she stops.

Paige stays completely still behind the younger girl, cock still buried deep, and all Azzi can do is clench around it and let out a pathetic little sound. Paige’s hips twitch when she hears it, but she quickly grips Azzi’s waist and holds her down on her cock firmly. Azzi wants to cry.

“Paige, please, why? Why did you stop? I was so close. Why?” Azzi sounds like a child whining about a toy she didn’t want to share, even to her own ears. If she weren’t so worked up, she might have cared. But her cunt is throbbing, dripping down her thighs, and Paige is buried inside her, so Azzi doesn’t care one bit if she sounds like a spoiled brat.

“I asked you a question,” Paige says. Her voice is low and rough, and Azzi honestly can’t help it when her back arches more, pressing her ass into Paige’s hips. Paige tightens her grip on Azzi’s waist, fingers digging into the bones painfully. Azzi feels her slick drip down the inside of her knee.

“Who do you belong to?” Paige prompts. This time, free from the beautiful torture of Paige thrusting roughly into her cunt, Azzi finds the words.

“You. Paige. I belong to you. I’m yours,” she promises eagerly. Paige’s eyes flutter shut with a groan.

“Damn right you are. You’re my slut. Say it.”

“I’m your slut.” Paige’s hips slide out, then snap back in harder than before. Azzi moans loudly, and she knows Paige’s neighbors can probably hear her, but all she can think is how proud she would be for them to know who’s fucking her this good. To know who owns her like this.

Paige slides in again, so deep Azzi can feel it in her guts, and it knocks loose the flow of words from Azzi’s throat.

“I’m your slut, Paige, you fuck me so good. Only you, I swear. Nobody else could fuck me this good. I’m yours, oh, please–” she whines loudly when Paige’s arm wraps around to her front and she starts to tease Azzi’s clit in fast little circles. She’s barely pressing down, barely giving Azzi enough to feel it, but it’s almost too much at the same time. Azzi clenches down on Paige’s cock, making the slide harder, but Paige just slams in rougher, pushing Azzi’s clit into her hand.

“Fuck, Paige. So close, gonna cum, please, gonna–” Paige drives into her over and over, each snap of her hips an exclamation point on the possession fueling the movements.

“So easy for me. Only for me, right, Az?” Paige taunts. Still, she doesn’t slow her hips or her fingers, driving Azzi higher by the second.

“Only you, just for you. I’m yours, please let me cum,” she begs. Paige leans forward, sucks a bruise into Azzi’s neck, drags her teeth over her pulse point, and then pulls back again, all without slowing down.

“Look so fucking good in my jersey. Fuck, Az. Been such a good girl, you can cum for me. Let go, baby.” It only takes the words and a few more circles of Paige’s fingers on Azzi’s clit before she’s cumming, shaking apart on Paige’s cock as she fucks her through it.

Paige doesn’t slow down in the slightest as Azzi collapses forward over the armrest of the couch. She keeps snapping her hips into Azzi’s cunt roughly, her fingers circle faster, and everything sounds so wet that Azzi genuinely wonders if there’s going to be a stain on the couch when she gets up.

“Good girl, Az. Get up, baby. Turn around for me. Come on,” Paige urges, finally pulling her cock out. Her voice is still low, but it’s edged with a tightness that Azzi is less familiar with. She does her best to push herself off the couch, to turn around and lean against the armrest, but her legs are shaking badly enough that Paige has to steady her.

“Fuck, there you go honey. Doin’ so good. Just give me one more.” That’s all Paige says before she drops to her knees in front of the younger girl.

She pushes her legs apart, guides one over her shoulder, and then just stares for a moment. The look on her face is one of awe, the same look people give famous artwork or a particularly beautiful sunset. There’s a hunger simmering in her eyes that doesn’t come from sunsets, though. Paige licks her lips and then slides two fingers into Azzi’s dripping cunt. Her eyes drift shut as she hums at the feeling.

“So fucking tight. Always so tight and wet. Look at that pretty pussy, just swallowing me up. Shit, so hot baby. Just relax f’me.” Azzi does, letting her body melt into the pleasure of Paige’s fingers.

Once she gets going, she’s not gentle. Paige’s fingers slam into Azzi’s cunt repeatedly, drawing out more slick and making Azzi twitch in overstimulation.

“Fuck, Paige. Too much,” Azzi whines. Paige looks up at her and Azzi almost cums on the spot.

Her blue eyes are wide and reverent, shining as her gaze darts between Azzi’s face and where her cunt is swallowing her fingers hungrily. As Azzi studies her, she realizes that Paige has her other hand between her legs, fingers teasing her clit. Azzi lets out a high-pitched whine and forces her eyes to stay open to watch.

“You can take it. Watch me and take it,” Paige orders. Azzi doesn’t even think about obeying. Her body just does it.

She watches as Paige leans forward and starts to leave little kitten licks to her clit. She watches as Paige slides a finger into herself, hips twitching forward. And she keeps watching when Paige moves down to slide her tongue into Azzi’s cunt next to her fingers.

Paige hums at the taste, and the vibration sends shivers through Azzi’s body. She’s rapidly approaching the edge, and the way Paige’s hand moves between her own legs is only making it worse.

“Shit, baby. Taste so good. You’re so wet. Who’s this for?” Paige pulls away to whisper the words in between breaths.

“All for you. You make me this wet, P,” Azzi whimpers. Her head tips back again, eyes fluttering, but then Paige’s teeth graze her clit and her eyes fly open again.

“Fuck,” she rasps.

“Look at me,” Paige demands. “Look at how I make you cum.” And Azzi does.

Paige keeps licking her, alternating between messy, flat lines over her clit and sliding her tongue into her cunt. Through it all, Paige fucks her fingers deep into Azzi, drawing out wet sounds and moans.

“Close,” Azzi whines. Paige opens her mouth wider, jaw starting to ache, but she doubles her effort and licks Azzi’s clit with renewed vigor.

After a few more moments, Paige lets out something that might be a whimper, her hips twitching forward again. Before Azzi realizes what’s happening, Paige has slid forward, stopped fucking herself with her fingers, and is dragging her cunt over the top of Azzi’s foot sloppily. The image is absolutely filthy, and Azzi didn’t know how much she needed to see it. To see just how desperate Paige could get, just from fucking Azzi.

“Oh god, Paige, holy shit, wait, I think I need to–” Azzi tries to warn the blonde, but she can’t get the words out fast enough. All it takes is one more glance down at Paige, grinding herself on Azzi’s foot, bumping her clit into her ankle, before something snaps in Azzi’s stomach.

She cums with a cry and a gush of liquid, rushing down her legs and onto Paige’s face and dripping onto the floor. Some of it hits her foot, and Paige sobs as she rubs herself faster, the liquid making the motion easier.

“Please, Paige, give it to me, please,” Azzi begs. Paige is still flicking her tongue against Azzi’s clit, although her eyes have rolled back into her head and she’s using both hands to grip Azzi’s hips and steady herself now.

“Fuck, I’m yours, cum for me, please, I want it,” Azzi continues. Her brain hasn’t quite caught up with the stimulation still coming from between her thighs, so it sneaks up on her when Paige lets out a cry, her teeth grazing Azzi’s clit, and she shatters again.

She doesn’t squirt this time, just shakes apart under Paige’s hands, fingers flying into Paige’s hair to steady herself. She’s moaning again, too, mouth open and head tipped back. Somewhere in the haze of pleasure and overstimulation, Paige’s movements slowed to a stop. She lets her cunt just rest on top of Azzi’s foot, hips twitching every so often as she comes down.

They’re both panting, faces wet from Azzi’s cunt or tears or both. They don’t speak at first. Paige presses a gentle kiss to the inside of Azzi’s knee, does the same on the other side, and rests her head there carefully.

“You okay? Was that too much?” Paige rasps. Azzi lets out a breath that might be a laugh.

“In a good way. Me squirting maybe should have been a sign that it was good,” she jokes. Paige smiles, eyes drifting shut.

“You were so good for me. My perfect girl,” she mumbles. Clearly, the combination of exhaustion from the game and the orgasm is getting to her, so Azzi helps tug Paige off the floor, wincing at how sticky her thighs are.

“Shower, then bed,” she declares. Paige mumbles something that might be an argument, but she doesn’t fight it when Azzi guides her into a hot shower, the water washing away sweat and slick and saliva.

“You were so good to me tonight,” Azzi whispers into the steam, her hands massaging shampoo into Paige’s hair. Paige leans her forehead into Azzi’s collarbone, pressing a gentle kiss to the skin.

“You’re good to me. I just give it back to you,” she murmurs. Azzi smiles.

“I love you, P,” she whispers. She feels Paige smile against her.

“I love you. Mine, forever,” Paige whispers back.

[kabr0ztrousers]

Here's a spin on a request you've done before.

Established relationship between a Minotaur and girlfriend/wife (preference on wife, but I trust your instincts). The partner discovers that the Minotaur has a hucow kink, and leans into it, starts teasing them by wearing cow print bikini's or cow horn headbands, that sort of thing.

I know you've done hucow stories before (all amazing as per usual), but I think this is an interesting spin on it. I've seen some other people give this a go, and I want to see how you would do it.

Keep up the great work!

Kabr0z Writes episode 105: Browser History

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

I'm working on the Ao3!

CWs: light invasion of privacy; lactation; artificially inducing lactation; oral sex; drinking breastmilk; excessive cum; cumflation; impregnation; enthusiastic consent;

A/N: I feel like the Tumblr fun police is coming down hard on me, which is interesting when I see actual hardcore porn on this site *all the sodding time* Hopefully once I've got the AO3 fully up to date that'll help me continue to get these out to you all!

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Freddie's laptop hummed on the table. The one he always took on his business trips. You tried to be good, really you did. You know it's his business what's on there, and you know how much of an invasion it can feel like when someone pokes through your stuff. That didn't change the fact that he'd left it unlocked while he was in the shower. It didn't change just how damn tempting it is, sitting there open.

You put your ear to the bathroom door. The deep baritone of your minotaur lover was audible, singing the same few bars of Pavarotti to himself. You probably have ten or fifteen minutes. You opened his web browser, pulling up the history. Is it such a crime to peek?

Your hand shot to your mouth as your jaw dropped an inch. Freddie was holding out on you, it seems. Always pretending he was into cuddly vanilla intimacy, while every time he was away from home he was looking at this. Dozens of searches for large breasted women, milking, pregnancy... The works. To think, you'd been trying to get him to open up to you about his kinks for as long as you'd been together. You were almost worried it'd be something bad but this? This you can use.

The benefits of working from home are numerous, especially when one's husband has to go into the office every day. One by one, deliveries started arriving. You even got chance to try pumping your breasts, supposedly with enough direct stimulation, and enough fennel tea, you'd start getting some real progress.

Now you can't speak for every woman out there, but by the time the rest of the outfit had arrived, you were really making progress. If you weren't pumping a half pint from each tit every day, you'd start leaking, and that'd ruin the surprise. Now just to pick your day.

You looked at yourself in the mirror. A cow-print chemise, horned headband, even a long tuft-ended tail attached to a buttplug and slipped into your rear entrance. You hadn't pumped today, your nipples felt tender, every move brushing them past the satin of your scant clothes, building a throbbing desperation in your loins. You bit your lip. He couldn't get home soon enough.

The front door opened, heavy footfalls thumped inside. You'd recognise that leaden step anywhere, he's home.

"Freddie! Can you come upstairs and help me with something?"

You heard him put down his bag before calling back to you "Sure, let me just get my shoes off"

You retreated back to your bedroom, waiting until you heard him on the landing "Just in here honey!"

He crossed the few square feet of hall, before pushing open your bedroom door. He stood a moment, taking in the scene in front of him. You looked at one another, him staring at your swollen tits, erect nipples pointing through the thin patterned satin of your chemise. You on the other hand watched as the seven-foot tall, four foot wide, long horned bull-man slowly went mad with desire as all of his Christmases came at once.

You hadn't realised he could move that fast. He almost tackled you flat on the bed, kneeling over you, tearing off his clothes. Button pinged off him as he disrobed, clattering on the laminate floor. He lifted you up, pulling your top over your tits, exposing your naked body underneath. His hand closed around your tit, squeezing gently. He let out an excited braying as the first few drops of ivory liquid rolled from your nipple.

Almost dropping you onto the mattress, he locked his lips around the leaking nipple as he pressed two fingers against your cunt. You could feel him suckling milk from you as he rubbed your moistening folds. You gasped as his fingers slipped in. You cooed at him between your moans, holding his head to your teat. "That's it, sweetheart, just like that"

He didn't reply, but his thumb brushed against your clit, hand twisting to reach in and up. His fingertips pressed your g-spot as he rubbed circles around your clit. You held him to you, one hand cradling his head as the other rested on the hand knuckle-deep in you. You felt your legs starting to clench as your toes curled, your cunt tightening around him, squeezing the fingers inside you.

Your head lolled back as your cunt sprayed liquid release over the sheets. Moans turned to screams of rapture and delight as your lover kept squeezing you just right. Your legs were shaking by the time your spasms let up, flopping back down onto the plush sheets.

He wasn't done yet though, far from it. He lifted your legs, holding them apart as his tongue lapped at your cunt. Every lick over your buzzing clit made your leg twitch, your toes pointed and flexed as he drove you over another aching peak. His fingers were still buried in your twitching quim, giving you something to clench against as he drove you to another aching climax. He smiled up at you as your moans turned to wails and your white-knuckled hands gripped his horns.

You were begging him to take you by the time he did, flipping you over and lifting your hips just a touch, positioning his flared tip against your swollen, drooling cunt. He tugged the tail attached to your plug, listening to your whines as it pulled against your asshole before putting his weight behind his hips.

His hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him. Your cunt accepted him with aching, throbbing, squelching gusto. Your eye refused to focus, threatening to roll back into your head. Your words had long since abandoned you.

"Cum in me" you repeated it like a mantra, dumbly asking to be filled. Every thrust of his thick cock radiated warmth into you. Every inch of him stretched you, making your head spin faster and faster. Your whole body was a pile of sweating, quivering jelly under him, wringing him out, begging for him. Yearning for him, even as he was a foot deep in you.

At last, he roared above you. His cock grew even harder, even thicker. The tip, already wider than the rest, flared out in that wonderful way. Your cock-drunk brain exploded in yellow and purple stars as you brayed into the pillows. You wanted to hold him in, keep him from doing anything but filling you with the gallons of hot spunk you needed. You didn't have to. His arms wrapped around you, pushing you to the very hilt of him. Your limbs dangled uselessly as you were squeezed against his belly, breathing in the smell of his fresh sweat. Your belly was starting to swell up, full of thick, white-hot cum.

You stayed like that. You're not sure how long it took before he got soft enough to try and pull out. He came loose with an audible pop and a jet of cum. The room would never smell the same again. You felt your belly receding, deflating as the fluid filling it was pushed out by your abs. It couldn't get it all, though, you still bore a little bump from your achingly full womb.

You collapsed on the bed together, you on top of him. You dozed off, the fullness in your belly soothing you to sleep.

Four weeks later, you're late. It's still too early for a test. You're pretty confident either way

########################################

Sorry this one took a while! I wanted to take the Easter weekend to recharge a little, and look what happened!

2 days without fresh smut killed the Pope!

In all seriousness though, I'm super happy how this one turned out, and hope you enjoy it too

[chocosvt]

HER | part five.

✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 23.8k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.

(!) warnings: drug use (weed, cocaine, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.

✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!

the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s! 

all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates

any smut or potentially triggering scenes are NOT MARKED bc the content is already quite mature, so just plz be aware of that! 

bolded and italicized text implies the characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!

the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts.

posting a bit earlier tn since i've got work tmo morning! i can't believe there is only one part left after this one!! :o

last chapter was angst up to the eyeballs so hopefully this one mends some of that heartache <3 still, much has yet to happen! this chapter contains one of my fave scenes teehee.

⇢ part one | part two | part three | part four | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)

—AUGUST 3RD.

The last time Wonwoo had been at your apartment to help you write, it was around the evening, into supper. He remembered the scent from the three-wick candles lit up in the kitchen—bonfire and vanilla—which you insisted was a necessity because it was the perfect way to relax your tense mind. Deciding not to cook, you had ordered Chinese takeout instead, and the entirety of the evening was spent sitting criss-cross on the comfortable rug splayed across the living room floor, indulging in warm food, writing, and letting the TV flick through a random season of your favourite drama show.

It was perfect.

Even now, as he sat on the bench across the street from your apartment complex, Wonwoo could still recall all the infinitesimal details—the fried crunch to every vegetable-filled spring roll, how the candles softly crackled when you blew them out at the end of the night, your small and very sleepy voice bidding him goodbye as you walked Wonwoo downstairs into the lobby—each memory sprung alive with such vividness. Wonwoo wished he could be poised outside your apartment knowing everything was the same; undamaged and intact. But that was an outcome too blissful for reality to maintain.

You had a specific nightly routine, particularly on Thursdays, after work: showering, followed by having a quickly thrown together dinner, applying a face mask, and then a movie before bed. He found himself memorizing a lot of your patterns over the months.

Wonwoo hadn’t texted you—he was doing this completely unprompted, without an inkling of his arrival. Maybe that was a terrible idea which should be discarded for something gentler and less likely to explode in his face, but that would only lead to more ruminating and more ruminating meant less doing.

The thing was, it was nearing eight o’clock. Wonwoo had been sitting on the bench for almost a half hour while the sun gradually sank, watching the occasional green leaf flutter down from the chestnut oaks adorning and shading the parkway behind him. The longer he waited, the further the shadows of the trees stretched, until he was completely engulfed and framed alone underneath their dark, cool silhouettes. Light still spilled across the street, igniting the space where everyone else was strolling, each person steadfast in their pace to be somewhere that wasn’t a sunset orange city street.

Breathing out slowly, Wonwoo glanced down at his hands.

It was like the first time he met you.

Just suck it up. Go do it.

He walked between the trimmed hedges that led to the complex door. The lobby area was exactly as he remembered it, though Wonwoo had come to learn those little complimentary desserts and cucumber waters set out the first day he visited you were no longer a thing, which you had vehemently complained to him about during a brief promenade through the park—another one of your palate cleansing ideas.

“Oh! Those pastries, by the way—they stopped doing them! I heard about it from my neighbour when I went down to get the mail. I was pissed, pissed, pissed! Apparently, there’s a lady who made them specifically for our complex because her grandson lived there. Well, he’s moved out now, so we all got fucked! If I don’t get my cute little lemon square with the raspberry on top and the powdered confectionary sugar all placed in a decorative doily, I will legit kill myself. Something has to be done… hey—can you bake, at all?”

Hence your immeasurable disappointment when Wonwoo revealed to you that he wasn’t notably talented at baking. Still, the incident provoked him to spend at least an hour a night researching different recipes for lemon squares that he could manage to pull off if given enough time and a handful of supplemental trial and error.

Wonwoo pushed the button to the elevator.

The heartbeat heavied in his chest while waiting for the doors to pull apart, the anticipation and nervousness coming down hard like thick snow flurries. A commercial ding at last echoed throughout the vacant lobby. Wonwoo immediately stepped into the small, confined space, feeling his breaths begin to drag, becoming almost audible in his desire for more oxygen.

Without a doubt, this was probably the hardest thing Wonwoo had ever done in his life. Even moving away from the comfortability and closeness of his family in Changwon—no matter their disagreements or quarrels—couldn’t compare to the emotion so palpably tugging within him akin to an ocean tide under a full moon.

He felt every twinge, but he was still doing well to maintain his composure, though Wonwoo couldn’t help himself from fearing that the control might leave him in the cold wind of seeing you again.

To look into your eyes could feel quite dissecting and Wonwoo didn’t know if he was yet strong enough to stomach the scrutinization despite how warranted it was. The best he could do was to expect nothing—this wasn’t about gaining closure, or basking in the liberation from righting a wrong—it was about the effort of accepting a profoundly hurtful problem he caused. You were hit front and centre by the shrapnel and you deserved to hear acknowledgement.

At the moment of reaching your floor, he didn't knock straight away.

Wonwoo stood outside the unit for a moment, removing his glasses and pulling at the sleeve to his large black hoodie, massaging away a smudge from the lens. After fitting the frames back to his face, he knocked. Each breath was fluttery. He tried so damn hard to soothe himself because life was unfortunately not a loop of constant aid and permanent reassurance and sometimes there was no other option but to be discomforted. At least he had his own company.

There was no movement from behind the door.

Swallowing very dryly, Wonwoo knocked again.

Nerves twisted in his stomach and turned his complexion pallid, though it was just on the edge of manageable and Wonwoo would have otherwise been quite proud if not for the lock suddenly clicking and the gentle, slow twisting of the doorknob. His fist clenched, the blunt nail on his index finger picking at his scarred cuticle.

Even when he saw you—Her—for the first time in over a month, accompanying the liminal doorway, staring back at him with an expression that he could use an entire pencil detailing, Wonwoo was able to sustain his control. Still, his heart was fucking racing.

Your eyes were wide, glassy, though somewhat veiled by the dip in your brows that began to gradually furl deeper in their recognition of his presence. He felt his stomach drop faster than lightspeed when a frown twitched into your lips, distorting the surprise in your face to anger, while the fingers at your leg curled into a rigid fist. There was a dewiness to your bare cheeks and a sweetened aroma from your skin that suggested you had gotten out from the shower not too long ago.

Wonwoo relaxed his hands.

“Hey.”

Expectantly, you said nothing.

There was a rolling, emotional sea unabashed to your face, continuously morphing between every shade of wrath within the sticky silence. Wonwoo worried you might slam the door shut.

He needed to say something fast.

“I know what you want to do—you want to close me out. I get that. I can see it all over your body. And, believe me, I understand.”

Your hand grabbed the edge of the door. That initial glassiness in your eyes only grew glimmerier; the frown tacked onto your mouth somehow threaded with even more fulgurant rage. He could see that you were going to snuff him into nothing, like grabbing onto a candle wick with your fingers despite the hot wax and flame.

But it couldn’t end so abruptly.

Wonwoo held up his hands, baring his palms in defense.

“Just—okay. Her, I hurt you. Hurt is even too weak of a word to use. I know that. I promise I do. I know what I did… and… and I know that I must have some fucking gal to come here unannounced after everything I said, but I've got an explanation. I swear.”

There was notable uplift in his chest, watching your grip loosen on the door, fall down to the handle, losing the hostility. Wonwoo paused to catch his breath, ensuring his eyes never wavered.

 “And… if you decide to listen to me… and you still really don’t want me in your life… I-I can respect that. If all you want is for me to disappear and never bother you again… I can respect that…” he felt sick just voicing it, like he could faint at the prospect. “It might be such a stupid fucking thing for me to say, considering how I treated you, but I genuinely want to do whatever will make you happiest.”

Was it good enough? Feasible, even marginally?

Wonwoo didn’t know. He could only stand in place and study the metamorphosis of your face—from deep-seeded anger, to something pained and unintelligible, and now, contemplation. The inner monologue in your head was probably running on overdrive.

Your fingernails carved into the door.

He kept quiet, waiting, until you quickly wiped something from your cheek and swallowed the lump in your throat.

“… Fine,” you uttered in a raspy, weak tone.

Relief struck him like a breeze during a heatwave.

“Thank yo—”

“But if I say I want you to leave, then you will leave, and you will not say one word on your way out my door or spare me one glance, even if it’s from the corner of your fucking eye.”

Wonwoo was staring straight into your gaze, then shifting to the pointed finger sticking in his face. You were deadly serious.

He nodded.

Finally, however, you stepped aside to let him in.

Wonwoo didn’t know if he should sit or stand. If he should grab a stool at the marbled kitchen island or come to fit himself at the edge of the cream sofa. The interior was pretty much identical to his previous visit, though he realized that a few potted plants you once kept by the elegant floor-length windows were missing—he’d assumed they’d died—it was probably somehow his fault.

“Um, where should we—where do you want to—”

“Kitchen.”

With your arms folded stiff, you walked behind the island.

He stood on the opposite side, knowing it was likely not a coincidence that you opted to put a barrier between yourselves.

It was a foolish idea and he would certainly not extrapolate, but Wonwoo wanted to ask about you. He wanted to know how your work was going at the beauty salon, if you had any more obnoxious dinner parties with your parents—were you still writing? To even look at you from across the hard countertop, captured in the quiet dimness of your kitchen, with your soft and bare face and those cute silk pyjamas, was enough to stop his heart if he allowed it.

Wonwoo pushed up his glasses, sighing.

“Before I explain anything… I just want to say—”

“I don’t care about that,” you interrupted without hesitation, eyes scalding and sharp, “I know you’re sorry. It’s the least you could feel after everything you said to me. I don’t care.”

“R-Right…” he trailed off, sensing the heat from the overhead lights as though they were shining directly into his face. Wonwoo pulled at the sleeves of his hoodie, gulping, “I guess you want to know—"

“Why. I want to know why you did what you did.”

“Why?” He echoed dumbly.

“Yes, why. Pull out an entire script and apologize—I don’t want that. Acknowledge what you did—good for you. I’m glad you can see how fucked up it was, all while I had to cope with your analysis on why I’m such a god-awful person. People say sorry all the time. I know it can be genuine. I just don’t care. Sorry doesn’t help me understand. Sorry doesn’t take away the weeks I lost, tearing myself apart. Sorry doesn’t mean fucking anything to me if all you’re apologizing for is something I already lived and breathed.”

“No, that—yeah, it makes sense...”

His fingers suddenly gripped the edge of the island, knuckles ivory white. Your intensity was more disorienting than a drug, but Wonwoo knew he needed to stay calm. Breathe. Listen.

“Okay, so?” You shrugged. “Tell me, then.”

“Why I did what I did…” Wonwoo exhaled, staring at his reflection in the marble while his mind twitched into complete blankness. “Well... I-I guess I was feeling… there was a lot I was feeling and... fuck.”

At the last second, he scraped everything he was going to say.

Wonwoo then looked up at you, who was so cold and reluctant.

“You know, um… before I met you, I had a girlfriend. I know I've never mentioned it. But her name was Jeanie. I met her at the university, actually. She worked in the Morrison library—like, the big stone building that looks like a castle, almost. Anyway. I met her because I needed to sign out a textbook for this elective I was taking and she helped me find it… Jeanie. Yeah. I don’t know if you ever saw her or—she was really shy. But I felt like she listened well, no matter what you were saying, or what you were talking about. She would give you her full attention. And… I just remember thinking… I could tell you anything, Jeanie. I could tell you I fucking pushed someone in front of a bus and you would wait and listen and hear me out until the end. She would make you feel… normal… human.

But—the thing is—I’m sort of laughing because I’m saying all this now, but… at the time, even despite my love for her, and how much I trusted her… I just… I kept her out. I didn’t think it was a bad thing. She knew I had anxiety, but never knew how bad. I never told her I stopped taking my pills. I never told her my actual feelings about anything… like, despite having this perfect person in my life, I still couldn’t open up. I didn’t think there was much harm to it, either. It would cause tension. Things would get… uncomfortable… but as long as she was there, I was like—I can get away with this. I don’t need to really discuss anything. She will always be here.

And then… one day… she just… wasn’t… uh—ahem—sorry, just—something in my throat, b-but, uh… yeah. She was gone. All her clothes, all her belongings: toothbrush, makeup, clothes, stuffed toys, notebooks, mugs, house decorations. It was all gone. I remember coming home to an apartment that was stripped bare. Like a skeleton. She took every part of herself from it. And all I could do was dumbly stand there and look at the bones.

Her number was disconnected, too. There was no one I could get a hold of that would tell me anything until I got this weird, vague email from her mom. ‘My daughter won’t be seeing you anymore. She’s safe. No need to worry.’  Those words picked themselves into my brain. I would go to sleep seeing them. I would repeat them in my head all night, and wake up with them still chiming. And I thought to myself, with all the weight in my heart… how could she do this? How could she leave and take everything and erase me without a word? It had to be her and it had to be the world just proving my point: being vulnerable, trusting, expressive—it isn’t worth it.

I really, truly believed it. I mean, I held onto it. I always looked at her as the one with the issue, but—fuck—it was me. I was the fucking issue. I… I must have made her feel so unimportant. I probably confused her, destroyed our trust, fucked up her concept of love. Like… I made her feel so trapped… that she felt the best thing to do was disappear, because there was no other way out… I made her feel that way. Me. It was me the entire time. And… I never really processed that until you were six feet away, screaming at me, cursing me up and down in the same living room I came home to that day, all emptied out. I had it out with you, the way I never had with Jeanie…

And the truth is, Her… I kind of… I always sort of knew I had that problem. I lived without ever wanting to acknowledge it. But I never really… I-I basically… I didn’t care about fixing it until I met you.”

