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astermath · 1 year

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nemesis; part two.

pairing: carmen berzatto x fem!reader

summary: with carmen reworking the restaurant, you’d think his mind would be far too occupied to even think about anything else. yet he can’t shake the guilt from what he’d put you through a month prior. after some talks in therapy, he decides to take a leap of faith and see if he can talk it out with you. he not only wants to convince you that he can be better, but he's got an offer for you too. one you truly can't refuse.

♡ landing page ♡

word count: 4.9K

tags: carmen being unsure about his feelings but trying to be better episode 3265742, letting reader in a little more, APOLOGIES!!!, cursing ig, carm goes to therapy yippee, syd being the absolute realest, regular font below!

notes: sorry this took literally forever omg, I lost my carmen muse for a bit but we are SO back baby. I missed him so much and so sorry if some things don't follow the canon completely (I've been watching season 2 on and off bc I've been so busy lol BUT my fics never follow the canon completely anyways),, hope u guys enjoy and let me know if you'd like a part three ;))

lmk if you'd like to be added to the tag list for further carmen berzatto related content! comments and reblogs are highly appreciated!

Carmen’s life hadn’t known a moment of mental rest in ages. If you asked him when he last sat down with his thoughts or acknowledged his mental anguish, he probably would have said he couldn’t remember the last time. If ever.

With plans to completely revamp The Beef and everything that came with it, now his feelings should be the last thing on his mind. Renovation plans, unforeseen costs and a completely new menu, sure, he could worry his ass off about those, but feelings? Absolutely not. Good thing he was usually so good at suppressing those anyways.

So why was it that he couldn’t shake the thought of what he did to you?

Why, every time he had a moment to himself, would he be overtaken by this intense feeling of guilt? He didn’t even have to be alone, just a second of quiet and the image of you crying in distress would intrude on his thoughts.

It was getting to a point where he’d told his sister, Natalie, about it. Well, not all of it, he wasn’t even sure if he knew all of it. Just that he knows he hurt you, and that coming to terms with what he projected onto you might be a good first step in understanding himself better.

Or maybe it was something more along the lines of “I gotta talk my shit to some people”. Probably that.

To his surprise, it was actually helping. Besides the group therapy sessions where he’d talk about Mikey, the business and his future, he was talking to other people in his life too. Even told Sydney about you, kind of on accident. The words just seemed to… Flow out. It was probably the exhaustion doing its thing.

“I guess I just felt like,” he kept his eyes on the floor he was sweeping, “she was doing it all to fuck with me. I don’t even know where I got the sick idea that she had some obsession over me, but it— it drove me at the same time. It’s like her being on my heels at every aspect of culinary school just made me want to try even harder.”

“Maybe you painted her in that light because you knew it was a good way to keep pushing yourself.” Sydney spoke almost absentmindedly, sweeping the other side of the room. She listened to everything he said in the meantime, and though what he was telling her was a bit worrying, she was glad they got to have talks like this. Carmen often doesn’t like to bring up his past like that.

“Huh,” he paused sweeping for a moment, “yeah… yeah, maybe. Or maybe it was something else.”

Sydney wasn’t even sure he knew what he was referring to. It sounded like something entirely different, like a crush, but what kind of person treats their crushes like that?

Probably an overworked, pressured, overachieving culinary student with a dangerous need for validation. But she wasn’t about to tell him that.

“So yeah, I visited her restaurant, and… It just felt the exact same as back in New York, you know? Like she was rubbing it in my face again, and— and I know that sounds insane, or conceited, but I just can’t let it go. It’s like the thought of her is stuck to my brain like a stubborn piece of gum.” He wanted to smack himself for that stupid analogy, but what was said was said.

“So how’d you handle it?” Sydney’s head perked up, some of her braids now draping over her shoulders.

“Handle what?” Carmen became more and more uneasy the more he talked about you. Like his chest was tight, it was uncomfortable, but not in the way he was when the health inspection came by, it was different. Weirder. Unfamiliar. He didn’t like it, because he didn’t understand it.

“The talk with her.” She emptied the last bit of dust into the trash bag.

“Oh,” his mind took him back to the parking lot a month ago. The way he could almost taste the tears of your skin from how close he stood, he could hear the shakiness of your breath and the profound desperation in your voice when you apologized to him, when you really had no reason to.

If it was still so clear in his mind, then what must it be like for you?

“Carmen?” Sydney snapped him out of his oncoming train of thought.

“Yeah? Sorry, I— Uh, I don’t know it was…” He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly finding it in his best interest to look anywhere else but her face. “Bad. It was— It was bad.” He looks a bit shameful when he meets her eyes. “I fucked up. I like, went all New York boss on her. And then I just… Left.”

His colleague just stares at him for a moment. She knew what he was like when he snapped like that, but that was with his staff, people he liked. So how badly did he snap on you, a person he’d been resenting for years?

“I’m gonna go take out this trash, and uh… Head home.” She lifts the grey plastic bag she was holding. “But uh, Carm?”

“Yeah?”

“You got issues, man.” She has a bit of an awkward smile on her face, but he knows she means it. He knows she’s right. She usually is.

He nods, silently, letting her words sink in. He did have issues, everyone knew that, but most people didn’t just say it. That’s why he liked Sydney, she was so real, so honest. She was so good for the business, for the kitchen. And maybe her saying that to him was all part of grounding him in the reality of it all. Of his issues, just that they existed.

“Heard.” he says. His voice comes out raspier than he expected, like he’s struggling to say it.

“Goodnight, chef.”

“Night.”

He’d thought about what Sydney said the entire night. He does have issues, he knows that, he’s just mad at himself for letting everything get this far before seeking help. It scares him. Because it reminds him too much of Mikey. Or what he heard about him when things got bad.

He doesn’t want to make the same mistakes his brother did. Lock people out of his life just because it seems easier, because it’s better to minimize the damage than to figure out why you’re doing damage at all. And yes it’s uncomfortable, yes it’s scary, terrifying even. But he keeps being reminded of how it must feel for you.

It’s something he’d never considered before. He always thought he had you all figured out, all fake smiles and backhanded compliments to distract him. It never occurred to him to just… Ask. It was always just easier to assume. It fit his view of you and it kept him going, even if it was at the expense of ever getting to know you at all.

He’s hoping he can change that with a few text messages and a long, probably uncomfortable, talk over coffee. Just hoping, trying, that’s really all he can do. He’s well aware of how bad he is at communicating, but he has to give it a shot. For you, at least.

He stares at his phone screen for far longer than is necessary, continuously rereading the messages he’d typed. His eyes keep flicking to your contact, making sure he sent it to the right person. The only thing you two had texted about before was a time and place for him to try your new restaurant. His heart aches at the exclamation points and emojis you’d sent; you were so excited, and he drove all that excitement straight into the ground.

He closes his eyes and shuts off the phone. His chest hurts, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time. Maybe he has. You could have that effect on him, making it harder to breathe. He always wondered why he had such nervous reactions around you specifically. He always figured it had to do with your one sided rivalry, but it feels… Different. More complex.

Your eyes are finally peeled off your computer screen when numerous phone notifications alarm you. Truth be told, you’ve been trying your best to keep yourself occupied as much as possible. That usually helps when you get waves of emotions like this, keeping busy, distracting your mind from overthinking.

Ever since your last encounter with Carmen, you’ve been so on edge. Always trying to do something, anything, so you wouldn’t have to think about what happened, why he acted like that to you. Because you know if you did, you’d just start blaming yourself again, and you’d be back to square one.

Your eyebrows raise at the name of the contact. You were sure he’d blocked you, or at least deleted your number after last time. He was avoidant like that, and frankly, you weren’t sure if you wanted him to talk to you again after that anyways. Maybe it was just to drive the point home, make you feel even more worthless.

Still, you were curious. Even if it was just to cuss you out even more, at least you knew what to expect, right?

[carmen]: hey, I really want to talk to you about what happened last time.

[carmen]: well

[carmen]: I want to apologise

[carmen]: but I can’t do that like this

[carmen]: I’d much rather do it in person

[carmen]: if you’d let me

[carmen]: meet me at odette’s tomorrow around 10? coffee’s on me, I just want to talk

[carmen]: please

The last message was sent minutes later than the rest, while you were reading them. He was desperate for an answer, and though you wanted to hear him out, to talk to him, something in you felt off about the whole thing. Like he was just doing this to clear off his own guilt, only to then ditch you just like he ditched you after culinary school. Because you’re rivals, apparently. That’s what you do.

But then there’s something else in you too. The part that’s still nostalgic about New York with him. About the glances back and forth when you were timed on preparing certain things, about the way he’d stare at you when you got feedback, the ignorant bliss you lived in. When you still believed he might have liked you just a little.

That part of you takes the upper hand when you reply and take his offer. Your heart is in your throat, nerves overtaking you already and you weren’t even with him yet. He had that effect on you sometimes, making it harder to breathe.

You wondered what that meant.

Carmen sits alone at a booth, all the way at the back of the café he’d chosen. It’s rather quiet, as most Mondays are, yet at the same time, it’s so loud. Loud in the way he hears the clinking of every spoon against porcelain cups, the crinkling of a napkin and the not so subtle ticking of the clock above the entrance. 10:06. You were late.

Suddenly he's filled with more regret than he's ever felt before. He's not ready to see you again, only to be reminded of how he made you cry, and of his own tumultuous emotions and shortcomings that lead to this moment. It's surprising how fast the emotions he associates with you changed; he's not angry anymore, he's scared, guilty, nervous. He wants to see you so bad and yet he feels like you'd be better off never talking to him again.

It's too late to make a run for it when you finally walk through the door. Hair a little damp from the rain, just a bit disheveled from what he could only assume to be rushing over to the café. And that same angelic smile you offer to the barista that greets you, the same one you'd offer him every morning, whether he looked at you or not.

He had no choice but to look now.

Your smile falters into something more nervous, a little melancholic, when your eyes meet his across the café. Though you knew he was going to be there, something in you feels surprised to see him again. Maybe it’s because he isn’t yelling at you or throwing insults at your head this time. Or maybe because he’s actually looking you in the eye. Since when did he get so good at that?

You sit down across him, taking off your coat and putting your bag besides you.

“Hey.” You smile again, much more awkward this time.

“Hey.” He returns the same thin lipped smile.

It’s quiet for a few seconds. Carmen swears the whole café has gone silent in that moment, leaving the two of you to listen to the sound of your own breathing and heartrate picking up. You’re not sure where to look, not being used to being in such an intimate setting with him.

“Do you want a coffee?”

“Sorry I was late.”

You both talk over each other, and the urge to chuckle about it overtakes you. Carmen can’t help but smile as well. You seem nervous, and somehow that puts him a little more at ease. Like he’s not the only one who’s in their head about it.

“Sorry, I, uhm, yeah— I would like a coffee.” You scramble over your words. “Please.”

“Sure,” he nods, “and no worries.”

“Hm?”

“That you were late. I haven’t been here that long either.” He lied. He’d been there half an hour early, cursing himself for letting him sit along with his thoughts for that long and psyching himself out into almost leaving.

You both order and another heavy silence sits between you two. You both know why you’re there, what needs to be talked about. Yet neither of you know how to bring it up.

You’ve lived most of your lives believing this version of each other you had in your minds. Because it kept you grounded. Because it was easier. He never let you in and for the longest time, you were at peace with that. You could have a slightly distant view of who he was, your classmate, your rival. And he could do the same. Keep you out, pretend you were there to keep him on his toes, to always try to outdo him.

Those facades of each other don’t work anymore. The real world has forced you to reconcile with each other, whether you liked it or not.

Your coffee gets brought to your table, and both of you feel this urgency to say something, anything, at least.

“The pastries here are good too, if you want to get one.” He finally broke the awkward silence. He can start with talking about food, something he knows. If all else fails, resort back to that.

“I haven’t tried a pastry besides my own in a long time. Maybe I could learn a thing or two here.” You admit. He knows that feeling. He’s not nearly as adventurous with his food choices as he wants to be, but as a busy chef on the brink of a new entrepreneurship, it’s usually beef sandwiches and frozen meals.

“I think yours were better though.” He takes a sip of his coffee.

“Huh?” You look up, realizing you were avoiding eye contact by staring into your cup.

“The danish I tried at your place. It was fire.”

“Oh. Right. Thank you, we make everything from scratch.”

“I could tell.” He takes another sip. “I guess I— I kinda forgot to tell you that. In the heat of it all.” He huffs to himself. “Food was so good it made me upset.”

“Upset?” His word use frustrates you. Upset is when they forget to give you your sauce with your order. What happened back there was not upset. That was rage. Wrath. You raise an eyebrow and he realizes he said something wrong.

“Well, more than upset. Listen, I— We need to talk about what happened.” His blue eyes peer into your own. They’re almost distracting enough to avoid you noticing his fidgeting hands.

“I’m listening.” You lean back slightly in your seat. You’d played nice with Carmen all your life, given him every chance to return it. Now it was his turn to try.

