#someone needs to force me to go back to writing..

[alphawave-writes]

My personal headcanon is that this relates to Ahti being away from the Oldest House and/or the Oceanview Motel. In the entirety of Control he never seems overly concerned over the Oldest House. He hates the Clog for some reason, is a little annoyed with the Hiss, but is more keen on getting his holiday and getting his work done before that time. The implication is that he will come back at some point. He just needs a break and will return to help Jesse clean up when the holiday’s over.

Except he doesn’t. Ahti isunable to return to the Oldest House. He can seemingly travel to and from the Dark Place (there’s another theory I have about how he’s also the caretaker for the Oceanview Motel/Hotel and that they’re the same thing perceived differently by Jesse and Alan, but that’s its own separate thing), but as the Firebreak trailers have confirmed, Ahti never returned to the Oldest House in all those years.

Ahti is no ordinary human. An Old God if you will, one associated with water, with the ability to seemingly travel anywhere and possibly with the same eyes as the actual Old Gods of Asgard in being able to see the truth, hence him calling Alan “Tom”. He can traverse freely through the Oldest House, and as stated earlier, the Oceanview and perhaps even the Dark Place itself. But he can’t get back to the Oldest House.

And it’s not because of Scratch—not directly. It’s because of Alan.

During AW2, there are a few manuscript pages that mention Ahti by name, including one that explicitly places him in Valhalla with the other old people there. Just like with Saga, Ahti became a character in Alan’s story/escape attempt. And just like everyone else he became trapped in Alan’s story, forced to play the role of a resident of Valhalla. He cannot leave until the story reaches its conclusion.

Keep in mind, this moment right here is the LAST time he talks to Saga, and the last time he talks in the “surface/real world”. His part has been played, and he has said what he needs to say to Saga. This extra incidental dialogue? This optional scene? This reads to me like Ahti’s first moment of clarity. As an Old God, he gets to snap out of it and see the reality of the situation, but just after he’s done playing his role. That’s why he’s confused. That’s why he wants to go home. And he probably doesn’t even realise that Alan is at least partially responsible for trapping him.

And I do want to add an aside as someone that’s overanalysed his dialogue: Ahti never speaks nonsense. His dialogue is usually perfectly normal English mixed with the direct translation of certain Finnish idioms. If he spoke in Finnish to a Finn, he is talking…well, like an old man, but normal for an old man. In English, if he just switches the idioms to some more “normal” ones, he would also make logical sense. I know that for a fact because I made a giant document full of the translations of numerous Finnish idioms into English for an Ahti fic I’m writing but I digress.

What is truly frightening here is that Ahti has defaulted back to Finnish. There are very few times he directly says something in Finnish, and that’s usually when he’s muttering to himself. This is more in AW2 than Control, but he doesn’t break out the Finnish to other people unless he can’t think of a word in English (a very common ESL experience, I can attest to). For him to mostly speak in Finnish here, he doesn’t register Saga in the room anymore. He’s terrified, mumbling to himself in his native language. He has been let go from the story for a moment, and he is utterly confused.

As for why I say his home is the Oldest House, rather than Cauldron Lake, that’s more because of his lines about wanting to go “home” implying the town isn’t his home. He can travel freely to the Dark Place, seems to know his way around, so that’s probably not his home either, and if you subscribe to my theory that both Oceanviews are technically the same nexus point, that also takes the Oceanview out, leaving the Oldest House as the lone culprit.

And why he cares so much more about going home to the Oldest House? Well, he is the janitor. In Finnish, that word is “Talonmies”. Translated directly into English like Ahti so often does, that means “man of the house”. And that’s what he is, except the circumstances prevent him from being that role. So now he is a man without his home.

An Old God without his Oldest House.

hey apparently there's an occurrence that can happen in AW2 when you play as Saga in the Nursing Home where Ahti just suddenly starts freaking out and talking like a normal person, and combined with the fact Ahti has been in Bright Falls for 3 years and Scratch was pretty much very close to getting the ending he wanted, and everything is centered around the lake getting fucked up when Ahti is literally a Sea God, it probably means Scratch was fucking with the lake so much to the point where it was making Ahti just lose his mind. and its very fucked up and i fucking hate it and i hate hearing him sad and lost and confused. this is the worst thing ever.

did you guys ever watch the movie A Wrinkle In Time. theres a god-like character in it that only speaks using other peoples sentences. when everything starts falling apart she starts speaking fully for herself, using her own words, and specifies to the main character that it means everything is falling apart. the reason she speaks the way she usually does is because the worlds are balanced. her speaking normally means everything is wrong and something needs to be done.

Ahti is never supposed to make complete sense. like you can generally get the gist of what he's saying but most of the time he's basically speaking his own weird lingo. him making complete sense is not good. Scratch was probably close to fucking killing Ahti even. i fucking hate this i hate this so much.

[revelboo]

omg revel i think you need a masterlist of all your continuity masterlists at this point

there's probably a convention's worth of robot fuckers here, all lurking around and feasting on your writing every day over here like you set out cans of wet food for stray cats

🤣 I keep trying to streamline stuff and Tumblr keeps thwarting me with post limits

Worker Bee Pt 32

Waspinator x Reader

• Still tied up in the stupid curtain, you swing slightly from your big, dumb puppy’s mandibles as Waspinator keeps backing slowly up the wall until his butt hits the corner in his giant wasp form while the black and white mech who’d herded him into what you’re pretty sure is an interrogation room just stares. And you get that expression on his face completely, the alien managing to give off the tired resignation of someone forced to deal with the stupidity and paid far too little to deal with this shit. The big blue and red one that had introduced himself as Optimus just looks worried. Most likely that Wasp is going to drop you, which is very valid.

• Wings buzzing a warning, his optics flick around the space, looking for a way to escape. Because they’re trying to lock him up, trap him in this room. What if they take you away from him? What if he can’t find his little mate? “Waspinator, was it?” Optimus calls out. “We really just want to talk. Can you come down before you drop your… human?” And he bristles. ‘Waspinator not drop mate,’ he hisses, nearly dropping you and flailing to snag you with his front limbs, dragging you to trap you between his frame and the wall.

• “I think we should hear them out,” you say, mainly because you’re now mostly upside down and he wouldn’t mean to drop you, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do it by accident. And you see the look the two mechs exchange at Wasp calling you his mate. Probably thinking he’s a weirdo for being with a human when he’s definitely not human. “And all the blood is rushing to my head, sweetie,” you add.

• “Talk,” he growls, trying to shuffle you right side up without dropping you. “Not coming down.” Glances at the closed door and wonders if it’s locked. If he could batter it open slamming himself against it and unwilling to try while he has you. Doesn’t like being trapped as he shuffles along the top of the wall. Came here for help, but he doesn’t really trust the Autobots. Not when they hate him as much as the Decepticons. Everyone hates him but you. “Safe here.”

• “Hi?” You call out, squirming to try to get loose from the curtain and Waspinator rubs his big head against you, mandibles brushing your hair. Possibly chewing on it. “If you guys can back off, I can get him off the wall.” Probably. He’s so freaked, he might not listen to you, but it’s worth a try. “And we can talk like normal… people.” And the big guy actually listens, shooing the black and white mech out and hesitating in the doorway. ‘You’re sure you’re okay with him?’ Optimus asks so solemnly it’s adorable. “I’m sure.”

• “Trapped,” he hisses as the door closes and you make a sharp noise that makes him flinch, antenna back. ‘Wasp, listen to me. I need you to untie me. And get us down, okay?’ And he hesitates but you lean and press your mouth against a mandible and he’s climbing down with you. Transforming, he uses his claws to carefully rip the cloth you’re tied up in to free you. Head turning nervously back toward the door, he whines when you cup his face in your palms and make him look at you instead. ‘You brought us here because these guys are okay, right? So let’s hear what they have to say.’ Venting on a whine, he leans his head against you, antenna sliding through your hair. Maybe they’re okay? Doesn’t know. Just didn’t know where else to go. If the Decepticons are hunting him, he needs help. Why couldn’t they have just left him alone? Ignored him like they normally do?

Previous

Have some Beast Wars Wasp panels I found. Puppy has one brain cell to his name and still managed to get two degrees with it

[lazysoulwriter]

prompt #3, #4, #6, #9, & #28 w/ Pedro Pascal

“use your words, amor.” “i’d ruin a thousand lives for you. no hesitation.” “you don’t have to be strong with me.” “just breathe, i’ve got you.” “just one word and i’ll ruin him for you"

CW: harassment (verbal/implied physical), emotional withdrawal, anxiety/panic response, soft!protective!Pedro, comfort, fluff, healthy communication 🤍

You didn’t come to bed.