Wonwoo tilted his head and stared at your quivering bottom lip, the shininess to your razor-sharp eyes, the manner in which your fingernails were sinching indents upon the skin of your biceps.

He paused, chuckling.

“I know I already told you… but you used to terrify me. I didn’t think we would ever mesh. Whenever I looked at you, I saw someone who knew herself, and I was so severely the opposite. But miraculously, I guess, you ended up being the person I feel the most comfortable with… when I see someone strong like you unravel, it makes me want to unravel, too. The trust I had for you was infinite.”

From across the island, Wonwoo noted how your eyes momentarily drifted down. A lump was sitting square at the base of your throat and it took a very dense swallow for you to even speak.

“… Had?” You whispered with a sniffle, hugging yourself.

Rolling out his shoulders, Wonwoo frowned.

“It was the party, Her. If you remember us talking in the guest bedroom… I told you that story about my brother and I, about my decision to move from Changwon… you’d nearly grappled Bells down to the ground an hour before. You apologized to me because you thought it ruined my night, but I promised you that it was fine, that I would always be here for you. And then we split ways. And you… you were… well, there’s really no clean way to say it but—”

“I had sex with Mingyu.”

“Uh, well… yeah.”

You shook your head. “He’s my boyfriend, Wonwoo.”

“I know, I know. It makes it sound stupid but—”

“No—wait. You’re pissed at me because I chose to have sex with my boyfriend? Are you—are you hearing yourself?”

“Her, please, listen—”

“I went through all of your bullshit because of that!”

“Can I just—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!”

“It was because I liked you!”

Wonwoo’s heart was thumping almost audibly against his chest while his veins soared with adrenaline. Your fists were sitting, balled, on the kitchen island, though they began to unfurl as the weight cupping his confession—which was a mild version of what he truly meant to say—hung in the air like the plumes from a wildfire.

“I liked you, a lot," he admitted, watching your eyes slim with confusion, "and I’m sorry if that ruins us even more… but it’s true.”

“Wha—what—no. What do you mean you liked me? You liked me as in what? You liked me in a crushy silly way that’s just for fun, o-or you liked me in a serious way, that’s like, you want to… you want…”

Your mouth hung open, shoulders hunching.

His teeth gritted. “I thought I could… I wanted to…”

“Please just spit it out.”

“I wanted to be with you. I wanted to be your boyfriend.”

Flares of heat melted slow across his face. Wonwoo could feel his temperature climatically rising. Still, it wasn’t the entire truth. His likeness wasn’t just that—it was a fully blossomed and unshakeable love. Though, he figured it might be too much, too suddenly.

“O-Oh…” you stuttered, “… and, you thought that…”

“Maybe you felt the way I did. Not that I’m going to ask if you did or didn’t. I mean, this was over a month ago. I’ve had lots of time to myself. I’ve been thinking plenty… the point is, I let those feelings affect my clarity and that’s why I felt so hurt. I felt like I was so open and candour just to kinda have it… thrown back in my face. But it just seems like every relationship I have, I sabotage it somehow… I didn’t go about us in the right way—not at all. It blew up into something terrible. I wish every day that I would have handled it differently. But I didn’t. I kept my mouth shut when I should have just talked to you.”

“Oh… god, Wonwoo.”

“I-I don’t know. It was late, and I was high—you were off a line of coke for fuck’s sake—I just—in that moment, didn’t it feel… like we were something? More than friends? Maybe you don’t remember everything. Some of it’s a blur, even to me. Like some fever dream.”

“No… I do remember some of it. I remember the spare bedroom. I remember how fucking comfortable that bed was. You were there… you were… helping me… and we... I know at some point we were lying down together but I don’t remember what I was thinking or everything I said… it’s just—it’s a lot… too much, almost.”

A groan reverberated from within your deepest cavity and he could only watch through the warm kitchen light as you leaned forward into your hands, your body slumped against the countertop and radiating with agony. Wonwoo didn’t know what to make of the spectacle, though he chose to let you swim in whatever sentiment was swallowing you whole, your head beginning to shake back and forth.

“Wonwoo… listen… I get that—I get what you’re saying, okay? I get that you have this fucking problem with vulnerability, and trust, and the—the, um—the self-sabotaging. I know. I have that, too. And I can understand that it was possible to misinterpret us…”

That word was like a decommissioning punch to his gut—misinterpret—as though it was merely wishful, ditzy thinking and it was him and him alone living inside the delusion despite the fact you were snuggling up against him. However, Wonwoo bit his tongue and simply listened. He didn’t need his bruised heart getting in the way.

“But that night was just—it was irresponsible, okay? On both our parts. I have a boyfriend who I very much l-like, and… and we’re just—you and I, I mean—we’re good at being friends. And you said it yourself that you’ve had time to think and get past it, so…”

“… Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Wonwoo didn’t need his love to be reciprocated nor did he want to know if you actually harboured any feelings toward him back then. All he desired was for you to get what you had plainly wanted—the why. Perhaps it was unsatisfactory, lacklustre, or maybe it was beyond ridiculous and too inconceivable for words.

He was grateful that he’d even made it this far.

With a heavy, laboured sigh, you managed to push yourself from the marbled counter. A hand then propped onto your hip.

Your nails clicked once against the island.

“So… that’s it, huh?” There was a nasally tone to your voice.

Biting his lip, Wonwoo adjusted his glasses, nodding. “Mmhm.”

Your head tilted straight back, like you were attempting to stop a runny trail of tears from escaping down your cheeks. You suckled in a breath, pressed your lips together firmly.

And then, abruptly, you laughed, pinching at your nose while your eyes squeezed shut. It was an exhausted, humourless laugh.

“Fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He didn’t exactly know what it was you were cursing, whether it be the realization of what the fight actually meant, or a reaction to his timid, but expired, confession. It could be that the information was too daunting and you were left with no instinct of how to manage it. Wonwoo chewed down on his tongue, keeping silent.

When your eyes opened again, they fell toward the fridge.

“Um… wasn’t it your birthday? Back in July?” You asked with a wet sniffle, brushing a wrist underneath your nose.

“Yeah… July seventeenth.”

Not bothering to speak, you walked over to the fridge and pulled the door open, pale light emanating from inside as you rifled around, moving containers and cartons and fresh produce. It was then that you revealed a cardboard box. Returning to the counter, you set the box in the very centre, and with trembling hands, you began unsticking the corners in order to reveal the surprise inside—a decent sized cupcake, frosted high with thick, white icing.

You sniffed again, turning to grab something from a utensil drawer, and then another item or two out the cupboard.

“It’s from Terra Cotta—it’s just a red velvet cupcake with cream cheese icing—which I ordered as a dessert when I ate out with Princess the other night. But I was too full to eat it after stuffing my face with pasta, unfortunately. So, I got it packaged up. Stuck it in the fridge. Forgot about its existence until now.”

A butter knife fell onto the island, followed by a lighter and a single pink candle. You sighed, eyes turning waterier by the minute, and Wonwoo felt a twinge in his chest that ached like hell.

“Do you like red velvet cake?”

Wonwoo huffed, shrugging. “Um, I’m not sure. Never had it.”

You picked up the candle. “Want to?”

He smiled. “Sure.”

Rather than keeping the cupcake inside the box, you moved the dessert delicately onto a clean porcelain plate and proceeded to shut the lights off. The orange sunset that painted the streets had bled out all its lurid colour. Wonwoo was just beginning to realize how dark it was in the apartment. You propped the pink candle into the expertly piped cream cheese frosting and ignited the tiny wick. A shivering halo of fire reflected in the marble countertop as the flame wriggled and the wax burnt.

Honestly, he didn’t know what the moment signified—if it was a mere gesture of forgiveness, or just a simple means to release all the tension—Wonwoo had not a clue. He thought he should be looking at the cupcake but Wonwoo was looking at you and the lambent glow flickering across your very upset, still face.

Sniffling again, you picked up the butter knife.

“Okay… hurry up and make a wish, please.”

“Really?” Wonwoo chuckled. “You want me to make a wish?”

“Uh… yes. That’s what people do when it’s their birthday.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Well—fuck—the spirit of your birthday, then.”

“You're asking a lot of me, you know. All this pressure.”

“Oh my god—it's just one ditsy little wish. I'm not asking you to write out your will, or solve world hunger. It's one stupid, tiny wish. For the sake of the moment. Hurry up before the wax drips on the icing.”

“I think you can just peel the wax off once it hardens—”

“Fuck! I don’t care, Wonwoo! God! Just—” he watched with a satisfactory smirk as you leaned forward and impatiently blew out the candle for him, “—there! Now, you don’t even get the opportunity to make a wish. Hope it was worth it.”

“So, you made a wish in my place, right?”

“Shut up. I’m cutting you the smaller half.”

“You didn't answer my question, though.”

“You didn't answer my question, though.”

“Hey, I don’t sound like that.”

“No, I didn't make a wish in your place—here.”

“Thank you.”

“… How does it taste?”

“Uh, it’s good. A little firm. The icing is really rich, but I suppose that’s typical of cream cheese stuff. But overall, I like it.”

“I really love red velvet. Especially in cupcake form.”

“Hm. Didn’t know that.”

“I wonder if I could get a dozen ordered for my birthday...”

“We’re celebrating my birthday and you’re already thinking of your own? Can you at least wait until I’m out the fucking door?”

“You said it doesn’t matter!”

“Now, that’s not what I said.”

“Don't act like such a smart ass.”

Wonwoo knew he missed your quippy retorts, but he hadn’t realized he’d missed it this much. It was filling a pitted crater within his chest that had remained empty and stone cold ever since the argument.

As you turned the kitchen light back on, Wonwoo stuffed the rest of the frosted cupcake into his mouth and dusted his hands clean.

He didn’t know what was supposed to happen now.

Stubbornly, Wonwoo didn’t want to leave your apartment. It had been too long since he’d last seen your beautiful face, and half his summer was already wasted to lamenting the relationship he’d ungraciously snipped in half like a fresh garden rose. If you wanted him to leave, then he would oblige, because Wonwoo could never go back on his word to abide by the choices that might make you the happiest. That was what he cared about most, anyway.

From the opposite side of the island, you began to cross your arms again, fingers digging tight into your ribs. Wonwoo could see that the hues of grief and melancholy hadn’t really abandoned your face since his arrival, and the tears that had earlier welled up in your eyes were steadily returning, glinting along your bottom lashes as though they were dew droplets. Feeling his throat turn dry and sensing the air become dampened with your sadness, Wonwoo knew what you were going to ask—he braced himself quick.

“So… um…” you began pulling at the short sleeve of your silk-buttoned top, rolling the fabric between uneasy fingers, “it’s getting a little bit late and I just t-think you should go now, Wonwoo…”

He nodded, pushing at his glasses. “Yeah… of course.”

There was such an evident somberness about the way his feet dragged toward the door. You had walked him over, and now that the space between you was significantly less, Wonwoo had never battled so hard with his self-control to keep himself from touching you—even if it was just a slight, chaste brush of his fingers against yours—the simplicity and feel of your strawberry-scented skin would appease his constant aching. He glanced at you, saw that your arms were still crossed and your eyes trained to muse over the floorboards.

Wonwoo scraped against the cuticle of his thumb.

Does he just… leave?

It felt too abrupt.

He smiled at you, keeping it soft and mindful.

“Thank you for listening to me… I mean it… you didn’t have to but you did anyway and… uh, I don’t know. Just—thank you.”

“Mmhm…”

You were squeezing at your ribs even tighter now, pressing in your fingers so unnaturally deep. In fact, Wonwoo was beginning to feel worried, especially when he noticed the quivering in your frame and the hard bite you were sinking into your lower lip—how there were tears streaking one by one down the slope of your cheeks.

Wonwoo’s hand had been lingering on the doorknob, though it slipped off absentmindedly. He wanted to reach for your shoulder and give it a comfortable, warm massage, but he was still too fearful.

“Her… are you alright?”

After a cautious step closer, Wonwoo paused, attempting to peer at your face despite its pointed direction toward the floor. The question was worthless, he realized. You were crying and choking up.

“Do you… should I go?”

God—what an even more stupid question to ask—the thing he wanted to do least was leave when you were this hurt. But Wonwoo needed to know if it was his presence that was disturbing you.

You shook your head, sniffled up all the wet, runny congestion in your nose. He watched the teeth free from your lip as you gasped.

“I-I don’t know… I’m really, really sad, Wonwoo.”

He thought he might panic in the midst of your crumbling, however, there was too much guilt and heartache inside him.

“I know…” he murmured.

Somehow, it felt so criminal to just stand there and watch you weep, hearing every desperate attempt for a breath as you could only clutch onto yourself harder and let the tears helplessly fall.

Wonwoo swallowed, feeling his throat burn.

“Can I comfort you for a bit?”

You hiccupped, and your face pinched up in complete misery, the response struggling to escape through the large sob you cried out.

“Please.”

Immediately, his hands braced against the edges of your very warm, wet face. The heat was radiating like a summer blacktop, and the tears were quick to pool against his fingers as he did his darndest to softly clean and wipe them from your skin—though, Wonwoo came to accept that it might be futile—and he opted to cup your cheeks for just a brief moment, staring into your damp lashes and puffy eyes.

“Still such a gorgeous girl, even when you’re crying.”

You huffed at him, grasping onto his hoodie and tugging it.

“I need you closer, please.”

Waddling into his arms, your face smushed right against his shoulder. In the dim august dusk that meekly glowed through the windows of your downtown, sumptuous apartment, Wonwoo cradled you, coaxing a hand nice and gentle along your trembling head while his arm kept you secured firm into his body. As wonderful as it felt to hold you in the way he always dreamt of, Wonwoo knew that those tears wrinkling his clothes were mostly driven by him.

Your arms dug into his chest. It seemed like you wanted to burrow impossibly closer, into his ribs if you could, but the desire frustratingly couldn’t be fulfilled. To compensate, Wonwoo attempted to squeeze you even more, though he was somewhat afraid of cracking you in half. Maybe that’s what you were craving.

But he liked you very much alive.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair, still damp from the shower and rife with the scent of fragrant blossoms, “I know you don’t want me to apologize, but I have to. Everything I said to you… it was just stupid, pent-up rage from my own shortcomings… so much was building inside me and I made such a dumb fucking mistake—taking our situation and using it as a target—it was all bullshit..." inhaling a breath, Wonwoo sighed. "I shouldn’t have let you walk out that door… but I don’t think you would have wanted to listen, anyway... you probably would have just told me again to go fuck myself… you know, that was actually the first time I’ve ever been told that?”

Your cheek nuzzled against his shoulder. The breath you proceeded to cough out made it sound like you were terribly ill.

“T-That’s hard to believe…”

Wonwoo smiled, smoothing a hand down your back. “You think so?”

Threading your fingers deeper into his hoodie, you nodded.

Stopping to contemplate, Wonwoo ended up agreeing, “hm… yeah... you’re right. There were probably a lot of times in my life where I deserved to hear that. But you’re the first, anyway.”

“Y-You… you deserve to hear it again… I mean, what were you thinking, Wonwoo?” Raising your head from his shoulder and sucking in a much-needed breath, you rubbed at the glisten iridescent to your face. “I didn’t know… I was just trying to t-tal-talk to you…”

Wonwoo unstuck some small, matted hairs from your forehead, guiding them away with the daintiest movements.

“I know you were...” he answered, keeping his voice quiet.

“And then, in the car… I-I just sat there and cried for so long that the sky got dark. I didn’t know what to do—like, I thought I might call Mingyu but he was at work a-and I had no idea what I would even say to him... and then, I called Princess. And she said I could come over and I legit couldn’t get one fucking word out to her.”

Meanwhile focusing on your choked, heavy sentiments, Wonwoo continued to clean the tears from your face. A warm hand had grabbed onto his wrist, not stopping him—just gently holding—as though you needed the contact to ground yourself, even a little bit.

“The shitty part was… even when I was at my angriest… I still couldn’t get myself to hate you. But I wanted it so bad, Wonwoo. I stayed up almost every night, trying to convince myself that you were the worst person I ever met, a-and that I would be better off without you—that you were a poison to me and everything about you is just a ruse to hurt people. No matter what I told myself, nothing would ever work… because I would—I-I don’t fucking know—I would think about how fucking good you make me feel inside. H-How happy I am when I’m with you. You listen to me, a-and you care about my thoughts and my interests and you’re just—you—you fucking live inside me somehow and I want you out so bad but there’s nothing I can do.”

Wonwoo had removed his hands from your face.

They slid down to your hips. He squeezed them tight, digging his thumbs into your flesh and bone over the silken shorts.

“You live inside me, too.”

Rubbing off your nose, you shook your head angrily.

“It can’t be like that.”

His throat twisted up.

“Why?”

“B-Because it—it can’t. You know I have Mingyu…”

“I only think about you. It’s always you. I don’t want it to change.” Wonwoo pleaded, hanging onto every word—trying to search for your eyes despite the adamant refusal to meet his gaze. 

“But I just—I can’t do it.”

“Why?”

“Because!” You pushed at his broad chest, forcing him away as the anguished, grief-stricken shout reverberated between the high ceilings. Gripping at your head, you started to cry again. “I-I’m still so fucking angry at you, Wonwoo. I hate holding onto it and I hate that it’s been over a month and I’m still processing everything, but I can’t just move on from those feelings! I have to see it through. ”

The air was ice cold against him.

He just wanted your perfect body back in his arms.

“O-Okay… okay. I get it.”

“You do? Because I can’t keep reliving this. I just can’t.”

Wonwoo sighed, curling his fingers in and out.

“No, I—I hear you. I promise.”

You still needed time. You weren’t ready to forgive him. That was okay, and he wasn’t the least bit vexated by it. If he had to wait an entire year, then he would wait. Nothing would shake him from you.

Slapping a palm against your cheek, you shoved away the further tears which were seeming to become an annoyance. Wonwoo wanted desperately to be the one to wipe your pretty face and kiss away the salty taste of your sadness, but he knew not to push his luck.

Beyond the windowpanes, the sky was nearly pitch black, pinpricked by all the distant lights from the city buildings.

“I’ll go now, okay?” Wonwoo murmured.

Folding your arms, you sniffled a little, nodding.

“Okay...”

He wanted to say goodnight to you, but then he thought of that rule you had proclaimed during your late-night phone conversation many moons ago—you had to say it first as courtesy.

Except, you were silent.

Nonetheless, Wonwoo had liked to think it was sitting right on the tip of your tongue, just as it was sitting on his.

—SEPTEMBER 8TH.

When he thought back on his summer, Wonwoo couldn’t believe the quickness with which it had flown by, especially considering how nauseously slow some parts moved while he existed, trapped, inside them. Still, it was probably Wonwoo’s most eventful summer since his move from Korea, in more ways than one. Now, it was back to university for his final year as a maths student, and Wonwoo actually couldn’t be happier for the introduction of routine and the opportunity to test all the inner workings he’d accomplished.

Just last week, Vernon had thrown together a small party in the backyard of his friend’s rental home. He was housesitting, and though Wonwoo wasn’t sure why the friend in question would pick a promiscuous drug dealer for hospitality upkeep, the party was apparently approved and Wonwoo had made the effort to attend.

It gave him the chance to reunite with Seungcheol and Seokmin who he’d unintentionally given the cold shoulder. He was just thankful they were relaxed about everything. The night was spent swapping stories from their summer by the makeshift firepit, drinking cold beers, and watching the fireflies twinkle in the dry backyard brush. Vernon had spent all his time sweet-talking some new girl he’d invited from the club, and when they disappeared inside for about half an hour, Wonwoo prayed his bladder could hold out.

Wonwoo had also invited Sierra.

He figured she was just too warm and amicable and he knew she would get along seamlessly with everyone there.

Since they last spoke downstairs in the pottery shop during late July, Sierra had gotten herself a girlfriend—a patron of the Honeymoon who worked up the courage to ask Sierra out after admiring her bartending skills, as he’d heard it—and Wonwoo was more than happy to extend the invite. Seungcheol had predictably brought along Princess, though Wonwoo hadn’t been too worried. They seemed to be on good terms despite the chip in the relationship.

If you had been in town at the time, Wonwoo would have invited you, too. But you weren’t, instead accompanying your mother on a three-day venture outside the city for some publisher’s trip.

But he kept you in mind the entire night. He saw you in the wide, bright moon sitting squarely above the crackling fire, and he felt you in the colder breezes that whispered the beginnings of a soft, fresh autumn. You were everywhere inside him, just like his blood.

Wonwoo had liked to think he’d done it right. All those conversations he shared with you over the phone since the reunion at your apartment seemed promising—even when they flared and ached like a broken bone—Wonwoo had just wanted to hear your voice and know your heart. Though, the conclusion had dipped him in a strange, confusing predicament he still struggled to reason.

“I think we work best as friends… we’ll always be friends.”

The moment was followed by the most intense silence, and then Wonwoo had shifted the phone against his ear, spreading on an audible smile that couldn’t have looked any faker in person.

“Yeah… I see that, too.”

But he didn’t.

He was still in love with you.

And now Wonwoo didn’t know what to do.

You had come to an agreement that he should no longer help you with the book as it had been a point of contention since the start. Plus, you were now confident enough in your skills to finish it.

Surprisingly, Wonwoo was okay with that.

Nonetheless, he did offer his help if you ever needed it.

In fact, as Wonwoo sat in the small auditorium for his newest elective—the continuation to last year’s creative writing—he was scrolling through an old document you had sent him months ago, containing a litany of the same messily written paragraph, just rehashed as you attempted to find the best wording for it. Wonwoo couldn’t help but smile against the palm squishing at his chin.

Your mind always did seem to work in twelve different ways.

Since he’d shown up early to the lecture, Wonwoo was able to pick a good seat in the middle. He recognized a few faces from last year as more students began to trickle in. Wonwoo kept his bookbag on the chair to his right because he liked the extra space, though he began fearing he might have to move it when the lecture hall filled to a degree past his expectations. Since when did all these people take the class last year? Was it because of the new professor? He spun a pen between his fingers, observing everyone rather judgementally.

“Hey—are you saving a seat for your non-existent friend, or are you leaving your bag here to make sure no one else would sit beside you? Not that anyone would want to with the way you’re begrudgingly staring down every single person who walks in here.”

Wonwoo grinned, the pen stilling into his hand.

He knew your attitude like the ducks on his aunt’s shower curtain.

“If it’s such a big deal to you, you can move it.”

“Oh, can I? Do I get the pleasure of moving your bookbag, Wonwoo? Are you really that kind as to save such a life-changing, personal, and intimate experience, just for me?”

Smirking up at you, Wonwoo dropped his bag onto the floor.

He was promptly greeted by a very shiny smile.

“That’s what I thought,” you said matter-of-factly, setting your iconic cream purse onto your lap after sliding into the chair.

“So,” Wonwoo huffed, leaning back and casting you a curious glance, “you didn’t tell me you were going to take creative writing.”

Pulling out some chapstick, you laughed. “Uh—you didn’t tell me, either,” the comment was wry and muttered through the obstacle of moisturizing your lips.

Scratching his temple, Wonwoo chuckled, “fair.”

“Gosh, there’s so many people in here. Way more than I was expecting. I mean, who even are these goddamn people? I hardly recognize any of them—oh my gosh, do you think it’s because of the new professor? I looked her up, you know. She’s published three books—they’ve all got crazy good accolades—and one of them was even made into a movie! That has to be why. Should I try to get face time with her after class? No—actually, I won’t. Then I look totally desperate. I’ll play it cool. I’ll wait until, like, three classes from now.”

“Well, you’re never short of making an impression.”

“Meaning what?”

“Fuck,” Wonwoo laughed, “what the fuck do you think it means? It’s not like I’m talking in morse code. You make an impression.”

You smacked a hand down on his knee. “Well, how do I know if you mean good or bad! And don't curse at me like that.”

“Okay, okay. You're right. I'm sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” he replied, softening his voice, “I am very extremely sorry.”

That little smile you gave him was enchanting.

Wonwoo cleared his throat. “And I meant good, obviously.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. If you say anything to her, she’ll love you.”

“That’s a bit extreme.”

“She’ll keep you reasonably in her thoughts?”

“Hm. Yes. I like that better,” you agreed.

While you busied yourself with removing the laptop from your purse and taking an extra minute to inspect your face with a small, compact mirror, Wonwoo glanced around the room again. A few people standing by the professor’s podium at the front were looking at you, their mouths moving in conversation, though Wonwoo could hear none of it from the general chatter. He supposed you were used to getting those dissecting, curious, maybe even sometimes hurtful stares. There was always a light shining on you, wanted or not.

As Wonwoo pulled open the class syllabus on his laptop, he felt a tap against his shoulder. Slightly turning his head, he spotted someone shuffling by in the cramped row behind him, waving.

“Hey, Wonwoo,” the stranger said quickly in passing.

Squinting at him through his glasses, Wonwoo nodded. “Uh, hey.”

You quirked an eyebrow. “Who was that?”

He shrugged. “No idea. Someone from last year, I guess.”

“I see. Mr. Popular. Taking names and breaking hearts.”

Wonwoo laughed, shaking his head. “The opposite, actually.”

You giggled so lightly at his response, and for a very slow moment, Wonwoo saw and felt the heat of your eyes stilling in focus upon his face. He squirmed somewhat in his seat, fingers picking at the rough, dark blue material upholstered over the chair’s arm. But then you resumed staring back at yourself in the compact mirror while applying another layer of lip balm, and Wonwoo had to subtly breathe out all the butterflies that fluttered up from his stomach.

With a satisfying snap, you’d shut the mirror, stuffing it back into the purse that was sitting atop his bag on the floor. He wanted to ask you how the book was coming along, how much progress you had made since he last proofread anything, if you were still engaging in those messily long sentences or had you since learned to clean them up.

But it was hard for Wonwoo to ask.

He studied the nervous hands in his lap.

“So… are you free after class?”

You tilted your head in thought. “Uh, I think so? This is my only class today, actually. No more SSA. I’m beyond happy. No one else seemed to take it well but me. I don’t care, though.”

“No, you made the right choice.”

“So, why do you ask?” Angling your body toward him, you smiled, and Wonwoo felt this pool of warmth expand in his chest.

“Do you want to stop at the café on Sunnyside?”

“Maybe. Is it good? I’ve never actually ate there.”

“I think it’s good,” he said, bouncing his knee. “I used to sit in there all the time. I don’t as much anymore, but it’s a cute place to visit. About a ten-minute walk from here. Plus, it’s nice outside.”

You nodded. “I’ll think it over.”

Knowing that class was starting soon, Wonwoo moved the phone sitting on the edge of his tabletop into his back pocket.

“Actually, can I ask you something?”

He stiffened in his seat, hardly managing a nod. That always seemed to be a weighted question, especially in your hands, and the fact that you were biting the skin of your bottom lip only stirred forth more worry. Wonwoo folded his arms and nodded, feeling his heart beat.

“Well, it’s just—there’s no exact date yet, okay? But sometime in very late September my family is having another dinner party.”

Wonwoo’s fingers dug into his arms.  “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah…” you trailed off, continuing to bite your lip, “and, I basically—I-I’ve kind of been blabbing to my mom and stuff. You’ve definitely come up in some conversations. She made a comment that I could invite you and even though I disagree with her on, like, millions of things, I thought it might be a good idea…” your eyes flashed at him doubtfully. “So, like, I’m not gonna force you or anything. I’ve ranted to you about these dinner parties before so I’m sure you know how awful they can be. But… I don’t know… I mean, you don’t even have to stay the entire time. You could just pop by, o-or, or something like that. I just… I think seeing you before will help calm me down.”

Out of everything you could have asked, Wonwoo was least expecting the dinner party question. It seemed to have a very routine structure and Wonwoo couldn’t help but think that his presence there might throw everything off-kilter and the last—the very fucking last—thing he wanted was for your parents to absolutely loathe him. You always complained about them. Even with Mingyu and Seokmin there to accompany you, it seemed never to be enough. However, Wonwoo would hate to leave you hanging so dryly out in the open.

Even if he dreaded it, you mattered more to him than any awkward or nervous sentiments he harboured about the situation.

“Uh… okay. Yeah. I can go.”

You straightened up like a hair standing on end. “Really?!”