"Right." Of course he has to talk. It's his fault, isn't it? He's the one who snapped-- why did he even imply you'd have to explain yourself? He runs a hand through his hair, and there he goes again, eyes darting across the café to find something to focus on as he sought out the right words. You'd almost find it endearing, how bad he is at this, if it wasn't so important to you.

"You don't do this often, do you?"

"What, like-- meeting up for coffee?"

"Talking about stuff. Your feelings and shit." You hid your slightly amused smile behind your coffee cup before taking a small sip.

"Oh. Yeah, no, I-- I don't. Not until recently." He takes a deep breath. Just like they had told him to. “I’ve been going to this therapy thing my sister recommended. S’not much, but… It’s a start. Talked about the restaurant, my brother—“

“Your brother?” Your eyebrows raise slightly.

“Yeah, my— my brother. Mikey.” He looks a bit surprised. He’s come to the shattering realization that he’s never told you anything about his personal life, ever. You don’t even know about one of the most important people in his life, his main drive. You’ve known each other for so long yet you know so little. “I never told you about him?”

“You never told me anything.” You answer curtly. “We never really… Talked, you know?”

“Yeah— yeah, you’re right. I just thought… Wow.” He smiles, more out of shock than anything. He feels so stupid. How immature is it to be feuding this much with a person who doesn’t know anything about you?

“I guess I really don’t know much about you either.” His fingers rake through his messy curls again. “Makes me feel like even more of an idiot for going off on you like that. Like I had you all figured out.”

“Yeah, that was uh... That was something." The mood shifts a little. His smile fades as soon as he sees the melancholy in your eyes return. Of course it wouldn't be that easy for you to forgive him, to feel better about all this. "You know, I never knew you thought of me like that." A small smile graces your features. Somehow it's sadder than the expression you had before.

"I mean, I knew you didn't like me. I was pretty much at peace with the fact that you were never going to like me, either. But I never thought you hated me that much." You sniffle, trying your hardest to blink away any oncoming tears. "Like your life, your entire career, would have been easier without me there at all."

His heart aches at the sight of you, all teary eyed and trying to be brave. You're much braver than him. Sadness is a much harder thing to express than anger. He's starting to figure that out more and more.

"I don't hate you." He starts. He sees the confusion contort your features, and he knows he's not making any sense. "I mean I did-- I did hate you. Or, maybe not you, just... The fucked up idea I had of you. And-- and that was on me, that was my own fault." He feels an urge to touch you; to rub your back, hold your hand, anything to comfort you. It's tearing him apart to know that he's the cause of all this.

"But why?" A single tear rolls down your cheek, leaving a wet streak on your skin in its wake. "Why did you think that about me? I-- I get that we had a little rivalry going but jesus Carmen, did you really think I spent my whole culinary school career trying to outdo you?"

"To be honest... Yeah." He feels ashamed. So ashamed. He hopes the waitress doesn't walk by and listen to any of this, see you crying, and make you feel even worse. "Cooking was always just... My thing. If I was good for anything, it would be that. So seeing you do so well at something I'd started to base my whole existence around, it made me jealous, so fucking jealous." He meets your eyes, even if it's hard. You have to know he's being sincere.

"And it's-- it's unfair, it's so unfair to you, I know, and I'm really fuckin' sorry. I'm trying to work on myself, on everything, and I hope I can prove that to you." His face has that red tint you recognize whenever he's nervous or stressed. You can tell this is taking a lot from him.

"Is that really all? You were just jealous?" Your voice is quieter, fragile almost.

"I don't know. I wanna think it's that simple but I really don't know. There's a lot I don't understand about me, or you, or us. My mind doesn't know how to react when I see you anymore I think, now that things are different." He takes a deep breath, like saying that took a physical toll on him. "You have this-- this weird effect on me, and I don't know how to cope with it. I think it was just easier to be mad at you than to be anything else."

Anger is easier to express than sadness. The easiest out of all emotions, actually. Sometimes a little too easy.

You look to the side, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. You huff out something close to a laugh, and though he’s caught off guard by it, he doesn’t mind it. Even if you’re laughing at him, at least that means you’re not crying.

“You’ve got issues Berzatto. You know that?”

“Yeah. I’ve been told.” He smiles, and it’s heartfelt this time. Not nervous, or sad, or awkward. He’s happy to see you a little more at ease.

“It’s just really crazy to me.” You trace your finger over the edge of your coffee cup as you talk. “I spent so much time in culinary school looking up to you. And then I find out you were always just trying to keep up with me.”

Carmen’s eyebrows raise a little at your words. “Looked up to me?”

“Yeah, like… Your drive, your passion, it’s so impressive. Always looking to improve, to do better, it just— it inspired me to do better too. As cheesy as that may sound.” You smiled. “S’why I opened up in Chicago, you know.”

“Really? Huh.” He leaned back in his seat.

“Because I wanted to work with you. Or for you. Either would have been fine with me.” You sigh. “I like owning my own place, but… I don’t know, for some reason I always imagined us working together.” You smiled. “Is that stupid?”

“No,” he replied quickly, “no not at all, I— I totally get that.” He’s quiet for a few seconds, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head when he stares at you for a moment.

“I mean you’re a remarkable chef, really, like— insanely remarkable, and, well, we’re revamping the restaurant completely right now. We need people— more people, new people, and so, I was wondering— or I’ve been thinking—“ He stops himself from losing his breath from all his rambling, before he freaks you out even more than he already has.

“I want you to come work for us at the Bear.” He puts his hands together, as if he’s about to beg. “Please.”

You can almost hear yourself blinking out of confusion. There’s suddenly no more loud silences, no, the café seems dead quiet for once. All you can do is stare at him, wait for a laugh, because clearly this was a joke right? There’s no way Carmen Berzatto, chef supreme, arch nemesis of yours, would want you anywhere near him, let alone work in his own establishment.

“I’m sorry?”

He feels stupid already. You had every reason to say no. He’d been the biggest asshole in the world to you, he’d kept his distance all his life, and now he expects you to be his employee. Or, well, colleague, more so.

“I’m uh— we’re redoing the restaurant entirely. New equipment, new staff, new everything.” He swallows; the thought of everything that needed to be done arises for a moment. “We need people that work hard, who know what they’re doing and who are passionate about it. And I barely know anyone who’s better at what you do than yourself.” He pauses, waiting for you to stop him. But you don’t.

“So I’m asking if you’d work for me. With me. It won’t be anything like old days, if anything I— I need to learn from you.” He scoffs at himself. “Could take a thing or two about how to communicate with my staff.”

You smile, and he genuinely thinks you’re about to start laughing at him. You chuckle, but it’s not mean, it’s honest. Cute.

“You know, you have great timing.” You grin.

“I do?” the smile on his face reflects the hope he feels.

“One of my chefs wants to take over the place for me. Well, has been wanting to. I haven’t had an exact reason to say yes to her yet.” You shrugged. “Guess I do now.”

“…Is that you saying yes?”

“It’s definitely not me saying no.” Your eyes meet his, and there’s something between you both that’s different now. It’s not like there’s a switch that’s been flipped. It‘s more like this conversation was the turning page of a new chapter.

“I’ll think about it. I want to see it first. Maybe talk to some of your staff.” Carmen’s chest strains a little when he thinks about you interacting with Richie. Then he’s reassured when he thinks about you interacting with Sydney or Marcus. You’d fit in well, you have great feeling for people.

“Yeah— yeah, I get that. Totally. I can arrange that. Uhm, we’re renovating right now, actually, it’s all really kinda wild, but if you wanna stop by, chat with Syd, or Nat, or talk about the plans, let me know. I’m sure they’d love to talk to you.” He’s not lying, you seem like you’d get along well with them. Especially Sydney. Your thinking processes are very similar to each other. And to his.

Carmen gets the bill, even though you try to pay for it.

“It’s just a coffee, just let me get this one.”

You let him have this one, simply because you can’t argue with him after the conversation you just had. You’re in too good of a mood after his proposition too.

He walks you to your car, hands in his pockets when you reach it. It’s cold outside, and his breath comes out in visible puffs of air. His nose is a little red, but you think it looks cute.

“Thanks for coming, by the way,” he starts, “I know you didn’t have to. Like— after how I acted to you. But— But I really do appreciate that you’re givin' me a chance here.” He’d always been confused about how positive and faithful you were in people. He never thought he’d be grateful for those exact features too.

“No worries, I… I had a good time. I’m glad we talked.” The keys jingle as you fidget with them. Among them is a keychain in the shape of a cherry, he recognizes it. It reminds him of how little you’ve both changed. And how much.

“Yeah.” He sighs. Relieved, almost. “Me too. But I’ll let you leave, might wanna tell your chef the good news.”

“Good news?” You quirk an eyebrow.

“That you’re selling them the business.”

“I haven’t decided yet, Carm.” You scoff. But he can tell you have, you look too excited about it all to not have your mind made up yet. It excites him too. Scares him a bit as well, but what’s a new chapter without a bit of tension?

“Right. Sorry.” He huffs. “Just text me when you wanna head over to see the place. It’s uh… It’s a work in progress, but it’s getting somewhere.”

“I believe you. I’m looking forward to it.” You lean back against your car a little.

“Yeah. Me too.”

“See y’around?” You unlock it and walk up to the driver’s side.

“Course. Uh, don’t be a stranger.”

You grin, leaning down to get into the vehicle. “Never with you, Berzatto.”

He watches you drive off, standing in the cold for far longer than any sensible person has any business standing there. But he feels good. He feels warm.

He thinks about what you said to him before you left. You were right, you were never a stranger to him. You were always like a constant in his life; whether you were actually present or not. And even if he didn’t know that much about you, which he was insistent on changing, you were never a stranger.

Never with him.

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leprechaunsthings · 3 days

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Dr Bright + SCP-963 Rewrite/Rework

Okay so I had a post/debate about what i would rewrite with Bright and SCP-963 and since it’s been a while (a day lol). I thought I would write out a bullet point list of my HC/Personal interpretation and rewrite of these two.

SCP-963 Rewrite

I wanted to start on the 963 first because my ideas for it changed the SCP quite a bit tbh.

SCP-963 regenerates the body of Dr. Bright. The exsnt of damage depends on how fast the the amulet repairs it

If Dr. Brught's body is fully dystroyed it takes about year for Dr. Bright to become operational and 2.5 years to be fully re-constructed.

Bright body is constistanly stuck at the age he became apart of SCP-963 (around 25-30)

Touching SCP-963 makes a mental/phycic link with the person, where Dr. Bright can Proxy through if/when required.

Dr. Bright Rewrite

Security Clearance level: 4

Special Security clerance level: ███████

Posistion: Site director of 17, 19 and 63.

Location: Where ever needed, usually at one site satated above

Education: Bioengenering and Abnormal Genetics

Raised and Educated in the Foundation due to his family having deep in the foundation itself. He is notably loyal to the foundation, however, dispalays an extrame dislike of The Cousel.

He/Him, Gay

Born Agust 12th 1874

Dosen't quite understand Sexuality and Gender, but he has the spirit.

Gambling and weed addict

Mercelously combines 1870's to modern slang

Frequantly baby sat Dr. Gears when Gears was a child

One the few who can call Gears by Charels / Charlie (Bright is basically his older brother / occasonal father figure)

Neglected Middle child

Has some strong ADHD just a really good mask

Will do Almost any dare given to Him

Bit of a prankster (it's harmless he just likes freaking ppl out sometimes)

Is 5'11, insists he is 6'0 to mess with people

Has this one 1870's vintage trench coat he wears all the time

Only flirts with people if flirted with first (probobly gose over his head most of the time tbh)

Anything relating to SCP-590 or SCP-321 is managed and handled by Dr. Bright

Slightly, but not fully, Catholic

Anyways that's my kinda rewrite / HC of Bright. Lmk of you have any ideas or questions :)

Also if you REALLY just don't want to use Dr. Bright as a name you can call him Dr. Burns Just make sure to tag me if you refrance/use him. (I highly dpubt anyone will, but just in case idk)

#scp #scp fandom #dr bright #dr burns #rewrite #headcanon #my headcanons

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hwaightme · 2 years

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Grilled Cheese Philosophy

🥪 pairing: demon!wooyoung x reader 🥪 genre: angst, dark, comfort, soulmates, angel/demon 🥪 summary: Abstaining from a cruel reality became your one goal, and around every corner you searched for an escape from the turmoil. Until a certain soul-searching demon showed up at your door, adamant to make himself a part of your life. 🥪 wordcount: 14k 🥪 warnings/tags: TW MINORS DNI, su!cide attempt, discussion of ed, depression, discussion of death, demon woo, fallen angel woo, soulmates, reincarnation, souls, slow burn, lmk if anything!🥪 a/n: Hello <3 this fic has very heavy themes so reader discretion is advised. Watching Wooyoung's performance to 'Logic - 1-800-273-8255' I felt a call to rework a fic I had, and thanks to senpai-of-doom was motivated add light in an otherwise dark progression. Remember, you matter, you are loved -"you are never alone and you will never be". Love you all, biggest hugs. P.S.: the song quoted is 'She's In The Rain' by The Rose.