Pedro had fallen asleep on the couch and when he woke up past midnight, the lights were still on and the bedroom was empty. Your phone was charging. Your scripts were untouched.

He found you in the bathroom—sitting on the floor in his hoodie, knees hugged to your chest, your back pressed to the cold wall. Not crying. Not moving. Just still.

“Mi amor…” His voice was soft, but immediate. He dropped down to the floor without a second thought, hands gentle on your arms. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your mouth opened, but the words tangled in your throat and disappeared.

Pedro cupped your face with both hands, pressing his forehead to yours. “Just breathe. I’ve got you. In and out, baby, just like that.”

You nodded, tears finally spilling. Your chest heaved with a shaky inhale and the second your body gave way, he pulled you into his arms like it was instinct.

“I faked being sick,” you whispered. “I didn’t go in today. I couldn’t.”

He didn’t ask why—not yet. He just held you tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles into your back, the other stroking your hair.

You buried your face in his neck. “There’s this… guy. On set. One of the producers. He said something. Did something. Nothing huge, but—he made me feel small. Uncomfortable. I laughed it off because everyone else did. I didn’t know how to react. But I didn’t feel safe. And I thought maybe I was overreacting, and I didn’t want you to worry and—”

“Stop.” Pedro’s voice was firm, steady. His hands came up to cradle your face again, forcing you to look at him. “Use your words, amor. You never have to protect me from your pain.”

You blinked at him, wide-eyed. “I just didn’t want to ruin anything. Or seem like I’m being dramatic.”

“You don’t have to be strong with me,” he said, thumb brushing away your tears. “You don’t have to act fine when you’re not. If something hurts you? I want to know. I need to know.”

Your lip trembled. “It just made me feel gross. And small. Like I was overreacting for feeling violated.”

Pedro exhaled, jaw tightening. Not at you—never at you. His whole body tensed like a live wire.

“I’d ruin a thousand lives for you. No hesitation.” His voice was low, grounded in something dangerous and devoted. “Just one word and I’ll ruin him for you. You know that, right?”

You nodded.

But he wasn’t done. “You are never too much. You are never overreacting. If someone made you feel unsafe, that is real. That matters. You matter.”

You couldn’t speak. You just clung to him, letting his warmth and his words undo the knot in your chest.

He didn’t ask you to go back to work. He didn’t say “maybe he didn’t mean it” or “just ignore him.” He just stayed. Holding you. Repeating soft truths into your skin like prayers:

“You’re safe.” “I love you.” “You didn’t do anything wrong.” “I’ve got you.”

And you believed him. Because Pedro never made you feel small. Only seen. Only cherished. Only held.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[rekilover]

Sieun x reader fic about him trying to confess.

(english is NOT my first language so feel free to correct me if I write something wrong )

Love.

That feeling that appears in romantic series where two people want each other’s presence more than anything else in the world. Where they hold hands and confess their affection without shame, where their lips meet in passionate kisses and…

“What the hell is this?” Sieun thought, turning off the TV with annoyance as he watched that romantic TV show put on by his mother, become more and more explicit.

—Sieun, it’s time for you to go to school. I don’t want you being late in your school record, university’s don’t like people who aren’t in time, you know that? — his mother said from the kitchen, in a tone so falsely kind that it erased any trace of tenderness.

He didn’t answer. He just nodded and put on his shoes in silence, his mind still trapped on a thought more annoying than that ridiculous show. The fact that, to his misfortune, he had fallen in love with Y/N.

Accepting that feeling wasn’t easy. For weeks, he denied any possibility that it was real. He tried to ignore it. But his body betrayed him: his heart raced when he saw her, his hands sweated, and his mind clouded. No matter how much he wanted to deny it, he felt it. And that drove him crazy.

When he arrived at the classroom, his friends were already there, happily chatting about what the day’s menu would be. Everyone was present except Y/N, who had started feeling a bit sick as classes began, so she went to the nurse’s office to rest.

“Maybe… they could help me,” Sieun thought, looking at them carefully, analyzing the possible scenarios of asking for advice.

Baku would probably suggest something cliché and embarrassing. Hyuntak, something exaggerated like confessing his love with a bouquet of flowers outside her house. And Juntae… maybe Juntae could be useful.

— Juntae, can you come here for a moment? I want to talk outside.— Sieun said with such tense seriousness that his friend paled, feeling a chill run down his spine.

—Wow! What could our dear Juntae have done to provoke Sieun?— Joked Baku, bursting out laughing along with Hyuntak.

Outside the classroom, facing each other, Sieun looked away. First at the ceiling, then the wall, and finally back at his friend, who looked at him with growing discomfort.

—You..— Sieun murmured, scratching the back of his neck, uncomfortable — I need your help.

— My help? Did you fail a exam?— Juntae asked, tilting his head. Then he laughed. —That can’t be it, you always get good grades. So…?

Sieun stared at him, the silence stretching between them. One minute. Three. Five. Juntae began sweating, wondering if he was about to get punched.

—Y/N. — he finally said, with a more deep tone than usual.

Juntae straightened, curious, and leaned in a little to listen better. — Y/N? What about her?

—I want to tell her I like her .—Sieun confessed almost in a whisper.

Juntae’s eyes widened. He covered his mouth with one hand, surprised.

—You like her? Sieun… do you know what it means to like someone? It’s not like having a friend, it’s… you know.— he said, giving a wink so forced it was more embarrassing than reassuring.

Before Sieun could respond, the classroom door slammed open. Hyuntak and Baku came out, both striking exaggeratedly firm poses as if preparing for battle.

Baku pointed directly at Sieun with determination.

—SIEUN!— he exclaimed loudly. —In thanks for everything you’ve done for us, I declare that today begins… the Operation Love Confession!

Sieun’s eyes went wide, looking around desperately to make sure no one else had heard. He ran to cover Baku’s mouth.

—Are you crazy, idiot?! What the hell are you saying?- he whispered through clenched teeth, red with embarrassment and anger.

—Our dear Sieun… in love. What a beautiful discovery— Said Hyuntak solemnly, raising his hands to the sky as if witnessing a miracle.

—Don’t embarrass him!—Juntae intervened, standing between Sieun and the other two, dragging him back with him. —Sieun never asks for help. We have to do this right.

Sieun stared at the floor, frustrated, jaw clenched. He hated that they knew, but above all, he hated what that feeling was starting to cause.

Once class ended, the four boys were alone in the classroom.

—It’s decided. This afternoon, after school — Said Baku, marking a poorly drawn plan with a red marker on the club’s whiteboard. —Sieun will come with us to the station’s minimarket. He’ll buy a peach juice and a strawberry chocolate.

—What does that have to do with confessing to me?— Sieun asked from a corner of the room, sitting like a prisoner.

—Everything, my dear lover. Because that’s her favorite snack — replied Baku with a smile worthy of a war general. —She’ll like that you remembered.

—What if she rejects me?

—Then you eat the juice and chocolate yourself. Double emotional loss, but zero waste. —Hyuntak gave a thumbs-up.

Juntae, much more rational, sighed as he erased part of the “emotional roadmap” Baku had drawn on the whiteboard.

—We don’t need a scandal. We just have to create the ideal atmosphere. Nothing cheesy, nothing ridiculous. Just you, her, and honest words.

Sieun swallowed. Honest words? How was he supposed to organize his thoughts if he couldn’t even look at her without feeling like his heart would explode?

—What if I get stuck?

—Then you make a gesture, like… this —Hyuntak winked grotesquely and gave two thumbs-up. — That never fails. Women love body language.

—God… why did I ask you guys for help?

That day, after school, Sieun stood outside the nurse’s office, his hands sweaty and the minimarket bag his friends had given him trembling between his fingers. Juntae was beside him, lightly patting his back with an expression somewhere between emotional support and medical concern.

—You don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.

Sieun didn’t answer. He looked down the hall where Y/N had just left the nurse’s office, her uniform spotless and her hair loose.

Their eyes met for a moment.

—Sieun?

Everything stopped, the air, his heart.

— I-I have something to give you — he said, stepping forward awkwardly, as if his feet didn’t know how to walk.

He held out the bag, she accepted it with curiosity.

—Peach juice and strawberry chocolate? How did you know I loved these? — She smiled.

Sieun opened his mouth, but no words came out. Juntae, hiding behind a column, frantically made hand signals: Now! Speak! NOW!

—Y/N, I…—he finally said, lowering his gaze — I hope you are better now, that’s all.—He spoke firm.

His friends, silently watching, let out soft sighs of frustration, clearly disappointed the plan didn’t work.

Y/N noticed their presence and, thinking they had just come to check on her, she approached them with a smile.

—I’m better now, isn’t that better? —she said proudly. — I felt a bit dizzy when I got here, but it’s gone now.