He nodded, pushing up his glasses. “Yeah.”

“Oh my gosh! You’re the best!”

Leaning over the chair rest, you bracketed your arms around Wonwoo’s neck, squeezing him into a quick hug that left his heart racing. Your sweet smell lingered in his nose as you slipped away.

“That’s such a relief… and—yes—for as much as I complain about it, I promise I’ll do my absolute best to keep everything on the rails. I’ll get you out of anything awkward or uncomfortable. And if you feel like it’s too much, I’ll be right there. I promise.”

Wonwoo smiled bashfully, shaking his head.

“Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. I can manage a few shit conversations and uncomfortable silences. I’ve got my own problematic parents. I appreciate the thought, though. Means a lot.”

It would be another matter to anxiously dwell over until it actually happened, but Wonwoo was okay with it knowing how receptive you had become to his mood. More than anything, he didn’t know how to deal with Mingyu. The party had been decent. There were multiple people to bounce off and uplift the weight, substances to mellow the tension and distract the mind. But this felt very different. This would be more intimate. Less room for error in the form of lasting, arduous glances and short but gentle touches.

All he hoped for is that it might end better than the party.

—SEPTEMBER 29TH.

“So, I’ll come pick you up, okay? Just gotta text me.”

“… Yeah, that works. Okay.”

“Take a breath, Glasses. If anyone’s got this, it’s you, alright? No negative Nina shit. You’re lookin’ gorgeous, even more than me.”

“It’s Nancy.”

“What?”

“It’s—never mind.”

“Who’s Nancy?”

“I said never mind.”

“Okay, okay. Jeez… make sure you drop the attitude when you get in there. It’s not very cute of you, yeah?”

Wonwoo felt Vernon’s hand grip onto his shoulder, bestowing him a confident shake that somehow only served to reveal how jellied and weak he’d become. But Wonwoo also knew he couldn’t sit inside the mint-scented interior of his friend’s vanilla Camry the entire night, waiting for some lightning bolt to strike him with the energy he blatantly needed. Consequently, his attitude had gotten a bit snappy.

Vernon was right, though. Wonwoo had to find it within himself to relax, take a breath, and realize the time would fly once he was past the initial haze. Besides, you were there. That was all he really cared about. It made the most impossible things possible.

Looking down at the sleek, unwrinkled material of his black suit jacket, Wonwoo gave it a final and deciding tug. He then reached for the gift bag sitting by his feet. Inhaling, his lungs filled deep with air and Wonwoo was clicking his fist against Vernon’s.

“You’ve got this, playboy.”

“See you on the other side, I guess.”

Exiting the vehicle, Wonwoo spared one last hopeful glance at his face-studded friend before slamming the door shut, now caught outside underneath the moon’s shimmer. Late nights in September always seemed to be somewhat dewy and cold, with golden, ruby, and amber leaves slicked against the streets like flowers pressed into paper. Wonwoo shivered, smelling the earthiness in the atmosphere.

After tightening his fingers around the straps of the gift bag, he began making his way up the smoothly paved driveway, toward the welcoming and aglow ambiance that beamed from your family house.

He grabbed the rung at the door, slamming it a few times.

The anxious breath slowly flowed from his mouth as Wonwoo’s mind raced with who would be the one to answer. Feeling his circled glasses slip, Wonwoo pushed them back up using his finger. At the same time, the front door swung open, and in the clarity, relief washed over him like the caress of that autumn wind.

“Fuck! You’re here!”

Before Wonwoo could get a word out, your arms were already thrown around his neck. The hug was fleeting. As quickly as your body was pressed flush against his, it was gone a second later.

“Uh, yeah. Just got dropped off.”

“Oh my gosh. Come in, come in,” you chirped like an excited bird, pulling at his elbow, “I’m legit so happy you’re here. Don’t worry about taking off your shoes. I know I’m barefoot at the moment but I’ve been so freaking scatterbrained that I haven’t even picked out a pair of heels yet. You look amazing. I’ve never seen you dressed up!”

His face began to burn at the compliment.

“I don’t attend many things that require fancy clothes.”

“Well, there’s a first for everything.”

Smiling, Wonwoo realized that he hadn’t really marvelled your dress, but there was something awfully familiar about it—the shiny olive-green colour, the elegant, revealing slit at the right thigh, the thin yet simple straps draped along the open, lowcut back—he then remembered it was the final dress you had tried on from that expensive boutique in the mall. Somehow, the material looked even more stunning on you now than it did before.

His face grew warmer, sizzling almost.

“That dress has always looked perfect on you.”

There was so much more he could spew in the moment, some cloying, sweet thoughts and some very impure ones, too. But Wonwoo wasn’t trying to cross boundaries and he had to respect your wishes of staying as friends, even if it tore him up inside beyond words.

Fiddling with your fingers, you gave him a soft smile. “I’m glad you recognized it.”

The hallway suddenly got very quiet. You were both just standing there, staring at each other, biting lips and scratching skin.

“So, um, I guess I can show you arou—”

“Oh, there they are! Honey, they’re out here!”

Wonwoo’s tender gaze had suddenly snapped toward a woman barging out from an illuminated doorway, a wine glass poised in her hand while the largest, most bedazzled necklace he had ever seen weighed down to her chest. Weathered heels beat the floorboards, echoing between the walls as she stalked toward him.

“You must be Wonwoo!” 

Her hand was gripping onto his wrist and Wonwoo could only prompt a weak smile that was indicative of his racing, feeble heart.

“Yeah, correct. Pleased to finally meet you.”

 “Oh, charmer. Pleasure’s all mine, sunshine. Okay, but—let me get a good look at you. Don’t feel like you have to stand by the doorway, all polite-like. Come a bit more into the light, over here.”

“Mom, don’t pull him,” you warned between clenched teeth.

“Ah, it’s alright, it’s alright. Don’t fret so much. Sheesh.”

Standing beneath the warm and yellow glow from the hallway chandelier, there was notable heaviness in Wonwoo’s chest as your mother’s dilated, intensive gaze wracked along his every feature, as though she were the reading the fine print to one of her catalogues.

“You’re certainly gorgeous,” she complimented, “and that voice! So soothing. How do you not have a lovely lady on your arm?”

Wonwoo’s eyes skipped to you in complete and utter panic.

Grabbing onto her shoulder, you gently guided her away.

“Mom, come on. You’re smothering him, alright? Remember the thing with Mingyu? I told you not to do that anymore. He just got here and I want him to actually enjoy himself. Don’t be so… pouncey.”

“Okay. I got it,” the mom said, lifting her hand and wine glass in submission, seeming serious for no less a few seconds. “The princess of the house, FYI. She always gets what she wants.”

You knocked her touch away as she wriggled your chin, very poorly veiling your annoyance through a grumble, “it’s not like that.”

“Didn’t I call in your father? What’s taking so long?”

“I don’t know. He’s probably hiding in his office.”

“Is that where he is? Really? When I asked him to set the table? Jeez. You spend all day cooking a meal, chopping and dicing and braising and frying, and the man just can’t be bothered to put out some knives and forks. This is why I opened the wine early, y’know.”

Your arms folded, and you appeared so much smaller.

“Seokmin set the table already.”

“Oh! What—he—he did? I didn't even notice!”

“Yes, like an hour ago.”

“Oh my gosh! That boy’s an angel. Raised so well, wasn’t he? You know Seokmin, right, Wonwoo? You’re all friends?”

Awkwardly shifting in his place, Wonwoo nodded. He couldn’t help but wonder where Seokmin or Mingyu were. There was dulled music echoing softly from a distant room in the house. Down the hallway corridor, it seemed to open up into a big living space.

Suddenly, your mom began to wiggle her finger at the bag he was holding limp in his hand, and for a moment, Wonwoo had even forgot it existed. She sipped from her gradually disappearing wine again, her words sounding muffled as they fogged up the glass.

“Is that a gift I spot in your hand, dear?”

“Oh, yeah,” he answered.

Flattening a palm over the intricate jewel necklace glittering down her chest, your mother fawned adoringly, and Wonwoo’s stomach immediately dropped knowing it wasn’t her gift at all.

“Gosh! You shouldn’t’ve!”

“Uh, a-actually, it’s not—it was—I got this for your daughter.”

His gut twisted, watching the excitement and gleam drain from your mother’s face, her smile wiped away like an eraser to a penciled drawing. At least you had brightened up, though it wasn’t without caution, and Wonwoo wasn’t entirely sure what to say.

Straightening her spine, a grin then twitched unnaturally to her mouth. She was directly back into the wine for another drink.

“Well, that’s certainly thoughtful.” Wiping off her lips, she unnervingly held Wonwoo’s gaze for a brief moment, her eyes harder than diamonds. She then turned toward you, proceeding to gesture in a swirling motion with her finger at your face. “Sweetheart, if you don’t mind, could you take a few minutes to just fix your makeup?”

Your expression faltered, shoulders sagging.

“My makeup? What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, the lashes are lifting a bit. It’s not too noticeable in this dusky hallway but out in the proper light, everyone will be able to tell. And I wouldn’t use that shade of lipstick. Remember the tip I gave you? When we take photos that colour is not going to show well.”

“I do remember, yes. But I thought it could match with—”

“No but’s. These dinners are important for us, alright? Go fix.”

Wonwoo held his breath. In all his time spent getting to know you—your likes and dislikes, your pet peeves and oddly specific rules about the way things should work—the one cardinal sin was to never interrupt you. Even when he was fighting tooth and nail against you in his apartment, aching with hurt and bitterness, he didn’t cut you off once to get his word over yours. He doubted Mingyu had ever done it, and he was positive Seokmin hadn’t, either. To actually witness it felt somewhat like a crime requiring swift punishment.

Though, for all that Wonwoo was expecting in response to the rage that had just rippled across your face, there was nothing.

Because you’d choked it down like foul cough syrup.

He watched the fist unclench at your side.

“Okay,” you stated in surprising simplicity, “I’ll go fix it,” still with a sprinkle of attitude that your mother opted to ignore as she announced her trip into the kitchen to check the food.

The second she was obscured from view, a noticeable glisten of tears and exhaustion glimmered in your eyes, though you sucked all the emotions back with a deep, deep breath.

“Do you want to come with me, upstairs for a second?” You asked in a tight, shaky voice. “Unless you want to find Seokmin.”

Wonwoo shook his head. “No, I’ll see him later. Of course I’ll come with you,” he answered, smiling at you with all his tenderness.

He proceeded to follow you up a dimly lit staircase draped in a chocolate brown rug. The house looked quite small from the outside, hidden almost, by the inky night, but as Wonwoo accompanied you at the robust, wooden dresser kept against the corridor wall, he realized just how long the house actually was.

Your lower back pressed against the dresser, hands gripping the edges and fingers scraping the underside of the chestnut.

Wonwoo left the gift bag sitting next to an amorphous, black metallic sculpture that he couldn’t even begin to understand, then dusting off his palms and watching you shake your head.

“I mean, you’ve only been here for five minutes, and I’m already breaking out my seams,” you laughed, dabbing at a tear travelling too far down your cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for it to be like this so soon and I’m not gonna force you to stay.”

“Stop saying that,” Wonwoo urged, tucking his hands into his pockets, “I told you I would come. I’m not going to abandon you.”

You paused, biting the swollen skin of your bottom lip.

“… Okay.” Looking down at the ground, you wiped your damp face again before hugging yourself. “She always does this… she always has something to point out. Nothing can ever be perfect for her. I’ve spent, like, all day, preparing myself, because that’s what she wants, and it’s still not enough. I don’t get it. I feel—” you sucked in a needy breath, pinching at your nose, “—I feel like I’m just some stupid doll she’s trying to perfect, but I never came perfect in the first place, so it’s all a big waste, and somehow, it’s my fault… I know I’m unloading and I’m sorry for that, too. This day has just been—I hate it. I hate these dinners. I fucking hate everything about them. I want to bang my head against the wall.”

Wonwoo smiled at you.

He untucked a hand from his pocket and reached for the clenched fist at your hip, spreading apart your fingers into his.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m listening, okay?”

Though your eyes were misty with tears and tiredness, you managed to return a frail little grin that was deeply sincere. Your hand tightened in his for a moment, and then you were stepping into him like he was a fresh blanket straight from the laundry. Fingers bunched up his suit jacket and your face was warm against his neck.

“I think it’ll be a little better tonight,” you whispered. “You’re the only one here who doesn’t make me feel like I’m going insane.”

Wonwoo passed up and down your bare back with his hand, admiring the softness to your pampered skin and the luscious scent of your hair, though he knew you had probably hated every moment trapped in the hot shower, exfoliating and shaving and scrubbing your body clean. He felt you squeeze onto him harder.

“Can I see what your gift is?”

“Oh, yeah…” he muttered, pulling apart from your heat, “it’s kind of a two-in-one thing. It’ll make sense once I explain.”

“That seems exciting,” you answered, returning to your lean against the chestnut dresser, folding your arms and smiling.

“So, um—if you remember the poker game—I owed you a pretty big lump of cash,” Wonwoo said, reaching inside the bag to grab a smooth, matte box, “and then there was the day at the museum, of course. Running home in the rain. You lost a shoe.”

“Oh my gosh, yeah…” you giggled fondly at the memory.

“I was at the mall—and, yes, I know. Why would I be at the mall when I hate the place?  But I was getting my laptop fixed at that tech store on the third floor, and I also needed wires for my—okay. Never mind the rambling. Fuck, I’m turning into you now. Anyway, I walked past that one store you love and get pretty much all your clothes from. They had these heels in the window. The white ones, which you said to me are actually not white, but a very specific shade of ivory that I couldn’t see and still fail to see, to be honest. And they had that little bit of gold in the straps… but the point is—I got them for you.”

You glitched for a second, and it wasn’t until Wonwoo was basically pushing the box into your chest that you seemed to realize.

“Wait… you actually went to Rosette?”

He nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Immediately, you flipped the box open and began flicking away the neatly trimmed cover of glittered tissue paper. “You got me the Gold Crystal Rope-Strapped and Ivory Ankle four-inch from Mirabella? Wonwoo! I-I was just talking when I saw them in the mall! I mean, you didn't have to actually get them!”

“I know,” Wonwoo answered, helping you pick the heels out from their imprints, “you’re always just talking, though.”

“Unnecessary.”

“To you.”

He was thankful you were too enraptured by the shoes to bother retaliating. Under regular circumstances, Wonwoo wouldn’t ever have been able to make such an expensive decision, but he still had some leftovers from winning the other poker matches at the party, in addition to a work bonus, and he knew that he still needed to repay you those favours even if they weren’t being held against him.

“They’re so freaking gorgeous,” you fawned, inspecting each heel like a jeweller would to their collection, “I can’t tell if I want to hit you or jump on you in happiness. I love them so much.”

“Well, I’m glad.”

“Oh my gosh, can you help me put them on? Pretty please?”

“Uh—yeah, ‘course.”

You gripped the edges of the dresser, slightly sitting on the surface as Wonwoo squatted down to your bare feet. He collected the first ivory heel and loosened the anklet buckle, proceeding to help slide the shoe on until it was fit perfectly. As he busied himself with loosening the buckle to the other heel, Wonwoo felt the ghost of your fingertips brush through his hair. In a spilt second, he froze, staring up at you, who was grinning back in utmost beauty.

“Just fixing your hair a little,” you stated innocently.

Wonwoo readjusted his glasses, nodding. “O-Okay.”

The action hadn’t felt that innocent, and as Wonwoo swallowed tight and continued sliding your ankle through the heel, he was overwhelmed with the most blaring, vivid, heart-hammering thoughts of smoothing his hands along each your soft thighs, pinning up the slippery silk to your olive-green dress, tugging aside your thin panties, burying his face and tongue so hot and heavy into your—

“Dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes!”

“Fuck,” you groaned, lolling your head back while Wonwoo finished settling the heel onto your foot, “just in case you didn’t connect the dots, that means we need to get downstairs.”

He returned to height, straightening out the sleeves to his suit jacket. For some reason, there was such an intense disappointment burning in his chest, as though his carnal thoughts were not just thoughts but an actual intent to pleasure you—which was completely ludacris given your friendship and the fact your boyfriend was probably downstairs—that had now been ripped away from him by the shrill pitch of your mother’s beckoning voice.

“Should I take the box—”

“It doesn’t matter.”

You grabbed onto his hand, tugging him toward the staircase.

“C’mon. Let’s get this shit over with.”

And Wonwoo followed, though he couldn’t help but note how you carefully dropped his hand upon rounding the corner into the kitchen, where Seokmin and Mingyu were standing about.

“Hey!” Seokmin exclaimed, pointing toward him. “Wonwoo!”

Expectantly, Seokmin looked like he belonged in a suit. That dark cherry red colour was rather fitting and only served to amplify the glow of his indestructible enthusiasm. Wonwoo awkwardly sauntered over to them, playing with the threads in his pockets.

Mingyu’s suit was more charcoal in tone, with his hair expertly gelled and combed. He mirrored a suave movie star as he leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping from his partly-filled wine glass.

“Uh, hey guys.”

You were hovering at the stove alongside your mother, talking in a hushed manner, while she stirred a large and bubbling pot of aromatic sauce, smelling like rosemary and perhaps cooked off vodka or some other alcohol. There was food everywhere—warm bread plates and fresh salad bowls and artistically painted casserole dishes covered by tinfoil. A window had been cracked open to help alleviate the heat swarming the kitchen, which Wonwoo could feel a little too uncomfortably in the air.

Seokmin grabbed at a couple crackers and cubed cheese organized onto a charcuterie board behind him.

“Don’t you clean up well?” He complimented with a big grin.

Wonwoo shook his head. “Not that well.”

“Hey—” Seokmin suddenly grabbed onto Wonwoo’s shoulder and pointed a finger at him, “—you’re here, alright? That’s an honour.”

Mingyu brushed the cracker crumbs off Seokmin’s suit.

“Don’t snack too much. She hates when you can’t eat.”

“Uh—I made this stupid board. I get to eat from it whenever I want. I’ll be fine, anyway. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Mingyu stopped tidying Seokmin’s suit, instead grabbing his wine glass off the countertop, sighing aloud, “that was a stupid idea…”

From the dreariness to his words and the slouch pulling down his shoulders, Mingyu didn’t seem to be all that excited or even half as chipper as Seokmin, though Wonwoo suspected that he knew the dinner parties to be a complete trainwreck. If Mingyu could hardly stomach a night with your parents despite all the stunning food and drink, then Wonwoo had no idea as to how he’d survive.

“So, um…” Seokmin lowered his voice, tipping his head close to Mingyu’s ear, “should we give him the rulebook?”

“Rulebook?” Wonwoo echoed.

“Uh,” Mingyu sipped quickly from his wine, “yeah, guess we can do that. Not in here, though. Let Her talk to her mom.”

“Easy peasy lemon squeezy.” Seokmin smiled, flashing a sly wink at Mingyu. “Hey, we’re gonna give Wonwoo a quick tour, alright!” He then called, his hand wrapping around the boy’s bicep, already beginning to tug him toward the hallway. “It won’t take too long; we’ll just show the bottom floor! Be back in a few!”

“Oh, uh, I guess that’s fine,” your mother replied while grabbing onto the pot handles with two tea towels, moving the sauce from the element, “but please do be quick! And, Seokmin—do you mind fetching the hubby from his office after you’re done?”

“I can do that, for sure,” he answered, smiling bright.

“Thank you, dear. I appreciate you so much.”

He was escorted out the muggy kitchen and down the corridor, flanked by Mingyu and Seokmin until they reached the living area where the piano music had been coming from.

Before he could issue even one question, Wonwoo was pressed down onto the red, very large-cushioned couch. Seokmin sat on the marble coffee table while Mingyu fixed himself onto the arm of a sturdy leather chair, crossing an ankle over his knee. Neither boy spoke for a moment and Wonwoo couldn’t help but feel a bit frightened as he listened to the elegant, soft piano tune fill the space.

“So… what’s the rulebook?”

“Well, it’s not an actual rulebook,” Seokmin corrected, “that was just for dramatics, allure, etcetera. But that’s what we call it.”

“We? You and Mingyu, you mean.”

Shifting in his place, Seokmin nodded, and his voice dropped an octave lower, "play the game long enough, you learn the rules.” 

Mingyu’s chuckle dampened into the wine glass. “And there a lot of fuckin’ rules, that’s for damn sure,” he said with a scary smirk.

“But—we’ll just give you the crash course for now, as to lessen the overwhelmingness of what it takes to endure a dinner party.”

“Um, does Her know—”

“There are three principal rules; I’ll give them to you quick, so listen good,” Seokmin interrupted, leaning further into Wonwoo’s space, speaking quietly. “Rule one: do whatever the mom says, even if she doesn’t say it directly, or scarcely alludes to it. Makes everything ten times smoother, and gets her to like you, which is very important. Rule two: there is a guaranteed argument between Her’s mom and Her every fucking time—you stay out of it—never pick sides.

If you do get roped into whatever petty, passive-aggressive shame-fest they rake up, insert a compliment. Example: this steak is so tender and perfectly cooked! FYI—we’re not eating steak, so think of your own thing—and rule three: Her is like a freshly shaken can of carbonated soda and she can explode at any given moment. As her dear friends, and boyfriend, we have to make sure that doesn’t happen or else you’ll want to axe yourself.”

Wonwoo furrowed his brow heavily at Seokmin, noting a few crumbs left on his cherry suit from the cheese and crackers.

“How do we stop that?” He asked genuinely.

Mingyu proceeded to lower the nearly emptied wine glass against his knee, clearing his throat, “you don’t stop it.”

“But I thought—”

“It happens every time, without fail,” Seokmin answered, shaking his head, “but you can prolong it. You know, like cracking open the cap and letting out some air instead of the bottle fizzling into obliteration right away. The explosion’s not as big then. It’s easy. You just keep the conversation pushing. Don’t leave any space for bickering. Mingyu sometimes takes Her downstairs, or outside. To be fair, you don’t really have to worry about the last part.”

“Yeah,” Mingyu huffed, hardly amused, “lucky you, huh?”

“What happens if that fails?” Wonwoo asked.

Seokmin leaned back, tipping his head to the side. “Last year Her’s mom spent six hours braising these honey-garlic barbeque ribs with asparagus and stuffed potatoes. Guess where the food ended up by the end of the night? Because it wasn’t my starving mouth.”

“I don’t think I want to know,” Wonwoo sighed.

Bobbing his head approvingly, Seokmin smiled. “Exactly.”

“If these dinners are always such a mess, why do they keep happening? I mean, it doesn’t seem like anybody enjoys them.”

Fiddling with the thick folded cuff of his dress shirt, Seokmin shrugged. “I don’t know, to be honest. They used to a be a lot bigger in the past. Way more relatives and family friends. Just get-together's with a lot of food and drink and intoxicatedness. A way to maintain community and repore or something. But it’s shrunk down over the years. I still can’t tell if that makes it better or worse.”

Mingyu rubbed tiresomely down his neck, somewhat wincing as he massaged a sore spot. “It definitely makes it worse.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Seokmin agreed, “it puts more pressure on the rest of us… anyway, I should grab ‘the hubby’ as per request.”

Snickering, Mingyu flashed his pointed canine teeth and raised the wine back to his lips. “Makes your skin crawl, doesn’t it?”

With an uneased laugh, Seokmin smirked. “Every time.”

As the boy disappeared down a dark hallway to the right of the large living area, Wonwoo assumed he and Mingyu might return to the kitchen as it was probably not the best idea—leaving you alone for too long with your nitpicking mother—but when Wonwoo began lifting himself from the plump couch cushions he was sunken into, Mingyu’s hand touched at his shoulder to stop him.

In an instant, trepidation surged throughout his body.

Wonwoo’s face had most certainly gone white, though the lighting in the living room was too warm and orangey to tell.

“I just wanna talk to you about something real quick,” Mingyu said, stretching forward to leave his empty glass on the marbled table.

“Oh—um, okay.”

When he thought about the past few months, Wonwoo realized he hadn’t even spoke to Mingyu since the blowout party back in June. So much had happened since then, good and bad. Wonwoo could only suspect that he was about to hear the worst talking-to in his life, though he attempted to feign the terror for casualness.

Mingyu swooped a hand behind his ear, brushing back his perfectly styled hair, and looked to Wonwoo almost… forgivingly?

“I know you and I haven’t seen each other since the party at Seungcheol’s. I know some shit went down between you and Her and that it really blew up and you guys weren’t talking for a bit. She said, like, it was something to do with the book she’s writing and you were having differences about the direction and it kinda exploded.”

Wonwoo prayed it was imperceptible, the gigantic breath of relief he fought to exhale without too much giveaway, knowing that you hadn’t told Mingyu the truth to the argument. He was happy about your work-around, though he didn’t know if it was… morally right… that you opted not to tell your boyfriend—the person you supposedly trusted most—one of your biggest miseries.

“Oh… yeah,” Wonwoo exhaled, “it got pretty ugly.”

Mingyu nodded. “I honestly don’t even know if she’s still working on it. She doesn’t tell me about it. I don’t get why it’s so fuckin’ important to her but… I digress. Anyway, like Seokmin said, you’re here now, so you two obviously hashed it out. She seems to really appreciate you as a friend. And—hey—it helps takes some of the weight off my shoulders, y’know? Girl’s a fuckin’ handful sometimes.”

Wonwoo swallowed, feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the conversation and the alcohol he was beginning to smell from the boy’s clothes. He understood the situation was stressful for Mingyu, that he might be teetering between things absentmindedly, yet he nonetheless questioned what Mingyu’s intentions even were with you.

“Well, uh… I really enjoy spending time with her, too,” he murmured as Mingyu reclaimed his emptied wine glass.

There was a strong grip on his shoulder, shaking it.

“You’re a good person, man. Seriously.”

Using Wonwoo as a support crutch, Mingyu heaved onto his feet, then proceeded to straighten out his charcoal suit jacket.

“M’kay, I’m going back to the kitchen. We’re probably gonna eat soon so don’t spend too long losing your head out here.”

“Yeah, got it.”

He watched Mingyu amble down the long and subtly aglow corridor, carrying his wine glass low at the hip until reaching the threshold to the kitchen. You had suddenly popped out, stumbling into him with a smile and some hushed words that were impossible to comprehend as Wonwoo sat alone, listening to the jazzy piano tunes from the record player. After nipping a quick kiss against your boyfriend’s lips, you entered the living room with a crooked head.

“What’chya doing out here?” You inquired, pressing a hand against the grand, wooden frame adorning the entry way.

Wonwoo grabbed at his knees while pulling himself up.

“Just a quick pep talk. And a fly-by of some rules.”

“Oh,” you chuckled, “Seokmin’s crash course, was it?”

“Yeah.”

“Sometimes I call him John Green just to piss him off.”

Wonwoo smiled, stepping around the marble coffee table. “I feel like that might serve to stroke Seokmin’s ego above all.”

“No, it starts to irritate him after a while. You should know at this point I can piss off just about anybody. Even Seokmin. It’s a talent. Though I don’t think it’s enough for me anymore. I want to start pushing people to rock bottom or I haven’t done enough.”

There was a teasing sparkle in your eye as Wonwoo approached you. He could smell all that deliciously cooked food from down the corridor and his stomach was certainly responding to it.

“I can get you there,” Wonwoo said. “Don’t stress.”

“Forgot to fix my makeup. Want to come with me?”

He agreed, and you began to guide him across the living room, swathed in all its expensive mahogany fabrics, obtuse looking vases, and jade-green lamp shades that reminded him of late-night study sessions at the campus library. You pulled him past a wide shelf that was organized with much smaller, glazed sculptures that caught his attention as they lowly glimmered in the mellow light.

“Woah,” he gripped at your wrist, stopping your swift walk, “someone in your family loves ceramics, I’m guessing?”

You ricocheted back into his side, then taking a few seconds to adjust some invisible flaws in your hair before responding.

“That’s just some pottery I did when I was younger.”

Wonwoo squinted at you. “Really?”

“Mmhm.”

“You took classes?”

Shrugging, you muttered a simple, “yeah.”

“Is that why you were so interested in that vase back at my apartment?” When you continued to stare at him blankly, Wonwoo cleared his throat and reiterated, “the red one? It was really round at the bottom, but the stem was tall and skinny. You really liked it.”

“Oh—yeah—sorry, it’s been a while since I’ve last been to your apartment. I don’t know if that’s why I liked it. Probably.”