“I had a guy sell his soul to me for some toast.”

“Wait a second, really?” You were bewildered. It had never occurred to you that someone would make a deal with the literal devil for such a simple food.

“I say that…” the demon sitting across from you paused, inspected the cuticles on his left hand and sighed, “…but it was not exactly for a single piece of toast. That would make the story unbelievably funny though, I wish it were the case!” To be frank, you were a little disappointed. You had expected more from your interlocutor’s chaotic line of work. “No, what this guy wanted was to have some, quote on quote, mad toast-making skills. I was not sure for what, but then he laid out his whole plan of making the best grilled cheese in the country and opening a grilled cheese food truck and touring around, watching people queue up for something only he could make well… It was enthralling.”

You could only raise your eyebrows and eye your rapidly cooling cup of tea. After earning a questioning glare from the devil, you realised that he was waiting for polite encouragement to continue conversation. You woke yourself up from your daze and hummed once, as if in thought.

“So, what happened then, did you give him the toast?”

“Here’s the fun bit. Well, I say fun, but it was more routine really. I go, ‘why not just ask to be a genius grilled cheese chef?’, genuinely curious, but he was adamant about just having the toast be done right every time. He rejected the heavier deal flat out. I go ‘you are going to miss out on being the biggest name in the grilled cheese world you so love’ and he goes ‘you see, the world is nothing if you have no problem at all’. I did not get what he meant then, but when the deal was over and done with, it made total sense. What this guy effectively did, was got a tailored eternal struggle that he could manage. The bread was guaranteed to be perfect, but the cheese provided him a sufficient challenge to remain interested in what he was doing.” The devil took a break to take a bite out of his, no, your almond croissant, and rather unceremoniously wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

You clasped your hands around the mug more strongly, feeling the last bits of warmth seep away from the untouched beverage. You had no appetite or thirst left in your body, for you believed that it was far more fascinating having control over the decay of your being, especially now that you had been honoured with the audience of an otherworldly power. The devil was rather displeased that you had decided to take the matter into your own hands and go down the path of escaping life without promising him a reward, but you saw no need in making sudden deals. It was your innate passiveness and newly acquired apathy to all things living that prevented you from choosing anything at all.

Even now, you were not motivated to conjure a response for this episode from the devil’s past deals. Instead, you sank into a comfortable silence, enjoying the growing irritation the ‘young man’ was unprofessionally revealing. One tap, followed by two, then one, then three, repeat. A rhythm void of compassion for the mute. Demanding. The devil had nice nails, something you had not noticed before – the only musing to appear in the abyss that was your abandoned mental palace. Whenever your conversations would come to a halt it was as if time stopped. It was holding its breath until one of you would throw an argument into the air and continue the word game. You desired some time in solitude, so you happily challenged the devil with your skilled ignorance of social cues.

The devil exhaled sharply and rolled his eyes, displeased with the death of another attempt to get on your ‘good side’ and stood up. He readjusted his suit jacket and ran a hand through his sleek locks. Like an actor leaving the stage, the demon guest exited the tiny kitchen and turned right, undoubtedly, to check himself in the tiny bathroom mirror, then to disappear behind an old door for two or so hours – his idea of a power nap. For a taker of souls, he surely was too predictable, no matter how his appearance and character attempted to detract from his fondness for structure and patterns. Over the last few days while the devil began to spend longer hours indoors playing the role of a ‘caring friend’ you had the opportunity to grasp the general metaphorical spirit of this ‘man’. In any discussion he had his distinct style. An ebb and flow of the spoken tides, beginning with a head-on collision with either question or proclamation, followed by provoking interrogation and, finally, a theatrical departure once his true goal had been reached.

Nothing was ever direct with the devil. Otherwise, why would you be walking on eggshells when he was talking about grilled cheese? Whenever you got too invested in any of the deviant’s tales, you would remind yourself that the heroes of those stories were, at that exact moment, burning in the deepest pits of hell and feeling the unbearable weight of sin on their shoulders. Then the interest evaporated as quickly as it had popped into your thoughts. Although you must admit, this anecdote was quite amusing. So amusing that you might make a short note of it when the devil would be in his own version of dreaming.

He had explained to you before that the reason he slept so much was so he could preserve his youthfulness, vigour and striking looks, to which you sarcastically replied with the term ‘beauty sleep’, but he misinterpreted it as an honest attempt at relating to his lifestyle. That day, you had involuntarily boosted his already overinflated ego by somehow leading the devil to believe that he was beautiful, and that all of his actions were just how he had expected: rational and justified. You only wondered what beauty there was in him to sleep for.

The devil was not what one would call classically ‘handsome’. As a matter of fact, on your first meeting he insisted that the term ‘devilishly handsome’ was horrendously misleading and the perfect example of a human-conjured myth. Completely out of the bounds of what the media and the average person found appealing, the devil had a total disregard for following mortal aesthetic trends, thereby making his appearance quite jarring. Those to walk past him on the street, would undoubtedly gawk at him and be intrigued by him, and yet, feel unsettled. As though they were prey that had just nearly escaped an apex predator. Of course, he could easily turn up his charms and seduce to his non-existent heart’s content, but that was only if he saw personal gain or needed to fuel his arrogance. Other than that, he was a cold professional.

It was mainly the eyes that gave his true nature away. Eyes that knew. Eyes that were detached from mortality and morality, fixated on business which only he knew. Those unfortunate enough to peer into those eyes would be awestruck to find the deepest chasm of nothing. Not a hint of a personality or a soul, only well-trained responses, and the ideal formula to get an individual talking. That was what the demon had meant when he explained that no devil could be handsome, only frightening.

After making sure that you would not meet the devil in the corridor by waiting for the lock of your guest room, you pushed your chair back and in one motion spun out of it and to the sink, where you watched dark brown, murky liquid pour out of your stained mug you had gotten as a present – a souvenir from The Netherlands. After many years of use and scrubbing the design had faded, leaving only mysterious silhouettes and hints of windmills. Not in the mood to wash up, you left the piece of ceramic to wait for you in the basin and wiped your hands on your trousers. Unlike the devil, your whole disposition and outer image was the closest a human could get to transparency. Your pallid, gaunt face with watery irises that stared out into a bleak grey landscape you had constructed out of your days.

The fiend was a dark-haired lad with a cheeky grin, toned body and a manner of constantly fluctuating between flamboyancy and eccentricity. His pinstripe suit - a tad too big, with a bright crimson handkerchief sticking out of the pocket, messily stuffed and creased. This devil’s eyes were entrancing, even though he had said there was no emotion to see. Not that he would ever hear you admit that you liked them. Deep-set, almond shaped, glowing. A dark, alluring shimmer. If eyes were normally windows to the soul, his were closer to one-way mirror quality. It was the confident stare that had gotten him past the door frame when he showed up in front of your apartment last week.

Inviting himself into your home, the devil acted as if he was an old friend of yours, or like an auntie with a spectacular ability to nag her way through any and all interactions. When you crept out of your apartment and went down to fetch the mail your neighbours had inquired after a certain cousin of yours who was ‘such a charming young man’ and how he showed ‘great promise in the creative arts’. You had to refrain from responding with a guffaw, instead meekly nodding and imagining an actual relative of yours. Last you had heard from San he was working at a beach resort in Mallorca; one of the more adventurous members of your family, he was the only one to bear any resemblance to your unwanted guest, so you did not miss him at all.

San would be the sort of man to think of starting a grilled cheese business. The devil and him would get along well, or it would be more correct to say the devil would find a good client in him. ‘A simple-minded hedonist with no care for the future’, that was what the devil had described ‘deal material’ to be. Truly distant from what you could offer, leading you to question his motives. But he had insisted that you had the potential, and it was only a matter of time before you realised just how much more you could achieve if only you had the devil’s helping hand. You had flatly replied that you hated any form of contact and had departed to your bedroom without a second thought. When you woke up the next morning and walked out to drink some water, the devil was standing in the same place where you had left him. Like so, he had begun hurling success story after success story at you, ceaselessly trying to convince you that soul-selling was ‘not that bad’ and was only going to increase your quality of life.

Why ask for grilled cheese when you are satisfied with a single digestive biscuit? Thatyou’re your philosophy. You need not tread on other meals when something you had tried and tested never failed you. Besides, you had nothing that you wanted to order from the devil. You did not need luck, nor love, nor riches. Your daily activities suited you, and you would not trade them for a sudden burst of foolish, false fame. You ambled down the corridor, inspecting the progress of the crack that had started on the ceiling, and now had gotten behind a painting that you had bought at a second-hand market. An amateur painting of a traditional manor, nevertheless done tastefully and with careful consideration of colour. Pleasant enough to keep in a hermit’s isolation pod.

Having forgotten to undraw the curtains you were met with darkness upon entering the bedroom. The overcast afternoon did not possess enough energy to seep through the gaps. You lazily pushed them aside, accidentally taking the tulle with it. So, you stopped to admire the evergreen outside of your window before returning everything to how it was and looking for a piece of paper and pen in the dimly lit quarters, relying on memory and a stream of light from the rest of the flat.

After settling on an old envelope and a dying pen you heavily abbreviated and paraphrased all you could recall, finishing off with:

Grilled Cheese Philosophy

You nodded and folded the envelope. Chucking the pen into the bin set under my desk you turned and lied down on your bed, hearing the springs creak and curse at you for disturbing them from their peaceful daytime slumber.

-----

Over earl grey and a finger sandwich platter you had assembled from a store-bought set, the devil and you were discussing the concept of business and management. Wooyoung, or at least that was the human name he had picked, out of the blue, for himself, assured you that devil-work was mainly paperwork, and those in his line of speciality rarely had time for the pleasure of direct customer support.

“It is unfortunate. Before, paperwork, archiving and filing was all given to the rookies, but with the increase in regulations and terms of service all of us are neck deep in bureaucratic nonsense. I mean, what’s the joy in writing out a detailed account of how a deal went down? There is no time to form your own style or identity anymore.” This stirred you out of your zoned-out state, and you stopped resting your head on your hand, instead crossing your arms and moving your head as a gesture to continue. You spotted the hint of a smirk dance on his lips, only for a moment.

“Did you know that back in the day, each demon would have their own style of soul collection? That’s right. You could tell who had a contract with who, and when it would end. Back then they really cared about the artistic details, from the devil’s mark to the contract abandonment psychosis… it was all thought through.” Your eyes narrowed at the latter term, so you did not encourage any prolongation of the monologue. Wooyoung caught on quickly, used to your quiet command and with a sip of his drink explained as-a-matter-of-factly:

“Contract abandonment psychosis is a neat thing. See, when you make a deal, that’s it. You can’t back out of it. The psychosis is icing on top of that cake – if you try to avoid your over-written fate then, basically, you start going insane. Think withdrawal symptoms dialled up to one thousand. Once client of mine tried to abandon ship straight after shaking my hand, well, it only took him a week to end up in a mental institution! That guy was unlucky by nature, he never did realise his plans, so I was one happy demon.” He finished, taking a sandwich, and eating it in one bite. You thought that on that your conversation would terminate and you could continue your luncheon to the ticking of the antique clock on the wall, but soon after washing everything down, Wooyoung continued his droning.

At that point you were merely thankful that you were not being forced to reciprocate the enthusiasm for affairs of the literal underworld. You were picking apart the tuna and cucumber sandwich you had moved to my plate, watching crumbs fall and begin to pile. A piece of tuna had managed to slide out as you tore away a bigger piece, and the vegetable’s green flesh was barely hanging on. Wooyoung was watching you, a mixture of contempt and curiosity on his face. He had already devoured two more sandwiches in the time that had passed after his miniature lecture.

“You going to eat that?” He asked, snorting.

“Do you want it?” you shot back, staring right back at him. His lips curled into a smirk, and you saw his expression darken.

“Not when your filthy hands have already contaminated it, you mortal.”

“That, I am. And suit yourself.” you responded, disregarding the threatening tone in Wooyoung’s voice, and keeping on pulling the bread to bits. Now it had become a mission to irritate the demon sitting before you as much as possible. Childish, but one of the rare pleasures.

It had already been two weeks since the beginning of your acquaintance and co-inhabitancy, so naturally you had come to learn of Wooyoung’s pet peeves. One would think that a demon could remain nonchalant for all of eternity, however it seemed that that kind was, on average, more passionate and sensitive than any human you knew. Well, aside from my odd cousin San.