She expected some verbal response but only received pats on the shoulder paired with disappointed expressions, and her friends walked away without saying anything else.

—Y/N, patience is a virtue you need to learn to practice— Juntae murmured from afar.

Watching the scene, Sieun could only mentally resign himself. Confessing was much harder than he had imagined.

[photo1030]

A Cup of Coffee

Summary:  What do you do when the love of your life doesn’t feel the same for you?

Word Count - Just over 10K

A/N - This is inspired by the song by Garbage. I got this idea after reading all the amazing mini prompts by @pinescent-and-gingerbread.

Supposed to be a short, one-shot but, as usual it got away from me. I hope you can stick it out to the end. A lot of emotions going on here and it is not a happy one, just be warned. I cried quite a bit writing this one.

Masterlist

*This beautiful image is from @rdr2gifs

You sit with your back against the old gnarled walnut tree, picking at your nails in nervous frustration, your head clearly somewhere else. This is “your spot” where you always go when you need a moment to yourself. The giant tree is like an old friend, its massive branches like arms providing you shelter, shade, and a quiet place to reflect. It’s damn near a pet to you.

“Why you actin’ all pissy lately.” Arthur kicks your boot to garner your attention, his face turned down into an annoyed scowl. 

“No reason,” you reply dismissively, maintaining your averted stare out into the forest that rings the camp. 

“Bull shit.” Arthur rounds to the other side of you, filling your view with his massive trunk of a body so that you’re forced to look at him. “You’ve been moping around like a goddamn wet rag. What’s your problem?”

“I said it's nothing!” you snap back, making you instantly cringe as your response has more venom that you intended.

“Yeah, whatever, fine. Don’t tell me, then,” he pouts, waving his hand in the air in surrender. 

Your legs instinctively curl in towards your body, a vacant look settled upon your stormy face while you stare off into space again. “You wouldn’t understand anyway.”

A slight head shake tosses his honey-brown locks as his mouth opens to say something, but no argument comes out. A gloved hand scratches the back of his neck in confusion as to what could possibly be so bad that you won’t talk to him. “Is this a ‘lady thing’?”

But the moment your eyes shoot wide open, Arthur knows he’s guessed wrong. “What?! Jesus, Arthur, no it's not a ‘lady thing’!”

‘“Then why can’t you tell me!”

“Because!”

“Because why? You tell me everything else!” he pushes.

“Because it's about you, jackass!” And your eyes go wide as the full moon at the realization that you just opened Pandora's box to your deepest secret:  you are hopelessly in love with your best friend, one Mr. Arthur Morgan. 

But the problem is, not only is he oblivious to it, he is in love with someone else:  Mary Gillis, now Mary Linton. And despite her having broken Arthur’s heart and married someone else, the man is still carrying a smoldering torch for the woman, the flames fanned back to life ten-fold when a letter from this ghost from his past showed up for him a few weeks ago.

Arthur’s large body flinches back slightly at your vague revelation, his arms folding across his broad, rigid chest. “What the hell did I do?”

“Nothing, forget I said anything,” you mutter, your mouth suddenly as dry as the desert, your stomach twisting into knots and wishing with every fiber of your being that this conversation wasn’t happening right now. 

“Now, hold on!” His azure eyes flash at you, and it's obvious he’s not going to let this go. “If you’re pissed at me, I deserve to know why.” He looms over you now, his thumb jutting back into his chest at his demand. 

You take a deep sigh and rub your temples with your thumb and forefinger, trying to reel your swirling emotions in before you say or do something you’ll regret. “I’m not pissed at you, Arthur.”

He raises a taunting eyebrow at you. “You sure about that?” 

Your much smaller frame draws up defensively, your chin dropping in warning. “I said I’m not mad, Arthur,” you caution, the words slow and careful, “but I’m gonna be if you don’t stop flappin’ your damn mouth.”

Finally, Arthur recognizes your encroaching breaking point with each twitch of your lips and makes one last attempt, extending his hand to you to find out what has got you wound up like a hornet. “Oh, come on, Y/N. What’s going on?”

“I said drop it!” Your cheeks flush red-hot and you storm off, brushing past his shoulder, leaving him staring after you in confusion. 

—----------------------------------

Your tantrum with Arthur leaves you feeling like a boulder sits in your gut. Trying to hide away from facing the inevitable, you spend the rest of the afternoon out riding your horse. You take to the open fields, letting the warm summer winds engulf you. You push your horse at full speed as if you could outrun your feelings for Arthur. But all this does is make you realize that there is no going back now. You’ll have to confront this sooner or later. 

Slinking back to camp, you find the one person who knows your little secret. You talk to Abigail about it and, of course, she encourages you to tell Arthur how you feel. “Everyone wants to know they are loved,” she rationalizes. 

But the idea of exposing your heart terrifies you, even if it is to Arthur. Your hands clench open and closed, your breathing becoming short. “What if he don’t feel the same?” you ask, your voice sounding pathetic and small. “He’s still hung up on Mary.”

But your answer does not deter Abigail’s opinion. “Maybe he’s still hung up because he doesn’t know he has options.” She leans forward to catch your eye, her gaze burning into yours. “You’ll never know until you tell him.”

Your eyes glisten as you close them and pull in an expansive breath, holding it before slowly pushing it out between trembling lips. Abigail is right. You can’t win anything if you’re not willing to risk for it. What if he says ‘no’? But, what if he says ‘yes’? And you sweep her into a tight hug which she gladly reciprocates.  

—------------------------------------

The next morning, you find Arthur sitting quiet and content outside his tent writing in his journal. You stop to admire how his brows knit slightly, consumed with whatever he is committing to those pages. 

Your mind skips back to when he handed you a journal of your own after you inquired about his. It was a gesture that meant the world to you, because not only did someone bring you a gift, but he was extending to you a glimpse into his own world. He was offering you the same opportunity that he had, sharing his passion with you. This was something that he has not done for anyone else, making this a singular thing that he only shares with you and no one else. The thought makes your heart flutter, honored at this trust, and you take a deep and steadying breath to propel yourself forward. 

“Hey, can I talk to you a second?”

Arthur looks up from the worn leather book on his lap, surprised to see your timidly smiling face greeting him. 

A small grin of relief tugs at the corner of his lips when he realizes you aren’t snapping at him anymore. “Hey… yeah, sure.” 

You sit down next to him, the morning sun kissing his profile, gently heating the worn wooden chair as if it is waiting for you. You hand him a steaming-hot cup of coffee as a peace offering. His tired eyes instantly brighten as he catches the hints of cinnamon mingling with the strong, smoky aroma of the freshly ground coffee beans. 

No one makes coffee like you do. Arthur has no idea what you do or how you do it. It could be witchcraft for all he knows. And he doesn't care so long as you share your efforts with him. He takes a deep sip, the almost-scalding liquid cascading over his tongue, savoring the caramelized, earthy notes and humming in contentment. “Now, that’s a good cup of coffee.”

His compliment makes you smile despite the butterflies in your stomach as you partake from your own cup to quench your parched throat. 

“Look, Arthur, I’m sorry I’ve been a crab-ass lately. It’s just that…” Your eyes cast down to the dark brown liquid, as if trying to find the courage to continue in the steam that gently dances in the air under your nose. 

Arthur is quick to pick up on your fidgeting again. “Just what? Y/N, are you ok?” His face turns down in concern. You are never one to show weakness, so this sudden display of odd behavior doesn’t sit well with him. And worse yet, the fact that you can’t talk to him about it is unsettling. ”If something’s wrong, you know you can tell me.“

You finally tear your gaze from the cup in your slightly shaking hands to meet his. Why does he have to be so sweet? Maybe this is a good sign? Maybe he does feel the same?

“No, nothing’s wrong. At least, I don’t think so.” Your lips get pulled into your teeth.

“Then what in the hell is eatin’ at you?” Despite the harshness of the words themselves, they are delivered with a softness that echoes concern. 

“Arthur,” You swallow hard and close your eyes for a moment. Just say it!, your mind screams. Quit dicking around and do it, for Christ’s sake! 

Arthur’s whole body is rigid as he leans forward on his knees, nervously waiting for whatever bad news it is that you are about to tell him. But what you say next is NOT what he is expecting to come out of your mouth. 

“I’m in love with you.”

Your proclamation is met with stinging silence. And you anxiously wait in anticipation for his answer. And when it doesn’t come, your breathing stops, your knee bouncing slightly as your heartbeat thunders in your ears. 

“Wait…what?” His face screws up, trying to decipher what you’ve just said. 

“I’m in love with you, Arthur, have been for awhile.” You nod in acknowledgement, the sentiment hangs soft and vulnerable in the air like the summer fireflies. 

The outlaw shifts uncomfortably, rubbing his hand along his jawline as he finally comprehends what you’re telling him. And then, the reality of it really sets in. “Shit.”