He smiled at you inquisitively. “I’m surprised you never mentioned that to me, considering my landlord is a ceramics teacher. I mean, as you know.”

Your eyes seemed reminiscent and adrift, glancing from sculpture to sculpture—lopsided teapots, poorly shaped toadstools, crooked little spoons—there were a plethora of your small creations laid across the shelf, gathering dust and appearing untended to.

Wonwoo cleared his throat, hands buried in his pockets. “I just didn’t peg you as someone who liked getting their hands dirty. I suppose it’s different when you’re younger, though.”

Pursing your lip, you nodded. “Things are always different when you’re young. My mom used to use the spoons I made to scoop sugar into her coffees. But she doesn’t drink coffee anymore. Just wine.”

“Well, it’s nice she appreciated your effort.”

There was a beat of silence. Your expression twitched.

“I had to beg to take those classes, y’know?”

Wonwoo raised an eyebrow at you. “How come?”

Your arms folded, and you shrugged again. “My parents honestly saw it as a distraction. I mean, why let your daughter play with some clay when she can hardly pass her math tests. But there was this super artsy girl in our recreational class who always made the best teacups from the clay, and she would paint them so beautifully… I wanted to be able to do what she did. So I asked my parents again and again and again until they fucking gave up and found a pottery class to enroll me in. Although, I'm pretty sure they supposed I would drop it sooner or later. Like it was just an itch I had to scratch. It was in this little art shop that looked similar to your landlord's.”

He smiled at you. “Was your instructor a polish lady?”

“No, she was not polish,” your head shook as you swept some dust from the black shelf, rubbing your fingers together, “I remember that much, but I don’t remember her name. It was after a flower, though. Something too complicated for my eleven-year-old brain to retain.”

“Probably Chrysanthemum or some shit,” Wonwoo muttered.

You laughed at his comment, “probably.”

“… Well, you must have liked it. You made so much stuff.”

“Oh, I loved it. I mean, looking at some of this stuff now, it’s not that great. But I didn’t really care that much at the time.”

“Considering you were a child, it’s pretty damn good.”

Wonwoo felt your elbow dig shallowly into his ribs. “Don’t try to flatter eleven-year-old me,” you warned him. “If you would have seen the other girl’s creations, mine would turn from pretty damn good to: well, at least she tried something new!”

“No,” Wonwoo chuckled, “that’s dumb.”

“Honestly, there was so much stuff that I made. More than half of it’s not even on this shelf. There wouldn’t be enough space.”

“Shit. What happened to it?”

You pinched at the olive fabric of your dress, massaging the silk between your fingertips for a moment while examining each and every sculpture moulded and grooved by your tiny childhood hands.

“My favourite part was destroying it,” you answered.

Wonwoo narrowed his brow, “I don’t think I could do that to something I spent so much effort and time creating.”

“Yeah, and that’s all good and fine,” you reasoned, adjusting your shoulders, “but I just didn’t see it like that, I guess...”

Intrigued, Wonwoo smiled at you. “How did you see it, then?”

For a moment, you thought, staring off into space.

 “Well, I just don’t understand why people are so afraid of things being ephemeral. When you’re an artist, or a writer, or a musician, I feel like you want to make something that will last forever, transcend eras, touch people for a lifetime, or, I don’t know—you want it to stay preserved, like when they embalm things. But I feel like there’s just as much worth and importance to the things that hardly last at all. I feel like there’s so much freedom and self-assurance in building something up and then crushing it down.

That’s what I loved about it. When the clay would explode from between my fingers and stick into the lines of my palms because I was squeezing it so hard—it just felt good. Like it was supposed to happen. Like I was letting go. It doesn’t have to mean I… failed. It doesn’t have to mean I’m good at it either… I guess I just want to enjoy things without the burden of having to prove I deserve to enjoy them. Why can't I just do it? Why can't it just be between me and myself, you know? Why can't I decide what to take from it?"

Wonwoo nodded at you.

Contrarily, that was the opposite to his own beliefs surrounding his art, and maybe even his life. Wonwoo could never let things go, nor was he sure when that quality had permanently wedged its way into his human nature. For some reason, Wonwoo saw the past memory where his older brother had scampered away into the bushes surrounding the public pool during that game of Lifeguard all those hot summers ago, leaving an adolescent Wonwoo to get dragged from the water and thrown onto the sun-scorched concrete as everyone watched.

He saw the fuzzy, white glow that beamed from his laptop left open in the darkness, sitting still with all those pages he wrote, and yet to be filled with the words that he could never string together.

Unlike you, Wonwoo had never figured out the mechanism to letting things go. Instead, he held everything—between his fingers, across his shoulders, on his tongue, under his skin, deep inside his chest. Hence, for a split second, he was incredibly jealous that it seemed you could live without weight. You were just a breeze.

And just like everyone else, you were still discovering yourself.

“Anyway. That’s my take on it."

"Why'd you stop? This seemed like such a big part of you."

You flicked your eyes around, shrugging. "Things got in the way."

Wonwoo wondered what things, though he didn't ask.

"But we should hurry. Dinner will be ready soon and my mom will flip if we’re not at the table in time. She interprets it as ‘we don’t care’ and that will open a can of worms nobody wants to see.”

You sighed, then grabbing onto Wonwoo’s arm to pull him down another mysterious, long corridor in your maze of a house.

“Oh, Mingyu, that’s brilliant! I’m so glad the interview went well! I had him slip in a good word for you, too. But I’m sure you put the nail in the coffin. Walking straight into a promotion, you know, that’s something so hard to come by. You’ll settle just perfectly.”

“Yeah, thanks. To you as well. That word went a long way.”

“Making the right connections is certainly key.”

“It is. But I’m just lucky, is all. Your daughter is the real key. She’s given me so much—you all have—I just wanna let you know how grateful I am. Seriously. You’re some of the kindest people.”

“Shush! Before I give you a lash from this towel. It’s been sitting under the potato tray so it’s nice and hot… I’m so excited for your future together. A real power-couple! That’s for sure.”

“Hm. Yeah.”

Wonwoo was pressed flush to the wall just outside the kitchen, simultaneously holding his breath while listening to the conversation between your mother and Mingyu as everyone was presumably sat around the dressed table. Your fingers were hurriedly ruffling out some wrinkles in his tie while you repeatedly cursed at both your tardiness, and he simply let you do what you pleased. After a half-second adjustment made to his collar, you wasted not an instant more—Wonwoo was suddenly thrust into the warm kitchen with you impatiently in tow.

As expected, everyone was sat and waiting. Even your father had been at last pulled from his study, and he was positioned at the head of the long dinner table while twiddling a fork around in his fingers.

Your mother had an elbow propped on Mingyu’s chair.

She was the only one standing.

“Quick,” you whispered into Wonwoo’s ear, practically shoving him down into the empty seat beside Seokmin, “sit there.”

Upon the nervous side-eye that his friend shot at Wonwoo, he suspected that he may have just wriggled his way into an unfortunate ticket straight to hell. You held up the flowy, billowing silk of your olive dress while making your way to the seat across from him and beside a very unenthused-looking Mingyu, who was evidently chewing on his inner cheek. Wonwoo caught Mingyu’s stare for no less than a second, and there was nearly enough electricity in the glance to make a crackle.

A few more dishes had been squeezed onto the table since he was last in the kitchen. Despite the fact there was only six people eating, nearly every corner and crevice of the table was occupied. Your mother had cooked enough to feed an entire party, unless she was planning on sending everyone home with tupperwares full of leftovers.

“Looks super delicious,” Seokmin complimented.

Mingyu nodded in agreement. “Smells even better.”

Wonwoo didn’t know if he was also supposed to throw out some off-the-tongue compliment and keep the train chugging. The atmosphere was just so heavy—everything felt like an extreme effort—he could hardly breathe without the sensation of his lungs itching, as though they were adorned in cobwebs. Unconsciously, he’d started picking at his thumb, his appetite disappearing by the second in place of dread.

“You boys are so lovely, thank you,” your mother commented, straightening out the orange tea towel in her hand while continuing to lean into the side of Mingyu’s chair. “This was all a labour of love.”

Seokmin flashed a picturesque smile that Wonwoo had seen many times before. “Well, I’m feeling the love. That’s for sure. Are we ready to dig in all?” Still, there was a bit of anxious haste in his actions. 

“One moment, first,” your mother stated, pausing Seokmin in his reach for a large casserole spoon. Wonwoo clasped his hands together even tighter as she said, “we’re going to wait a few minutes more.”

You had pulled out your chair, but you didn’t sit.

“Mom, I was just fixing my makeup. That’s what you asked me to do. There’s no reason to make everyone keep waiting.” You removed the towel from her hand and laced it through the oven handlebar. “Just take a seat, okay? I’ll start making everyone’s plates if they pass them.”

She smiled at you. “Well, that’s a very sweet gesture. But it doesn’t take long to fix an unstuck lash or change a lipstick. You’ve got yourself a makeup chair. You should know better than anyone, my love.”

Wonwoo hated this—he hated the way your mother’s criticizing was buttered up nice with a practiced, insincere smile and a crooning voice. He hated the way Mingyu was pushing fingers against the knot in his stiff eyebrow like something horrible was about to happen. He hated the way your father was uncomfortably mute, sitting only with a pursed lip and folded arms in complete disinterest, like he’d rather be anywhere else. He hated that Seokmin was continuing to beam his signature-watt smile even though the air was dense enough to crush everyone flat.

You picked up Mingyu’s plate, presumably because it was the closest to you, and started slopping some hot casserole onto it. Every movement was autopilot, thoughtless, as the steam from the breached casserole rolled up into the air and shrouded you.

“I was only trying to make it perfect,” you muttered.

“Make it what?” Your mother questioned, staring you down.

“Perfe—”

“Stop mumbling, my love. I can’t hear you.”

Mingyu’s messy plate was collapsed back onto its placemat with a very loud thud, and you looked to your mother with utmost annoyance.

“I was trying to make it per-fect.”

She quirked her head. “And you needed Wonwoo to do that?”

Just as he ruminated—the universe had a fearsome penchant for whirlpooling him into the centre of everything and anything horrible, like his name was written in the water. Though, Wonwoo couldn’t say he was expecting to survive the dinner party unscathed. He tried to remember the quick spiel of rules Seokmin had relayed to him—was it better to get involved or just shut the fuck up? Wasn’t Mingyu supposed to do something? Wasn’t Seokmin supposed to keep the conversation pushing?

“Mom, please, just—I was showing him around, okay? He’s the guest. He’s never been over before. Wonwoo has nothing to do with us being a few minutes late to dinner. So just leave him be.” You removed the tinfoil from another bowl. Grabbing a wooden spoon, you started slapping creamy mashed potatoes onto Mingyu’s plate. “Trying to make something out of nothing… why can’t we just eat for once?”

“Honey, we could be eating, but you’re choosing to sulk.”

“I’m not sulking! I’m trying to help!”

“No, no, no. Mingyu’s plate looks like an animal that got squashed by a car. If you can’t even properly fix your future husband a nice-looking plate of food without pooling all your anger into it, then there’s an issue, there.” She shook her head. “A very big issue.”

Wonwoo could see your eyes burning.

Mingyu had then sighed, removing the wooden spoon that was clenched up in your hand like a weapon and slipping it back into the mashed potato bowl. The boy tugged a few times at your wrist, keeping his tired voice as soft as possible while imploring you to sit down.

“It’s alright, everything’s fine,” he said, probably to soothe himself more than anything, “all the food goes straight into my mouth, anyway. Same goes for all of us. Sit down, Her, alright? Please?”

“No,” you snapped your wrist free, “I don’t want to sit.”

In a desperate hope to experience some sort of consolidation amongst the tension, Wonwoo angled a glance toward Seokmin. When his friend wouldn’t look back and merely opted to keep biting his blistering lip, Wonwoo quite literally felt a meteor sink into his stomach.

Slicking a hand along his shiny hair, Mingyu sighed even deeper. “Please just sit. You know what’ll happen. Please.”

Again stepping away from Mingyu’s attempted touch, you began to shout, and Wonwoo’s breath froze as your voice echoed around the kitchen in a hauntingly similar manner to the quarrel at his apartment.

“I already said no!”

From the head of the table, your father pushed out his chair. His voice was oddly gruff when he spoke, like he hadn’t said a word all day and his throat was hoarse by consequence.

“Don’t shout,” was all he warned.

Your mother shook her head. “She will raise her voice when she doesn’t get what she wants.”

Wonwoo couldn’t help but feel the cut from her disappointed eyes even though she wasn’t even looking at him.

“I’m raising my voice because you’re not listening! You haven’t listened to me all fucking day! Oh my god! It’s eating me alive!”

In an instant, Mingyu was to his feet, almost trying to court you into the corner by the open window with his hands that you battered away. Wonwoo gripped onto his knees. He couldn’t choke out a damn word and Seokmin seemed to have become stiller than stone.

“Calm down,” Mingyu urged, “take some breaths.”

“You still won’t listen!”

“I’ll listen later, I promise.”

“Mingyu, do you even hear yourself?!”

“Just—you’re blowing this out of proportion again.”

“Stop trying to control me!”

“Calm down and—hey!”

With a frustrated groan, you squirmed away from Mingyu and rushed back to the dinner table where your mother continued to stare at you with such conflict in her expression, as though it was mentally taxing her to compute how such a seemingly perfect, established daughter could simultaneously appear so unraveled and incomplete before her. For a second, Wonwoo thought you might take the mashed potatoes or casserole and just completely drench the wall in their remnants.

But you didn’t do anything. Instead, you looked across the organized table—the vibrant food, sparkling drinking glasses, and expensive, unpopped bottles of alcohol—at Wonwoo, who had admittedly felt pretty useless and paralyzed throughout the ordeal. You looked straight into his eyes and he could see that you were almost physically begging him for an out. And, if he could see himself as an outsider, it was probably the same damn look he was giving you.

Wonwoo hadn’t even noticed the silence in the room.

Your father coughed, retrieving his utensils, ready to sweep the argument and very obvious hostility under the rug—put a small little bandage on a gigantic wound that had been festering for years.

“Same dance every time. Come sit, Mingyu. Let’s just eat.”

That would be nice, if Wonwoo had any appetite.

That would be nice if he wasn’t pushing out his chair, getting up from the table, keeping his gaze level and connected with yours, watching you swallow hard, hold back your tears, anxiously flex your fingers in a momentary contemplation and then—unprompted—run. Just run.

Wonwoo fled into the corridor with you right behind him, your hands kneading against his lower back as he threw open the door to the quiet, dimly lit front porch where that damp and black September night was ready to breathe him in and whisk you two away. He heard the very confused shouting from the kitchen, but there wasn’t any time to waste.

Wonwoo flew down the wood steps and splashed through a shallow puddle reflecting the moonlight, running toward the long street drifted in thinly strewn mist. He continued to run, only stopping for a brief moment to turn around and observe you quickly fling off your heels before scooping them up while everyone crowded onto the porch, yelling.

In your bare feet and a smile so pearlescent, you sprinted straight into Wonwoo’s outstretched arms, giggling aloud while he gripped your body firm and spun you in a circle that saw your dress twirl like a ribbon and your legs brush through the alive air.

Mingyu began stalking down the driveway, visibly angry, his face twisted into a snarl that might see Wonwoo getting split in his nose.

“Fuck, fuck!” You cursed, squeezing your fingers into his. He was suddenly being tugged down the empty, dark street, as though there was some invisible curtain for you to magically disappear behind. “Let’s go!”

Wonwoo didn’t mind one bit. Indefinitely, he would let you tug him over a cliff if it meant you two could fall together. The street was long and wet but the air was so fresh. Every breath he took was pure.

He didn’t know where you were going.

But he didn’t need to.

“Be careful. I don’t want you to step on something sharp.”

“I think I already did.”

Wonwoo pulled tight on your warm hand, stopping you.

“Seriously? Let me look.”

You made a slight huffing noise while sitting down on a large boulder, not caring that the surface was sandy and damp, forming a dark imprint against your olive dress. Wonwoo squatted down, looking at the dirty underside to one bare foot, and then the other, realizing there weren’t any cuts. He then used the cuff to his suit jacket, brushing off the small pieces of grit stuck into the skin in case he missed anything.

In all honesty, Wonwoo had no idea where you two were. After running far down the fancy Hillcrest Street until your family house was completely obscured into mist and memory, you led Wonwoo off onto a separate footpath by the treeline. Your fingers were slotted into each other’s. This was the first time Wonwoo had let go of your hand since running away, and the chilled air felt like prickles on his palm.

Removing the phone from his pocket to shine a light, he wasn’t at all surprised to see the missed calls and texts that had collected minute by minute from Seokmin earlier. You didn’t even have your phone. The only thing you carried was the ivory heels that Wonwoo gifted you at the start of the evening, which were still clutched in your hand.

“No blood. No lacerations. Just dirt,” Wonwoo said. “If you did cut yourself, you might not even feel it with all that adrenaline.”

You smiled at him. “Your phone a graveyard of Seokmin texts?”

He smirked, flicking through them all. “Precisely, yeah.”

Leaning backward on the boulder, you at last let go of the heels and stretched your arms out behind you, staring up at the moonlight patterning between the forest trees, their branches more barren as the autumn leaves came loose in the breeze. They fell down one by one, rustling softly whenever they hit the ground. He heard you sigh.

“Everyone there can go fuck themselves.”

Putting his phone away, Wonwoo smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“That line’s a classic, coming from you.”

He attempted to sit beside you on the boulder, ignoring how uneven and rough it felt under his butt. Wherever you were along the footpath, it was perfectly hushed, almost felt hidden. The tree branches above him had framed the moon akin to a picture—except, he felt like he was the one painted, and that it was the moon who was watching him.

“I’m sorry.”

Wonwoo began to look at you rather than the night sky.

“Don’t apologize.”

You stared at him deeply, licking your lips and shaking your head. His eyes were now well adjusted to the scarce light. Just the silver through the trees was enough to read and inspect your pretty face.

“It went off the rails.”

He shrugged, staring back. “It seemed like it needed to.”

“I made you part of it.”

“I made myself part of it.”

“But, I mean—just—if you… if you never…”

Wonwoo raised his eyebrow. “If I never what? Met you?”

Puffing out a long breath, you looked down, picking at something on the boulder with a manicured nail. “… Yeah.”

“No,” Wonwoo was firm to correct, continuing to stare at you intensely even if you couldn’t face him in the turmoil of processing all the emotion and chaos, “you’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”

You lolled out your tongue, smiling and sheepish. “Blah.”

He laughed, “I mean it.”

Sighing again, you glanced back at Wonwoo, your eyes flickering along his every detail in the dewy night. Your hand reached out to his collar, making another brief, probably unnecessary adjustment to it before sliding the gentle fingers down his chest. Wonwoo’s mouth ran disgustingly dry in that moment, to the point that he was relieved when you removed your hand because you might have felt how fast his heart was beating and thought him to be quite pathetic.

Tightly swallowing, he brushed an itch off his nose and opened his mouth with a question, his gaze catching yours. Although, at the last second, he weened himself from speaking when the doubt found and froze him. A breeze tickled through his hair and Wonwoo shivered.

Your brow furrowed.

“What?” You urged him.

Wonwoo chuckled. “Fuck. Nothing.”

“Not nothing. Please. What is it?”

You were leaning closer into him, enthralling him with those earnest, gleaming eyes. He swore the nighttime wind was pushing your sweet, blossomy scent against him—was pushing you against him—because now your thigh was squished right beside his and your shoulders were warm together. Wonwoo adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat.

“Who are you?” He paused, but didn’t falter. “Actually?”

Your forehead wrinkled. “What do you mean?”

Wonwoo examined every aspect of your face that he had come to know so well over the months—the face he gradually couldn’t stop thinking about, to the point you would appear in his dreams. The face he was once completely disinterested in, because you were not someone that should have any reason to be in his life, just as he had no reason to be in yours. He felt his body move closer into your inviting warmth.

In fact, you two were so close that if he moved even an inch or few forward, then his lips might find themselves pressing to yours and his hand might settle and smooth up along your thigh to your cheek. Then, it would be impossible to leave the footpath without digging into you right then and there, kissing and tasting from you everywhere.

“What’s your name?”

It sounded like an obvious, warranted question that just about anyone would ask given the opportunity. But Wonwoo had never found himself wondering it. The things he wondered about you were much different and more character-driven, yet Wonwoo had come to realize that your name was just as important and precious and intact with your identity as everything else. He almost felt like it was the very last piece of you that he hadn’t shifted into place—his last chapter in a very long, complicated, topsy-turvy, seemingly-never-ending book.

Wonwoo thought you might laugh at him.

Tell him, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” in that very smug tone of voice he’d hear from time to time while smiling hot with your secret.

Instead, however, you just stayed silent.

His hand touched with fragile softness at the edge of your face, a thumb then stroking along the space before your ear as you swallowed.

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” he whispered, hearing the leaves rustle above him, “it’s fine either—”

“No, one second.”

Wonwoo bit his tongue, opting to watch you lean back while digging fingers into the cleavage of your dress. From somewhere—he could only surmise—you had pulled out a thin tube with a cherry lid.

“Was that the lip stuff you put on?” He snorted.

“Lip liner. With a sticky patch on it right here. Figured I should keep it close. You know, in case a crumb managed to remove a single spec of it. Can't have my mother passing out from shame.”

“Clever thinking.”

“Give me your hand.”

Stretching out his fingers, he let his hand sit in your lap while you pulled the lid off with your teeth, then gripping his wrist and halfway leaning down to push the tip of the lip applicator against his palm. The sensation was cool and smooth. He felt each letter you traced, though he refused to let himself guess until you were done.

Under the moonlight, Wonwoo raised the calligraphed hand to his face, pushing up his glasses as he realized—at last—the complete gist of who you were. And with your name came the understanding of what you were, in fact, doing in his very meaningless life.

Wonwoo kept staring fondly at his hand. But, as he was staring, you suddenly reached forth and smeared your thumb across the neat letters until they were lost. A memory made, and then covered.

Only between you.

When Wonwoo looked to you again, he saw everything about you so clearly that it was almost shining. Every decision you made, every word you said, the way you walked and dressed and flourished so openly before crashing so hard—Wonwoo could snap all those pieces into place.

“Can I ask you something?” You said.

He blinked at you absentmindedly, too caught up in his daze.

“Wonwoo?”

“Sorry—yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

Pressing your knees together, the wind fluttered the fabric of your silky olive dress, and he could tell you were getting cold.

“When you were at my apartment, apologizing to me about our fight, that was the first and only time I ever heard you mention your ex-girlfriend.” Clicking your nervous feet, you looked over his shadowy face and the moonlight dancing in his glasses, “was she your first love?”

Crushing his hands tight into each other, Wonwoo bit his lip. “Yeah.”

Keeping your eyeline steady, you nodded. “Was she… like… what did you love about her?”

He almost couldn’t breathe. “Everything.”

You frowned. “Even the bad stuff?”

“Yeah…” he mumbled, “even the bad stuff.”

It was very quiet for a moment, with you simply sitting in reflection and staring into the dark silhouettes of the trees. He was sure you already knew the answer to your initial question, although he understood that hearing him say it was different than infinitely assuming about a past that wasn’t yours. Wonwoo had been in love before, and then heartbroken down into little fragments of himself that he spent months soullessly dusting around. And somehow, he was in love again—a new love that felt so much different but still fit him so right.

“Hm…” you hummed.

Wonwoo placed his hand on your bare back, beginning to sweep his fingers up and down, sensing your skin quiver in response.

“It’s late,” he whispered, nudging his knee into yours and warming your ear with his breath, “I know you don’t want to go home, and that’s alright. I get it. But we should figure something out before my phone battery dies, yeah?” He proceeded to grab your hand and squeeze it. “I don’t wanna leave a pretty girl like you out in the cold and wet.”

When you looked at him, you were pouting, exhaustion shining on your face like the dew in the moonlit leaves. “I don’t want to go anywhere without you.” Your fingers gripped his impossibly tighter.

“Do you want to stay the night at my place?”

You snuggled your head into the crook between his jaw and shoulder, wrapping your arms around his elbow to hold him close. “Yes.”

“Well, I’ve got one call,” Wonwoo sighed, fishing out his phone and squinting against its lurid light, “better hope he fucking answers.”

Vernon was confused to say the least, beckoned down a random street at near midnight when he could be in bed with the girl he was happily feeling up just half an hour ago, until a certain phone call ruined it. Wonwoo could tell from the manner in which his friend’s heavily furrowed brow remained creased when he opened the vanilla Camry’s back door, allowing you to slide in first with your heels in hand while Wonwoo followed. Tugging the door shut, Wonwoo could then only smile at poor, disgruntled, face-studded Vernon who was continuing to inquisitively stare him down through the rear-view mirror as though there was something smeared across his cheek or stuck in his hair.

Perhaps it was the patches of dampness and dirt on Wonwoo’s suit and your once very elegant dress, but it didn’t matter anymore.

“So… uh… dinner went well, then?” Vernon asked in a big huff after no one offered to break the silence, slightly turning his head to analyze the backseat using his busted, buzzing ceiling light.

Wonwoo and you were pressed together. Both unreceptive.

“Woah. Stop talking over each other, guys,” he joked dryly.

“Couldn’t have gone better,” Wonwoo decided to say.

“… M’kay…” Vernon replied, still perplexed but probably sensing it was best to save all the questions for later. “Music?”

Wonwoo nodded and turned off the ceiling light. “Sure.”

That was the beginning and end of the conversation.

Vernon pulled out from Hillcrest, keeping his elbow against the half-opened window during the drive, meanwhile you were allowing your heavy eyes to at last flutter shut. Leaning your head against Wonwoo’s broad shoulder, he noticed that your fingers were playing with his—you had gently grabbed his thumb and started rubbing his pigmented scar in absent circles, massaging into all the weathered years spent scratching himself until his anxiety would peddle away. The lip liner was still smudged against his palm in a cherry-tinted blur that he never wanted to wash off.

Smiling, Wonwoo let his cheek sit atop your hair, sensing the delightful breeze from Vernon's window flow into the backseat.

He was glad he went to the dinner party.

“Here are the keys. This copper one here is for the shop. This blue one is my apartment key. Go inside and get warmed up. I’ll join you in a few, alright? Promise… be careful on the steps,” Wonwoo instructed after opening the car door, proceeding to wrap his keychain in your fingers once you had emerged into the wind and sodden air.

With the white heels strung through your arm, you nodded at him sleepily and walked up the three little stairs to the pottery shop.

After you disappeared inside, Wonwoo turned around and opened the passenger seat door, climbing back into his friend’s Camry kept stalled but running at the curb. At first, there was silence between them. They both gazed down through the illumination of the headlights washing out the empty street. Vernon then slid his hand off the steering wheel, letting it cascade through his messy black hair instead.

“Do I even wanna know what fuckin’ happened?” His friend asked, his head clunking back against the upholstered seat.

Wonwoo blinked down at his lap. He started to smile, feeling it creep along his mouth even though he knew how suspect it looked.

Then, Wonwoo chuckled.

“We ran out.”

He finally looked to Vernon, who was staring back with highly quirked eyebrows and a dropped jaw. After exchanging an incredulous glance with each other, the two boys were laughing and ripping apart the silence. Vernon crossed his arms, sunk further down in his seat.

“Never would I picture you doin’ that…” he said through a lazy grin, “runnin’ out with another dude’s girl is insane, can’t lie.”

Wonwoo rubbed a palm along his cheek, still fucking smiling. “Think he’s gonna beat my ass?”

Vernon stared at him, deadpanned in his expression. “Is that even a question, Glasses? I’d beat your ass. I don’t even have a girl.”

“I don’t care.”

“If he beats your ass?”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly, a hand was pushing against Wonwoo’s shoulder. Vernon was smirking at him hard, teething over his bottom lip.

“Damn. She’s got you by the scruff, huh?”

Wonwoo shrugged, beginning to shake his head. “You should see the way he treats her… there’s some weird ties between him and her family. I think he’s playing the long game… getting what we can while he can and then parading her around as a trophy or something. But she's miserable with him.” Running a thumb along his knuckles, Wonwoo grinned. “He can beat my ass if he wants to.”

Vernon clicked his tongue. “Well, just to float the idea, I’m s—”

“No,” quickly laughing away his friend’s questionable response, Wonwoo merely rubbed under his glasses and refused. “I’m not trying to get locked away for first degree murder. And neither are you.”