Wooyoung despised loud, open-mouthed chewing. He had mentioned it when talking about one particular client who could not make their mind up about what to trade their soul for. All this over a lunch where this person would not stop chewing in ‘such a barbaric, animalistic way’ – as Wooyoung had described it. That led directly to another one of his annoyances: indecision. As a dealer, businessman, perhaps contract worker, Wooyoung liked the rules and regulations to be impeccable before the final handshake. But too many a times did the poor demon have to deal with hours of following a human around listening to their empty ponderings. ‘Humans have a tendency to become overly philosophical in the most crucial moments,’ he had noted once.

Unrelated to the other two, Wooyoung despised pigeons, which was exactly why it brought you great entertainment to change the location of my casual excursions to a nearby park, populated with hundreds of birds. There you had discovered that he had equal distaste for swans, ducks and, frankly, anything avian. Flying bugs were also not his favourite, for he took great pleasure in disposing of them with your slippers, an old newspaper or a magazine.

Taking notice of the devil’s sources of displeasure allowed you to make note of his emotional cues, highlighting his mischievous and serious demeanours, which were so subtly different you had never taken notice and often had made the wrong predictions in the friendly debates you and him had. A slight repositioning of the shoulders, twitch of the brow, a complex series of taps - all were signs that, upon study, gave you a feeling of control.

While playing with your food, eyes downcast, you took peeks at Wooyoung’s upper body. It was only a matter of time before he exploded, maybe even literally. He regarded food as something practically sacred, so such table manners and misconduct would drive him up a wall. For you it gave a sublime excuse to not eat and continue to peacefully wear away into soothing oblivion. You did not need the devil to be a so-called saviour, watching over you. You continued your act of defiance, now occasionally rolling up the bread between two fingers into tiny balls.

You admired their mouldability. Their smoothness. That grainy, soft quality that most loved, now turned to a primitive wholegrain ball. But even these were not eternal. Morphing into thin snakes, falling apart at the ends, the ball pieces coated your fingertips, latched onto your skin and happily disintegrated. Perhaps Wooyoung was not enjoying the demonstration for its resemblance to what he enjoyed doing to humankind regularly? Tearing it apart just for the sake of it, only to give some false hope to, then punish them with more zeal and erase their self-conjured identity to nothing more than a tortured soul. You were proud of your own accidental analogy and had made it your task to write it down in privacy. Probably after the demon were to leave you alone.

To your delight, your antics sped up the devil’s tea drinking, and soon enough he shot up with a scoff and stormed out of the kitchen. Habitually, you waited before getting your hopes up. A minute ticked by, two minutes, but still no door slam or locking. Were you in for a telling-off? You had become genuinely curious as to what your demon guest had gotten up to. Judging from the end of a long shadow that was at the entrance to the kitchen, Wooyoung was idolising himself in the mirror. Fixing his hair, pulling at his suit, yet again. A meditation through egocentric routine. That could only mean one thing: the devil was sure to come back. Your efforts gone to waste, you toss the remaining crumbs onto your plate, saw some bounce onto the table, and folded your bony arms.

If someone out of your family were to see you now, there would most likely begin every conversation with: ‘oh dear, how thin you have gotten!’, without any awareness of the fact that you were, in actuality, on a spiritual journey to the discovery of self by means of deprivation. In your mind, deprivation also meant starvation, amongst other things. Before the arrival of Wooyoung at one point you had stopped allowing myself the luxury of going to the grocery store, instead choosing to devour remaining canned and long-lasting goods during sinful bouts. Pasta as an only meal for a fortnight could be considered dull by some, but once your stomach had atrophied to an acceptable size and all that your tongue could register was blandness, pasta was the only nourishment your body did not reject.

Wooyoung did not question your eating habits, and for that you had mentally thanked him. Instead, he had merely requested you be present at every meal he had, aside from those out of your apartment – one on one client meetings, he had instantly elaborated.

Your eyes shut, you were reflecting on your speedy self-inflicted resolution. Before you could get to the part where your flimsy, cheap coffin would begin to deteriorate and you would fuse with the soil embracing you, Wooyoung returned, almost glowing, ever so peppy and up-tempo. Apparently, you had reminded him of another ‘magnificent’ story, which he was metaphorically dying to tell, and you were literally dying to listen to.

-----

“A grilled cheese toast syndicate?”

“Yes. I swear on all of my bosses. The grilled cheese food truckers are surprisingly enthusiastic when it comes to selling their own souls for their art.”

“You have only told me about two people so far, and they are co-owners of the same food truck. Your statement cannot possibly hold true.”

“At this point, take it as axiom. Maybe some day I will tell you about January the thirteenth,” I raised an eyebrow, “… or was it April? Either way, it was definitely rainy, murky, a Wednesday, and the thirteenth.” you did not prod him for details. You did not need him to think that some empty collection of his words was a carrot on a stick that he could dangle in front of you.

“Anyways, those guys are mad dedicated, aren’t they?” you huffed in response, getting an eyeroll in return.

He had been doing it so often, his eyes might as well remain staring into the black hole that was his cranium – the only explanation you could find for Wooyoung’s intense self-centeredness and profound elevation of his being not only above humans but also above his own colleagues. This led you to wonder whether there was a defined system hierarchy in his business, or whether a low-level worker could talk down to the big demons if there was enough evidence to suggest they were right in doing so. Did the right to reprimand and walk on the heads of others warp from zero to infinitely high?

If anything, you would have wanted to hear more about demon administration, not caring a single bit for the grilled cheese men driving around on a truck powered by infernal evil. But, that one mention of paperwork and rookie versus regular employee had long since passed, remaining only in your memory and in the list of displeasures of my guest.

Upon Wooyoung’s insistence, you were now seated in the living room, him splayed out on the couch, you composed in the squeaky armchair. It was almost as if you were the devil’s therapist. Give you a notepad and a pencil, and the scene would be complete. You quietly listened to him, the made-up role giving you strength to remain in the room for a while longer and bear with the excessive social contact.

“So, this guy approached me on a Monday morning, right? I was still a bit groggy from a party weekend – corporate events, you see, so I did not register who exactly I was talking to at first, and how this rando could know me by one of my human names. So, I am sitting there, and hear-”

You could see your reflection in the dusty dinnerware display cabinet. Barely a figure, only partially human. Your wool sweater was exaggerating what mass you had left on your shoulders; made your wrists look like fragile twigs. When you acted out, did Wooyoung have the urge to check if they would snap the same way? But what was the use of such actions, when you were the only one in the demon’s life to care enough about what he was blabbering to note it down on a stray piece of paper here, a napkin there. You had made him quotable, thereby valued. Your wrists will survive longer than your cooling core. You did not mean for Wooyoung to find out, but it was bound to happen eventually. You were living together after all. You thought after his freeloading for so many weeks you might just accept him as a family member.

He was so excited, that poor beast. Giddy and giggling he strolled up to you one morning, a piece of magazine between two fingers. You had just finished watering the only plant that had survived your aunt’s ‘love’. You had asked her to take care of them for only two weeks. She had a magic touch Hades touch, you were sure of it. Ironic that you had to travel for a funeral, when there was misery in your own home. Those plants were pretty much people to you; Although you’d never say it out loud, but you missed Fred the rhododendron. Wooyoung had waited until you turned around and faced him, supressing a toxic glower. You had gripped the miniature watering can so tightly you’re your knuckles turned white.

“Got any more like this?” his voice was almost mocking. Like he had discovered a dirty little secret of yours and was about to go around and tell everybody about it. Who was everybody? If it were people who would listen, you would be impressed and let him talk.

Something had told you that you should be confident and accepting on this one occasion. This stance had allowed you to see a child within Wooyoung. As if he had been praised by someone who he greatly admired. Maybe equivalent to a mother putting up a shoddy etch on the fridge with ‘her favourite magnet’. Good demon.

“Got any more of what?” you feigned your being oblivious, unintentionally batting your eyelashes.

“Oh, you know… sayings of, yours truly, that you like so much you immortalise them… Not that I am emotionally mortal to make anything I do be tainted with such silly things, but I appreciate the gesture. Very human, yet very touching.” He had slid the piece inside of his breast pocket, careful not to crease the pocket square more than it already had been. Wooyoung was waiting for you to spill all but you would not budge. You did not feel like it.

While floating in your sentimentalities you did not notice that the demon was now hovering over you, eyebrows knitted together and a scowl on his face.

“You are not listening to me, are you? Repeat what I said.” you rubbed the inner corners of your eyes and stifled a yawn. This was just like primary school. How long ago that was, and yet even demons treated him the same way. You tried to recall what Wooyoung had said last, out of the things you registered.

“Oh,” you began; the demon was expectant, a bit of the gloom evaporating from his features. “You said the new grilled cheese man knew your name.”

“For- for goodness’ sake. That was five minutes ago, you oaf.” You have not heard that insult in a while. It was refreshing. Maybe your oaf-ness will finally get him to shut up for today and leave you be? Not a chance.

“Okay, just for you I will begin the glorious tale again. You better listen carefully now, or I will literally devour your soul.” Big threat for someone who cannot attack a human out of contract bounds without being banished for all of eternity. You bit the inside of your cheek, knowing it was wiser to leave such comments out of the already tense moment.

You allowed Wooyoung to settle back onto your couch without snarky remarks following him. He crossed his legs and threw his arms onto the back, revealing more of the dress shirt he had selected for today. It was undoubtedly an expensive article, remaining creaseless for over eight hours now. The almost neon quality the orange stripes on the item possessed could hurt anybody’s vision if they stared for too long. Wooyoung was taking his sweet time restarting his storytelling, evidently trying me. And here you were thinking that your lack of listening skill would deter people; your guess this specimen was truly not in any way related to the ‘people’ kind.

Now that you took your time to ponder it more deeply, this was another one of his ‘quirks’ – wearing pricy, loud shirts from the high streets, no matter the occasion. He had first appeared before you in all black, wings of the shirt collar an astonishing shade of crimson. When you had asked who had made the piece, not hiding your admiration, his lips had morphed into a dark smile, and he nonchalantly explained that it was handmade by the tortured souls under his command. You had refrained from ever commenting on his outfits since then, and rightfully so - the shirts were all done in a distinct style. Made in hell.

The dandy demon glanced at the clock hanging on the wall and sighed.

“Time for a cup of tea, don’t you think?”

“If you want one.”

“And you don’t?”

“No, I do not, thanks for asking.”

“I guess I will have one later, I don’t care. So, grilled cheese. Where was I? Oh right, where I lost you. So, this dude-”

-----

It was a cool and bright afternoon, with the signs of spring getting stronger and stronger each day. The flowers were blooming early this year – it had been a weak winter. Daffodils nodding to passers-by, cherry trees giving up petals to the wind, the flurry of pinks and whites spiralling off into an entrancing dance. How long had it been since Wooyoung had become your guest, your accidental friend? You stopped counting, and at the same time had lost track of how many notes you had written, now accompanied by sketches and stored in leather-bound photo albums. Finally, you had put your older sister’s gift to good use. She had bought you these empty albums with the hope that her ‘precious sibling would make some good memories and be able to look at them all any time’. So now your only worthy memory was that demon. And to think you were supposed to take photos of ‘friends’ and ‘nature’ and ‘joyful events’ – you did not see enough of any of those to be able to make a record, so any curious eyes would have to deal with Wooyoung being the embodiment of them all.

For the first time in weeks, you had decided to take a walk outside without the intent of going to buy the demon some food, or to browse the isles of the local bookstore. Wooyoung was more than happy to join me – you did not even ask, and he was ready to go. A young puppy from the underworld. You wondered what breed this guy was most like. Frankly indoors he was more of a cat. Little did he know, you were out on a mission, even this time. You wanted to get one photo. The only photo in all three of the photo albums, which would serve as a conclusion. A depiction of Wooyoung; a way of showing that demons had more human qualities than some members of the species.

You had taken a camera, never used, and a full roll of film with you. The demon suspiciously eyed it as it was swaying left and right, hanging from your neck. As soon as you mentioned your plans, however, he gained an intoxicating exhilaration, so much so that you could not resist and took a snapshot right on my street. Wooyoung was smiling wide, his eyes narrowed, spinning on his feet while avoiding fallen magnolia. In the photo it looked like he was stopped mid-dance, his hands positioned with a refined grace.

To be frank, you were enjoying the time that was passing. The number of frozen memories grew exponentially; you had to admit, Wooyoung was a magnificent model – the camera loved his features, and he certainly did not shy away from it, nor was he disrespectful of the machine. Why machine? He could not have become considerate of you and your preferences in the span of the last ten minutes.

His vigour was infectious, and an unfamiliar passion ignited within you. The desire to act, to function, to contribute to the world had been inhabiting much like a parasite for once. You would not stop taking photographs until all film available to you was used up – you had made a fleeting mental promise. Though you were fully aware that this moment was not to last, you were glad that you had gained something to reminisce when you were to breathe your last.