Your mouth falls open as you clutch the coffee mug in your hand as if it were a lifeline. “What's wrong? Is that a bad thing?”

But Arthur won’t look you in the eye at first, searching for the words that struggle to come. “I just…I just didn’t think I’d ever have to worry about that sort of thing with you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Your eyes begin to sting, causing you to start blinking rapidly as you try to figure out the meaning behind his statement. 

“I don’t know.” He shrugs haplessly. “I just never thought of you as a woman like that, I guess.”

Shit, he may as well have slapped you across the face. It would have stung much less. A huff of exasperation expels from your nose as your head quickly draws back. The anger from yesterday begins to surge within your belly again. You feel stupid, embarrassed. 

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head and abruptly stand, ready to storm off again before he sees the tears rimming in your eyes.

“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that!”

You spin on him, then, the frustration displayed all over your features. “Then what did you mean, Arthur? Huh? What, that you don’t even see me as a woman?!”

“No, that’s not-”

“That's exactly what you said!” you bite back, cutting him off.

Arthur is quick to his feet to explain himself. “You and me, we’re friends. Best friends.” He motions emphatically between you two. ”No bull shit, no games. And I always liked that, relied on it. Respected that, even. I’ve never had to watch myself around you.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” you challenge back. “Why does any of that have to change?” You step closer to Arthur now and look up into his face, desperate for an explanation that makes sense to your rapidly- breaking heart. 

“Because! I’m not good at that sort of thing,” he says sheepishly, hand coming up behind his neck.

“I’m not either. But that’s why it could be so good for us.” You reach over and gently take his hand in both of yours. Your voice softens to a level Arthur has never heard from you before. “Regardless of how we got here, Arthur, the fact of the matter is, I love you. So, I’m askin’ you, is there a chance that you love me too?”

He stares into your expectant face, your eyes wide with adoration and anticipation. And Arthur knows that what he has to say next will be the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. 

“I’m sorry, but…I don’t….I don’t feel that way.”

Despite the softness of his voice, the words are deafening. Your chest feels like a thousand daggers have been plunged into your flesh, wedged between your ribs as it knocks the breath out of your lungs just the same. Your skin flashes burning hot before turning ice cold.

But the look of sheer pain in your eyes cuts him. Arthur has fought alongside of you for years. You’ve been through hell and back together, and never has he seen that look of pain and devastation on your face. And to know he’s the cause of it makes Arthur want to die. 

You stand motionless, numb and not sure what to say or do. Exposed and vulnerable, you took a chance and gave yourself to him. And he denied you. 

As if struck by lightning, you turn on your heel to bolt away, to find a shadowy corner of the world to hide, but Arthur is too quick and his arm shoots out from his side and grabs your wrist. “Y/N, wait, don’t go like this.”

Like a wounded animal caught in a trap, you yank your arm from his grasp, bristling at the feeling of his dry, calloused hand on your skin. ”You’re a goddamn fool, Morgan,” you seethe at him. “You’re still going to hold out that she’ll come back to you, aren’t you?”

But you instantly regret bringing up Mary. You shouldn't have done that. Despite your devastation, it is a low-blow and you know it. A tidal wave of apprehension fills your body head to toe when shock darkly scatters across Arthur’s features. The fact that you’d throw his greatest weakness back in his face in retaliation suddenly sets him to anger as well. 

“What do you want from me, Y/N?” he growls out defensively, eyes narrowing at you.

“Tell me you want me. I want you to tell me you want me, Arthur. Tell me you feel the same for me that I feel for you,” you cry desperately, eyes now red as the tears begin their descent down your cheeks. 

A sigh of resignation ripples through Arthur’s lungs. “But I don’t,” he breathes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I can’t lie to you like that. Not about this.”

Your palm comes up to cover your mouth before you get sick in the grass. Your eyes screw shut as you back away from him, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. “I’m such an idiot,” you whisper with a broken voice. “I should have known I wasn’t good enough.”

“It’s not about that, Y/N.”

“Then what in the world could it be, Arthur? I’ve never been beautiful. Never been ‘dainty’. Never been sugar and sweetness. I’m covered in dirt and smell like my horse. But I had hoped that you, of all people, could see past all that.” Your hand floats up to land over your heaving chest. “To see my heart. And see what I could give to you.” 

But as you stare into Arthur’s ocean-colored eyes, you realize now what his answer to your confession is and that he has no intention of changing it. The tears stream freely down your face, and he watches as they drop one by one off the edge of your trembling chin. “But you don’t want it, do you?” 

“Ah hell, Y/N. I don’t know what to say,” he mutters. You can see the look of guilt and remorse in his eyes. And you know that he is not trying to be mean or cruel. Arthur would never intentionally hurt you. And that is what makes this even harder to endure.

“Don’t. It's okay.” You hold your quivering hands up to hush him from saying anything else, as one more word from his perfect lips may push you over the edge of your sanity. “I shouldn’t have said anything. ‘Cause now I’ve ruined everything.”

“You haven’t ruined anything.” He reaches out to try to reassure you, but you are quick to step out of his grasp and he smartly doesn’t pursue it. 

“Oh, but I have, Arthur. Because how can we even be friends with this oddness between us, now?”

With a heavy heart, you walk away from your friend, all motivation evaporated from your soul. This magnificent thing between you and Arthur took years to build and only moments to destroy.

As you head to your horse, desperate to get the hell out of camp, you halt and make a bee-line for Abigail who is hanging the morning laundry. 

“Thanks for your stupid advice!” you holler at her. 

Abigail startles at your outburst, eyes wide with confusion. “Y/N, are you alright? What happened?” 

“What do you think happened? Now everything has gone to shit. I should have just left things as they were!”

And before Abigail can protest, you are out of earshot and on your horse, headed out of camp.

—------------------------------------------

The days that follow are awkward and ugly, to say the least. You avoid Arthur at all costs and won’t even speak to Abigail. But even worse, you become withdrawn and depressed, a shadow drifting through the camp rather than interacting with it. Gone are feelings of camaraderie between you and the gang, for Arthur IS the gang. His presence is known and felt everywhere within it. And Arthur is the last person you want to be around right now. 

But it doesn’t just stop with the camp interactions. After Arthur’s rejection, something within you breaks and you quickly become less like yourself and more of a ghost, a shell of what you once were. Or maybe you’ve just learned to channel your pain and anger to become someone else altogether. 

You become reckless, taking chances that you would normally never have in the past. You hang out in the bars and saloons, rather than coming back to camp at night. You’ve even started going upstairs with strange men on the nights where you’re too drunk or too heartbroken to care. You do jobs with Bill and Sean instead of Arthur, wanting nothing to do with him. When Arthur returns to camp from his own jobs, you’ll immediately leave. You can’t stand to be in the same place at the same time anymore. And, of course, he notices. So eventually Arthur avoids you altogether, as well. What was once a strong, unrelenting friendship has become nothing more than passing strangers. And when you two are in camp at the same time, you both keep your eyes averted, never looking at each other. Because of course you can’t be friends when you still feel like this.

Dutch, on the other hand, loves it. You become another “Arthur”, hard and fearless. A force to be reckoned with. And now that you and Arthur are not speaking, there is no more distraction and he can split the two of you up to be more efficient, two alpha leads to be sent out on jobs. But you have little-to-no regard for your own safety. Every time you return to camp, there’s another wound, another bruise. Your clothing becomes more and more tattered. The more dangerous the job, the better as far as you’re concerned. You’ll take any job Dutch hands you without question. 

While some in camp consider this bravery, others begin to see it as suicidal.

The self loathing takes its toll on you in a most nasty way. You’ve always had self doubt and low self esteem. But you feel in your bones that no one could ever love you the way that you yearn for. You’re hot tempered and ill mannered. You are far from what most men consider beautiful. But despite that, you and Arthur have always had a connection. He’s never judged you, never made you feel less than what you are. If anything, Arthur makes you feel better about yourself than you ever could on your own. He has always accepted you just as you are, embraced it, even. And he was your only chance, your only chance, at being loved. But if even he can’t bring himself to see you in that tender, loving light, what hope do you have to find love anywhere else?

It isn’t long before everyone in camp avoids you and your toxic attitude. You constantly get into harsh arguments with Grimshaw, standing nose to nose and shouting at the top of your lungs. During one altercation, she slaps you when you won’t back down, to which you immediately respond with an equally hard and fast slap of your own, causing her to reel back at the audacity of your actions. “Don’t you ever raise your hand to me again.” You point your finger in her face, inches from her nose. “Or I will put a bullet in you. Do you understand me, you old crone?!” 