“I’m just tryin’ to say I’ve got you is all,” Vernon said with his usual nonchalance, as laid back as an ironing board, “but—you’re right. Save that for when I’m an actual drug lord. He’s not gettin’ anything from me. Not even a Flintstone gummy.”

“Well, I appreciate the favour. Sorry to interrupt.”

“Nah, I could tell it was somethin’ important,” Vernon excused, giving Wonwoo a comfortable smile, “s’not like I can’t ever get brain again. Your situation seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime thing.”

Looking back at the pottery shop and the single light within keeping everything aglow, Wonwoo wondered if you made it into his apartment okay. He was worried about leaving you on your own for too long, especially when taking into consideration the extremities of the dinner party (that hadn’t really been a dinner or a party when he thought about it). Rolling out his shoulders, he turned to Vernon again.

“She needs to eat something. I’ll order food. You want any?”

Vernon scrunched his face. “What—you’re askin’ me to come inside with you two? I’m not on real good terms with her, y’know that, right? Just ‘cause she’s fuckin’ with you doesn’t mean that for me."

“It won’t be like that.”

“How do y’know? You guys gossip about me?”

Wonwoo smiled, pushing up his glasses. “I just know.”

Vernon paused to think for a moment, his hand returned back to the steering wheel while sharp teeth pulled at the skin along his bottom lip. With just the edge to his face streaked in yellow light from the outside street lamp, it was difficult to interpret his mindset, although Wonwoo knew it was a done deal when Vernon removed the glittering keys from the ignition and the rumbling car at last went silent along the empty midnight street.

Besides, Wonwoo would pay for it all, anyway.

Vernon quietly trailed behind Wonwoo into the apartment, the front door left unlocked and the living area bathed by the warm-coloured light fixture but absent of your presence. His friend placed the car keys onto the coffee table with an uncharacteristic softness, and Wonwoo figured that Vernon was probably still feeling uncertain about spending time with you—which made sense—the last time Vernon had spoken to you (spoken probably wasn’t an accurate word) was the confrontation at the gas station where he feared you might light his hair on fire.

Though, when Wonwoo poked open his ajar bedroom door, he found you standing near his desk, peering across the walled corkboard and all its pinned photos from his life back in South Korea.

He flicked on the light, pulling out the deep blue darkness from the air, and smiled at you.

“Everything alright?”

With your arms folded, you seemed smaller than usual. “Yeah—sorry that I came in here without permission.”

He was quick to shake his head. “No big deal—you don’t need permission.”

You were silent for a few seconds, grinning to yourself, and then gestured to one of the glossy developed photos stuck to the cork.

“That’s Bohyuk?”

Wonwoo nodded, “yeah.”

He realized you hadn’t spent much time in his room over the months that you’d known each other. For the most part, Wonwoo would always be at your apartment, or some unique location necessary to your story-telling when he was still helping with the book. At one point it would have perturbed him to see you gazing along the finer details of his room so curiously. Now, however, he welcomed it.

Stuffing hands into his pockets, Wonwoo let you observe the corkboard, watching you with a very amorous, kind smile that he hadn’t even processed until his cheeks started flaring with a heated ache.

“Wonwoo?”

“Yeah?”

“… I’m hungry.”

Unable to flatten out his smile, Wonwoo walked over to you and smoothed his hand along the side of your face, then caressing his thumb underneath your twinkling eye and against your cheekbone.

“I know,” he murmured, “I’ll order food.”

“Chinese?”

“If that’s what you want, then I’ll make it happen.”

Delighted to see your expression brighten, Wonwoo at last removed his hand from your skin. He knew he shouldn’t touch you or look so fucking pathetically in-love into your eyes, but he didn’t care.

“Do you think I can shower? I want to take all this makeup off.”

“Yeah, of course. Go for—”

Suddenly, from the living room, there was a loud bang that distinctly sounded like Vernon plowing straight into something heavy.

“What was that?” You asked, covering your mouth.

Wonwoo chuckled, “Vernon. Hey—you alright?!”

“All good!!” His friend shouted back. “Just—how ‘bout don’t keep your fuckin’ weights right beside the couch, yeah? Almost broke my fuckin’ foot!”

“Oops.” Wonwoo shrugged very unapologetically, staring into your amused eyes and giggling together. “He’s gonna eat with us… he did a big favour coming down to get us and everything, you know?”

“That’s okay,” you answered, “I just want to shower.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll give you the room. Wear whatever you want. I’ll just take the keys so I can lock up downstairs.” He was nearly on his way out, but stopped abruptly. “Should we… uh… should I at least text Seokmin and tell him you’re safe? I mean, just in case—”

“Sure,” the response was quick and muttered with little care, “I’m sure they can surmise where I am, but you can do that, too.”

“Yeah, okay… well, I’ll leave you be. Food will probably be here by the time you’re out and dried off. I’ll make sure it doesn’t get cold.”

Finally, Wonwoo clicked his bedroom door shut. Keys in hand, he re-entered the living room to find Vernon plumped down on the couch with a pillow in his lap, all spread out like he owned the damn place, texting away on his phone. Wonwoo laughed as he walked by.

“Writing out your apology letter?”

“Somethin’ like that…” his friend mumbled, clearly more focused on his pixeled screen, “I might not be gettin’ that head after all.”

“Life’s all about sacrifices,” Wonwoo sighed while opening the front door, pausing briefly to mention, “we’re getting Chinese food by the way. She didn’t care that you’re staying. Anything you want?”

Vernon smiled while keeping his eyes trained to the phone. “No way. That’s a relief… n’yeah—I like the chicken balls with the sweet and sour sauce. Pork-fried rice is good, too. I’m not picky.”

“Noted.”

“So—wait—I have to ask, and you can tell me to fuck off if you want, but how did you become a drug dealer? Like, at what point did you even realize that was your… I don’t know… calling?”

Sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a carton of noodles in hand and a napkin splayed upon your bare lap, pointed chopsticks were being angled at Vernon from across the coffee table. He took a sip from his can of bright red soda, placing it back onto the coaster with a thud.

“Uh, fuck,” Vernon coughed, smiling subtly while beginning to pick through his own personal container of pork-fried rice, “well, I can answer it, I guess… do I get to ask a question in return?”

You grabbed the napkin, wiping off the sauce from your mouth.

“I’ll allow it.”

“Fair enough,” his friend answered.

Wonwoo had heard the story only once before during a smoke session on the apartment rooftop, though he doubted Vernon would trudge through all the details. Despite seeming like an open book who couldn't care less, there really were some sweet spots he didn’t like having prodded. Nonetheless, Wonwoo thought it was a good, earnest opening between the two of you, so he opted to stay silent while pulling the meat off his ribs with his teeth.

“Uh, I was a stubborn kid, let’s say that. Tried my hand at school but I could never get the hang of it. Could never keep a job long. My parents caught me usin’ once, weed and ecstasy, and they said if it happened again, I’m out.” Vernon fed himself another forkful of rice, taking a moment to swallow while you listened intently. “I thought I could keep it straight, but no luck. Yeah. They had no tolerance for it. I was out the next day. My mom was the most pissed, but she tries to reach out every now and then. I dunno... I feel done with ‘em, if I'm bein' honest. I’ve got somethin’ that works so I just run with it. The money speaks for itself so I can’t complain.”

As Wonwoo expected, it was the heavily watered-down version of everything that happened between Vernon and his family, however, it was enough to paint the picture. Taking a moment to slurp up some spicy noodles, you soon set the carton down and patted along your gradually swelling lips. The crumpled napkin was placed on the table.

“Yeah, I bet the money speaks for itself. You’ve got a bunch of stupidly rich university students on your roster. They go through just about everything they can get their hands on. It’s fucking insane.”

Vernon propped his elbows onto his knees, gathering more rice onto the plastic white fork while smirking at you knowingly.

“You’ve got that coke sniff, y’know?”

Wonwoo widened his eyes at Vernon, suspecting a wildfire.

But you merely shrugged, quite honest in your response.

“I know. I did it once with Mingyu, some friends, and I thought never again…” with a sigh, you massaged at your shoulder, staring off into a random spot that Wonwoo couldn’t pinpoint. “Mingyu was getting it for me at almost every party we went to. I don’t know. I thought, since he paid for it, since it’s right here, I might as well do it.”

Slipping the fork out from his mouth, Vernon grinned. “Coked-up sex is crazy. Especially when you've got the right cut. It hits.”

“Vernon,” Wonwoo immediately chirped at him while setting down his emptied container of food, his voice sounding particularly stern, like he was scolding a child for making an ignorant comment.

“What?” His friend laughed, raking a tattooed hand through his loose and shiny black hair. “It is. Feels like you’re on another planet.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just think a little before you speak, please.”

Again, Wonwoo was surprised to see your nonchalance.

“It’s okay. I know what you’re saying. I think… like… Mingyu only wanted me to have it for that reason—I’m making it sound like some non-consensual, pressured shit—it’s not,” you muttered, waving around your hand in dismissal, “I just… the thing is I don’t like how I feel afterward. But it was never enough for me to say that I didn’t want it. I liked that it would take me out of my head for a bit. My mind would stop running on overdrive.” Then, you pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. “The last time I did anything like that was the party at Seungcheol’s, though.”

Whenever the party was mentioned, Wonwoo would always bite down on his lip and tightly curl his fingers. He had discussed it with you in the past, beyond the summer evening spent at your apartment with a red velvet cupcake in between you and a painful, aching hug he could still feel all the warmth and regret to.

There were long, long phone conversations. And somewhere, stuffed in his mind, was the memory of you and Mingyu behind the door as he listened to every little sound—skin hitting skin, the desperation in your voice, wood smacking the wall.

“Yeah, is what it is,” Vernon replied. He pulled a toothpick out from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. “Do I get my question now?”

“Uh… sure.”

Wonwoo had almost missed you staring at him. There was a concernedness to it, but when he smiled back you seemed to breathe.

“Still think I’m a gigantic fuckin’ tool?”

Immediately, you started laughing. Wonwoo followed suit, on the brink of embarrassingly blowing out the soda he just sipped from in a big spray. He was actually quite relived that Vernon had picked a more light-hearted question rather than something intimate. His friend swirled the toothpick around with his tongue, continuing to smirk in confidence.

“Giggle away. I’m curious, is all.”

Kissing your teeth, you held Vernon’s coppery, honey eyes. “You are a tool, one-hundred percent… but, I think you know that about yourself. And, um, you’re a good friend to Wonwoo. So… I guess my opinions about you have shifted. Appearances are deceiving.”

Pleased with your candour, Vernon grabbed his drink, leaned against the recliner behind him, and nodded his head approvingly.

“That tickles my fancy well enough.”

"Don't you think you'll want to settle down eventually?" You asked.

Vernon scrunched his eyebrow. "What?"

"Like, what if you find a girl. A really nice girl who could change your perspective. Do you think you'd want to settle down?"

With a quick laugh, Vernon shook his head. "Nice girls don't use half their last pay check to buy drugs. It's business at the end of the day."

Seeming skeptical, your eyes narrowed. "Right..."

"Vernon has his mind set on very specific things," Wonwoo smiled.

Straightening out the large shirt that draped around your frame—another garment belonging to Wonwoo that you had pulled from his dresser—you glanced between each boy and smiled.

“So... now I'm curious. How did this unlikely pairing meet?”

As Vernon was busy with navigating his toothpick, Wonwoo decided to tell the story, prompting him to sit up straight and alleviate his spine from being crooked against the hard bottom of the couch.

“I was convinced into attending a little New Year’s Eve party thing by these guys I don’t talk to anymore. Spent about half an hour wandering the halls, doing aimless laps, hating every second of it, debating if I should just take off. Not like anyone would notice. Then I bump into this guy—” Wonwoo nodded at Vernon, “—who was all tattooed and pierced up with this girl all over him. She was on the kitchen counter, one hand gripping his bicep while she was laying hickies to his fucking neck from behind.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Who was that?”

Wonwoo shrugged. “Fuck if I know. Vernon?”

“Uh—I don’t know if I remember, honestly. She used to buy poppers off me like every damn week so I called her Poppy. That’s not her real name, though. She’s long gone. Moved cities months ago.”

“Yeah, well, he told me I looked like a lost ghost. Asked if I wanted a swisher. I agreed for some reason, and we went out back.”

Brushing a hand down your neck, you giggled. “A lost ghost?”

Vernon nodded, folding his arms.

“Yeah. Glasses always used to have that look to him. Dead man walkin’ kinda thing. Just wanderin’ around with no purpose.”

Wonwoo hoarsely chuckled at his friend, “jeez—thanks.”

“You can’t deny it.”

“I know. But to be fair, I was fucking going through something.”

“Mmhm, that’s why I took you under my wing,” Vernon sang, his eyes swimming with their usual gold-tinted mischief, “I could just tell you needed some guidance. Gave him the swisher of eternal friendship.”

“Is that what you call it?” Wonwoo huffed sarcastically.

“I call it many different things.”

You smiled sweetly at Wonwoo while your fingers played with the long cuff on the borrowed t-shirt. “Whatever it was, I guess it turned into something pretty good... and, Vernon, I am sorry for how I acted at the gas station. There was just a lot going through my mind.”

True to his casual, untroubled nature, Vernon swung his head dismissively while letting an arm collapse across his knee, the toothpick now in his hand and being spun between his ringed fingers. “No, you’re good. Don't worry 'bout it. It was just ‘cause you care n' shit. I get that.” Quirking his expression in an endearing manner, he proceeded to flash you a solid grin. “You didn’t singe my hair off so, I’ve got no grudge.”

You laughed, “I wouldn’t have actually done anything to you.”

“Eh, it’s hard to tell, isn’t it?” Vernon answered in a smirk.

Reaching for your drink, you sipped from it and then snuggled the can between your criss-crossed legs. Wonwoo examined that very intriguing smile opening its way across your mouth like a spring blossom, wanting to know the exact moment that sparked it.

A quiet pause passed, and then you were sighing with bliss behind it—that relaxed kind of sigh when everything seemed to click.

“It’s nice hanging out with you guys…” you murmured, staring across the coffee table scattered with ripped-open sauce packets, empty cardboard containers, wood chopsticks, and unfurling napkins. “It just feels lighter… I don’t know… making friends has always been so tough for me. The right friends, I mean. Friends that actually feel like friends.”

Wonwoo pinched his lip in his teeth.

“It can take a while before you hit the right people.”

Vernon shrugged, concealing a burp that had him rubbing down his broad chest. “If we’re all friends, then we’ve gotta be the weirdest fuckin’ collaboration of people I’ve ever seen.”

You snickered into your hands while Wonwoo lounged an elbow onto the couch to help prop up his head, rolling his eyes toward Vernon.

Though, Wonwoo could easily understand what Vernon was getting at. You, a popular and high-fashion campus honorary who at first glance seemed to have very little patience for anyone but yourself, followed by the guttural and unbothered drug dealer without a care in the world, beside an anxiety-ridden hermit just trying to exist and somehow not turn to a puddle in the process. Vernon was right—it was a strange grouping of people suckled together despite their completely different paths and choices. Somewhere, somehow, though, there was a connection.

Like a fated string weaving everything into a knot.

Since Wonwoo had already ordered the Chinese food fairly late, it was quite difficult to find an ice cream place in the area that was open past midnight. Vernon and his sudden craving for cookie dough had offered the idea, and you easily caved, which led Wonwoo on a spiral of searching through his phone. Unfortunately, the only ice cream they could order was vanilla soft-serve cones from a twenty-four-hour fast-food chain which arrived to his apartment dripping. But no one really cared, and Wonwoo threw on the television for some background noise.

The conversations lasted until about two in the morning.

Vernon had not so gracefully taken up the entire couch, his face shoved into the embroidered pillow, an arm left dangling limp over the edge, and a smear of soft-serve dried to his cheek. You and Wonwoo were sitting side by side on the floor, a blanket spread around your shoulders with your knee spilled onto his lap, attempting to finish up the random movie that he couldn’t even remember playing. When the credits began rolling, it took him a moment to process that the drama flick was even over. Your head was tucked against his shoulder, eyes shut but still twitching against the dull, meek light flooding from the screen.

He placed his hand on your bare thigh, fingers stretching eager over the warm and soft skin to carefully grip it and give you a squeeze.

Then, with his lips feathering at your forehead, he mumbled your name to get you awake. Wonwoo did feel somewhat guilty about stirring you, but he’d rather you have a comfortable sleep on his bed than the living room floor. He continued to rub your thigh nice and slow, watching your eyelids flicker open and squint at him through the dark room. There was a shallow grin that you gave him, full of contentment.

“You’re all fuzzy…” you yawned, proceeding to rub at your eye.

“It’s late,” he answered quietly, almost whispering, “I think I should get you to bed. You’ll be much comfier in my room.”

“Is Vernon asleep?”

“Mmhm.”

Turning back to glance at the couch, you yawned again.

“… Oh… so, we’re going to your room?”

“Yeah… c’mon, I’ll help you up.”

Wonwoo didn’t turn on the light in his bedroom since there was already a small separation in the curtains, allowing just the right amount of moonlight through to outline everything around him in bluish-silver.

You sat down on his bed, letting your fingers travel along the sheets to feel all the slight rumples and divots, only to look up at Wonwoo with a tired smile and sincere, blinking, gorgeous eyes that felt akin to a gut punch. As much as he wanted it—needed it—Wonwoo knew that he couldn’t sleep next to you. He couldn’t trust himself. He couldn’t fathom having you so fucking close in the intimate, cocooning darkness and not being able to squeeze his cold hands along every perfect part of you.

But you weren’t making it easy.

In fact, you were making it excruciatingly hard.

“Are you not going to lie down with me?”

Wonwoo felt the twig snap in his chest. You wouldn’t stop staring up at him through those wispy eyelashes and nibbling on your lip.

“I’ve got the recliner in the living room…” he could hardly choke it out. There was so much heat in his body that he could melt.

“Why sleep there? The bed is big enough.”

His deep voice twisted into a laugh he couldn’t avoid. “Yeah, the bed’s not the issue… uh, it’s fine, though. The recliner’s nice.”

He took a step back, but then you had grabbed his wrist.

“Wonwoo,” you said his name in a tender, breathy, desperate sort of way that sent his heart shattering to his feet, your eyes glistening through the sparse light like two comets, “I don’t want to sleep alone.”

Fuck—it was all he could think—fuck, fuck, fuck.

With your fingers still wrapped to his wrist, Wonwoo pushed his hand gently against the side of your face. He was closer to you now, applying a soft pressure to angle your head up at him. You were breathing thick per every second that passed, holding his eye contact without one fracture, smiling arch. Wonwoo wanted to drink you.

Leaning into his palm, you swallowed and squeaked, “please?”

His thumb was on your chin. Right under your bottom lip.

“Fuck, you can't look at me like that…” Wonwoo rasped in a low, hushed voice that was struggling not to crack.

Truly, he meant it.

Your hand slid further along his wrist, almost tickling him.

“Ple—”

Immediately, Wonwoo pressed his thumb past your bottom lip and onto the ridge of your lower teeth, stifling that dangerous little word before it could hit his ear the wrong way and render him spineless.

“No more, okay?” He murmured, slowly sliding the digit from your warm, damp mouth, feigning obliviousness to your thighs clamping together and the manner in which your fingernails dug at his skin.

There was another moment of intense, humid silence while he wiped the wetness against the edge of your jaw.

“Seriously,” Wonwoo firmed up his voice, “no more.”

When you at last seemed compliant, nodding, Wonwoo let his hand drift from your heated-up face. You stayed in place, quiet as ever, on the edge of his bed, watching him disappear through the doorway.

As he collapsed onto the recliner and pulled the blanket once pooled on the floor over his body, Wonwoo didn’t even bother shutting his eyes or removing his glasses. Instead, he stared up at the popcorn ceiling, letting his heart thump, thump, thump and his mind wander until he naturally couldn’t fight the imminent feeling of sleep.

It certainly didn’t help that you had wandered into his dreams—dreams that he should probably keep to himself, warped fully by desire and longing.

—END OF PART FIVE.

[mlqueen89]

Four | Boundaries

Are there some aces up your sleeve? Have you no idea that you're in deep? I've dreamt about you nearly every night this week How many secrets can you keep? 'Cause there's this tune I found That makes me think of you somehow an' I play it on repeat

Do I Wanna Know by The Arctic Monkeys

pairing: jake “hangman” seresin / ofc (top gun: maverick)

rating: 18+ (minors dni)

Warnings/triggers: smut in overall series, mentions of parent death/absence, swearing (let me know if i missed any!)

word count: 8,274 summary: the one where ellie assembles the avengers her team and pulls back the curtain on her tech. jake switches up his approach and ellie grapples with early push back from the pilots. A/N: this chapter and the previous chapter were originally one chapter, but my magnanimous beta kindly told me to chop it in two, which left some breathing room for the wonderful opening scene, of which i’m so incredibly proud. and then i let my fingers go wild, and this chapter got split in two. basically, it’s so clear at this point that i’m gonna need more than 10 chapters to tell jake and ellie’s story properly. these kids are just the most fun, but also, the most stubborn.

this one is plot heavy. this whole chapter (technically 4 & 5) was the most exciting and fun chapter i've written for jake and ellie’s story so far, i hope you enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it. i've added a bunch of terms to the glossary, so feel free to head there if there’s something you’re not sure of terminology wise. i really wanted to make this authentic – ya know, as authentic as fanfiction could be. ❥ playlist ♡ masterlist ♡ taglist ♡ glossary of terms ♡ previous chapter ♡ next chapter ❥ 

Midway Park, Lemoore, California — 2005 

The early morning October air was crisp, carrying the faint smell of fresh cut grass and rubber tires as families gathered around the makeshift track for the annual soapbox derby.  

Ellie clutched her helmet under one arm, the other hand resting on the sleek grey soapbox car she and her dad had worked on for weeks with interspersed help from one or more of his old wingmen. Its reflective paint gleamed under the sunlight, a perfect replica of his old F-14 Tomcat, right down to the call sign, now replaced with her name and RIO painted on with the steady hand of her uncle Wolfman. 

She’d excitedly run the race in her head as she tried and failed to sleep, her eyes scanning over every detail of her helmet sitting on her dresser across the room and the olive one-piece flight suit hanging behind her door in the dim glow of the moonlight seeping in through the cracks in her slatted blinds. She hadn’t even eaten her whole breakfast that morning, partly because Wolfman had cracked the egg wrong in the pan and there were shells to pick out of the scrambled eggs, but mostly because her stomach tossed. Her legs swinging impatiently under the table as she pushed her food around her plate and watched her dad read the paper and sip his coffee like he had all the time in the world.  

“Alright, Ellie, here’s the deal, kiddo,” her dad said, crouching to her level. In his aviators, Ellie could see the reflection of her wide eyes before she took a look at the lineup of cobbled together cars and the other kids crowded around the roped off track. “The under-10 category?” he waved his hand, dismissive, “that’s baby stuff. You’re better than that.”  

Ellie frowned, her small hands gripping the curved edge of her old ski helmet, scrawled with uneven, bubbly kid letters RIO. “But I am under 10. I’m eight and a half and...” Ellie paused to count on her fingers, her pink nail polish chipped and barely there, “... two days!”  

Rick tilted his head toward his wingman, Leonard “Wolfman” Wolfe, who stood nearby with a clipboard and a devil-may-care smirk. “Not today, Rio. Today, you’re 10 and a half—officially. Right, Wolfman?”  

Wolfman tapped the clipboard with a pen, his mischievous grin widening. “Right-o, born two years earlier than the records say, 1994. Funny how paperwork can get all... mixed up.” His hand waved in the air, a magician performing a disappearing act, shaking an etch-a-sketch.  

Ellie’s eyes widened as her gaze shifted between the two men. “Dad, is that… allowed?”  

Her dad chuckled and ruffled her hair playfully. “Let’s just say it’s a tactical adjustment. Mid-flight maneuver. Trust me, you’re ready for the big leagues.” He crouched closer, lowering his voice. “You wanna race against kids who can barely steer, or you wanna take on the best and show them what the Nevens are made of?” Her dad tapped the patch with the wings stitched to the left side of her olive coloured jumpsuit, the last name Neven, E. embroidered there.  

Ellie’s lips twitched into a gap-toothed smile, her nerves melting under her dad’s infectious confidence, the feeling of pride blooming in her chest. “The best.”  

She reached up to touch the patch, her tiny fingers grazing the fine stitching. Ellie, her dad and Wolfman had hovered over her mom’s shoulder as Ellie’s thrift store coveralls turned flight suit passed under the thumping needle and thread of her mom’s sowing machine, each stitch pinning the embroidered patch to her uniform. She’d felt the importance of it then and now she carried it like a plate of armour. 

“That’s my girl,” her dad beamed widely before he stood again, slapping Wolfman on the back. “Alright, make it official, Wolfe. She’s in the higher category.” 

Wolfman offered a half-salute before he scribbled something on the form tacked to the clipboard and stepped up to the registration table, where a volunteer in a bright yellow shirt shuffled through forms. “We’ve got an entry for the 10-and-up category,” he said, sliding the clipboard across the table with a pop of the chewing gum in his mouth, a wry smile on his lips.  

The volunteer, a woman in her mid-forties, frowned, gathering the clipboard with a wary look at Wolfman before she redirected her green eyes to squint at the paper. “Eleanor Neven? Didn’t she race in the under-10 category last year?” The woman’s eyes passed between Wolfman and Rick and then stood slightly to peek at Ellie over the edge of the table before they returned to the form, her finger tapping at the birthdate, skeptical.  

Rick flashed a dazzling smile, the aviators reflecting the woman’s face back at her as he clicked his tongue. “Kids grow up fast, don’t they? She’s been eating her Wheaties.” For effect, he patted the top of Ellie’s head and pulled her to his side.  

“Plus, last year was a mistake. Wrong birthdate on the form. Happens all the time with military families. You know how it is—paperwork gets shuffled around, lost.” Wolfman added smoothly, leaning against the table as a line formed behind him with other families waiting to register.  

The volunteer hesitated, glancing between the two men again before she sighed, unclipping the form from the clipboard before she slid it into the appropriate pile and began gathering the numbered aprons. “Well… if the birthdate checks out—” 

“It does,” Rick said firmly, all the while his smile never wavered. “I triple-checked it myself. Wolfman here looked it over too. We were both there when she was born. She’s ten and ready to roll.”  

The volunteer’s eyes narrowed, her gaze passing from her dad then to Wolfman before she quietly handed over the documentation.  

Ellie watched the exchange for a moment before she reached up and tugged on her dad’s sleeve as Wolfman collected the stamped form and they stepped away for the next family to register. “Dad, what if they find out? Isn’t this cheating?”  

Rick crouched again, resting a hand on her shoulder as Wolfman crouched behind her, clipping the numbered bib there. “Rio, here’s the thing about flying—or racing,” he reached out to pat the edge of the soapbox plane’s greyed body, “sometimes, you gotta bend the rules a little to get to where you’re going. It’s not about cheating—it’s about knowing you’ve got what it takes, even if the rules don’t think so. Pushing against the limits a bit so we know where the edge is for next time. Tell you what, when we see Uncle Mav, we can ask him about it, huh?”  

Over her shoulder, Wolfman snorted loudly, before he coughed, clearing his throat as Rick shot him a look before he moved on to wrap a numbered arm band around Ellie’s bicep.  

Ellie’s gaze flicked to the track, where older kids were already testing their cars, their faces set with confidence. She squared her shoulders, set her jaw and nodded, though her fingers fiddled with the straps of the helmet tucked under her arm. “Okay, Dad. Let’s do it.”  

“Atta girl,” Rick said, standing and saluting her before he clapped his hands together, rubbing them in anticipation. “Now, get ready to smoke ‘em.”  

They wheeled the soapbox to the race area, Ellie’s fingers tapping out on the outside of the helmet under her arm, her heart beating hard in her small chest. Instinctively, Ellie walked around the soapbox car, her fingers brushing the frame.  

“Always do your preflight before boarding,” her dad had been gazing at her in the rearview at the red light two intersections before the race grounds. 

“Visual 360, fuel and instrument check.” Ellie had nodded, listing off the checklist; her neck craned from the back seat to see if she could scope out any other racers headed to the track. She unbuckled her seat belt to slide closer to the center console before Wolfman threw her a look over his shoulder. 

“Seat belt in this aircraft, kid.” He tutted at her, sliding his aviators down his nose as he popped his gum, pausing on filling out the registration forms in his lap, “you think we’re rule breakers?” 

“We’re not?” 