After a street photo session Wooyoung and you continued on your stroll, headed towards a public garden that had recently been renovated. Soon enough, you were surrounded by fragrant flowers in bloom, flaunting their spring fashion. Beings of the Earth naively blithe at the awakening of their planet. What was so warming about today, anyway? Your body had grown so unaccustomed to supporting itself that your soul had cooled to the dangerous status of near indifference. Frankly, your only pleasure was to command Wooyoung to stand a certain way, crouch down and smell the daffodils, caress a branch… The only authority or meaning you had left, serving as a tether before you could finally let go.

Your cutting away from reality to whatever existed beyond was closer than you had imagined – it almost made you feel as if you had been robbed of some precious hours to indulge in hobbies. It was now that you reflected that instead of the variety of mundane elements of routine, you could have been someone great. You could have written the indescribable, cured the incurable, solved the unsolvable. Your speeches, monologues, soliloquies could have been on the lips of millions, uttered and echoed like prayer. You could have eradicated crime, famine, war… become a martyr for the greater good of humanity. But all you had left was to mull over your options of maggots or ash.

What made people great? Did those great people know of their value? Or were they stuck in the same loop of perceived worthlessness, unable to self-validate and allow oneself to turn off the inner critic for a couple of seconds. The greats did not have the time to breathe, instead sacrificing themselves to the choking depths of their art. At the beginning, they could barely keep their head afloat, wading in the viscous fluids of judgement, struggle and challenge. At one point their muscles would be used to the constant burn, and they could pretend to be walking above it all – a slow crawl in search of a shore that does not exist. But at one point, they would inevitably falter, and then, it is impossible to know whether they will drown or stay motionless above the surface, a splayed-out water strider. How you wished you could have had an ocean of your own to talk about in your darkest hour. Pain to make life worth living.

“Do you see them?” Wooyoung’s soothing voice penetrated your consciousness, and you turned your head towards him.

“Hm? Oh, do you mean those people?” you gestured at the couple sitting on a bench ten or so metres away from us. Their hands were intertwined as they lovingly stared into each other’s eyes. You raised your camera to snap a quick photo of the moment. Wooyoung had gone awfully quiet and waited for the photo to develop with bated breath. What was so special about a-

What? Where did they go? You were confused, fear rising in your throat. They could not have- No, they were still there. How could the camera take a picture of the bench but not the individuals sitting on it? Was this some trick? You furrowed your eyebrows and glared at Wooyoung. It must had been some silly prank.

“This is not funny. Are you entertained by this?” Then, softening my delivery you added, “But I would like to know how you could have possibly done it. The lighting, the trees, the flowers are all the same. It’s just the people that-”

“-Are dead.” He ended your sentence with a shocking truth. It was obvious that, for once, he was not being misleading. If you had not known him at all you would have guessed that he was grief-striken. There was an anticipation of something you had only tentatively explored. He had the look of a worn out, hollow man, faced with a horror he had to harden himself up for, if not for centuries, then for millennia.

You were clinging onto your habitual scepticism, but it had turned to lead in water. You had nothing to protect you from the gravity of the situation. You had no choice but to believe Wooyoung – he was a demon, after all. He knew death better than anyone else. But although the easiest option was to blindly trust him, you played it safe:

“Assuming they are dead, how could I possibly be seeing them? That does not seem reasonable. A regular person cannot-”

“Yes, a regular person cannot see the deceased, or when they do see them, they do not realise that they have just encountered the other side. Dead people have a spectacular ability of being unnoticeable even when present. They are just echoes of who they were in real life, so they would never be as flamboyant, attractive or energetic.” you stared at the photograph you had taken so intensely your gaze could burn holes in the film. Not a hint of their being on the bench. “I can bet a soul you would not have seen the two spectres on the bench if I had not pointed them out.”

“Then why did you?” you had the right to be seething. You would shout and give the demon a piece of your mind. How dare he? He had no right to tell me… but then again, you were making your own conclusions. He did not tell you what you did not need to hear to know. Just yet.

“I wanted to make sure of… you know what.”

“What?” you pressed on. It was going to hurt. You had to muster up all my courage to keep this interrogation going. You needed to be hit with the phrase that simultaneously established your success, but with the appearance of Wooyoung in your life introduced notes of loss and regret.

“You are going to die soon.” That was all you needed.

You knew it. From the lost glances that Wooyoung had been giving you the last few days. It was said that there are certain dogs that can smell cancer; demons can smell death, regardless of distance. Your friend from the underworld had explained during dinner a few nights ago that this power was one of the worst punishments, and it was not even hell’s creation. He had stated that Earth reeked of death, another reason why demons did not come out too often, and when they did, they had to have undergone extensive training.

The smell of death was so strong even humans could sense it sometimes, particularly when in severe distress. However, tasks like demographic classification of a strench, or influencing its diffusion to manipulate living beings, were all beyond any demon’s capabilities. As Wooyoung had kindly pointed out, ‘that was the job of the grim reapers, and they were somewhat above supernatural commonality’.

You only needed to look at myself in a mirror or storefront window to know that you were going to die. Your body was in the process of shutting down. Only skin and bone, you hobbled around with barely any energy. You were no longer a human, but an illusion. You could study the skeletal system using myself as a model. Your only potential purpose currently. You had forgotten the meaning of nourishment, only ever treating yourself to stale bread and a glass of water. Although your primal instincts had been rebelling and begging for you to embrace nature and sustain yourself properly, your mind had prevailed. So here you were, finally coming to the personal revelation that you were going to be parting ways and falling, after balancing for enough years. Or not enough. Depends on who wished to interpret.

You were losing. Be it something, someone or generally. You had been losing this whole time. You did not know when your attitude had changed and you began to walk the tightrope blindfolded, but it had evolved from a manic pursuit of achieving daring stunts to playing with your own wellbeing for kicks. This is where you ended up. At the edge of a cliff, no going back; just one step forward, soaring to purgatory. Your last ever rise, for sure.

“So, this is the beginning of the end, as they call it, huh?” you whispered, with your voice barely audible over the rustling of the trees. Wooyoung did not say anything but pursed his lips and nodded. He did not need to elaborate further, knowing that you were perfectly aware of your condition and what was to come. You began to amble down the gravelly path, quickening your pace once you reached the bench with the ghostly couple. You wanted to get away, but only to see another ever so slightly translucent lady enjoying the sunshine, standing barefoot on the grass. You were about to scoff and make a comment about public health and disregard for the new strands but caught yourself.

These spirits had no mass, just like they had no purpose for the living. They could not influence reality no matter how hard they tried. It was impossible. They did not have the necessary human qualities, or the otherworldly powers of a demon to overcome the death-life barrier and do something as simple as feeling the breeze on one’s own skin. The same one that was making you shiver and wish you had brought a warmer coat.

Wooyoung and you were living in a metropolis of the dead, semi-humans in fading grey tones. You had no idea for how long you had been seeing these half familiar, half grotesque entities, walking on ground that was still yours; what used to be real clinging onto the regular man’s delusion, a madman’s fantasy, a sick man’s nightmare. Oh, how much must your demon friend have seen. Did he see those who were beyond saving so frequently that he lost touch with which was which? Did he treat them all the same? Were you still the person you had known yourself to be? From the day of Wooyoung’s arrival, had you been in this state, and stripped of the knowledge?

And yet… you would not have lived your last weeks with the same passive enjoyment, having a sense of power and control over your choices amidst progressive degradation. Although not confirmed, your demon companion had quite possibly withheld information about your own demise. It was true that the appearance of an entity from the inferno should have started ringing a few bells straight away, but you could not be bothered to make yourself care. Sometimes, it was the omission of fact that gave a person true pleasure.

-----

Your notes disappeared. You had woken up at the crack of dawn just to search for them, but to no avail, and it was unlikely that they were in Wooyoung’s room, for you had never given him permission to touch anything you deemed personal. This was the reason behind your gloominess during Wooyoung’s breakfast. You had a sip of water, which you proceeded to spit out into the sink. You were parched, your lips bitten and chapped, but you could not allow for a single droplet to roll down your oesophagus. The demon was not giving you any attention, instead focusing on the eggs benedict in front of him. It was like you were a family, not having to speak to be comfortable in each other’s presence.

You had gotten used to this demon. Now that he was technically more alive than you, you had a stronger pull towards him, a sense of desperation and longing. He had mentioned, in the early days, some of his clients having similar sensations prior to making deals. Had they been on the same cliff’s edge when they had found solace and a temporary solution in Wooyoung? You were not going to give in, and he did not want you to, obviously resisting any temptation to make you crack or to tempt you. Conscious of his effect on your species’ natural ability of being manipulated, he was all smiles and kindness the last few days. It was really a blessing in disguise. Made your passing far more comfortable than you could have ever imagined.

After Wooyoung finished breakfast, you washed up, immediately drying the dishes, and then walked to the living room. You longed to see the street one last time, crack open the window and breathe the stench of the polluted concrete jungle you lived in. You were not going to get to see your neighbourhood bulldozed and converted to skyscraper haven – for the better. There was the same number of cars, the same average number of people passing by. The same cat from across that went out to sit on a low brick wall was there, letting the rays masked by murky ashen clouds sink deep into its skin. It wasn’t as if the whole planet was meant to slow down just for your ending.

You were just a cog, and a cog that had removed itself from the machine so long ago that it had become a foreign object. You had always had trouble relating to people, this was only proven by the fact that it had been easier dealing with a demon; in any case, your innate lighthearted misanthropy allowed for a seamless disappearance. You would not be making anybody sad – in the best case scenario, somebody would be able to tell who it was they were meant to be mourning. Yet another reason why now you were praising myself for radically isolating, you need not worry about the majority of funeral expenses going to entertaining some guests who were likely not bothered to say anything more than ‘oh poor them’ or know anything more than what you had carved onto your face.

“It’s been a good ride, pal. I’ve had some real nice times with you. You might become one of my stories I tell clients, you never know. The antithesis to the piece of toast.” Wooyoung had positioned himself to your left, resting his arms behind his back and staring off into the smoggy distance.

“What do you mean by that?” you asked, turning once again to the horizon. Was the view from this window always so breath-taking?

“More poetic, I guess.” So informative, Wooyoung. Thank you. It rid you of all your pains.

“Yes, very clear. Cheers.”

“Wow, you sure are impressed. Sorry, I can’t explain it too well. You know… hm. How do I? Maybe it’s kind of like the bittersweet feeling you get after finishing a really good book? People can be like that too, for immortals that is. We know about each person’s birth, life, and death, and in there somewhere is that same beginning middle and end that is within every literary masterpiece.” He was inadvertently inflating the perception of your importance to society.

“Now you are making out my species to be way better than we are.”

“Yep, I know.” That was uncalled for, but you appreciated the brutal honesty in your final hours.

You glanced at the vintage clock, loyally ticking away on the wall. A little past three. Seemed right somehow, to get the end started right that instant. Spun on your heels and slowly made your way to the front door of your apartment. You could not care less to change from your slippers to an outdoor pair of shoes, so you exited into the communal stairwell how you was. Wooyoung was trailing behind you, his hands in his trouser pockets. You decided to take the stairs up instead of the elevator – it was not that long of a journey, but anyways you wanted the sort of scenic route towards your demise. Demon boy did not comment, only one of his eyebrows twitched once you were already halfway up the stairs to the next floor.

Soon enough, the metal door leading to the roof was looming before you. A map of some outdated emergency exits, the page yellowed, was framed and hung on two screws loosened by poor initial handiwork. There were meant to be two others, but they were long gone, probably lying around somewhere, with the dust bunnies, rusted and most surely extinct to their purpose. That reminded you, you should get going. Your attention had been constantly drifting ever since you had made the choice to abuse yourself into a state of being able to welcome self-elimination – truth be told in the beginning you had not calculated that this was what your actions would lead to, but now you did not oppose it in the slightest.

The wind was freezing cold, attacking you through the layers of clothing you had on. But it gave you natural encouragement to go on, go forwards and position yourself at the edge. There it was, your final destination. You peered at the concrete below; it was unlikely that you would be a pretty sight, alas you had plans and they had to be gone through with. Only a minor inconvenience for the residence – they would look at you the same way they would look at a dead animal; distract the kids, notice the awakening of a morbid fascination with the macabre, then go about their day, never to give the honour of being pondered to the poor animal again. If only you could possess the same altruistic qualities as those creatures that gave their lives away for the greater good. But you were only acting for yourself. You could have been great, but you could not act great no matter how much you tried. Your steps had led you too far from the ocean, so you had found a bog to sink into.

You closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The air was cleaner the closer one was to the sky, dizzyingly sweet, intoxicating. There was a thirst in you after all. Too late for it to ever be satisfied. Some things were meant to be left unfinished and permanently abandoned. You tuned into the howling of sirens, zooming through your neighbourhood; you were wondering who they were, where they were going. Before you could conjure a whole story for the emergency services that dashed past, stopping when you had ideated a man who discovered the body of a stranger in the middle of his living room and, in a panic, had dialled any car that produced the violent shriek, Wooyoung cleared his throat, causing your eyes to flutter open. You turned your head – he was closer to you than you had initially predicted. Had he been here this whole time?