But it doesn’t stop there. At some point, Sean ends up with a black eye when he makes a joke at your expense. You even pull a gun on Micah in camp when you’ve hit your limit. Hosea tries to pull you aside to talk to you about your reckless behavior, but all it does is throw you into a rage, like a cat that’s had its tail stepped on.

And then one day, it all comes to a head. You end up getting caught in town and are set to be hung. 

You are drowning your sorrows at the end of a bottle as usual in the saloon and one of the patrons gets too rough with one of the working girls, smacking her around. Watching the young woman’s head snap violently to the side with a sharp cracking sound causes something to fracture in your brain. Time stands still, all color draining from your vision except red. 

The woman barely has time to stand up straight again before the sound of gunfire ricochets within the small room. Without a moment’s hesitation, you pull your gun and shoot her attacker between the eyes, no questions, no remorse, nothing but a look of emotionless disgust plastered on your face. 

When others try to intervene, you shoot them too. No one is spared from your blind wrath. It is as if you have no control over what you are doing, your body moving of its own destructive accord. You launch your fists into faces that you don’t even take a second look at, and break chairs over anyone who dares to get in your way. It isn’t until you feel something hard shatter against the back of your skull that you stop. The whiskey bottle knocks you off balance just long enough for two men to take advantage of your weakness, each grabbing a dangerous arm. 

It eventually takes five men to bring you down. They beat you into submission, kicking you in the ribs once they have you on the filthy wooden floor of the saloon. Angry faces look down over you and spit on you, jeering and taunting you relentlessly. You are only half conscious by the time they drag you down the steps of the saloon. 

————————————-

Arthur is making his way back to camp and decides to stop for a drink, when he catches the tail-end of the brawl. Before he can even enter the saloon, he can hear the hollering and commotion of broken furniture from the street.

At first he keeps his head down, not wanting to get involved, as whatever is happening inside sounds bad. But his stomach drops when he sees two men dragging someone one out of the saloon, and instantly recognizes it’s you as you continue to hurl insults despite being dragged through the mud. Hand on his revolver, Arthur is about to intervene, but a mob has quickly formed around you. Arthur can’t do anything by himself right now, so he decides to wait until nightfall to break you out and get you out of town. “Goddamn it, Y/N,” he sharply mutters under his breath.

The outlaw gives it a few hours before he creeps along the building walls, keeping to the shadows to avoid being seen. It’s quiet out, no one walking about as the moon sits high, casting its silvery shadows along the world below. It doesn’t take long for him to scout the jailhouse where you are being held. 

Cautiously approaching the premises, Arthur peers through the barred window to find you leaning out on your elbows onto your knees, head hanging. Your face is bruised from where they beat you and your clothing filthy and torn from where they drug you through the street to the jail house.

“Jesus,” he whispers sadly, the word escaping his lips without him even knowing it.

You lift your head at the sound of his voice outside your window. It is a siren song that always sits in your ears just so. Even in your darkest hour, after everything that has happened between you two, Arthur’s voice still makes your heart beat a little faster. 

He is relieved to see your eyes are still surprisingly bright, still burning with that fire that no one could ever extinguish. He holds your gaze as you slowly blink at him, your left eye swollen and red from the broken blood vessels. He can’t believe it’s come to this. 

“What are you doin’ here, Arthur?” you asked tiredly. 

Arthur swallows thickly, resolve settling into his veins. “I gotta get you out of here.”

“Don’t bother.” You shake your head, leaning back against the wall.

“What? Quit being ridiculous. Now, help me figure out a way to get you out of this mess”, he hisses sharply. 

You do your best to hide a painful wince that radiates from what is most likely a broken rib as you shift your weight on the hard bench. “I said don‘t bother. I’m not your mess to clean up. I deserve to be here, Arthur.” 

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” you nod slowly. ”I shot that man. I caused that ruckus in town. And I deserve to hang for it.”

“Y/N, quit screwing around!” Arthur punches the wall with his palm in frustration. “This is serious!”

“I know it is. And that’s why I’m in here. Hell, I’m just as bad as Micah Bell.”

Hearing such a thing cross your bruised lips crushes Arthur’s heart. “You are not seriously thinking you need to be cast with his lot?”

“Why not? I have no shame for what I did. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, too. Besides, they ain’t gonna let a crazy woman like me just walk out of here. The men in this town like to keep their women in line. They plan to make an example of me.”

Arthur’s mouth pulls into a tight, thin-lipped frown. “I asked around. You were protecting that woman.”

“Nah. That was just the catalyst, I’m afraid.“ You wave him off with that smirky grin of yours.  “And, besides, I’m done, Arthur. I’m at the end of my rope. Literally“, you chuckle. 

Your comment lands like a gut-punch to the seasoned outlaw. “That ain‘t funny.”

“Wasn't meant to be.“ You tilt your head slightly as you take in the sight of him, committing to memory all of the details of his handsome face, every little mole and freckle, the crow’s feet along his beautiful eyes, every little thing that you have dreamed of in the privacy of your tent. For you know that this will most likely be the last time you set your tired eyes on him. 

A ragged, exhausted sigh of resignation escapes your battered frame. “But go on, Arthur. Go back to Dutch. Go back to Mary.”

A spark of anger ignites Arthur’s weathered face. “Is that what this is about? Jesus, I can’t believe we’re still on this.”

“No,” you answer him calmly. “This is about me being sick and tired of being ‘sick and tired’. Tired of fighting. Tired of fighting what I can’t change.”

“So you’d rather die if you can’t be my woman? Is that it?”

“I guess so,” you shrug, acting as if this was nothing more than you losing a game of dominoes to Hosea. 

Suddenly Arthur’s tone changes from authoritative to panic as he realizes he’s not getting anywhere and you’re not going to cooperate. Intimidation is his specialty, what he’s known for, was bred for. But it is a tactic that has never worked on you. And all of the anger and resentment of the last few weeks melts away as Arthur realizes he’s going to lose you. And there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

”Y/N, please,” his voice cracks in desperation. “I’m begging ya. Don’t do this to me. I can’t stand to see you swing.”

But all you can offer him is a sad smile. “Then don’t watch.”

“Goddamn it, Y/N! Will you stop this?!”

Gathering what little energy you have left, you slowly pull yourself from the hard metal bench, taking a moment to get your balance, and walk to the window, standing just a few inches from him now. You can smell the cigarettes and leather on him, filling your nostrils and intoxicating your broken mind.

Arthur is overcome with unease as he gazes into your haunted face. “Look, I know things ain’t been good with us lately. But now’s not the time to be worryin’ about that,” he pleads. 

“It's too late for me, Arthur. But I’m okay with it. Really. I’ve made my peace.” Your unsettling calmness makes him shift his weight, his palms turning clammy and numb. 

“So that’s it? You’re just giving up?” Arthur desperately searches your face for any signs of hesitation, any inclination that you will concede to let him help you. 

“Like I said, I’m tired. And I can’t keep watching you from afar, Arthur. That’s not fair to you or me.”

Arthur rushes forward, reaching to grab your hands through the bars. “Please, Y/N. Come back with me. We can talk about this.”

Your gaze falls to your entwined hands, startled at this show of tenderness. Your fingers flex slightly under his, relishing the feeling of them and burning the sensation of it into your memory. Arthur’s hands are warm, always so warm. 

After a brief indulged moment, you pull your hand out from under his and raise it to float up to cup his bleak face. Arthur’s bearded skin sits in your palm, your thumb hovering slightly over his plump bottom lip. God, how you’ve dreamed to hold him as tenderly as this. But you know in your heart there’s nothing to talk about. You only want one thing and it's the one thing that he cannot give you. You’ll never be happy without it. So what’s the point to all of this?

Another wistful grin ghosts across your lips. “I’m sorry, Arthur.” And before he knows what’s happening, you lift your chin over your shoulder. “Guards! There’s a man at my window!”

Panic makes Arthur’s blood cold as he gasps, clamping down on your hand even tighter as if you are about to be taken from him. “What are you doing?!”

“You better go, Arthur, and fast, lest they catch you, too.”

“Shut it in there!” rings a voice from the front of the jail. 

“There’s a man at my window!” you yell again with more urgency, but never taking your eyes off Arthur’s. “You better get in here!”

Arthur’s fearful eyes quickly dart from you, to the door and back, his mind scrambling to grasp at straws on how to get you out of here. But he’s out of time. 

“Damn you,” he whimpers brokenly, a slight tremble to that chiseled, scarred chin of his. 

Your eyes. Arthur never realized just how striking and beguiling they are, until he watches them flutter like fairy wings for just a fraction of a second at his statement. 

“Yep. Damn me, alright.” And you gently pull your hands back from him entirely and walk backwards back into the darkness of the cell like a stone being dropped into the lake. 