“Rule benders,” Wolfman corrected, levelling her with a look until she slid back into her seat and buckled up with a click before he pushed his glasses back up and turned his eyes ahead, “we prefer the term rule benders.” 

Climbing into the soapbox, Ellie settled into the low seat as her dad crouched beside the car, sliding the helmet over her head and clipping the strap under her chin. Wolfman leaned forward and tapped dutifully on the top of the helmet, as her dad adjusted it, tugging at the chin strap sharply. Wolfman grinned at her, but when he spoke, it was for his wingman. “She’s ready for this, you think?”  

Ellie’s eyes found her dad’s through the clear visor as he snapped it down over her eyes, his features softened as she smiled her gap-toothed smile at him and adjust the helmet around her head. “She’s a Neven, Wolfman. She was born ready. Right kiddo?”  

“So, Tilly’s given the a-okay, then?”  

Ellie didn’t miss the look her dad threw at his WSO over his shoulder. 

Wolfman raised his hands and chuckled. “Fair enough. Let’s hope she doesn’t notice we didn’t tighten the steering bolts all the way.”  

Rick’s eyes widened. “Wait, what?”  

“Relax, Hollywood. I’m kidding.” Wolfman chuckled, clapping him on the back. “Mostly.”  

Her dad groaned as the announcer called for racers to line up and he pushed her car onto the pitched ramp, the ready position. Ellie gripped the wheel as her front tires settled against the gate, the countdown echoing overhead.  

Ten.  

Nine. 

“Preflight checks complete, Lieutenant Neven?” He asked, standing at attention beside the soapbox, his voice calm and steady as the countdown reached the last eight seconds. 

Eight.  

Seven. 

“Preflight checks complete.” Ellie’s foot tapped on the break and twisted the steering wheel, leaning over to watch the tires pivot on spot. “Pattern clear?” 

Six. 

Five. 

“Pattern clear, aviator.” 

Four. 

Three. 

“Requesting clearance for take-off, sir.” 

Two. 

“Clearance granted, Lieutenant Neven.” 

One. 

“Go get ‘em, Rio,” she heard him whisper as he leaned over, pressing a kiss to his fingers and slapping them on the call sign stuck onto the front of her helmet. “Let ‘er rip, kid.”  

The gate in front of Ellie’s car dropped, her wheels moving forward and the soapbox rolling down the pitched track. Despite herself, she gave out a squeal of excitement as she gained speed, the wind picking up and whipping the strands of hair that escaped from under her helmet around her face. 

The world around her blurred, the orange, red and yellow hues of fall rushing by her in a wash of colour, thrill of the speed and the race flooding her senses. For a moment, the sound of the wind and the beating of her heart, she felt like she was flying, a small dot in an endless blue sky. Hollywood and Rio.  

On the second turn, as she broke from the pack of other racers, Ellie felt the change, the sudden increase in speed as the wheel in her hands vibrated and rumbled, wobbled and jammed, harder to steer. But then the hill grew steeper, and her soapbox car picked up more speed than she expected. Ellie’s heart jumped into her throat as she tried to remember what her dad had said about staying steady, about procedure if she came up on a problem with the steering. The third and final turn came fast—too fast—and Ellie leaned into it hard, pulling the stiff wheel as far to the right as she could muscle, but she felt when the car beneath her veered sharply, suddenly uncontrollable. When the front wheels hit a natural dip and then sudden bump in the track, Ellie felt it in her stomach. 

The next few seconds were a blur. Ellie’s grip on the steering wheel slipped, the wheel jerking to the right. Ellie felt the soapbox pitch before she left the seat inside, the sting of pavement rubbing a hole in the arm of her flight suit, hot and raw. In an instant, she felt the sharp pain shoot up her arm from her elbow as she tumbled awkwardly, the world around her spinning. 

The prickle of the hay bale stuck through the back of her clothing as the shooting pain in her arm intensified, the world stilled as she looked up at the blue sky above. Around her, she heard the hum of the wheels passing her and the eruption of cheers as the racers crossing the finish line. 

The taste like a handful of pennies in her mouth came next and when her hand went to her lips, it came back red. From where she lay on the grass, she could see the canopy of autumn leaves clinging to the branches, the blue sky filling in the rest of the mural overhead. 

Her head was spinning, and tears welled up in her eyes, leaking down the side of her eyes into her ears, as the pain in her arm intensified. She tried to sit up but whimpered, clutching her arm close to her chest. The finish line taunted her in the near distance, the checkered banner billowing lazily in the breeze. 

Suddenly, her dad was there, dropping to a knee beside her. “Ellie! Hey, hey—are you okay?” His voice was panicked, but his hands were gentle as he scooped her up into his arms, holding her close to his chest. 

Ellie sniffled, tears rolling down her cheeks despite her best attempts to hold it together, the pain in her arm and the sting of losing when she had been so close, the perfect storm that threatened to break her composure. “I-I broke it, Dad,” she managed through choked sobs, her arm cradled against her body, her breaths coming in gulps. As if an afterthought, she traced her front teeth with her tongue and hiccupped a small sob when she found a larger gap there than had been before, “and I lost a tooth.”  

Her dad’s face softened with a mix of something Ellie couldn’t quite map, his brow pulling together into a line as he brushed hair away from her face, tucked it up the lip of the helmet still stuck on her head. “Aw, kiddo, I’m so sorry. We’ll get you fixed up, okay? Let’s get you to the hospital.” 

Shifting her, he fished the car keys out of his pocket and handed them to Wolfman who, without a word, took off toward the parking lot at a clipped pace.  

Ellie could only nod weakly, burying her face in his chest, the familiar scent of his aftershave and coffee settling her, cocooning her. Even through the pain, there was a comfort in his arms, the sound of his heart pounding in his chest, thumping against her tear-stained cheek centering her like the tick of a metronome guiding her back to calm. 

As they headed to the parking lot, each bump or bounce of her dad’s gait a painful jolt to her arm, pushing a hiss from her lips, she heard him whisper softly, against the side of her helmet. “You were so brave, Rio. I’m so proud of you.” 

Ellie nodded with a sniffle as the sound of Wolfman pulling up the van closer, brakes squealing, drew her attention. “Mom’s gonna be mad.”  

“Oh, don’t worry about your mom, kid.” Ellie watched as her dad tried to laugh, but there was also a hesitation there that stopped his lips from turning up into his usually contagious, mischievous grins. “Your mom’s not gonna believe I let you get behind the wheel on the 10 and over track.” 

Ellie let out a soft, watery laugh. Tilly Neven wasn’t one to trifle with. “You’re in trouble.”  

Rick chuckled this time, the sound reverberating through her as he stepped over the curb into the parking lot and Wolfman slid open the door to the backseat, for a second, her dad held her a bit tighter. “Yeah, well… wouldn’t be the first time. Won’t be the last.” 

Ellie had never been good at public speaking. She’d never joined a debate club or been the first to volunteer her ideas if it meant a presentation.  

Once she’d received the text from Tony, confirming the tech upgrade and the program installation in the jets, she’d relaxed, but only slightly. It still meant that she had to do the part of her job she disliked the most, “the elevator pitch”. 

She’d have to face the men who would be flying her tech and say Hi, I’ve added a hunk of metal and some wires into your jets. It’s going to help, trust me. Ask them to put their trust in her, their lives in her hands. It won’t malfunction according to these computer simulations. It won’t leave you hanging in a dogfight. Pinky promise. 

She didn’t expect it to go off without a hitch. She didn’t expect them to cheer and lift her up on their shoulders. 

All she needed was a chance, a small bit of faith before they leapt. 

Ellie stood at the front of the briefing room, her hands resting lightly on the podium, her gaze scanning the faces of the four pilots clad in green flight suits seated before her. The air smelled of stale coffee and old leather, the scent of a room that had seen countless debriefings, strategy meetings, and quiet moments of reckoning.  

She had spent years developing this technology, refining it, arguing for its place, its relevance, in the future of aviation. She’d tweaked it here, twisted its usefulness there, bridged a gap when she’d been turned down at one turn and climbed through windows when doors closed in her face. Now, standing here in front of the men who would be the first to fly with it, she had to vault this hurdle too, convince them it was worth trusting with their lives. Standing here, pitching for their faith in her, was more nerve wracking than presenting in front of Admiral Simpson and Rear Admiral Stark. 

Taking a breath, Ellie steadied herself, ignored how Teak and Lover scuffled between each other in their seats, how Hangman’s eyes never left her, the feeling of his gaze, eyes focused, hot on her even when she wasn’t looking at him. Rooster sat behind him and kicked his chair with a well-aimed boot, the sudden jolt of his seat enough to knock Hangman out of his stare. 

She didn’t ask for their attention, didn’t wait for them to notice that she was ready to begin. With a click of the remote in her hand, the screen behind her flickered, displaying the blueprint layout of an F-18, its labelled components taken straight from the NATOPS handbook. “Gentlemen. I assume Captain Mitchell has already given you a brief overview of what to expect, so I won’t waste your time on introductions or small talk and formalities.”  

From the corner of her eye, Ellie could see Mav fold his arms across his chest, his eyes trained on her. He’d given her the floor immediately without preface, without introduction. 

“You’ll recognize this as the wireframe of your F-18,” Ellie continued before she clicked to the next slide. An overlay slid into place, the standing systems overlaid with a complex web of radar signals, AI pathways, and electronic warfare integrations—her tech, on full display, laid bare. If she was expecting a reaction, they didn’t give her one, just silence. 

“What you’re looking at is the next step in avionics evolution,” she pressed on, her voice steady, turning toward her audience. “A fully integrated, adaptive system that combines radar, AI-driven threat assessment, electronic warfare, and seamless data-sharing into a single interface. Instead of relying on separate, often outdated systems, this package will allow you to fight, evade, and communicate with a level of efficiency we’ve never seen before.” 

If her heart wasn’t beating in her ears, she would hear the silence that met her words. She’d recognize it as the silence that wasn’t the good kind, the kind of silence that led her to over-explain herself. But she didn’t. 

Rooster, sat forward, his forearms on the table as he studied the schematic with an unreadable expression. Lover was nodding slightly as he squinted between the screen and scribbling notes in a small flip notebook he’d pulled from the breast pocket of his flight suit. Hangman lounged in his seat, fingers laced behind his head, smirking, carefully flipping a toothpick in his mouth. And Teak—Teak sat back, arms folded over his chest, a look Ellie recognized as the tell-tale look of skepticism written across his face. 

Ellie paused, her eyes drawn down to her notes. Pause for pushback, she’d written. She didn’t have to pause for long., 

“So, what?” Teak drawled, tilting his head slightly, waving at the screen. “You want us to trust some... glorified autopilot to make our decisions for us?” 

Unflinchingly, Ellie met his gaze, actually looking at him for the first time. Teak’s jaw flexed; the sharp lines of his cheekbones and nose lending him a striking appearance. His eyes, an intriguingly particular shade of cerulean, not unlike a clear September sky, studied Ellie as she took her time to process the response. “No. I want you to have every possible advantage when you’re up there. The AI isn’t replacing you—it’s making sure you have all the information you need, exactly when you need it.” 

Ellie clicked the remote again, and the screen shifted to a simulation. Two aircraft maneuvered through a contested airspace, one operating on traditional avionics, the other using her system.  

The first fighter responded only to what its sensors could detect, reacting to threats as they appeared through visuals or radar. The second fighter’s system anticipated missile locks before they happened, evaded before the pilot even registered the danger visually, and counter-jammed enemy radar before the target was painted. “It’s all based on data, numbers. But right now, those numbers look very good,” her eyes turned to the screen and watched the simulated planes for a moment, observed as they streaked through the mock mission, data readings popping up on what looked to be a pilot Heads-Up Display. 

“This system isn’t meant to fly for you,” she continued, turning back now as the simulations continued to play on loop on the screen behind her. “But it will see threats before you do, adjust possible countermeasures dynamically, and ensure your radar stays clear even in a fully jammed environment. In short? It gives you an advantage over the enemy, helps make sure you have a better chance at coming home.” 

Hangman broke the silence next, the sound of his low whistle drawing Ellie’s attention as he leaned back in his chair, his open legged posture, relaxed as ever. “Well, damn. That’s one hell of a sales pitch.” 

Rooster, his eyes still flicked across the data readings displayed on the screen behind Ellie, his fingers tapping absently against the table. “How fast can it adapt if an enemy starts throwing curveballs? Let’s say a bogey or SAMs or laser guided missile systems.” 

Ellie clicked again, dismissing the simulation and bringing up another set of figures. All colourful charts and data sets. She’d come prepared for this line of questioning.  

“Milliseconds. It’s built on machine learning models trained on thousands of real-world engagements. The more it’s used, the smarter it gets. If someone tries to jam your frequency in one way, it recalibrates instantly. If an unknown aircraft enters your airspace, it cross-references flight patterns to find weaknesses, predict its next move before you would have to react. It shows you possibilities.” 

“So, you’re saying it levels the playing field against fifth-gen threats?” Lover was sitting up now, his pen tapping against his open notebook, his broad shoulders rolling forward as he pointed at the data set. Ellie thought she read excitement in his hazel eyes as he thumbed his nose. 

“I’m saying it not only evens the playing field, but it tilts it in your favour.” 

Silence stretched between them, charged with something between curiosity and uncertainty. 

“Sounds like a lot of fancy tech that can get hacked, fail, or—oh, I don’t know—override pilot input at the worst possible time,” Teak said flatly, Ellie could almost detect the chortle behind his words. Convincing Teak would be a challenge. 

Ellie forced herself to pivot—she had dealt with resistance before from officers ranking higher than Teak. Early on, she had learned pilots didn’t like change, especially not changes that altered the way they had trained, the way they had survived. Wolfman had told her as much the first time she’d passed the idea by him, Mav had all but told her what to expect from every level of Naval officer, so she wasn’t about to let skepticism derail the entire briefing. Skepticism was a given. 

“It has redundancy systems,” she said evenly. “If one function is compromised, the AI reallocates resources to keep the essentials running. If something catastrophic happens? Manual override is always in your hands. It’s a tool, an aid, not a replacement for skill.” 

Teak scoffed before he loudly popped his chewing gum. “Yeah, well, forgive me if I don’t put my life in the hands of an algorithm.” 

Hangman chuckled, tilting his head toward Teak who sat a row behind and to his left, a lazy grin growing on his face. “Teak, buddy. You sound like my granddad bitching about GPS when it first came out. Relax, old man.” 

Rooster huffed out a quiet laugh. Lover fought a smirk. Teak’s jaw ticked as if he swallowed his words. 

Ellie let the moment settle before she spoke again.  

“Look, I know this is all new. And I know change isn’t easy to trust. But the fact is this system isn’t here to hold your hand. It’s here to keep you alive in environments where traditional systems would leave you blind, deaf, and dead in the water.” 

She let her words sink in before she continued. “I don’t expect you to trust it yet. That’s what testing is for. But I do expect you to fly with it and see for yourselves, let it speak for itself.” 

Ellie scanned the pilots before her; Teak’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing more. Rooster sat back, nodding slightly, still mulling it over. Lover shrugged, casting a quick look around the room, eager. Hangman just grinned, his eyes never leaving her. 

“Well, sweetheart,” he said, the amusement in his tone clear as he adjusted his seat in the chair, “I do love a good test drive.” 

Ellie rolled her eyes and ignored him, clicking the remote one last time to pull up the first test flight parameters. 

“Good,” she said. “Because you’re all wheels up in about 30 minutes.” 

Maverick clapped his hands together, rising from his chair. “Alright, aviators; suit up and make your way to the tarmac. Let’s see what this tech can really do.” 

The room stirred to life, chairs scraping against the floor as the pilots stood, some stretching, others already discussing the upcoming test amongst themselves. Ellie stayed put, gathering her laptop and notes, methodically shutting everything down. 

The pilots filtered out one by one. Rooster passed the podium, tapping out a quick rhythm on the edge and shooting her a small nod on his way out, and Lover muttered something about looking forward to seeing it in action as he tucked his notepad away before air drumming with his pen. Teak, however, barely spared her a glance as he brushed past, his shoulder grazing hers a bit too close for comfort. 

Ellie exhaled, letting the tension in her shoulders ease. That had gone about as well as she could’ve hoped, a little (expected) pushback, but three out of four pilots being open to try it wasn’t too bad of a ratio. She’d had worse before. 

“Nice job, Rigby.” 

She blinked, glancing up. Hangman was still there, standing a few feet away, hands on his hips, the toothpick sticking out the corner of his mouth, and that ever-present smugness dialed down to something… different.  

Ellie hesitated before she responded. “Thanks,” she said, closing her laptop. “Though I’m sure you’ll find something to critique once you’re in the air.” 

Hangman chuckled, that familiar twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart, sounds like you know me better than you think.” But there was something almost appreciative in his expression, something that lingered a beat too long. 

Ellie’s fingers curled around her MacBook, as something unreadable settling in her stomach. 

Then, movement near the door caught her eye, breaking her from the moment. 

Teak. 

He hadn’t left after all. He lingered just outside of the briefing room in the hall, his sharp gaze passing between her and Hangman pointedly, assessing. Ellie wasn’t sure how long he’d been there, but judging by the way his expression flickered—something tight, something almost knowing—he’d seen enough to form some kind of opinion. 

Jake winked at her, clapping a hand on the edge of the podium as he stepped past her, “see you on the tarmac, Rigby.” 

Ellie forced a nod, schooling her expression as Hangman stepped out, his hand grabbing Teak’s shoulder and giving it a shake, “c’mon granddad, I’ll show you how all those buttons work.” 

Teak shook Hangman off, his lips pulled into a tight line as he lingered, just a second longer. Ellie’s eyes met his for a beat, a moment when he held it. Then, just as quickly, he was gone. 

From the control tower’s observation deck, headset on, fingers drumming against her folded arms, Ellie listened the comms chatter. 

From her vantage point, she could see the three jets taxi into position, the Californian sun sitting high in the blue, cloudless sky. It was as perfect a condition as she could have hoped for, at least the weather was cooperating. Around her, the Control Tower hummed with the activity of the staff, coordinating clearance with the ground crew and flight patterns of aircraft already in the air. 

For years she’d imagined standing here, envisioned a time in the future where she’d be watching as her tech did its thing and the numbers started rolling in. Now, actually standing here, her heart beating in her throat, she found herself overrun with the need to fidget, the chew her lip, to bite her thumbnail. 

Down on the runway, she watched as the jets roared to life, sleek bodies glinting in the afternoon light. Rooster, Teak, Lover, and Hangman. All of them sitting in cockpits wired with the most advanced avionics package ever put into a single system. If this worked—if it really worked—it would change everything. On the other hand, if it failed... well it didn’t bear thinking about, not right now at least. Ellie felt her foot tapping out on the tiled floor as her fingers dug into her arms. 

“Alright, gentlemen,” Maverick’s voice crackled over the comms from somewhere in the sky, the feedback from the cockpit scratchy in her ears. “Today’s a simple test. We’re looking for a baseline. The system is going to integrate with your HUDs and onboard AI, feeding you the real-time data and making sure you have everything you need to stay alive. Your job? Fly how you normally would. My job? Try to kill you. Hard deck is 5,000 feet—let’s keep it clean, nothing fancy.” 

“Clean and ‘nothing fancy’ ain’t exactly in my wheelhouse,” Hangman drawled, his accent cutting through the frequency, his voice sounding isolated, in a tin can. Ellie resisted the shiver that rolled up her spine. Though he was hundreds of feet away, a small spot on the runway, his voice in her ears sparked something in her. 

Ellie rolled her eyes, mostly at him, but a little at herself, instead choosing to focus on the screens in front of her, hovering over the shoulders of the techs sitting in front of the radar equipment which beeped dutifully. 

Rooster’s sigh was deep as he cut in over the frequency. “Just try not to break anything before we even get started, Bagman.” 

“No promises, Rooster. No promises.” Ellie could hear the smirk in Jake’s voice. “Lover, you ready to walk your old man through this?”    “I swear to God, Hangman,” Teak shot back, quickly, his comms fizzling to life. “Keep running your mouth—” 

“Easy, easy—” Jake responded without missing a beat, the clicking of toggles being flipped dull in the background behind his voice, “no need to get feisty now, just say the word if you need me to break it down real slow for you.” 

“Knock off the chatter,” Maverick cut in. “Wheels up in thirty seconds.” 

Down on the flight line, the engines surged, afterburners flared, and one by one, the jets launched down the runway, blurs of speed that streaked into the sky like silver bullets. Ellie’s gaze shifted, watching their flight paths on the monitors in front of her, the integrated system humming to life as it started pulling in data, linking each aircraft into the seamless digital web one by one. 

“Telemetry looks good from here,” Ellie spoke into the headset, her eyes took in the data as it began streaming to the screen in front of her. “All systems online and reading normal. How’s it looking up there?” 

Rooster was the first to respond, his familiar voice filling Ellie’s ears. “HUD’s crisp. AI’s already starting to flag heat signatures and terrain. Feels intuitive.” 

Ellie could feel the prickly of excitement before she schooled it back; too soon to start celebrating. 

“Same here,” Lover added, a smooth calmness in place. “Looks good from where I’m sitting. Got anything nice to say, Teak?” 

“System seems a bit chatty. Lots of information to sort through. Feels like it’s thinking for me.” Teak’s voice came through on cue, predictably, less enthusiastic. 

Ellie bit her tongue, she’d make a note to address it later in the debrief. She’d carefully remind Teak that the whole point of the system was to boost and enhance their decision-making, not replace it. As with anything new, it wouldn’t seem natural or easy in the beginning but would benefit them in the long run. Old dogs, new tricks. 

Hangman’s voice came last. “It’s good, I’ll give you that. But let’s see how it handles when I put it through the wringer.” 

Suddenly, a spike of data jumped on Ellie’s screen. Hangman’s jet shot forward, pushing past the planned test parameters before Ellie could yell out a warning over the comms. Outside, Ellie could see his jet as he yanked into a high-G turn, rolling hard, his plane screaming through the sky at an angle that should have stalled out lesser, greener pilots. 

Alarms flared on Ellie’s screen, screamed in her ears, so loud she instinctively lifted the headset off one ear. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, already flipping through the diagnostics filling her screen, her fingers flying over keys to manually redistribute the generative thinking, fast. 

“Hangman!” Rooster barked, his voice booming over the screaming of her tech in her ear. “You trying to rip your own wings off?” 

“Relax Rooster,” even as Hangman grunted through another high-G cartwheel, strained against the force that pushed him back into the seat, Ellie could hear the playfulness in his tone, “just seeing if this fancy tech can keep up with me. So far, it’s keeping pace.” 

Barely, Ellie thought, her mind scrambling as she worked through the manual controls, pulling the recalibration coding from the back of her mind as her heart threatened to pound right out of her chest. The system was compensating as best it could, shifting power away from instruments and recalibrating to track Hangman’s sharp, unexpected turns and dives, climbs and rolls. It was working—but Ellie could already see stress indicators creeping in, the red signals flickering in the corner of her screen, the warning signs of a catastrophic failure. She hadn’t coded the parameters today for bullshit. If Hangman kept pushing, he might overload the AI’s allocation process before it had the chance to adjust and provide the baseline she was looking for. 

Her tech picked up Maverick on her screen as he joined in. 

Maverick’s jet came in fast from above, dropping out of the sheltered glare of the sun like a streaking missile. Ellie could see the system flag Mav on Hangman’s HUD in an instant, feeding Hangman a collision path before Mav entered weapons range. 

“Bogey incoming,” Ellie heard the AI voice warn in Hangman’s ear, on her end, she could see the system scanning, populating his HUD with information on the unknown aircraft. 

“Yeah, no shit,” Hangman muttered. “Breaking left. You got eyes on him Rooster?” 

He rolled hard to evade, dipping lower into the valley, barreling toward the 5,000-foot Hard Deck, forcing the system to compensate for rapid altitude changes, environmental shifts, and G-force strain all at once. 

Bitching Betty dinged through the cockpit, through Ellie’s headset. Altitude. Altitude. Pull up. Pull up. 

Ellie’s pulse ticked up as the warnings started going off again. 

“Break right, Hangman.” Rooster was in through the comms now, “I’ll get tone if you’re out of the way.” 

“Hangman, ease off,” Ellie cut through on the comms, her voice carefully controlled and calm but firm. She tried her best to keep the panic out of her tone, “You’re overloading the processing core. The AI needs time to redistribute resources, give it half a second to think and do what it’s there to do.”  

“Sounds like a ‘me’ problem.” Hangman was into another roll, breaking right as Rooster’s jet streaked in to assist and Hangman tumbled into another evasive maneuver, Mav hot on his tail. 

“It will be when you lose your radar feed,” Ellie shot back, around her the Control Tower Operators calmly diverted aircraft around the training area. “If you don’t—” 

The screen flickered on Ellie’s end, the system’s red flashing code stuttering, reflecting the same blip on Hangman’s HUD on the top corner of her display. 

A half-second glitch. 

A data delay. 

Not long enough to crash the system—but long enough to be dangerous if this were a live, life or death dogfight. 

In her ear, Hangman cursed under his breath as Mav capitalized on the momentary hiccup, his jet screaming in with impossible speed, locking a missile tone before Hangman could fully react, adjust. 

“That’s tone. Fox Two!” Mav’s voice cut through the comms, calm, collected. 

A simulated missile strike. If this had been real, Hangman would be punching out right now. 

The comms fell silent for a beat before Maverick’s voice came through, even and unreadable. “That’s a splash.” 

Ellie let out a slow breath as the system regulated, the red indicators disappearing from her screen as the system isolated the issue and rerouted, recalibrated. The system had held. Barely—pushed into the red, hanging on by what seemed to be a simple line of code. 

Hangman, to his credit, was quiet for a moment. 

“Well,” Jake began, the huff of exertion from the laundry list of evasive maneuvers and the strain of the resulting G-force on his body, “guess I found the breaking point.” 

Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose, the tips of her fingers turning white, closing her eyes to breathe out a noisy, measured breath. 

“You found it immediately,” Rooster at least had the decency to sound as exasperated as Ellie felt. 

Lover hummed in agreement. “Kinda impressive, Hangman, honestly. You always go around breaking your most expensive toys?” 

Ellie exhaled sharply, evacuating all the air from her lungs before she breathed it in anew. Patience.  She’d need to practice patience or take a vow of silence to keep herself in check. “Hangman, get back into formation. The rest of you, continue the test as planned. And for the love of fucking god, stick to the parameters this time.” 

“Copy that,” Rooster said. 

“Got it, Boss Lady,” Lover added, his voice light. 

Teak, gruff as ever, just muttered, “Knew this was a bad idea.” 

Hangman sighed, pulling his jet back in line. “Alright, alright. I’ll behave. For now.” 

Ellie didn’t believe that for a second. 

Ellie pushed open the control tower door with more force than necessary, so hard it swung back against the outer side of the building with a heavy slam as she stepped onto the sunbaked tarmac at a clipped pace. Her boots hit the pavement hard as she strode across the flight line, headset hanging loosely around her neck, her pulse still elevated from the way Hangman had handled the test. 

She’d expected the first test flights to be bumpy. What she hadn’t been expecting was that the bumps might come from Hangman. After his tone in the briefing, Ellie had expected pushback from Teak, had been waiting for him to act out, but Jake? This was just him being a cocky son of a bitch, and she wasn’t about to let it slide. She couldn’t. 

The rest of the test had gone according to plan, but the baseline readings had been skewed because of Hangman’s hadn’t followed instruction. Today had essentially been a wash for anything except for redline readings. 

As she approached the line of jets, she threw her hand up to shield her eyes against the dipping sun, catching the last pilot climbing out of his jet—Rooster. He caught sight of her immediately, his pace shifting, angling himself in her path before she could storm clear across to the hangar and into the locker room and rip into Hangman in front of everyone. 

“Cool it, Rigsy,” Rooster murmured, hands up in a peacekeeping gesture as he tracked backward while Ellie pushed forward. Against his 6’1 frame, Ellie looked small, and the wall of his body blocked her trajectory. “You look like you’re on the warpath.” 

In the reflection of the aviators over his eyes, Ellie could see herself, eyes narrowed. “Move, Bradshaw.” 

Rooster didn’t budge, shifting as Ellie tried to step around him when she realized he wasn’t going to clear the path. “Not until you take a breath, or maybe seven.” 

Ellie let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, trust me, I’ll breathe just fine once I’ve had a word with Seresin.” 