“I have already collected your notes by the way. Sorry to have gotten you into a bit of a panic, I should have told you earlier.” So now he chose to ever so kindly bestow this upon you. A rapid onset of frustration was rapidly abated by Wooyoung’s apologetic smile. This charming bastard. He knew you would let it go.

He had genuinely not meant to cause you harm in your last hours here, or at least that was what you wanted to believe. The demon had wanted to give you a proper send-off, making sure you did not have any unfinished business on Earth. When you had questioned his motives, asking whether on your death bed he would metaphorically back-stab you he waved me off and took offense: “I get that I am a demon, but you are my friend. I don’t eat my friends’ souls,” It was almost touching until “…not a fan of bitter stuff.” He had an odd sense of humour. You will miss it, if that was possible on the other side.

He had told you that emotions were going to be your most loyal companions there. Your only true companions. Memories would make the occasional appearance too. He had given you a rundown on how to properly greet a reaper to impress them and make the walk through all the checkpoints less unbearable. “Those guys have a tendency to be quite morose. Total killjoys, am I right?” Wooyoung was proud of himself for that play on words. It was with regret that you had to part with his bad jokes.

You were standing at the edge of your ten-story apartment building, the same one you had lived in since university. You could say with confidence that this was enough to crack your thin shell. This day had come when your mind had passed the state of believing the internal alert signs that had flashed endlessly, shutting them off, now choosing to agree with the way of termination you had been preparing for. You took half a step forward, so your toes could feel the curvature of the drop through the grimy cotton stuffed with cheap card. Your demon friend was exasperating, choosing to dawdle and rock on his feet right next to you. What had you expected? This was none of his business. You sighed and could not help but give him a glare. He looked up and gave you a wide, practically coy grin – if it were anybody else, you would have been deeply disturbed, given the reason why you two were here. But Wooyoung was Wooyoung; demons were more than allowed to react in strange ways to the ending of man.

For some reason you could not picture the faces of your mother and father. In these moments people usually thought about their family, right? Normally those were who they left behind to pick up the pieces. But for you the postman that came to your street every Sunday was more vivid than your own relatives. It could be because you had not visited them for what could be seven years. Were they well? You had no clue. But it was no longer your business or concern. Might as well muse about the postman. That gentleman in uniform would have to keep on hoarding any spam and bank statements and charity advertisements that would be sent to your address until finally he would either not be bothered with them, or somebody would move in and change the name in the address lines.

The apartment would sell quickly; it wasn’t like you were doing anything funny inside, if anything you were lowering the value of the whole house, or even the street. Huh, you did have impact on the external world! Go you. At least you would be good at being harmful vermin to your neighbours. Parasitic vermin which they could not get rid of because it beat them to the chase. On the other hand, you were giving a helping hand to anyone who was looking to buy an apartment in this area for cheap – assuming a real estate agency would be interested in handling the post-mortem affairs.

You had watched an interview with an agent in Japan who specialised in houses and flats of people who ended up just like you or had passed of natural causes. Living alone, those people spiritually disintegrated, their physical selves following suit. What came after? The agency ordered a deep clean, transformed the housing and sold it off to those who dared. And that was a prime example of good business. Life went on no matter what one did, and you had nothing but respect for that man, who was effectively fighting off evil spirits that people conjured up in their creative little heads by re-making a place of mourning, a place of death into a spacious, minimalist condo for generations of life after life after life. If not you, then at least your apartment will go on. That was all you were hoping for. You could not be great now, but your apartment… For a split second you considered agreeing to give your soul away to Wooyoung in order to guarantee the protection and bettering of your little habitat, but it was not right to meddle with the natural flow of events. If the flat was meant to outlive you for centuries to come, you would be glad. If not, so be it. Demolition was an acceptable way to go too.

After the whole morning had been overcast, the sun was finally beginning to peer out, making leaves surrounding your building glisten. They were waving at you, cheering me on. The only time you had ever felt supported: “You can do it! We believe in you! Go, go!” Pressure was building inside of you, a spring or a coil, ready to be sent off. You moved my feet back, taking off your slippers. That was what you had seen done in movies and anime, so the footwear did not fall off mid-fall. Or was it just a statement that everyone wordlessly agreed upon? You did not mind following the trend. After they were pinched in my right hand, you bent over and placed them neatly on the edge. They fit into the scene perfectly, as if they were meant to be there, and not being used as platforms for striding around a household. An adventurous, risk-taking pair of slippers. You felt ready.

Tiny bits of gravel and chipped off stone pressed into your feet. You balanced on your heels, toes already hovering above the drop. The wind could probably blow you over if it was any stronger. Your hands were dry, your heartbeat somnolent and your will persistent. You nodded to yourself, and with the flash of the sun, appearing from behind a cloud, you gave in. You imagined yourself as a fledgling, finally leaving the nest, ready to feel the wind under your wings for the first and final time. Your head was spinning as you lost balance and gave into infinity.

You felt free. So free that you wanted this fall to last forever. A sigh escaped you as you could no longer feel your aches, neither physical, nor mental. You were a fleeting moment, passing by, ready to-

You were definitely meant to hit the ground by now. You had personally seen the arrays of windows zoom past you, faster and faster. Then why were you staring into the sun, and still very much alive and breathing? It was as though time had been frozen or was going so slowly that motion was barely there – you tried to move a leg, but it did not follow your command. You tried your arm – same story. What was this? Was this some illusion?

In a click, you were back to speeding downwards, but only for a split second before crashing into what felt like a pair of outstretched arms. Arms which barely moved when you collided with them full force, as though they had absorbed all the impact, transferring it to the earth beneath you. Somehow, they had cushioned your fall entirely, cradling you against something, or rather someone warm, safe.

One of the arms was holding your upper body steady, while the other was holding you under your knees. Once you had gotten rid of your initial shock, a panic settled in. You were not supposed to be here, you were not supposed to be seeing this. You had overstayed your welcome. They should let go! What right did they have to decide your fate like this!? What was this cursed act of playing some higher power and turning you into a puppet? Desperate and livid, you attempted to free yourself.

You were unsure of what you were going to do. It was funny, how you had ceased to plan anything, and were clueless even about the next few seconds of your existence. At least that part you were sure of – you were breathing, you had a pulse, and your chest was about to burst. Tears were welling up in your eyes as you tried and tried to claw your way from the strong arms that now pressed you to their owner’s body. You fought against it, weak fists hitting against the broad chest once, twice, until all you could do was let out a feeble wail and give into the flood of emotion that came pouring out of you.

As your frail frame shook with every sob, intermittently replaced with shallow gasps for air, you felt the someone who had caught you from what you had seen as a certain self-conclusion shift and walk towards the brick wall of your apartment building. There were no windows, no one scrutinising you, only you, the one who, in a matter of seconds decided your fate, and a peaceful spring day. The body had lowered themselves together with you, taking a seat with their back against the cool brick wall, continuing to hold you close.

You were blabbering utter nonsense under your misery-soaked breath, chocked up and lost. You had settled for repeating a never-ending stream of questions beginning with why, ones which the suit-clad body could not, or did not wish to answer. The tears, locked away for eons now being released in honour of what could only be described as an accidental renaissance, were rolling down your crimson cheeks, snaking like streams down your neck and leaving stains on your clothing. Embarrassment, guilt, and regret washed over you in feverish flashes as you attempted to cover your face with your hands.

You hated how you looked when you cried. You hated how helpless you were when you cried. You hated every bit of this humiliation, and yet there was nothing you could do to stop it. It was as though it was not you who took the final step, but a manifestation of all the inhibitions, and toxic limitations you had placed on yourself. A cage thrown from a precipice. And now here you were. That same little bird. That little fledgling. Saved. No longer trapped. But with the hurt not subsiding.

What have you done? Another yelp erupted from you as you rubbed your tremoring hands in circles, feeling every pore, every bit of agony-induced moisture on your skin. You wanted it all to evaporate. To disappear. You did not want to face this. Anything but this. You did not want to face yourself after what you had done. You were such a coward. How did you come to this? What had led you to this foolishness? Why did you not succeed? Because you could not do anything. You could not even control your own life.

Your thoughts were monsters, rabid, barking and biting at you, tearing you apart from within. The noise was overwhelming, dialled up to an impossible maximum as one of your wrists began to bang against your temple. You were so exhausted. You wanted this to stop. So badly. Please. Could. It. Stop.

“Do you hear me?"

A solitary plea, reminiscent of a prayer. Reaching out to you. A promise. A sweet release in the form of music, which had been so core to your darkest hours and your battles against them, that you gasped once you recognised the melody.

"회색빛 안개 덮인 Gloomy day Gloomy day covered with gray fog

눈앞이 가려진 게 두려워 I'm afraid that my eyes are covered

이젠 아무것도 흥미가 안 나 No woah…” I'm not interested in anything anymore No woah

This song was so familiar. So close to your heart. It had been with you through many moments in your life. Through times when you had no one to rely on. Through times when you had been losing hope, but at least for a few minutes, felt like there was still something worth holding on to.

The voice that was singing it was mellifluous, each note embellished with gold, clearing your haze. It possessed a steadiness that was so jarring to your state that you could not help but be jolted out, shaken from a horrific nightmare. You wanted to keep on listening, stay like this forever. Maybe this was afterlife after all? When the voice stopped for a moment, as if unsure whether to continue or not, your hand grasped one of the arm’s sleeves, squeezing it, begging for the song to continue. With a soft hum in agreement, the arm supporting your legs slips back, letting you down onto the ground slowly. In a few quick adjustments, you were now sat between the man’s legs, your back flush against his chest, as he continued to embrace you. Your wings. Your shield.

As he continued to sing, you could feel a pleasant vibration against your own body, with every breath, every sound that filled the air. Slowly but surely, your tears had stopped, leaving only reminders - streaks that had painted over you, and you were stilled to a trance, only following the music. In that moment, the only things to exist were you, him, and the melody. Who knew that this combination could be a safe haven?

“She's in the rain

You wanna hurt yourself, I'll stay with you

You wanna make yourself go through the pain

It's better to be held than holding on, no woah…”

You let out an airy chuckle, lifting a hand wrapped up in your sleeve and dabbing away at the corners of your glistening eyes. This song. Out of all of them. You had not listened to it in so long, though it was always in your memory, like a record left on a turning table. Why now? And how did he of all people, and non-people, know? While still keeping the performance gentle, he went into a cautious crescendo for the final verse, leaving the last line ringing in your very being.

“We're in the rain

떨어지고 있는 이 빗속에서 in this falling rain

흩어져 버린 널 다시 채워 Refill the scattered you

아름다웠던 널 볼 수 있게 So that I can see the beautiful you

No woah, we're in the rain.”

You took the impromptu performance in, relishing in the tranquility that it had given you. As the silence grew longer, however, pangs of guilt made an appearance once more, deciding to pick at your brain and taunt you. You did not deserve this. You had just… you were supposed to… you were told you were going to…

“So, you aren’t even going to say anything about my solo concert? Shame, Y/N, shame.”

You finally looked to the side and up at the man who had restarted your clock. Wooyoung. With his cocky grin and mischievous eyes, and, by total contrast to himself, with the patience of a saint. Otherwise, you could not explain why he was here with you. As though nothing happened. Maybe nothing did. You were now beginning to hope so.

“What’s with the first name basis, demon dearest?” you croaked, throat still hoarse and clogged up from crying.

“I think we have just re-enacted all the standard wedding vows you humans use so I think we can go on first name basis, Y/N.” he jested, mimicking a disgusted tone when saying the word ‘human’.

“But death did not do us part-”

“Thanks to my brilliant, otherworldly reflexes, obviously.”

That was a fair point. Out of all reasons to be alive, you were still hanging on thanks to a demon. To a creature of the underworld. To what one would think is the antithesis to all things valuable on the planet. There had to be a catch.

“You… you said I was going to die.” You mumbled letting your eyes flutter shut and leaning back a little. Wooyoung adjusted your form so that your head could tilt back against his shoulder, and he could rest his chin against yours.

“Isn’t everybody?”

“No, you said, I was going to die soon.”

“Well, oops, I guess.

“Elaborate.”

“Tell me what you thought of my singing, and then I might just satisfy you.” He was unchangeable. But he was here. Still a cunning menace. Reckless, but your saving grace, nevertheless.

“It was good.”

“Just good? I was out there turning my soul inside out for you, damn it.” He retorted. You could hear his smile.

“Your non-existent one?”

“About that…” he trailed off, pausing himself before answering what you had initially thought to be a rhetorical question. This put you on higher alert. You moved a little, so that you were able to speak face to face with Wooyoung. What did he mean?