He can hear the rustling of feet and the jingle of spurs along the floor just on the other side of your wall. And reluctantly Arthur takes off before the guards can catch him. 

With his heart racing like a wild mustang, Arthur ducks into an alley, trying to think. He throws himself back up against a brick wall, his mind swirling to try to come up with a plan. He can’t let this happen. He has to get you the hell out of here. If only Hosea was here, he’d know what to do. But Arthur doesn’t have time to race back to camp for reinforcements to free you as you are due to be hung at sunrise. And the town is crawling with lawmen and mob mentality. He won’t be able to spring you on his own. 

For once, Arthur Morgan is helpless.

———————-

The next morning, the crowd gathers at the gallows, the fractured sunlight catching the wooden platform, making it glow like an ominous sentinel looming over the town. You squint slightly as they drag you out into the street, vaguely aware of the rope that bites into your wrists that are bound behind you. You close your eyes and inhale deeply, a bizarre calm settling over you as you take comfort that this will all be over soon. But as you shuffle through the mob, you don’t look up. You know he’s out there somewhere. And you can’t even begin to think of what your heart will do if you see him. You just need to get to the end and your suffering will finally be over. 

Arthur stands in the middle of the crowd, watching as they march you from the jailhouse to the platform. “C’mon, girl. Look at me. Look at me,” he mutters, willing you to acknowledge him. His heart beats fiercely within his chest and his palms sweat. Guilt begins to ravage him. Did he make a mistake? He doesn’t feel that same way about you, but he can’t stand idly by and let you get hung for it. But what happens if he rescues you? For what? More unhappiness and loneliness for you? 

You are now set in place upon the gallows for all in attendance to see. A slight breeze whistles past your ear, lifting the wisps of hair from your neck. The damp smell of mud and horse shit carries in the air. There is a strange silence hanging in the crowd, as if everyone is waiting with baited breath to see if you’ll beg for your life, try to escape, anything relating to the fire you have shown them. But you won’t give them that satisfaction. You meant what you said to Arthur:  you’re tired. You’re ready to go. 

The sheriff asks if you have anything left to say.

“No,” you say calmly. ”Not that anyone cares to hear.”

You step forward, your boots scraping softly on the sun-dried wood. The sheriff places the worn noose around your neck, pulling your hair back and away from your face. 

As the slightly-frayed rope tightens around your neck, you steal a glance upward. And like a magnet to steel, you find those blue eyes amongst an ocean of indifference in the crowd. They are filled with fear and long-standing friendship. You can see his heartache in those eyes. The heavy, worrisome crease in his forehead bearing the weight of your actions in his shoulders.

Your lip quivers slightly, eyes turning glossy knowing that the last thing you will see in this life is Arthur’s face. He looks scared, hurt. You suddenly feel a sharp pang of guilt for causing him this pain. You’ve never wanted to hurt him. You always protected him. Protected him from the harshness of your world, protected him from those who would hurt him. Even protected him from himself at times. But you can’t protect him from this. And you are the one to inflict that pain. 

Maybe you’ve been too selfish in your own misery. But you didn’t want Arthur to see this, to see you dangling from a rope like a fish. Everyone in the gang knows this is a reality of your lifestyle. But still, it's not an easy thing to see. And Arthur sees the apology in your gaze. 

“Wait…” you suddenly whisper, your wilted plea hanging on the soft breeze for a fraction of a moment as all goes quiet. A sharp ache pierces through Arthur’s ribcage when he sees your attempt, your eyes going wide with an acknowledgement that you truly know what’s happening to you, now. But it's too late. The sheriff throws his weight into the lever and the floor creaks as the door drops beneath you. 

“NO!!” Arthur reaches out for you, but the weight of the crowd in front of him swallows his effort.

The sickening crack of your neck is drowned out by the collective gasp of the crowd. Arthur watches in horror as your body comes to an abrupt halt, harshly jolting in an unnatural movement, before swaying gently back and forth. Thankfully, your neck breaks instantly from the force and you don’t have to hang there, lingering and choking. A quick, violent spasm of your small frame and it's over. 

“No”, Arthur whispers brokenly. His gloved hand comes up over his mouth. This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening! Your face goes slack, eyes bulging slightly and almost closed. One could see the color of your eyes should they care to look. Your proud shoulders hang limply, your head tilted at an abnormal angle to the side. And it's almost like a smile sits lightly on your face. A smile of relief. 

Suddenly, you don’t look so terrifying. You look small, fragile. Gone is that hellcat that the law had to cage to contain. You look just like anyone else. Funny how death is the great equalizer of us all. 

This whole thing is just so surreal to Arthur. His mind is screaming and yet void of any coherent thought all at once. You’ve always been like a fox, always able to talk your way out of anything or squirm your way through a crowd. But either way, never have you been caught before. It never ceased to amaze Arthur how you could do that. And a thought suddenly cracks through his thoughts, shattering Arthur’s collective reasoning:  what if you let yourself get caught on purpose? What if this was part of your plan all along?

Arthur tries to swallow the churning of his stomach. He’s failed you. You were the one person that he could always count on and he couldn’t even offer the same to you in return. The one person who was always unquestioningly at his side. His partner, his trusted gun, his confidant.

His one true friend.

And now you are gone. What will he ever do without you?

When the crowd disperses, Arthur gathers his wits and slowly staggers towards the platform. Despite the gruesome sight, he can’t take his eyes off your lifeless body. He stands before you, eyes casting up and down over you, taking in your bluing skin, before bringing his trembling hands up to rest on your boots.

“I'm so sorry, Y/N.” But the words ring hollow in his chest as he knows full well that it’s too little, too late. 

“Do you know her?”

The nasally drawl of the local sheriff cuts into Arthur’s thoughts, bringing him back to the waking world. “Yeah.”

Thankfully, the sheriff recognizes the emotional toll overtaking the man standing before him and wisely chooses a respectable tone. Truth be told, he wasn't all that sorry you took care of those idiots back at the saloon last night. “You family?” he gently asks.

‘You family?’ A simple question in of itself, yet laden with so much meaning behind it. “Closest she’s got,” Arthur manages to mumble out. 

“You want the body, then? For burial, I mean?”

Just the slightest movement to be considered a nod comes from Arthur. “Sure. Yeah, let me take her home.”

————————-

Never has Arthur been so reluctant to return to camp. He sits listlessly in his saddle, shoulders hunched to his ears. Despite being summer, the air carries an unnatural chill to it, the wind snapping at the nape of his neck and sending shivers down his spine. Never once does he turn back to look at the burden atop of your horse that he leads behind him. That would make it all too real, and it’s a long ride home.

It’s late afternoon by the time he crests the hilltop, sighing heavily and preparing for the onslaught of questions and shock that he does not want to deal with. 

“Took you long enough!” The deep baritone of Dutch’s voice is first to reach Arthur’s ears. “Where have you b-” but Dutch’s admonishment is cut short when he sees Arthur’s face and then the wrapped body on the back of your horse.

The gang leader's dark eyes widen in confusion. “What the hell happened?” he says in hushed shock. “You were supposed to go get her.”

Arthur pours himself out of his saddle, keeping his eyes forward and careful not to look back towards your horse. “Yeah, well, I did. And I brought her home where she belongs.”

The next few hours are a blur as the gang prepares to bury you. It didn’t take much discussion of where to lay you to rest, either:  under your walnut tree, of course. Everyone is distraught. Tilly and Mary Beth cry. Karen turns to drinking. Abigail is angry. She doesn't want to blame Arthur, but it is his fault, as far as she’s concerned. If he wasn’t so damn hung up on that other woman who wants nothing to do with him…

After the men help fill in the grave, they quietly meander back to the fire and raise a toast to your memory. It is a solemn sight, a few shared stories, but mostly discreet eye rubs and the occasional mournful sniffle fills the atmosphere. Javier strums a sad, gentle melody that reminds him of you on his guitar. The soothing melody helps to calm his grief-stricken friends. You could be a total pain in the ass, smart-mouthed and obstinate, but you were always one of them, through and through. 

But Arthur remains at your grave, refusing to join the others. The bottle he grabbed from the provisions wagon quickly empties, as gulp after gulp pours down his throat, burning its way down, hoping to chase away the pain until he feels nothing at all.  