Rooster exhaled through his nose, arms folding across his chest as Ellie stopped abruptly. There was no way he was moving. Fleetingly, Ellie wondered if being stubborn was a requirement for flight school. “Yeah? And what exactly are you planning to say? Because from here, it looks like you’re about to walk in there and lose it in front of the entire locker room.” 

Ellie clenched her jaw. “He went off-script, overloaded the system immediately. Forced it into a failure point before I could even establish a baseline. That’s not testing limits—that’s recklessness. You have to establish the baseline before you—” 

Rooster shook his head. “That’s how he flies. You knew that.” 

“That’s how an asshole flies,” she shot back, a flare of anger, not unlike the flickering lick of a solar flare, rising inside of her. 

Rooster’s lips twitched, almost as if he might laugh, but in a moment, he was composed again, not taking the bait. His hands were on his hips now, helmet tucked neatly under an arm. “Look, I get it. Maybe better than anyone. He’s frustrating. He’s cocky. But he’s also one of the best pilots in the Navy, and trust me, you want him pushing this thing to its breaking point. Better him than someone out there getting shot at when the stakes are high.” 

Ellie’s arms crossed tightly over her chest, the muscles of her jaw working to bite back the words she really wanted to say. It took her a moment, carefully choosing her words before she spoke again. “That’s not what this was about. He didn’t do that for the sake of the test. He did it to prove he could break it. That’s all he cares about—looking good, coming out on top. He doesn’t give a damn about the work that went into this.” 

Rooster studied her for a long moment, his eyebrow quirked high. “That’s a lot of assuming for someone who works with provable theories and data sets for a living.” His jaw ticked as if he was clenching and unclenching. “You don’t know him.” 

“And he doesn’t know me,” Ellie shot back. She wanted to say that Jake didn’t know what it was like for her, he didn’t know how many pieces of her life and her time and her blood, sweat and tears had gone into every fiber of this tech. She wanted to say that he didn’t know why she was doing this. Instead, she shifted her weight and tightened the fold of her arms across her body. She could be stubborn too—it practically ran in her DNA. 

Rooster sighed, shifting his weight. “I guess you’d better get used to being pissed off then, because he’s not going anywhere.” 

Ellie pressed her lips together, her frustration still simmering, but Rooster wasn’t done. “Look,” he said, more measured this time, “I told you before—Hangman will follow if you make it clear who’s in charge. But he’s got to respect you first. And right now? You’re just reacting to him. He pushes; you push back. Wash, rinse, repeat until you both die. He thrives on that. I tried it that way. It doesn’t work.” 

Ellie narrowed her eyes, studying Rooster for a moment, before she rolled her eyes and threw her hands up. “And what exactly do you suggest? That I just let him run the show?” 

Rooster shook his head. “No. I’m saying he’s testing you just as much as he’s testing the system. You want to keep him in check? Show him you can handle him.” 

Ellie’s fingers twitched at her sides. She hated that he had a point, hated even more that Hangman would probably enjoy knowing just how much he was getting under her skin. It took a measured breath and a focused thought with intent to push down the anger into her toes. “How do you suggest I do that?” 

Rooster shifted his weight, as if he were trying to pull something out of his hat. “Maybe start by coming out tonight?”  

Ellie huffed, the sun starting to heat the back of her neck uncomfortably. She didn’t shoot it down right away and so, likely sensing an in, he continued. 

“Hard Deck. Might help your case if the guys see you as something other than what they’re pegging you for now.”

Ellie arched a brow, she didn’t want to engage Rooster right now, she hated that her anger was ebbing away, if only slightly. She hated that there were politics she had to play into to get her tech where it needed to be. “Oh? And what exactly are they pegging me for now?” 

At that, Rooster smiled. Ellie knew Rooster knew her well enough by now to see that her anger was dissolving. “A mysterious, tech-obsessed hard-ass who spends too much time in her office and not enough time pretending to be human. Also, someone trying to make their lives harder.”    Ellie huffed a laugh despite herself, shaking her head. “Great. Love that for me. Is it terminal, doctor?” 

“Not entirely, it’s fixable at this stage,” Rooster teased as she watched his shoulders relax. “Couple rounds at the Hard Deck, let ‘em see you’re not a soulless drone, and suddenly you’re one of us. I’ve seen you with Nic, I know you can be fun, or at least fun-adjacent.” 

She gave him a skeptical look, choosing to ignore the comment about her being fun. “I don’t think drinking beer with you guys is going to make Hangman and Teak be any less of pains in my ass.”    “No, but it might make Teak less of a pain in my ass if he stops thinking you’re some uptight, out-of-touch scientist trying to change the way he flies,” Rooster pointed out. “Might be worth it.”    Ellie exhaled, considering. “What about Hangman?” 

“You mean the way he flies or the way he’s been trying to flirt you into submission since he laid eyes on you?” 

Ellie felt her stomach dip and she took a careful, measured swallow. “Both.” 

“Not sure that’s curable.” Rooster hissed, perfect bedside manner for delivering a terminal prognosis. 

Ellie huffed and set her hands on her hips. She wasn’t the type to care what pilots thought of her—she built tech to save their lives, not to win their approval. But Rooster had a point. If she wanted them to trust her system, they had to trust her first.  “Alright,” she said finally, pushing back from her desk. “One drink. But if any of them start talking about ‘mansplainy’ shit, I’m out.”  Rooster nodded, the grin on his face. “Fair deal.”    Rooster waited for a beat, stepped back and waited another, as if he were testing to see if Ellie might sprint past him on her way to the locker room anyway. When she didn’t move, he offered her a small wave and turned, stalking down the tarmac and peeling parts of his flight gear off as he did so.  

As his figure shrunk, Ellie sighed and rubbed her temples.  Great. Now she had to go pretend to be human. 

a/n: i mean, does ellie even have a mom/dad with wolfman and mav stepping in? not me cackling as i imagine wolfman in an apron making scrambled eggs, terribly. anyone wanna crack that with fanart? haha

if you love this series, reblog, comment, like! chapter 5, the technical ending of this chapter will be up tomorrow!

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[riddlemearose]

Linked Universe Combat Guide (part 1)

Lmao I have been casually sitting on this for like two months now and since I'm procrastinating writing an essay, I've decided to post it.

Anyway, this came from my bajillion notes about the Chain's equipment so I could have fight scenes that involved more than "he swings his sword" x9. I also wanted to identify all the weird weapons the Links would have too bc I know they exist. And since adhd is the shark disorder and I need to do something bc I stop moving I die, I've made my notes coherent enough to inflict upon tumblr.

General Notes:

In terms of additional weapons/equipment, I’m not including the traditional bombs/bow + arrows/boomerangs bc basically everyone has a variant of these. All I'm doing is looking at the possible items collected on the quests and being like "yeah I could probably work out a way to kill monsters with that".

Also they all have one-handed sword and shield proficiency, so I'm not including that for each Link. However any other canonical or possible weapon proficiencies will be listed.

7 out of 9 Links are predominantly lefties. Generally, left-handed swordfighters are used to fighting right-handed swordfighters, but the same is not true vice versa, so they will have an advantage against most human enemies. -> any ambidextrous fighters in the group is largely a headcanon but go nuts w/ it.

Researched to the best of my ability (limited only by search terms and my own waning hyperfixation), but pls be aware I literally only played my first Zelda game ever in February 2024 so there’s a lot I don’t know and games I haven’t played. Both parts are open to peer review and active fact checking lmao

Half of this is canonical abilities and half is presumed abilities based off of said canon + other logical conclusions. I'm doing this from a lore-accurate sense, rather than a straight pull from the LU comics, simply bc that allows for a broader analysis of what they're technically all capable of. I've tried my best to keep my personal headcanons out of this either way.

This part covers Four, Hyrule, Legend and Wind, whose games I have not played, so my apologies if anything is missing or incorrect.

Updated 9 March 2025 with new info provided by @thejolteonmastertj who's a literal godsend for their info about Legend and Hyrule's combat skills🙏, and @respheal who added on and emphasised just how important Legend's spin attack is. I love you both <3

Updated again 2 May 2025 with info for everyone here provided by @interlink-au.

Four

I am actively making the argument that Four probably has knowledge about other fighting styles due to his trade as a black/weaponsmith. I do not have any specifics in mind bc I do not have the spoons for that deep-dive, but feel free to run with this however you want.

Sword techniques: -> spin attack + variants    -> great spin attack (repeated spins. interlink-au emphasises that it's very OP bc there's no dizziness/stamina involved so it can be spammed)    -> hurricane spin (same as above but temporarily induces dizziness) -> dash attack (requires pegasus boots) -> peril beam (only works when he's got 1 heart left) -> sword beam when at full hearts -> roll attack -> down thrust (requires Roc’s cape)

Obviously, Four's greatest strength is team combat w/ the Colours. By splitting, he's able to coordinate combat with easy tag-team attacks with a much lower risk of friendly fire compared to when fighting alongside members of the Chain. Group combat, quite obviously, is actually kinda hard bc it requires an increased amount of situational awareness that is often overridden by adrenaline. Thankfully, since Four and the Colours are literally the same person, this is mitigated by a LOT.

Seriously do not discount how Four's height is an advantage in combat. Being smaller/shorter means you have less body mass to speed up and slow down, so you have greater agility and speed. You're also harder to hit and better at close combat (short limbs take less time to block, attack, etc.)

Genuinely don't know if he's proficient in combat while on horseback. I've heard at least one of Four's games has an Epona, but I don't know if there's any mounted combat.

Additional Weapons/Equipment: -> power bracelets -> gust jar -> Cane of Pacci -> magnetic glove -> fire rod -> magic hammer (hammer is capable of producing shockwaves and causing earth tremors) -> pegasus boots -> Roc’s cape -> shovel (do not under any circumstances discount mundane weapons) -> slingshot

Hyrule

To start off, the most important thing to know about Hyrule is that he's a self-taught fighter.

No, seriously this is more important than you think but not for the reasons you may think. Self-taught fighters are scrappy as shit. Out of the entire Chain, Hyrule will be the first one to resort to fighting dirty. Have him clawing at people’s eyes, throwing dirt, and biting. When you grow up in a situation where survival is a thin line you don't want to cross, you’ll do anything to stay alive when you have to.

Spells*: -> Shield: reduces damage by half -> Jump: self-explanatory -> Life: recovers health -> Fairy: shapeshifts into a fairy -> Fire: shoots fireballs from the end of his sword. (an aside, but this scene from the comic may be a variant of Fire? Fact check again lmao) -> Reflect: reflects magic attacks and strengthens his shield to temporarily block some physical attacks and most magical attacks -> Spell: can turn most enemies into Bots -> Thunder: summons lightning *be aware Hyrule has a magic meter. I haven't included how it functions here because it cluttered this section up horribly, but here's a link to it.

Hyrule actually gained the ability to use magic in his second quest, so while he's probably well adapted to using it now and may default to using it when backed into a corner, he's still a capable swordsman without it. -> Update: while the spells I listed above came about in Hyrule's second quest, thejolteonmastertj points out that Hyrule is straight up slinging sword beams with the random sword he gets given at the start of his first adventure, and that it's an important technique for the game.

He can canonically use Jump to perform a down thrust (like Four's) and a jump thrust (think Mario hitting bricks lmao),but there are so many ways to utilise this spell. Someone should teach Hyrule the Helm Splitter.

Additional Weapons/Equipment: -> power bracelets -> hammer -> this will sound stupid but ladder (again, never underestimate weird and mundane weapons.) -> magic rod (w/ accompanying fire upgrade) -> magic recorder (used in-game for fast travel but thejolteonmastertj also says it summons a tornado and if you can't find a way to use that in combat, I'm going to eat my hat)

Legend

Legend gave me so much trouble, solely bc sir has too many games. Jesus Christ man.

I am once again happily arguing that due to Legend’s sheer experience, he probably has other weapon proficiencies outside of a one-handed sword + shield combo, but that’s entirely up to personal headcanons. -> update provided by interlink-au: Legend is capable of dual-wielding his sword and a magic rod/cane, a boomerang, a hook-shot, etc etc. He will also parry with his sword if he's charging a spin attack (and can hurt them by walking into them, unless they're also holding a sword which will mitigate the blow).

Sword techniques (provided by interlink-au): -> spin attack (see above) -> dash attack (needs pegasus boots) -> sword beam -> hurricane spin (drains magic and induces dizziness) -> great spin (separate to a spin attack. increases range of normal attacks)

Once again for the class lmao, Legend has the most questing experience. While his section may seem small bc I don't want to rehash stuff I've already said, it's entirely on-brand for him to have tweaked a lot of this. Headcanons abound.

Updating the above points: again provided by thejolteonmastertj, Legend's officially getting smacked with another label, and this is "Most OP Spin Attack". This has been pointed out to be a core aspect of combat for ALTTP (Legend's first adventure). directly quoting their reblog bc I can't summarise it any better than it's already been said: -> "Legend’s charged spin attack as reactive crowd control is foundational & central to his entire battle style. It’s extremely difficult to land a hit otherwise! You gotta either run, button mash to parry with ur back against a wall till something hits… … or you play it smart, watch everything in the room & plan your charged spins accordingly. Legend would be particularly adept at being outnumbered in an enclosed space. He can also throw pots, even shrubbery if he so desires, but well-timed spin-attacks are what truly carries him through his first few dungeons."

respheal also points out that some of Legend's enemies can only be damaged by the spin attack, making it a cruical technique that he's more than likely put time into developing more than the others may have.

interlink-au adds on to both of the above and mentions that, with the roc feather/cape, Legend is able to do a jumping spin attack.

Sword techinques (provided by interlink-au): -> spin attack (see above) -> dash attack (needs pegasus boots) -> sword beam -> hurricane spin (drains magic and induces dizziness) -> great spin (separate to a spin attack. increases range of normal attacks)

Can't believe I didn't mention Legend's own tactical prowess smh

interlink-au also has informed me that two of Legend's rings let him punch, so congratulations, he now probably knows some brawling/boxing techniques. The Expert Ring can let him punch so hard, he does the same amount of damage as he can do with the Noble Sword.

Additional Weapons/Equipment (Warning: brace yourself): -> literally the entire contents of his ring box. I'm not listing them. I don't even know what's in it, nor do I want to at this point. A link to the Everything in his ring box can be found here -> power bracelets/power glove/titan’s mitt -> hammer(s) -> pegasus boots -> Cane of Byrna -> Cane of Somaria -> hookshots -> switch hook(quoting interlink-au: "swaps you for whatever you hit it with, objects and enemies, which you can use to cross gaps.") -> long hook (upgraded version of the switch hook) -> seed shooter (+ ember seeds, scent seeds, mystery seeds, gale seeds, & pegasus seeds) -> hyper slingshot (interlink-au says it can shoot 3 mysterious seeds at a time, which have different elemental effects). -> fire rod -> ice rod -> Rod of Seasons -> tornado rod -> sand rod -> Bombos medallion -> Ether Medallion -> Quake medallion -> magic powder -> shovel -> super net -> alternative tunics (attack or defensive enhancements) -> red shield (fire defence) -> Roc’s feather & cape -> mermaid suit (allows Legend to use items underwater) -> magnetic gloves -> super lantern (I've discovered this is as strong as Legend's second Master Sword upgrade in ALBW) -> magic cape (makes Legend invincible)

Breaking my own rules to list a few of Legend's 5 boomerangs, as they all have different abilities (info provided by interlink-au) 1. Magical boomerang -> can be controlled with his mind. 2. Magic boomerang (different object) -> further range 3. Nice boomerang -> sends out three boomerangs for the price of one

Wind

Arguably has the best balance and proprioception of the group, which is extremely useful in many situations.

Once again, do not be afraid to use Wind’s height to his advantage. He has a slight detriment bc he’s still getting taller and going through puberty does screw up your proprioception, but I think if you’re using a sword that much, both against enemies and in sparring matches, he's probably still got a decent sense of his own balance and body.

Updated info provided by interlink-au: Wind has a great spin/hurricane attack, which does induce dizziness and use magic.

I genuinely don’t know how the Phantom Sword works, sorry. I know it has some potential to slow time, but I’m not entirely sure about the mechanics behind that, nor if it’s still capable of such magic. From interlink-au: apparently the Phantom Sword currently doesn't work bc it doesn't have any magic leftover. There may be a comic out there made by Jojo that features Time and Wind talking about the sword, so if anyone knows of it, pls let me know.

Wind’s Parry Attack:   Hmm this thing. It’s interesting. Note: no actual parrying with a shield is needed, which means it's kinda like BOTW's perfect dodge mechanic. -> Wind’s parry attack is like the Helm Splitter and Back Slice combined into one. If the attack is vertical, he does a Back Slice-esque attack. If the attack is horizontal, it’s a Helm Splitter. -> Additionally he has an ending blow like Twilight and Sky, which has a specific trigger.

Mild note from interlink-au: Wind can use three different items at the same time, unlike the others who generally use two, and he's very quick when he uses said items. Topically, I keep forgetting that Wind has magic which he uses to empower some of his arrows with fire or ice.

Additional Weapons/Equipment: -> power bracelets -> deku leaf (requires magic to be used) -> skull hammer -> grappling hook (!!!!! any rope dart combat video would make this brutal) -> shovel -> hookshot -> Wind’s weird magic armour spell -> Hyoi pears if you feel like world-building

Part 2: Sky, Time, Twi, Wars and Wild

[unconventional-lawnchair]

What's Your Name {Sneak Peak}

Regulus Black x Fem!Reader

An: I have been working on this slowly for months, you can kind of tell by the writing style this one is a bit more serious then the other fics I've done. (There is a very big possibility this will turn into Moonwater x Reader)

WC: 1933

CW: Sad boy Regulus, Fox! reader,

It was early morning, the air sharp with the chill of autumn. The first full moon of the school year always left you exhausted, your body aching from the 12 hour long transformation, your mind foggy as you trudged your way back through the thick forest. The gray sky above added to the heavy feeling in the air, casting everything in an almost monochrome haze.

“How’s he doing?” You asked James, who was half-carrying Remus through the dense underbrush. James just grunted in response, his face a mixture of concentration and concern. You sighed, taking the lead, your steps light as you led the way. Sirius was walking beside Remus, making sure the taller boy didn’t stumble.

“‘M fine,” Remus muttered, his voice rough and tired. He was trying to steady his steps, but you could see the strain in his posture, the way his face had paled despite the bruising and scaring of the night before. “I’ll be fine.”

You offered him a small smile, and Remus managed to return it, even as he winced. Even in the worst moments, he still had that kindness in his eyes that made him feel like home.

“Rem-”

“Are you serious?” Sirius’ voice cut through your words, and you glanced at him, confusion crossing your face. His eyes were narrowed, focused on something ahead, and you followed his gaze.

There, at the base of a large oak, sat Regulus Black, completely unaware of the group of students approaching. He was hunched over, a journal in his hands, lost in his own world as he scribbled something with quick, precise movements. What was he doing in the middle of the forbidden forest mid dawn?

Sirius huffed in annoyance, though you couldn’t quite tell if it was irritation at seeing his brother or at the sheer inconvenience of it all. “How the hell do we get around him without him noticing us?” he muttered, eyes darting to the side.

You scanned the scene, trying to find another route. The thick trees and brambles of the forest were no help, and then you glanced back at Remus, who was beginning to falter again. His face had gone a little green, and you could tell he was fighting the exhaustion.

"... I'll handle it.” You said softly, giving a small nod to your friends. Before anyone could protest, you shifted- your form shrinking and curling, your limbs transforming until you were on all fours, your senses now sharpened. The world was suddenly lower, closer to the earth. In an instant, you scampered off into the underbrush.

Regulus was muttering to himself as you got closer. You moved silently, your paws barely making a sound on the cold, damp earth. The transformation was still a strange sensation each time, but the rush of freedom as a small, nimble animal never failed to make you smile. You padded closer to Regulus, the rustle of leaves underfoot barely noticeable against the quiet murmur of his voice.

“…until the branches… loosen their crown..” He murmured, his words blending into the rustling of the trees and the sound of morning birds.

You slowed, creeping closer, careful not to let him notice you. Regulus was always so still in these moments- introspective, lost in his own thoughts. You watched him from behind the tree, noticing how his quill scratched the paper with such delicate precision. His face, usually a mask of sharp features, softened with concentration.

It was then that he paused, staring at the page with a frown. He sighed, a deep, almost frustrated breath, and lowered his head. His hand dropped, the quill resting in his lap. His pearly gray eyes lifted to stare at the endless rows of trees, and for the briefest moment, you caught a glimpse of vulnerability that almost made you hesitate.

You didn't give yourself time to think, as you slowly slunk forward and inched closer and closer to the book. Only then did you hear the bark of the tree crumble under shifting weight. Your eyes flickered up to meet Regulus’s. He was staring in silent shock to see not just any woodland creature, a silver fox, who most certainly was not from around the area, inching closer to him.

Your ears flicked around wildly and your nose wiggled about . He flinched as you lunged forward, biting down on his book and dashing off into the forest. You were luckily familiar with it all, the largest trees and haze of red and gold did their best to obstruct your vision.

Regulus blinked, his mind still trying to catch up with what had just happened. One moment, he was lost in his thoughts, the words of his journal pouring out in a rush of frustration, and the next, a random animal was stalking towards him. His journal, his something no one had ever touched but him, was now clutched in the fox's jaws, its pages fluttering in the wind as it vanished into the forest.

"What-" Regulus stood up sharply, his heart racing, his chest tight with a mix of irritation and shock. He glanced down at the empty spot where his journal had been, his fingers instinctively reaching for the pages that weren’t there. “You-"

Without thinking, he shoved his quill back into his bag and began to chase after the fox. He had no real plan, no clear reason why he was doing this, but the thought of losing his work- his years of thoughts- was unbearable. And then, of course, there was the strange part of him that couldn’t help but be intrigued by the oddity of it all. A fox. In the Forbidden Forest. And why did it feel like it was leading him somewhere?

His boots crunched through the fallen leaves, and his breath quickened as he pushed forward, his eyes scanning the path ahead. The fox was fast, so much faster than he had expected. It disappeared and reappeared in flashes of silver and black, weaving in and out of the trees, leading him to where he could only assume was deeper into the forest. The fog was starting to clear, and as the dense trees parted for a moment, Regulus saw it- you- pause in a small clearing up ahead.

The fox was sitting there, still as stone, its tail twitching. You had stopped running, your body poised in a way that suggested you were waiting for him. Regulus slowed his pace, a flicker of hesitation passing over him. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t sure what to do. What was this creature? Was it a simple animal? Or something more? Something he should be afraid of? He wished he paid more attention in divination.

He took a few careful steps forward, and the fox didn’t move. Instead, your eyes- bright and intelligent- locked with his. There was something in those eyes that made his throat tighten. A spark of recognition? Perhaps it was simply the oddness of the situation, but it felt like a silent challenge.

"You…" Regulus muttered under his breath, his gaze narrowing as he crouched down, his hand instinctively reaching for his wand. But he didn’t draw it. For some reason, he felt no threat, just that odd pull to understand. “What are you?”

The fox tilted its head, as if listening, as if it understood. It sat in the clearing, still clutching the book in its jaws, its fur gleaming like silver in the soft, pale light that filtered through the canopy above. Regulus took another step closer, his breath coming shallow now. He felt the strange weight of the moment. A realization creeping up on him.

“Are you my… guardian angel?” He asked hesitantly and that was when your eyes flashed open wide. Your body gave an odd trill, from your hips to your tail in bundled anxieties.

The question hung in the air between you, fragile as spider silk that clung to the long strands of grass that dwarfed your figure. Regulus’s voice, usually so hard-edged, was softened, almost vulnerable. It was strange, seeing him like this, so open and curious, a side of him you’d never knew existed. It was here you saw the red rims of his eyes and the bags that hung low under his sockets.

It wasn’t that you typically paid him any mind. The only time you'd speak of him was with Sirius, on nights he couldn't sleep with that terrible yearning he felt so deeply for his brother. Something he never admitted to anyone else, no matter how much you begged him to just tell the younger Black.

You wondered, looking into his big pale eyes, filled with sadness and innocent curiosity, if he was yearning too.

You tilted your head, trying to make sense of what he saw when he looked at you. A guardian angel? You almost wanted to laugh- guardian angel seemed far from the truth, considering how you felt after a night of chasing around a disaster of a werewolf, your own sense of self blurred at the edges. And yet, there was something tender about the notion, something that made you pause.

What was going on behind those eyes? That made him think he needed one?

Carefully, you set the journal down between your paws, nudging it forward just an inch, your eyes meeting his again, as if to say, ‘I am real. I am here.’

Regardless of your bleeding heart, you would be there.

Regulus hesitated, still kneeling in the clearing, his expression a mix of relief and suspicion. He looked from your face to the book lying just within reach, and then back up to you, his brow furrowing as he tried to understand. You held his gaze, silent, knowing the moment wouldn’t last, knowing he’d take the journal and the new boy you'd just met would never be back. Those soft eyes would return to their steely ice. But for now, you let the possibility linger in his mind. Perhaps you were more than just a fox. Perhaps, in this brief encounter, you could be whatever he needed you to be.

He finally reached for the journal, his fingers brushing against the damp forest floor. You felt a tug in your chest, a longing to reveal yourself, to let him know you had seen him. That someone had seen him. But the sun was rising, casting its hazy light over the clearing, and you knew your time was running short. With a final look, you took a step back, blending into the underbrush as you began to retreat, leaving him to wonder what had just happened.

Regulus watched you go, his expression lingering between wonder and confusion, and a hint of something softer, something guarded but longing. His fingers tightened around the journal as you disappeared into the shadows, silver fur melding with the forest’s dark blur.

As you slipped back through the trees, the urge to turn and reveal yourself gnawed at you. To ask him what those pages meant to him. What a curious fox like yourself could possibly do for him. But there were secrets that had to be kept, and you had done that for Remus, not for Regulus. For your dear friend, not a stranger.

With that thought, the reminder to return to the castle to your pack, you left him behind, returning to your friends who waited hopefully at school by now. You guiltily hoped the quiet warmth of that moment would stay with him, as a small comfort, a quiet promise etched into a strange moment between fox and foe.

[supmaww]

the video of my bug becky painting :) unmute for music!

details under the cut 'cause this was a fun piece and I like talking about my work

In case anyone is curious, the song in the background is "A melody better left unknown" from the Blood in The Bayou soundtrack. It's fitting for obvious reasons (RIP Kian ily, you down-bad failed rockstar), but it's also one of my favourite tracks because of how gutted it leaves you!! I'll never forget that feeling of dread when Grizzly started to write the song with Becky. God. My favourite scene of the entire series.

We never truly meet Becky in bitb, but she's my favourite NPC anyways. I could go on and on about her and Kian's relationship (and I have... let me know if you want me to dig up the post) and what could've been. She's the perfect tragic ex-girlfriend for this silly tragic story. She was dead before we ever even meet her.

I struggled a little with the colours of this, mostly trying to get them to show up on my phone. My monitor does not display colours correctly, so it can be tricky trying to make stuff bright and saturated enough while still maintaining the contrast I was looking for. I think I did okay, but ehhh I think it could be improved on. It still looks miles better on desktop. Sorry mobile users.

The flowers, red spider lilies, are an iconic symbol of death. I tried to think of something more unique and less overdone, but fuck it. Straight from google they represent "sad memories, such as last goodbyes or the death of a loved one", plus they're also linked to reincarnation?? Hello??? The fact that they're native to Louisiana and grow in bayous make them all the more perfect. They're Becky's flower, hands down. Plus they're spider lilies. Like the bug (or arachnid). Haha.

It's kinda tricky to see, but the front pieces of her hair floating in the water form little bug mandibles. Probably my favourite part of the piece. I got the idea midway through the sketch and I knew I had to follow through.

Speaking of her hair... it's brown. This is due to the fact I was referencing the very talented @/alkalineleak's becky design and got carried away with my beloved warm colours before remembering that one of the only actual canon descriptors of Becky is that she had black hair. Whoops. I adjusted it a little but alas... It's brown. In a desperate attempt to make her look less like Rachel, I gave her an eyebrow piercing. But it's covered mostly by her bangs. Oh well.

This is probably my first digital painting I've posted since I drew Chip as a werewolf for halloween last year (if I remember correctly). I've improved a ton since then, but I'm still learning. I find with paintings the lack of lines gives you wayyy more freedom but also makes conveying forms much more tricky. Though I like how it turned out!!