Instinctively, once you locked eyes with his, you became very self-conscious. Your well-practiced, thoroughly nurtured phobias had stirred from their deprivation-induced slumber and began their routine of hurling insult after insult about how you looked, how you behaved, how you, you were. The last one was a personal favourite of yours: you, an amalgamation of blunders culminating in a virtue-less entity. There you went again, dragged out from the other side only to kick yourself into a corner. But at least you could say you were proof that old habits, did indeed die hard. As Wooyoung saw your previously frustrated expression falter, he could not help but cup one of your cheeks, directing you away from your internal hell.

“Hey, back with me.” He instructed you softly, making you mellow. As he removed his hand, the touch lingered for a little while longer. It was odd, just how easy it was to give into the sensation of being held, being protected, even if it was from oneself. This demon was surprisingly clement and forbearing.

“So, you were saying, Wooyoung?”

Although you were almost certain this had to be trickery, there was a hint at an emotion entirely unexpected from the demon. Upon trying to piece together the bits of body language, and micro reactions that you could capture from your position, you could only read a terribly concealed unease… or shame? Or worry? Either way, it was unlike the conceited hell-bringer you had grown attached to. After his dramatic pause, the man raised his head and gave you an intentionally meek grin.

“I kind of… sort of… maybe used your writing to make a pact?”

“Say that again?” you were bewildered. You had blindly believed him when he had told you he took the ramblings to remove any traces of himself in your life - so much for trying to see the best in demons.

“Well, pacts can be made in spoken or written form, and since I had your writing… well you can guess."

"Who gave you the right to do that?" you asked, venom dripping from the inquiry.

"Look, before you get mad, I have got to say is, I had no other choice!” he blurted out, raising his free hand in front of him in a defensive motion.

Your expression darkened as you peered into his deep brown orbs. As the wind picked up and clouds raced across the sky, you ignored the strands of your dull hair that were making every effort to prevent you from maintaining eye contact for much longer.

“One, you did not answer my question. Two, you could have let me die.”

“Nope. Not an option.”

“Why? And again, who?”

“If I say I am selfish and the answer to both things is just 'me', would you believe me?”

“Partially. Since when do you need me? You wasted enough time already.” reverting to self-deprecation out of habit, you did not wish to argue and instead turned the conversation into a plea for Wooyoung to reevaluate and somehow reverse the process. You were convinced that he had either done it out of pity, or out of twisted sadism.

“Never on you. Do you hear me? Never. Every moment with you is precious.” Again that question. Same one from the song. But now wholly dedicated to you.

You were dumbfounded. This was probably the first time over however many weeks… or was it months, that passed that you had heard him say something so openly positive to you. Previously it had either been a flirtatious comment through which he fished for compliments, or him outright asking for attention from you while he delivered story after story. At least the situation with the missing notes had cleared. They had come into some sort of use, albeit highly questionable.

His phrase. 'Never on you'. Those three little words were giving you room to exist. Providing you with priceless reassurance that to someone in the vastness of space you were not a nuisance. How easily you were swayed now! Nearly cooing because of every word uttered by the demon. Clinging onto every distraction from your own body. You started fading away into your toxic pensiveness, struggling to keep your head afloat.

“You didn’t even ask about the song, and how I knew. Really, we are going to have to work on your ability to ask interesting questions if you are to actually dive into the literary world.” He sounded like a parent, scolding a delinquent child for not paying enough attention in school and skipping.

His mention of the literary world had caught you off-guard. It was true that prior to your spiral your sacred wish had been to become a master of the written word, alas, you had chosen to give it up. But Wooyoung sounded adamant, as though he saw nothing else in your future except the pursuit of your ancient passion. You could not keep up with him, so you remained mute.

“Well, you always did enjoy me taking the lead, so I’ll ask and answer for you, okay?” he added, ever so cheeky. You only hummed in response, preoccupied by your own interpretations of the cryptic introduction.

“I have known you for a while, Y/N. A lot longer than you would think.”

“Okay, continue, sounds promising.” You quipped, making the demon roll his eyes.

“And… how would I say this… there is a reason why I appeared as a demon and not an angel, let’s say that.”

“And that is?”

“It was the easiest way to be with you, Y/N. Otherwise, I would be just a shadow. And I was sick and tired of letting you go. Time, and time again."

"What in the world do you mean?"

"We are bound together.”

You whipped around. Wooyoung was smiling, but it was an evident façade to conceal an excruciating terror that had begun to settle within him as he recounted to you his fall from grace. He revealed to you that he had been a guide for lost souls, tasked to be a bringer of spiritual light to beings of the earth. He was the light heart that one felt when their troubles would be wiped away. He was the freedom felt when a challenge was overcome. He was a candle in a dim reality, fighting in the shadows against people’s troubles. Wooyoung was one to trust easily, fall in love easily, and exist for others.

He was an angel who had been created for continuous self-sacrifice - that was what prophets had told him. And as time went on, he began to crumble harder and faster. It was becoming too much to stand beside these beautiful mortals and see them fall apart, without being allowed to influence their acts directly. Only through cryptic messages, encouraging nothings in moments of somnolence, manifestations… He wanted to do more, so much more!

You had been ‘just another lost soul’ initially. Locked away in your room, moving like an automaton through your human years. Wooyoung had ended up learning a lot about you, memorising your every angle, your every thought. Despite your younger years - a quality that had prevailed through every physical embodiment your soul had, you were composed of suffering wound into a tight Gordian knot – one that he was itching to cut. He wanted to help you. He wanted to be there for you. He wanted to be your guide.

It had been the same in your previous lives. You had burned out before you could produce warmth. No matter the dynasty, nor the nation, you had suffered the same fate again, and again. And every time, Wooyoung had to witness it, and had his heart break into a billion pieces. So much for being soul-bound to a human being.

You reminded him of a little bird. So much ahead of you, and yet the torrential winds of time and circumstance beat down on you repeatedly, forcing your wings back, draining you until you cannot see another way anymore. You had been a wonderful writer in your past life. In three, to be exact. Making a mark on the world - little did you know, you had been quoting yourself all this time in school, in media... a little bird, fatigued, letting out its final cry.

Wooyoung had always been commended for his compassion, but the levels of personal involvement which he had felt towards you over the span of centuries were unprecedented. It was as though he was the candle, and you were the flame itself. In the beginning, just observing you was enough. Seeing how you went about your day and how you glowed. But the wick was never long enough for Wooyoung to be satisfied, and even though he tried, no angel could caress such a flame, reassure it and be present in the moment.

It was easier than he could have envisioned to get used to your presence, and in turn, crave it. Have your attention turn to him instead of the same thoughts, same feelings, same repeating desolation. With every new life your soul experienced, the tiny mark on your body that signified a much deeper connection between you and him was only getting stronger and stronger, more vivid, and it had become undeniable. You were bound together.

He wished for nothing more than to be your bringer of light and break you from this reincarnating melancholic cycle. He wanted to be with you. For you to be with him. To rely on him. To co-exist in nothing but tranquility. And for that, Wooyoung was willing to sacrifice everything. Whatever it took to tip the scales in favour of your survival. He had fallen from grace in the blink of an eye, exchanging status and divinity for a lowly demon rank. Wooyoung was not troubled, making the underworld his home, grateful that his wish had come true. He had a chance to get closer to you before time could run out.

It had not been simple, figuring out the details of his personal contract. He had had to get the blessing of every angel and liaise with his new colleagues to realise the rescue plan he had conjured up in one feverish night. Every step of the way, he felt selfish. Your agreement was out of the question, so he had to act in secrecy, using your written word as proof of your feelings and of mutual attachment to convince the higher powers that there was a kindling hope.

It was not something he wanted, but he had to let you push yourself to the limits so you could be reborn. As his redemption. As his saving grace. He had no certainty that his plan involving you would work, even though there were signs. But he sure as hell was willing to try. And there you were, in his very arms. The chance. His love. The future.

Every pact had an exchange. His was simple. And very 'Wooyoung'. Your healing, for his divine punishment. While he would be burning in damnation, he would be helping you rise above the flood. To him, it was a way that was only natural. And he would not have any other alternative. From the greatest depths he was going to crawl, and claw his and your way forward. You were his divine soulmate after all.

As he divulged his real story to you, his true self, you could catch glimpses of who he had been, all across his features. Though what he had not mentioned yet, instead resorting to an ambiguous 'pact', was your heavenly ties to him. He could not expect you to love him. He could not force you to accept him so quickly. If it took centuries more, he was willing to wait. Time was not an issue; he wanted your heart to heal.

You were perplexed. Why did Wooyoung throw everything that he had away? Was this foolishness? Was this a lapse in judgement? Whatever he was looking for, you were sure he could not find here. There had to be another reason, something-

“Like I said, I am bound to you. So, apologies, Y/N, but you are going to have to deal with me for… a while. Now don’t worry, you are not the only one who will be on a journey, so we will be helping each other. Okay?”

“Bound?”

“Like I said. A pact.”

“So, you will take my soul?”

“That’s what demons do.”

“Aren’t you one... now? Don't you sort of have to take souls?”

“Not exactly. I just explained. Had I been a true demon, I would have been able to steal your soul on the first day we had met. Just like that.” He clicked his fingers, representing the speed at which the action could have been performed, had he had the ability. "I have to go through the paperwork to do my present duties. Dull, but at least I am still myself, more or less."

“Then, fallen angel it is.”

“Yes. Much like you, after that stellar dive.”

“Did you just-”

“If there is anything you certainly know about me, is that I adore being tactless.” He reminded you, making you snort.

“That you sure do. Maybe that's why you decided to leave the angelic realm." you stuck a bit of your tongue out, poking fun at Wooyoung, who took to your higher spirits and beamed.

"What will you do, then?” you tried.

“Only what had already been done and determined by fate.”

“Cryptic.”

“Very much so. But we will go in baby steps. Now, let’s get you inside, and get started, together. You ready, Y/N?”

He was searching for hope. For a new life. For fight within you. One that would prove to him that there was, indeed, a chance.

“Reborn ready, Wooyoung.”

As he helped you up and, an arm wrapped around you, guided you back inside, his gaze could not help but linger on the small mark on your ever so slightly exposed shoulder, exactly matched with his. He was going to tell you what it meant eventually. When you were ready to hear and to listen. The stars had long made the decision for you both, and he simply gave in. If this meant that he had to be a demon for eternity, he was willing. If him and you could be redeemed, he was ecstatic. But that was distant for now. In the present, the only thing certain was you, and him. The rest was only a series of embellishments to lead you to healing and acceptance. But it was clear. You were never alone, and you will never be.

#wooyoung x reader #jung wooyoung #wooyoung x y/n #ateez au #ateez fanfic #demon ateez #ateez angst #hwaightme #ateez #ateez comfort #choi san #ateez san #ateez wooyoung #ateez wooyoung x reader #demon wooyoung #angel wooyoung #kpop imagine #kpop writers #kpop writing

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saltymongoose · 2 years

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Hey its stitches anon...idk if your requests are open, hell I'd gladly commission you at this point. But I was wondering if you could write a small fiction about the main 4 and their lover/partner (trans man he/they) that just recently got fired from their job because they are disabled? And who is now in pain and is super sad? That just happend ot me today (2 days till my birthday too) I have HEDS, pots, and mast cell to name a few. I can't write to save my life either. And I just want my bois comforting me while trying to find a new job. Sorry you can completely ignore this

Love all of your work and u would gladly commission you with what money I have for fics too ❤️ reminders to drink water everyone

Hey Stitches Anon <3, I'm really sorry to hear about your job, that's an absolutely awful thing for them to do. :( You've probably found another place to work by now, and while I don't know very much about legality, I'd keep an eye on labor laws regarding disability where you live. (Where I'm from, firing anyone for stuff directly related to their disability is extremely illegal.) However, while I can't give much advice on this since Idk legal stuff like this that well, I can write about the boys comforting you, so I whipped these up for ya. Good luck in your professional career, my friend! :) 💕❤️💖💗(P.S. And Happy New Year!!! 🎉✨🎊)

[Part 1] They Comfort Their Disabled!Transmasc!Partner During a Jobsearch ft. The Main 3 + 2BDamned

(TW: Mentions of Violence, Brief mentions of disability-based discrimination, extreme fluff.) *A.N: I wasn't too sure about how much detail to go into with PoTS/hEDS/Mast Cell, so please lmk if I portrayed anything in this incorrectly and I'll rework it pronto. Thank you! <3

- [HANK J. WIMBLETON] -

Rage and worry are the two words that best encapsulate what Hank feels once you tell him that you've gotten fired and why. Your disability didn’t prevent you from getting hired in the first place, so there’s no logical reason why it should cause your boss to fire you either. It doesn’t make any sense to him, and the fact that this whole situation is happening to you really pisses him off.

(You've seen Hank angry before, but it was never like this. He's almost shaking with rage, his hands spasming against you as he rasps out the harsh question of who was responsible for your tears and the sobs that left you. Yet you don't give their name, instead opting to press your face deeper into his collar. He goes still when you sniffle and whimper, his tense form relaxing as he presses even closer to you, pulling you tighter to him and enveloping you in his form. He'll drop the issue for now; those bastards who fired you can wait. Your well-being was always been one of his first priorities anyway.)