Regret hangs heavy on his soul as he stares at the mound of dirt before him. Flashes of your lives together dance in his mind like someone flipping pages of a book. How the morning sun speckled across your face when you drank your coveted morning coffee. How you hated getting wet in the rain. How you bit through Arthur’s belt when he had to pull a knife out of your thigh after a job. How you’d stand back to back with Arthur in a gunfight, a whirlwind of controlled chaos. How he’d bring you tea when your stomach would knot up at your time of the month. How you tended to his bruises when he’d get into bar fights. And, of course, how you held him when he sobbed on your shoulder when Eliza and Isaac were taken from him. Seems like a lifetime ago and yet, at the same time, like it only happened yesterday. So much has happened in your brief time together on this earth. And now, Arthur can’t even fathom one second without you in it 

Hosea knows his son well. He quietly watches from afar and can see Arthur’s heart breaking as he sits motionless under the oak tree just as you used to do, the guilt eating him alive the way scavengers pick apart a carcass. No one dares approach Arthur in this state. But the old man won’t let him wallow like this for too long. He quietly makes his way back to your grave-site, placing a comforting hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he lowers himself to the ground next to him. 

The two sit in silence for a bit, the birds chirping overhead, the occasional nickering from the horses off in the distance. 

“She was my best friend, Hosea.” The broken sound of Arthur’s voice hangs in the air without him looking away from your grave. “And I couldn’t give her the one thing she really needed. How could I do that to her?”

This whole thing is harder than Hosea thought it would be. And that’s saying a lot. He draws a quick sniff to collect himself before he even tries to speak, swallowing the painful knot lodged in his throat from his own grief. 

“I’ll admit, I didn’t understand it myself, sometimes, how you two couldn't find your way to each other. You and Y/N were two peas in a pod, two halves of an apple.” A lamenting smile graces the older man’s weathered lips. “She understood you better than you understood yourself.”

“She was the only one who could hear all the things I never said,” agrees Arthur. 

“But she wasn’t ’the one’, was she?”, Hosea asks gently. 

“She shoulda been,” Arthur spits out bitterly. ”If I wasn’t so damn stupid! So damn selfish!”

“You can’t do that, son. The heart don’t work that way. It just wasn’t meant to be. And Y/N got caught in the fire.”

“Just like everyone else who gets caught up in my life.” Arthur just sits, eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Hosea’s grey eyes settle upon his son. “Were you in love with her, Arthur?”

He sniffles, thinking on the question. “I cared for her.”

“That's not what I asked you.”

“What the hell difference does it make now?” Arthur finally breaks his dazed trance to look at Hosea. 

The anguish in Arthur’s eyes almost breaks Hosea. “It made a big difference. To her, at least.” Hosea points an arthritic finger at your final resting place. 

“I could’ve tried harder,” croaks Arthur. “Maybe she’d be alive if I would’ve just…”

“Just what? Pretended to be in love with her? Now, you and I both know Y/N was too smart for that. In fact, that would’ve been worse.”

“Worse than her being dead?”

Hosea lets out a deep sigh and brushes off the imaginary dust on his pants. “She made her choice, Arthur. You’re going to have to accept it, no matter how hard it is.”

Arthur’s only answer is an unsatisfied scowl as he turns back to you. With a heavy heart, Hosea pats his shoulder once more before standing to give leave and let his son grieve in peace. 

——————

The girls carefully sort through your things, no sense wasting anything. Arthur can hear them talking in hushed tones as they reminisce, sometimes sweet, often sad.

It’s been two days since Arthur brought you home. And he’s been sitting under that damn tree ever since. At first, everyone just let him be, let him mourn for you in peace and quiet. Then, it became more of a “don’t poke the bear” situation. But when he refused to eat, Ms. Grimshaw made it a point to bring him food. But no amount of coaxing would pull Arthur from your graveside. 

Before long, Abigail tentatively comes over to him with a look that he cannot place. She lingers just out of arm’s reach, her blue eyes darting nervously as she clears her throat. 

“We’ve sorted her things. Thought you may want this.” Abigail’s hands reach out, offering him a small book. Your journal. “Since you gave it to her, and you two were best friends and all, I figured you may want it.”

Arthur’s belly somersaults as numb fingers take the leather book from her. He stares at it for a moment, his rough fingers gliding over the smooth leather binding. 

“Right, then,” she mutters softly, trying to be careful not to provoke him. Abigail hesitates before walking away, trying to find words of comfort that she knows will fall on deaf ears. “I’m sorry about Y/N. I really liked her.” Abigail sniffs back a rogue tear that threatens to unravel her composure. “I will miss my friend, dearly.” 

Arthur tears his vacant eyes from the journal to meet Abigail’s, but she’s already shuffling off, her hand covering her mouth to muffle the sobs wracking her chest. 

Arthur sighs deeply, filling his lungs with the humid summer air. His crystalline blue eyes flit to your grave before back to the book in his hands. He hesitates a moment before pulling back the cover and the very sight of your handwriting leaps from the pages and makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. In the journal are your private thoughts and sketches, just like his own. 

Arthur proceeds to spend the next few hours reading through your journal. And to his surprise, it brings him a bit of comfort. The pages are filled with your anecdotes and adventures together. He smiles despite himself at the memories, can hear your voice and personality within the words on the page. But then he begins to see the passages where you’ve written about your feelings for him. 

He notes how it started out as shy and confused notions that, in time, developed into something so much deeper. And as he continues to read, Arthur realizes just how much he was unaware of your true feelings. He had no idea how intensely you felt for him down in your heart. A brief wave of anger washes over him. God, how he wishes you would have said something sooner. 

This was so much more than a crush, more than a love, even. Arthur begins to see how you saw him through your eyes. Words like “artist” and “tender soul” reach his gaze. “Bravest person I’ve ever known”. He sees that you had found parts in him that he didn’t even know existed, things he could never see about himself.

It’s not just what you talk about in your writing, but how. You notice the most ordinary things about Arthur and act as if they are things of wonderment. His eyes, which are mentioned multiple times, are described as “blue as sapphires with flecks of sunset gold”. His hands are written to be “strong and unyielding, large compared to most. And yet can be so tender and careful.” Arthur stops for a moment and looks at his hand, flipping it over, trying to look past the dirty fingernails and slightly bruised knuckles to see what you’re talking about. 

But it is your longing that sharply startles him. Passage after passage talks about how lonely you are and how you long for touch, long for that sweetness and devotion that other women seem to find so easily. But most of all, you crave it from Arthur. 

You believe you have found the missing piece to yourself in Arthur, and firmly believe that it is him, and only him, that will complete your soul. “I’ve heard tell that you will know if the right hands hold your heart by how it feels. And I can’t imagine anyone else’s hands around mine than Arthur’s. I love him with the fire of a thousand suns. He has found the wildness within my heart. But instead of trying to tame it, he tore open my cage and set me free. And for that, I will be eternally grateful.”

And on and on it goes. Dreams of what your life could be together fill the pages. Everything from simple moments of waking warm and safe in each other's arms, to leaving the gang altogether to start somewhere new, together just the two of you. “Maybe even a family to replace the one he lost years ago. I could only pray I’d be able to provide something so beautiful for him, as he so rightfully deserves.”

Arthur starts to think that maybe he didn't know you as well as he thought, as he is now seeing you in a whole new light. Apparently, you had the ability to look through a lens of shattered dreams and hard realities and still managed to see love.

Just as he sees himself reflected and remade in your written words, he realizes a whole new depth to your soul that he was robbed of and didn't even know it. Here, buried in your journal, Arthur has discovered a love that he never believed anyone could ever feel for the likes of him. It is a love that, like you, he craved for himself but never felt he deserved. And it was you who held the key all along. 

But of course, it makes perfect sense, now that you’re gone and your walls are down, exposed for anyone to see. Of course, it would be you. Who else in this world would it ever be? 

“Goddamn it, Y/N,” Arthur mutters, sniffling back tears that threaten to reveal the depth of his sadness as the profound realization hits him. He feels like such a fool. How could he be so blind? Everything he has ever wanted was right in front of him all this time. 

“Why in the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?” But Arthur knows exactly why. He’s always hung Mary out in front of himself like a carrot in front of a horse. And you had to sit there and watch it, listen to his belly-aching while your own gut twisted with the realization that you’d never feel that sort of love and affection from him for yourself. 

Eventually he finds the entry of the day you confessed. “I told Arthur today. Sat him down and told him the truth over a cup of coffee. But sadly, he don’t feel that way about me. I guess deep down I knew that would be his answer, but I still hoped I was wrong. Funny how it took a cup of coffee to prove that he don’t love me. Maybe this will be where our story ends.”

If only he could go back in time. So much time wasted, so many missed opportunities. All gone now. 

As Arthur flips to the last few pages, a piece of paper flutters out and into his lap. Arthur picks it up, flipping it over and his breath catches in his throat. It’s a photograph of you and him. God, he forgot all about that day. It was something that he indulged you in after a successful job. A few drinks had encouraged him to sit still long enough to get your portrait taken together. You had pretended to be a couple for the photographer. Maybe that’s why he forgot about it. He thought the idea was ridiculous at the time, which is probably why you’ve kept the photograph tucked away, a guilty pleasure of a daydream you saved for yourself while he went about his business like it was nothing. 