My art program crashed a total of four times, two of which seriously set back progress. Consequences of recording a timelapse on a computer that can barely run Clip Studio Paint in the first place. Still not as bad as my goobleck animation... don't talk to me about that

This was all a huge bout of chronic procrastination. I have actual art projects due, figuring that I'm in art school. I'm so screwed. Like a week ago I swore off fanart and yet here I am... didn't last too long did I?

I am no better than Kian and would also die and join the hive for Becky (bug wife! bug wife! bug wife!). I hope they're together in hell.

Okay damn I still have more to say but that's a whole essay and a half, so I'm going to stop myself there. It's also 4am and I gotta head to uni in 3 hours. God. Uhm... Happy halloween go relisten to bitb it's spooky season!! (edit as I am posting this the day after: wow, that was a bad idea)

[lockeswoodss]

I just sat down to start working on my oneshot for the #adad event, but then I remembered that I get to write Ben and the reader in the crimson glow having a playful fight. I love writing, but dialog and descriptions of emotions are my shit. Especially sibling or long time friendship arguments because they can turn chaotic/silly so easily. I've only written the first part of their phone call but I can already tell I'm not working on the oneshot until I'm done with the first scene in chapter 4 lol

Blurb undercut

"Oh, look who's finally done getting dicked down long enough to talk to their brother. You remember me right sis? Ben your twin." He huffed on the other side of the line.

"Ben it's only 6 in the morning here," you whine, before sighing,"also no one is 'dicking me down'"

"What, why not?" He responded, genuinely confused, "Two DILFs not enough for yah?"

"Jesus Christ," you sigh, now fully sitting up in bed, running a hand down your face, "I had work, and they also had work,"

"What are they not your type?" He asked, still stuck on the fact that you hadn't had sex yet.

"No, fuck, it's got nothing to do with that. We're not in our twenties with no responsibilities that allow for the luxury of immediately fucking" you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. You'd slept like shit, after having to go back to sleeping alone after now knowing what it felt to be held and loved by your soulmates.

"Then why were you MIA?," he asked.

"Again, I was busy" you replied.

"You couldn't take half a second to text me?" He asked, accusatorily.

"Yes, there's a lot going on," you once again sigh as you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and stand up, "I also would love to point out that I couldn't get a hold of you for over 72 hours after you met Dante; and I didn't have the ability to track your location."

"Well yeah, we can't all be prudent, like that." He replied.

"You guys barely left his bed for four days." You point out.

"Well yeah, I understood the assignment." He replied simply, like it was the only option.

[bedlamsbard]

760 words written today, which means I made word count for the first time in a while -- I split Home 21 into two because the two halves REALLY didn't work as one chapter, but which means I'm back in 21 adding in scenes (and it needed this scene to set up stuff later on). I get that people like this fic a lot and I like this fic a lot but also I just want it to be over because, and I cannot emphasize this enough, I thought I was going to finish it a year and a half ago in December 2023. It is now May 2025. I have been thinking with increasing desperation about what I'm going to write next for the past two years. (Morning is up next, and the next new story is planned to be the SteveNat deaging CACW AU, though I'd like to get something done with Reaches too. There's also a scattering of shorter Yonderverse fics.) in my defense over the course of the last year and a half I have: finished my PhD dissertation, got my doctorate, got a tenure track job, moved cross-country, taught ten classes total (two adjuncting, two summer classes, and a 3:3 at my current institution), and presented at four conferences, all while the American education system was being torched. wait, no, yeah, I need to crash for a week even if I've got deadlines this summer.

Snippet from Of Home Near chapter 21.

“None of that’s your fault, Nat,” Clint said gently. “You heard Bruce yesterday –” “They’re still dead.” Clint let his breath out in a gusty sigh. “Yeah.”  He didn’t try to apologize; they had both been in situations like that before, even without the specifics.  “What would you have done if you’d been stuck there?  In 1945, I mean.  I can’t see you playing 1950s housewife to Captain America, and I can’t see Steve wanting you to.” “I don’t know,” Natasha admitted. “We talked about going to Russia, looking for Department X and the Winter Soldier program and all of that.  The problem is –”  She hesitated, then went on, “We don’t know how much Hydra and Leviathan affected everything that happened after the end of the war.  We do that, we put an end to it, and – and maybe there’s no one to fight when Loki comes, because that didn’t have anything to do with us, with Earth.  Maybe there’s no one when Thanos comes.  But we couldn’t have left it, left them, either.  How the hell do you balance that, Clint?  How do you live with it?” Your world in the balance, and you bargain for one man –

[cavka]

matching color grading with curves

mentioned this in a discord server and thought it would be easiest to write out how to do this here with screenshots. so!! how to match the color grading of two pictures using one curves filter.

you will need: - two images, one already at least partway to where you want color - photoshop or another program that can do a curves adjustment layer

step one: open your images in one document

this seems a little counter-intuitive if you're giffing, but trust me. just copy-merged your colored image onto a canvas on one side and put your other image on the other, like this:

on the left is a screenshot with a random ass coloring half-heartedly thrown on it purely for this tutorial and the other half is a raw screenshot.

step one-point-five:

if you've got a major disparity in brightness and contrast between your two images, you can balance them out a little here. i just tweaked the raw screenshot a wee bit.

step two:

create a new curves layer and make sure you hit the little button that will turn it into a clipping mask so it only affects your raw screenshot.

step three:

from here, we're going to tweak the curves so these two pictures match. BUT. instead of raw dogging it with everything still colored there's a trick. go into your channels panel (mine is right next to "layers") and click one channel. this will make your images seem black and white.

here i've made it so only the blue channel is visible in both images.

now, with the curves adjustment layer open, i'm going to select blue from the drop-down at the top of it and try to match the brightness and contrast between the two pictures using just this part of the curves.

i moved the darks in just a titch to up the contrast and lightened the heck out of it--prrrrobably should've done that in the brightness and contrast layer first but whatever. point is. the images look more similar now, yes? yes. good. that's what we want.

step four:

repeat this step for the other two channels, red and green.

don't worry if your images look weirdly blown out!! that's totally fine and actually what we're looking for here. what you're adjusting is how a singular color channel looks and affects the whole image.

also, you might have to go back between channels and tweak some more. that's okay! just keep trying to get the black and white contrast and brightness to match as much as you can.

when you're done with this, turn all the channels back on and--ta-da!

images that are graded much more closely color-wise. it's not perfect (and the image on the left, i just realized, has some textures and gradients on it which the one on the right doesn't which makes them look a little off oops.) but it gets you pretty darn close.

and if you start this before you do a lot of coloring? like try and match two caps that are only adjusted a little for brightness? then you can use the same coloring on them and they look even closer. i did that on this gifset which is part of why they look coherent. i did some basic coloring on the first gif using the camera raw filter, matched one screenshot from the other scene to that, and then used the same channel mixer adjustment layer over both of them.

here's another example with two random screenshots, the one on the right having been edited a teeny tiny bit

i'm gonna make the one on the left match the one on the right.

aaand there we go. much more match-y even if ryan's a little more yellow. (if i was doing this for real i might spend more time fiddling with it but i just did this in like two minutes purely for a second example. 👍)

[palepinkgoat]

tag game Wednesday Thursday!

thank you for tags and mentions @gallawitchxx @thepupperino @wehangout @blue-disco-lights @gardenerian @deedala @energievie and @jrooc !!! I love you all so much.

how did you get into the fandom? Girl, let's get in a Time Machine to 2013.

I had just had a massive injury that left me unable to walk or leave my bed for months. In this time, I was watching YouTube a lot. YouTube knows me well, so one night said "oh, this is gay, you will like it." The clip was the van kiss. Like, the first kiss. It piqued my interest and soon I'm in a YouTube wormhole. Season 3 had finished so there were some newer uploads. I loving the morning scenes with the Gallaghers too, and once I kind of pieced it all together I went on amazon and bought the first 3 season digitally. There I was, obsessed and bed bound. After a little googling I found Tumblr around Christmas, and lurked until season 4 started. Then I started poking my head out a bit and reblogged some stuff. But I wasn't really fully "in" until I started writing fics in 2014. Then I got more active and after writing a series called Four Eight, more people learned who I was (via a post by a super "popular" and now deactivated Tumblr account). Then I was in. sidenote: Eventually I did physical therapy around the time the club kiss aired (being there for that in real time?? Guys, I'm still screaming) and I'd watch that over and over as I iced my weak leg and took half a prescribed Percocet. The club kiss was better than the Percocet.

how long have you been here? So technically I guess I've had Tumblr 10 years. In December it will be 11. HOWEVER I was not active for several years in between like season 7ish until after the series ended, so I guess I should subtract. But that gets too be too much math.

what’s the first fandom channel you found? (Youtube, Reddit, Tumblr, Insta, Twitter, FB, other?) Youtube at first since that's how I found them. I was also really into watch fan video edits and watched them OBSESSIVELY.

what’s your favourite now? For fandom, Tumblr! Nothing quite like it. I'm glad to be back.

which mutual have you known the longest in the fandom? Oh my gosh. @captainjowl, @wehangout and @the-rat-wins are the ones who come to mind but I'm sorry if I'm overlooking some. So many people left!

which tumblerino’s did you have your first fandom crush(es) on and wanted to get to know? I remember really loving @captainjowl and being so glad when we got to be friends. Then because I almost have a Tumblr Season 2 life, I was really impressed by @heymacy and she just JUMPED off the screen. I wanted to be friends so I sent a message about chapell roan and now we talk ALL THE TIME. I've met so many newer to me people and I am so glad I know so many cool people.

first Gallavich fan fic you read (or that blew you away that you remember) I wish I remembered the first fic I read!! Sexual Harassment in the Workplace was posted around the time I started writing fic and of course that's amazing. I know works by anythingbutgrief were some of the first too. Beautiful.

first fan art that blew your mind? @steorie blows my mind every time. That's the first person I remember just losing it over. But there are so many incredible artists!!

fanfic trope that you were sure wasn’t for you but now you low key (or high key) love? a/b/o! But I mostly was like "what the fuck is this about?" And then got on board pretty fast.

What surprised you most about this fandom? the level of talent is absolutely wild.

moment in the show (or YT vids if you’re one of those) that you fell in hyperfixation with Gallavich? the first one was probably s3 "not everybody gets to blurt out how they fucking feel every minute!" because i was like, OHHH OH THIS IS GONNA HURT ME & then it just kept getting worse.... @gallawitchxx just said it best BUT! I have a tattoo that says "sorry I'm late" so I guess you could say I'm into that one too.

Ian or Mickey? Ian is my baby, my friend. my familiar. I adore them both and it's hard to choose, but I loved him right away and never quit.

Which Gallagher or Milkovich are you? I'm honestly a lot like Ian. But maybe if I swung Milkovich I'd be Sandy.

[digitalisnarcissus]

Book 4 in the @batmanisagatewaydrug 2025 book bingo

🧙‍♂️Fantasy✨

The Wandering Inn book 1 by Pirateaba (audio)

Read by request of my partner (I gotta stop taking recommendations from him).

Long. So long. I know that's an inane thing to say about part one of what may be the longest work in the English language, but girlies, I am not cut out for epic fantasy. This one is 43 hours, volume 2 is 60 hours. You could probably get through the entirety of Tolstoy's work in the time it takes to listen to just 2 of the 14 (and counting) volumes of The Wandering Inn. You know, the War and Peace guy? The infamously long book, that's equivalent to one of these! Too long!

At one point during my slog I took a break and watched Conclave, the pope film, and it was good, but at the time I felt like it was the best thing I'd ever seen because it made its point in 2 hours and left. I could do other things! Anything else I wanted! I went back to my book. I don't want to be too harsh, it's a debut and it's self published, and it's certainly an impressive work. There's at least one normal books worth of decent writing in this volume, it's just that it's the length of three or four. I've learnt that there is also an updated version out there kicking around, so maybe it addresses some of my complaints. But it's 5 hours longer, somehow.

There's this tic they have of repetition, where a phrase will be said in the narration and then almost immediately put into the mouth of a character. The first time I noticed it I thought it was a flaw in the otherwise incredible narration, like she'd read a line wrong and it got overlooked in the edit, but no, it happens a lot. And then I noticed subtler versions of repetition, until there's a big horror monster fight scene near the end which felt like they put 50 words in a washing machine and made me watch it spin for half an hour.

There is also periods of... well calling them pop culture references is being kind. They're not references, they're straight up saying the names of bands and songs and doing little reviews. The part where, yeah, if was a film you could put music in it. But it's not, it's a book. Stoppit. Put your little character playlists online like god intended. Also a fixation on the boy wizard who shall not be named, which is cringe in the moment plus obviously unfortunate in retrospect.

The final problem is personal to me. I can't stand edgy. Severely allergic. The secondary POV character is all edge. I got so frustrated and upset at having to keep reading her, I actually put her on 2x speed, which I never do, just because if I didn't so something I wasn't going to finish it, and it was way too late to give up. Basically Ryoka turned the whole book into a repeating loop of this gif for me:

I liked the boring bits best. And the (unfortunately extremely occasional) jokes were pretty good actually. S tier narration. Andrea Parsneau is a generational talent, genuinely, the fact that she's seemingly exclusively working in LitRPG is a shame, but what a feather in the cap of the genre. A solid 3⭐ if I forgive the audacity of that one bitch.

[kpopsexstories]

Which K-pop Smut Story Next? (Vote!)

If you've paid attention to the Up-coming Stories page you know that I currently have a whole list of already written smut stories that haven't been published yet. They're coming 😏 But which should I post first?

At the end of this post you can cast your vote among the already written stories, to help me decide which to prioritize. Later I'll do a vote on which deeper/longer story lines you want me to focus on next as I continue to write new stuff.

Before you cast your vote though, let first tell you more about the stories you can vote for 🙂 Here's a quick overview:

Jaemin's MILF Story

Riize Masturbate Together

Straight Quick Fix Season 5

Quick Fix Gay Season 2

Ten x Taeyong + Johnny x Female Reader

Lazy Romance Stories

Jaemin's MILF Story

Last year I did a whole bunch of NCT Dream MILF stories. There's only one left, and even though this is not a series and each story is its own thing, this final part does loosely connect the previous ones. Should I prioritize publishing the final part?

Riize Masturbate Together

This was a request which really got me going. I wrote the first draft in one go! I enjoy it when idols get together and things escalate sexually but it's forbidden and not something they'd normally do. The this-isn't-normal-but-I-like-it aspect is thrilling. If you want to see this story sooner rather than later, vote for this option!

Straight Quick Fix Season 5

Quick Fix is my straight series with very short stories that focus on just the sex or a single plot point. I already have more than enough first drafts to start a Season 5 today! Each season usually has 8 stories and each story can be completely different from the rest. Any group or k-pop idol (x female reader) goes! If this option wins the vote I'll start Season 5 very soon.

Quick Fix Gay Season 2

We're currently in the middle of Season 1 of the gay edition of my Quick Fix stories, so naturally that season will need to end first. But I've written half the stories for a Season 2 with more in the works. They're short member-on-member and idol x male reader stories. Do you want me to prioritize more gay Quick Fix stories like these and start the next season as soona s the current one ends?

Ten x Taeyong (gay) + Johnny x Female Reader (straight)

This story is a continuation of the Ten Tries Straight Sex story from a while ago. In it, you're Ten's best friend and have sex with him because he wants to try it (female reader). It ended on a bit of a cliffhanger: Taeyong came on to Ten, while Johnny came on to you. In this continuation all four of you have sex in the same bed. Vote for this option if you want this gay-straight-hybrid story next!

Lazy Romance Stories

I've written a couple of stories in which you spend quality time in bed with an idol. Soft kisses, gentle touches and sweet words lead to soft sex. I've yet to publish any of them and I struggle with writing these kinds of scenes in general, but it's something I want to do more of and get better at. Vote for this option if you want me to post the ones I have so far!

Ready to make a decision? Vote below!

[futurepastme]

Before the Dawn of Man in Castles Made of Sand

For the past year i've been trying to write my first fic and I barely even started at all, but from time to time I imagine a few scenes that might or not - probably not- be included on the main story and SOMETIMES I write them down anyway I can, as fast as I can. And sometimes I actually take the time to try writing something decent.

So here is a scene that I though of that supposedly is part of the fic I'm writing but will never happen: ≈2.5k words

Three hundred-ish years ago, the first King of Camelot, King Bruta, signed a very detailed peace treaty with the King of Essetir, Éamonn. It wasn’t a ‘now-we-are-buddies’ agreement or a ‘you’re-in-trouble-let-me-help’ agreement, no, it was a ‘keep-our-shit-to-ourselves’ agreement.

Bonded by blood magic, the treaty stated that as long as a descendant of both the original kings set on the throne of their respective kingdoms, no acts of war, military or otherwise, would be allowed between their kingdoms on penalty of the immediate interruption of the lives of the current rulers and all of their living relatives. 

A complete ending of the bloodline, with no one left to salvage it in any way.

The treaty was signed by both Kings and any living heirs they had, so as to make sure that the bloodline was completely bounded by the contract. 

The magic, though, had an expiration date. It was powerful, ancient magic, but as the seasons change and the days turn to night, magic, too, is frail against the will of time, and as it passes it would slowly fade into nothingness.

It was stated then at the bottom of the contract, just before the fancy signatures with the swirling loops, that when the time should come for the magic to disappear, both Kingdoms’ current rulers should reunite in a meeting for the reinforcement of the spell and a renewal of the contract. ♦

Some would say that Merlin ran out of time. Which was clearly an exaggeration seeing as he still has plenty of time left. No, really, he still had like, at least five hours before things really go to shit. That’s what he thought, anyway.

But some people, well, everybody but Merlin, would say that he ran out of time a week ago, when the announcement was made; or four days ago when the party was ready to leave and Merlin sat on his horse; or even yesterday when they were still outside of the Kingdom, camping for the night.

But no, he definitely still has a few hours. The party still wouldn't even be able to see the castle for another three, and they wouldn’t reach the lower town for another half hour after that.

Merlin was out of time.

He sat on his saddle, restlessly sweating his nerves out. If Arthur could see him, he would order him to stop, ask what is wrong and call him a girl, all in a single phrase. Arthur couldn't see him, though.

If this were a simple hunting trip, Merlin would be by his side, chattering his ears off and completely disregarding every royal protocol ever written in the history of mankind. But this was a Royal Camelot Party led by King Uther himself, which, of course meant that Merlin was far off the back riding along with the rest of the servants of the Royal Household. 

Which meant that he could barely even see Arthur’s stupid golden hair, let alone talk to him about anything.

So, the battle plan, now that he still had plenty of time was that he would avoid everything and everyone that has a mouth or ears or eyes, run for Arthur’s assigned chambers, tell him everything without crying at all and then pray that he could leave said chambers alive and sane. And with his heart unscathed. 

It is not every day you tell your master, friend and secret crush that not only your existence is illegal in his father’s kingdom, but you are actually royalty yourself. Royalty of the kingdom they were currently at.

So, Merlin was having a great day, and a stressless week.

And it only got better when the knights arrived.

A small party of seven men, dressed in armor very similar-looking to the ones from Camelot, the only apparent difference being the blue capes and the lack of a royal crest on the chest piece, slowly approached, led by an almost completely gray-haired knight with dark eyes and an almost charming smile.

“Welcome to Essetir, your Majesty, Your Highness. I’m Sir Griogair, we are here to safely escort your Majesty and your party to the gates of the keep.” Merlin hastily pulled his hood and sank lower on the saddle. 

Griogair was, in Merlin’s opinion, a slimy little man greedy with power, he has loathed the guy since the day he sat foot in Essetir, every hair on his body reacting with the man’s disgusting nature. But of course, ‘bad feeling’ wasn’t a good excuse not to knight the bravest looking guy his father had seen in years. Especially when you are only thirteen and don't know better yet.

He deserved credit, though, for Griogair was, at the time and still, a very handsome man with charms to spare. He had won over almost everyone in the keep within the week, was knighted within the month, and when Merlin left, he was one of the most high-ranked knights of the kingdom.

But now, for the looks of it, and from the few words he managed to hear all the way from the back, Griogair was not only a First Assembly Knight, and a Dragon Rider of the Kingdom, but has snatched for himself the position of War Mage.

That meant that not only the fucker had learnt magic, but it was skilled and powerful enough to be able to qualify for the position and now could use it freely on behalf of the kingdom. It also meant that, when in mission out of the keep, he would be responsible for dealing with the magical creatures and beings that lived within the borders of the kingdom, interfering as necessary.

Also, that meant that the bastard had clearly taken advantage of Merlin’s absence to ensure the one position Merlin could and would have stopped him from getting. 

Anger aside, Merlin took a second to recompose himself and to try to identify the other knights that came with Slimy Griogair. He knew his father wouldn’t send a bunch of low-ranking knights to deal with burn-innocents-at-a-pyre-for-fun Uther Pendrasshole and his entourage.

The three knights that rode on the left side of Slimy Griogair he couldn’t see. Actually, he barely couldn’t see the Snake himself, which he was equally parts glad and concerned.  

Of the other three knights that he could see, two he failed to recognize. 

But at the front, riding almost side by side with Griogair, he caught a glimpse of curly snow-white hair. Sir Llywelyn was by far his closest knight, 5 years older than himself, the man was a true friend and a fierce knight. 

Ending his quick inspection of his men, Merlin lowered his head further, letting the hood blind his vision fully and trusting his horse to follow the others. Friend or foe, Llywelyn or Griogair, it didn’t matter, Merlin had to get home unrecognized by either of them or the other knights.

♦

At this point in his life, one would think Merlin was used to things not going as planned. From magical creatures that appear from nowhere to bandit attacks, Merlin’s day never went as he expected since the day he decided to leave home and follow his magic to the great unknown. The great unknown that led to Camelot and to the unending headache that his life became.

You would think that somebody as powerful and as used to ambushes as Merlin would have been able to feel the approach of a huge flying magical creature, but he had better things to worry about then to be attacked by his own dragon.

The betrayal, honestly.

They had been on the road for another hour since his knights joined Camelot’s Party. Merlin still had his head down, but now his hooded cape had a small spell that kept his hoodie from falling unless he wanted it down.

He was bored. Not only far away from Arthur and from Leon, but he still had to ride at George’s side.

The man has been rambling on for hours about all that was known of Essetir culture and servants’ etiquette, which wasn’t much, but he somehow managed to stretch a 3 pages lost-through-time knowledge into a 40-minute-and-still-going monologue, and also somehow made it more boring than the grain reports.

It went down really fast

One second, he was on his horse, trying to not listen to George and still stay awake, and the other he was on the ground with an extremely heavy, horse-sized, white dragon licking his face.

The second that his brain took to understand the situation was enough to hell break loose.

Camelot’s knights stood on one side, weapons drawn, ready to kill the beast, while his knights tried to protect Aithusa.

There were shouts and threats from both sides, and stupid Griogair, instead of trying to appease the situation and take the unknown Camelot servant from under the huge magic creature that he should be responsible for, no, he was aggravating the situation even more.

He had to do something, now.

By the time he got back on his feet, both sides were ready to attack each other, Arthur’s arm raised slightly, ready for the first strike.

“Enough” he said, walking to put himself between Arthur and Griogair. His voice was loud and clear. A voice of command and power, a voice he hadn’t used in years. It was the strong voice of someone born to lead legions to war. Camelot’s knights relaxed a little, if by shock or relief he didn’t know, but they kept their stance as Arthur scanned him “I’m fine, no harm done.”

He turned fully toward his knights “Lower your weapons, now.”

The problem was, Merlin was still hooded and Griogair was still an asshole “Is this how Camelot’s servants speak with their superiors?” Stupid said, while grabbing Merlin by his clothes and suspending him in midair.

“Put my servant down. Now.” Arthur commanded, his voice dangerously low and calm.

“The boy might have harmed the dragon, until I say he didn’t, he stays in our custody” Griogair, the idiot that can’t read the room, said.

That’s also when Merlin decided to let his hoodie fall.

He heard a few shocked gasps, and felt more then saw his nights stand down and lower his weapons. But nothing would make him loose the amazing sight of Griogair’s shocked face as he began paling to death. “Put. Me. Down.” He said for Griogair’s ears only.

“Y-your Highness” He dropped Merlin like he burned his hands taking half a step back, Merlin would have fallen but right now he wasn’t the clumsy servant anymore, he was the Crown Prince Merlin Ambrosius of Essetir, trained in combat from a young age, and with a political situation on his hands that could lead to war.

“Forgive me, My Lord. I hadn’t realized we were graced with your illustrious presence” His head in a low bow, but his eyes never leaving Merlin’s.

“Sir Griogair”

“It is really good to have you back, Sire. The people start to talk, you see? Rumors about your death spread, but not me, Sire. I knew better, you see? I told them all; No one in the five Kingdoms have more skill or bravery or the complete…”

“Stop talking”

The amusement Merlin felt when he first saw Sir Griogair’s shocked face had slowly diminished and was long gone. Every second that he stood there, posture straight, facing his knights in his kingdom, with the feeling of the stares of another Royal Household burning his right side; the further away he was from the happy servant he was this morning, and now the phantom weight of his crown started pressing down on his head.

“I’m sure you are aware, Sir Griogair, of my reticence towards you when my father first started rising your rank within the knights”

“I’m sure I more than proved myself, Your Highness. The king himself knows; my position was more than des…”

“I’m not done” Merlin interrupted again. His posture as straight as possible, his head held high.

“I’m aware of the King’s feelings in regards of your person; and I’m sure you somehow proved yourself to him in many occasions, my father wouldn’t reward with higher ranks a man he deemed undeserving.” Griogair has stopped bowing, straightening his body and letting a smile that was meant to be charming form on his face.

“Unfortunately,” Merlin continued “I have yet to see the actions that would grant rewards such as your high ranks, and today you have, at my eyes, failed the crown and your kingdom.” His voice was loud enough to be heard by all of the Camelot’s entourage, even George and the other servants at the back.

“Your Highness, surely I can’t be blamed for the actions of a brainless…”

“What my dragon did is irrelevant, as a knight your actions reflect on the kingdom more than anything Aithusa could possibly do, you carry our colours and is responsible for the safety and well being of every living being inside our borders, not only our citizens and creatures, but our guests as well.”

“Sire! I…” He wasn’t smiling anymore; panic was back on his face.

“Unfortunately, your actions today can’t be left unpunished, and at the absence of the king, I’ll be the one to define such punishment; my decision here will be final and would only be overruled by the King himself.”

“Please… Sire!” He fell to his knees, grabbing the hems of Merlin’s cape.

“I hope you know, Sir Griogair, that despite my personal feelings towards you, I take no pleasure in punishing you, in fact, it saddens me deeply that today I have been proven right.” Merlin truly meant that, like it or hate it, the guy was still his knight, he was still his man. “You will be happy to know that, as Crown Prince, I have not the power to permanently remove your knighthood, as it was granted by the King, however I can suspend it.”

The knights started moving behind Griogair, getting into formation. Two lines with three men each, positioned by rank in a way that put Merlin and Griogair at the center. It was the same position they took when somebody was knighted.

With everybody settled in their positions, Merlin twisted his wrist and raised his finger pointing towards Griogair’s chest.

Now, everybody from the Camelot Entourage has at least once seen a knighting ceremony, and surely, most have seen how it goes when such knighthood is removed. However, none of them has ever seen one to the likes of Essetir’s

As a Kingdom with magic at its throne, Essetir’s knighthood works differently.

The king doesn’t simply stand in a pretty room, says some inspiring words, wave around a fancy sword an BAM! you’re a knight, you may rise.

In summary, the knights are essentially bound, to the crown and to each other, by magic. It isn’t the type of bound that forcefully traps them without escape; they can choose to leave if they so desire. No, the bound is connection. It is brotherhood.

When Merlin twisted his wrist, it activated the bound. Only the King and his direct heir could activate the bound in such a way.

On every Essetir Knight’s, at the right side almost on their shoulders, now set a fist-sized symbol, a shield shaped blue light, with the Ambrosius crest. The same shield now also appeared on Merlin, except his was big enough to cover his chest completely.

The pretty crests weren’t the most impressive thing, though. For when Merling flicked his wrist, his clothes, too, changed. As the Crown Prince of Essetir, the activation of the bound by his hand is considered a matter of state; and as such, his clothes must reflect his position and his rank. That is why now, at the middle of the forest stood a Merlin in expensive looking clothing, a cape matching the ones of the knights, and most importantly, a silver circlet with blue and green gemstones.

End English not my first language