In typical Hank fashion, the first solution he suggests is outright murdering who fired you to get your previous job back, which makes no sense to you. (It's not like your company would be eager to hire someone whose boyfriend killed their ex-coworker). The proposition does get a small laugh out of you though, so he still considers it an achievement.

Instead of going out to commit a massacre in your name, he decides to divert all of his energy toward taking care of you and comforting you as best he can. This means he puts off all of his "official work" for as long as possible; he can tell how distraught losing this job made you, so he considers helping you to be his new mission. There’s no one that Hank ever has ever cared for more than you; you're the most special person in his life, so it’s only natural for him to put all of his focus on his role as your partner when you need the support.

Despite being wholly indifferent to the plights of Nevada's denizens, you are the only exception to his apathy, and he’ll be all over you trying to help you out during this time. He’s not the most domestic person, so he can’t take care of much on his own, but he’ll do his best to complete your normal household chores nonetheless; cleaning, taking out the trash, etc. He even cooks on rare occasions, if he thinks you shouldn't be doing it (usually because you're either too tired or in pain). You'll have to instruct him on what to do for some of these (especially cooking, he's not really experienced with that), but he'll complete every task dutifully. Hank is very good at following orders, after all.

(He straightens up when you take a bite of the food he made, his hands twitching as you give him a pleased, albeit tired smile. "It's very good," you say in response to the question you know he's aching to ask. Your eyes meet the red lenses of his goggles, and your grin widens. "Thanks, babe. You did well." He made your favorite, and although it doesn't taste exactly like how you make it, you think you prefer this version.)

Yet this is more of an afterthought compared to his main preoccupation: being by your side for as long as you'll have him, in the most literal fashion. He's almost attached to your hip the entire time, molded to your side and purring as he tugs you closer to him.

He prefers to show most of his affection through touch; hugging you softly, pressing what remains of his lips to your cheeks and forehead (and a few stray pecks on your mouth, of course), and keeping a stray hand on yours whenever you're busy looking through job listings on your tablet. He's soft and careful, always having a close eye on you for any signs of pain when he shifts closer to you, and silently noting every bruise or mark you might have in an effort to avoid irritating them. Whenever you make a noise of pain, or even if you show the smallest sign of strain, he immediately freezes, tilting his head at you in obvious worry and attempting to bring your attention to him so he can ask if you need anything.

Despite how often he gets injured, Hank doesn't know close to anything about the medical field, so he'll insist that you speak to Doc about any pain and discomfort you have due to your disabilities (who recommends you to Skinner, since he's also not a doctor either). That being said, Hank will do his best to help with alleviating anything you're going through at the same time, whether it be by fetching you your medications at a scheduled time, carrying you if you're in too much pain/too tired to walk around (or adversely, helping you exercise if you want to), or just cuddling with you if you'd prefer that. (He's constantly on the verge of being in your personal bubble anyway, so may as well.)

If anything, you'll have to tell him to stop hovering over you at times, since he's just that clingy. It's sweet that he's so concerned, but while you recognize that he's trying to show you his love the best way he can, it can be a bit smothering at times. (Like when you're trying to read out available positions and he sees fit to carefully drape himself over your back, purring like a large cat. It's nice, until he ends up obscuring the view of what you're doing.)

He'll cooperate of course, since he respects your boundaries as any partner should, but he will put in an effort to be more verbal after this to make up for it. His voice is very rough from disuse, and his wording can be a bit clunky when he compliments you, but the blunt praise you get from him still makes you blush. It's probably because you know for a fact that everything he says is what he honestly believes, which just makes it a hundred times more meaningful.

(Your face burned with each subsequent word about how proud of you he was, and the short declarations he gave of how much he admired you and your strength. Hearing such words from someone as powerful as him made them very impactful, although this also just made you more bashful to receive them.

"Thank you…you didn't have to say anything like that, hun. It’s very sweet of you," you said before laughing a bit awkwardly. Perhaps it was in your nature to try to skirt around compliments, or at least those that were so direct and blunt, but that would never work with Hank. He never wasted his breath on lies or things he didn’t feel important to put out there, it just isn’t how he works. He states things like they’re facts because they are. He’s proud of you, you’re strong, you’re handsome, etc. He could go on. And he will.

He looked at you for a moment before shrugging. “...Doesn’t matter if I need to say it. It’s still true.” In Hank's view, if he has to strain his voice just to show you the level of affection you rightfully deserve, that’s more than alright. He speaks only when necessary, and bringing your mood up at a time like this makes it so. Besides, he’d much rather use his words to compliment you than for anything else, really.)

However, when it comes to actually helping you get another job, he isn’t can't do all that much. It’s not his fault; Hank hasn’t had a “normal” job in a very long time, so his ideas on how to find one are very out of date. Nevada’s not exactly in the same state it was when he was employed in a traditional setting, and the rubble that makes up most of the cities still around wouldn’t be very useful for real estate. (Which is the only thing he has concrete experience in. Besides homicide.)

The most he can do is keep an eye out for any “help wanted” signs and writing down the locations of the places he finds them. He’ll also ask Deimos, Sanford, and Doc to look into potential job openings. (Well, demand they do. Luckily some explanation by Doc about how Hank's boyfriend was fired was enough to remedy any protest. It's weirdly nice of the merc to be so concerned about someone else. Barring the surprise of him even having a boyfriend to begin with, since he'd never said a word about you to them before.)

2BDamned is also surprisingly okay with just letting his main agent take some time off to help his significant other while they look for a job. However, Doc realizes better than anyone that if he attempted to keep Hank from you in a time like this, he'd just leave anyway (and violently), so there's little point in even trying. He's the most clued in out of everyone about Hank's personal life and has enough sense to know about your importance to him. (Why else would Hank be asking about "date ideas" and engagement rings, of all things?)

He wonders sometimes if you realize just how much you've got the tall grunt wrapped around your finger. Though, judging by how Doc can hear you brighten up and playfully admonish Hank when he accidentally interrupts your calls with him (and the fact that he can hear the man purring loudly over the phone after you call him a pet name), you must have a pretty good idea by now.

- [2BDAMNED] -

2BDamned likely didn’t approve of you working at your previous job to begin with, as it was too far from the Status Quo’s base of operations for him to keep an eye on you at all times (and being with him did put a considerable target on your back, no matter how secret you tried to keep your relationship). However, he was wholly displeased when you tearfully revealed to him that you’d been fired for something you had absolutely no control over.

Both the sheer audacity and the stupidity of the company you worked for are incredibly surprising to him. He'll make a quick note to find out where your previous workplace is located; he won't do anything to ruin them, as much as he has the power to, but if some of his agents in the location accidentally do anything to hurt their business, he's not going to offer anything close to assistance. (Although the agents might get a soft reprimand - it's hard to be mad at them for this, even if he really should be.) It's petty, but also far more than he knows they have a right to.

However, in the meantime, he'll focus on comforting you while you find another job, seeing as interfering with your previous workplace is beneath his consideration. (Unless you ask him to, of course. He's always frowned upon people who couldn't separate their work from their personal lives, but he could handle the hypocrisy if using his resources for this made you happy. After seeing how they made you cry, he thinks it would be at least somewhat deserved.)

Doc's a busy man, but he'll always have time for you. Luckily for him, he's not exactly needed at any bases, and his work has him moving around quite a bit as is, so staying at your place to help you won't cause any issues. It’s not like anyone would notice his absence. Although, he'd be willing to forgo his current assignments regardless; you're more important, to put it simply.

He's well versed in your medical conditions already, due to hours of research and speaking with both you and Skinner, no doubt. Even before you were fired, he'd have been there to help you should you need it (even if a phone call away), and there's no reason why this would change after the fact. He's always been reliable, and just like back then, he'll be there to give you exactly what you need to keep yourself comfortable. This also includes himself, if you so ask.

You'll often find yourself with your head resting in his lap, feeling his eyes rake over you once in a while to look for any signs of pain and discomfort. (To anyone else, it would feel cold or clinical, but something about Doc's gaze always warms when it's placed on you.) His voice loses its harsh edge when he reads your listings, occasionally nudging you against contacting them for an interview if the company in question gives pay that's too low or lacks the benefits he knows you deserve.

("That last one sounds alright," you muttered, and he paused from reading his tablet to give you a look of slight disapproval. You raised a brow as if to ask what the problem was and he sighed.

"Honey, they don't have dental or offer basic health insurance - and the salary is half of what you should be making," he responded pointedly, to which you laughed. This was Nevada, it's not like that was common anyway, and most businesses couldn’t afford very good pay rates at that. Yet the fact that your boyfriend was so concerned about where you'd end up working was so funny to you for some reason. The leader of one of Nevada’s greatest forces fretting about your hourly wages. Perhaps it was because it was so weirdly domestic; you didn’t get a lot of time with him considering his work schedule, so to have him drop everything just to do something so normal was actually surprising to you. It seems you underestimated just how much you meant to him. Which you know he’d chide you for if he could read your mind. Of course he would do that, he loves you.)

(You didn’t notice how he stopped reading yet again, gazing at you warmly as you drifted off in thought. For a moment he wondered if it would be better to have you work for him, where he could keep an eye on you and give you the opportunities you’d already worked for. However, he knew he couldn’t stomach you being in danger because of it, and decided against doing so. Though he’s still going to vet who you’re looking to work for, that’s a given.)

Doc’s actually rather quick to begin assisting you with lining up interviews; he’s the type of person who tries to get rid of the emotional weight of problems by solving them as soon as he can, and so he tries to do the same here. However, he’s not tone-deaf; he’s not going to immediately push it on you if you’re in need of comfort after just being fired.

There are very few people that 2BDamned can say he genuinely cares about, and you're the most important of those individuals by far. This shows in how he softens his voice around you, the sweet pet names that are reserved only for you, and the tender way he kisses you whenever he removes his mask. His gestures only increase here, when he knows you need his comfort more than ever.

He's never been the most physical in how he shows his affection (it's something he's had to ease himself in to with your relationship), but that gets thrown out the window for the most part. While he won't be cuddling you whenever you're together, you can expect to be seated in his lap with one of his arms thrown around your waist to keep you close while you both go through your work (you looking for some and him reading reports). He treats it like a casual thing, and he's found that having you near him like this brings him more peace of mind.

(The slight smile he can see tug at the corners of your lips when you feel the warmth of his form against yours is the main benefit though. Although the weariness in your eyes from what happened still hasn't faded away, you're certainly feeling better than before. Your gaze flickers upward to meet his, and he feels a purr building up when you give him a look of unbridled affection.)

While Doc is aware that he can't remove your pain or completely prevent all of your disabilities' more disruptive symptoms from happening, his main goal is to make sure you aren't having to deal with them as often as possible. If there's anything he can do, from finding special types of medication that help you the most (which is likely in short supply due to how Nevada is) to setting up schedules so you avoid getting exhausted, he’ll get it done immediately and without question. It’s his goal to make it so you’ll never feel embarrassed or ashamed to ask for his help with anything (medical-related or otherwise), and you don’t.

Furthermore, Doc’s not a medical specialist per se, but he also took some “classes” from Skinner on how to treat the more major symptoms you might experience. Case in point, those unfortunate times you dislocated some of your joints, and he resets them for you, or when he eases you into a better position to recover if you happen to faint from your blood pressure dropping too quickly.

(He’s been arms deep in people’s intestines and gore before to put them back together, and done so with relative nonchalance, but seeing you in pain makes him almost queasy by comparison. The point that brings him back to focus is his central goal; minimizing your pain and discomfort, which means taking care of your state swiftly.)

2BDamned is someone who respects your independence. You're capable of taking care of yourself, as you usually do when he's not there. However, in a situation like this one, where you need him, he'll always be there. You're Doc's partner (soon fiance, perhaps), and he's yours; he'll always be there for you to lean on, just like you've been there to comfort him and bring him out of his shell.

It doesn't matter what you're going through, or how things on the outside are. If Nevada as you both knew it was going to end without him, he might just let it, as long as you'd be safe and well. If this means letting go of his usually-busy schedule to take care of the one he loves when they lose their job (and for their disabilities, which he'll still remain angry at no matter how much time passes), then it's something he'll go along with happily. In 2BDamned's eyes, you deserve far more than he can give you, so the only logical thing he can do is give you all that he is with the hopes that it's enough. This is just an incredibly small instance of him showing this immense love he has for you (one that's returned tenfold).

He hopes to make you as happy as you make him, and if the warm, affectionate looks you share, with soft smiles and hands intertwined, mean anything, then he does. And that is enough for him.

#tw: discrimination #i am incandescent with rage at your former employer 😀#Part 2 will be coming out tomorrow with San and Dei :)#transmasc reader #male reader #hank j. wimbleton x reader #hank j. wimbleton #2bdamned x reader #2bdamned #madness combat x reader #madcom x reader #my writing

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