Arthur can’t take much more of this. His movements are slow like molasses as he rubs his forehead with numb fingers, shaking his head in utter disbelief.  With a deep, shuddering sigh, his gaze falls to the last entry in the journal. He freezes as his stomach roils with a sour, bitter feeling. It’s a letter. A letter you wrote to him. 

“Dearest Arthur-“ The words almost cause him to retch into the grass right then and there before he can read another damn word.

“Dearest Arthur

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone, one way or another. I’m hoping you can make some sense out of all these pages. Lord knows I never could. 

I know I could have loved you like no other if you would have just given me half a chance. Maybe we could even have been happy for a bit. But I know now that your heart wasn’t in it, wasn’t mine. It never was and never will be. That’s why I told you I understood how you feel about Mary, to love someone who tries but can’t love you back the same. I know that heartache because that’s how I feel for you. 

Silly notion, ain’t it? People like us, trying to find love in this cold world. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch that flame and feel its warmth on my skin. I had hopes once, but I now understand that that is all it is, hopes. And I can’t live on hopes and dreams anymore. Can’t afford to. So I let you go, Arthur, and myself along with you like a dandelion seed on the wind. No hard feelings, I promise. 

I know you and you’ll brood and be ugly over this for awhile. But don’t be. I’ll think of you fondly and hope you’ll do the same for me. Remember the good times we had, riding out in the prairies, getting into trouble at the saloons, or even just sitting quietly by the fire. 

Take care of the girls for me and make sure John stays in line. Tell Hosea to take his medicine and rest like he should. 

I will miss you something terrible, Arthur. But I will carry you in my heart forever, wherever that may be. And I hope you will do the same for me.

Yours always

Y/N

Arthur chokes out a sob, burying his face in his left hand while he clutches your journal to his chest with his right. He didn’t know a heart could be broken so badly. His countenance crumbles like an avalanche, uprooting and tearing apart everything in its wake. His fingernails dig into his scalp as he clutches his hair in anguish. He wants to open up and scream to the heavens, let his agony bellow out into the air, for it is too painful to keep contained in the flesh and bone of his chest. Arthur is about to break, driven to the brink of madness, because right now, he doesn’t want to feel anything. And yet, even in death, you make him feel everything. 

“You were so right, Y/N,” Arthur sobs. “I am a goddamn fool.”

———————

When he’s sure the tears have stopped and he’s too exhausted and worn out to suffer it any longer, Arthur tears himself away from your grave. He has to leave you eventually and can’t handle sitting on the hard ground for much longer. 

Slowly standing, he brushes the dirt from his pants and places his hat back upon his head, brim pulled way down low to cover his bloodshot eyes. He looks up into the branches of the walnut tree, squinting at the peppered sunlight skipping through the leaves, making them glow warmly. The branches sway gently with the wind as if waving goodbye, thanking him for grieving your loss with it.  Arthur’s lips purse in silent acknowledgement before he stumbles his way back into the camp. 

“Mr. Morgan!” 

The sound of Mr Pearson’s voice cuts into Arthur’s brain like a spike being driven through his temple. He stops, looking briefly at the portly man who rushes over to him. 

“I have something for you. Was in town getting supplies and whatnot and this came for you.” The cook hands him an envelope, but quickly shuffles away, lest he get caught in the aftermath of Arthur’s ongoing foul mood. 

Arthur flips the letter over in his hands in confusion. And then his breath stops altogether as he realizes who it’s from. 

Mary.

The letters of his name blur as angry tears threaten to flood his vision yet again. The sight of her perfect, script handwriting is a sign of Fate’s cruel mockery, ever trying to torture him for his mistakes. 

Arthur takes one look at it, then looks back over to the mound of fresh dirt that hides you from him, keeping you safe for all eternity now. His sad eyes linger, heavy with regret and self hatred. 

He reaches over and tosses the unopened letter into the fire. The flames quickly wrap around the delicate paper and Arthur watches as the handwriting disappears into the ether, reduced to ashes.

Just like his life. 

*This amazing image comes from @papaue00

**If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! I'm kinda proud of this one, actually.

Tagging: @appalachiancowboy99 @rivetingrosie4 @kayleigh--23

[snnowwpheenix]

imagine the Jujutsu Kaisen men reacting to their child, who normally loves kindergarten, suddenly clinging to them and saying, “I don’t want to go anymore…”

🍬 Gojo Satoru

“Wait, what happened to my happy little backpack gremlin?” 😢 Gojo crouches to their level, giving them a playful smile even though he’s low-key worried.

“You used to love showing off your finger paintings… did someone mess with my baby?” If there’s even a hint of bullying? He’s ready to march in and throw hands with a 5-year-old (or their parents). But first? He’ll take the day off and say: “Let’s have a daddy day today. And tomorrow, I’ll walk in with you. We’re a team, yeah?”

🕯️ Geto Suguru

Soft concern floods his face. He gently rubs their back and says,

“That’s not like you… Can you tell me why?” If they can’t put it into words, he watches their body language closely—he knows how to read emotions. He’ll write a kind but firm email to the teacher asking for insight. Until then? He keeps them home a day or two, sits with them drawing, saying: “You don’t have to explain yet. I’ll wait. But I’m always here to listen, alright?”

💀 Sukuna (in Yuji’s body)

“...You’re joking. You love that place.” At first, he brushes it off—thinks they’re just faking it. But when he sees their eyes watering? Screams, sobbing clinging? He goes still.

“Tch. Fine. Talk. What happened?” It might sound gruff, but he’s listening. And if someone made his kid uncomfortable? Let’s just say someone’s getting a very unfriendly parent-teacher meeting. He might grumble, but he lets them stay home—and carries them around like a protective dragon hoarding treasure.

💼 Nanami Kento

He kneels down, instantly serious but warm.

“You love school. This must be something big. Do you feel safe there?” He doesn’t push—but he’s not passive either. Emails the teacher, schedules a quiet meeting, and prepares a full plan in his head. At home, he makes their favorite snack, sits beside them, and says: “You’re not alone in this. I’ll make sure whatever’s wrong gets fixed. You have my word.” Gentle dad mode: Activated.

🔪 Toji Fushiguro

“…Huh?” He looks confused, because his kid has never said no to anything before. When he sees their little hands gripping his shirt, he panics silently.

“Okay. What’s wrong? Who hurt you?” He’ll drop everything, even a job, to figure it out. Doesn’t force them to go back—just observes, listens, and tightens protection mode x1000. And if it’s a teacher or other kid causing problems? Good luck to them. For real.

🐺 Megumi Fushiguro

Megumi would feel so helpless at first.

“But you were so happy last week… What changed?” He doesn’t pressure—he’s a quiet comfort. Just picks them up, lets them cry into his shirt, and holds them silently for as long as they need. Later, he asks thoughtful questions while playing with them, like: “Is someone not being kind to you? Is there something we can do together to make it better?” He becomes your kid’s safe place—no matter what.

💉 Choso Kamo

He immediately drops to his knees and holds their face gently.

“Why, baby? What happened?” There’s panic in his voice, but he’s focused on soothing them. If they can’t explain it, he keeps them home and says: “We’ll figure it out together. You don’t have to do anything alone.” He doesn’t sleep much that night, worried and overthinking—but he’ll be their shadow until they’re okay again.

🍓 Itadori Yuji

Big soft panic.

“Wait, what?? You love your teacher! Is someone being mean to you?” Yuji scoops them up and carries them around all morning like a koala. He tries to make them laugh with silly faces, but when he sees they’re really upset, he gets serious. “Okay. You don’t have to go today. Let’s talk to your teacher together, alright?” He’s 100% the “march into the school with juice boxes and an emotional support bear” type of dad.

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

LI. “ambrosia”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: bittersuite domesticity suddenly isn't as bittersweet.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, fluffy fluff fluff

words: 8k

a/n: hiii lovelies!! back for another installment with these two lovebirds <3 as I’m writing this, tomorrow is my last day of school EVER !!! what !!! then I have a Master’s degree !! writing that in the notes of a battinson fic has me feeling like that meme of ‘I lowkey have a Master’s degree’. lmao. enjoy !!

“This is how sleepovers start?” 

You grabbed his other hand and started painting the black polish on his thumb; it took every ounce of energy left in your wilting body to keep your breathing regular and thoughts from spiraling. His fingers were always softer than you thought they would be, especially so when you held them delicately, like now. 

“If they’re fun.” 

The floor was starting to hurt your crossed legs, but you trucked along with only three nails left. Your thumb and forefinger tilted his hand to the right before the polish flooded the side, and Bruce complimented your technique. It was crucial, actually, that he didn’t say words like ‘technique’ while you took in the size and shape of his fingers. 

The stale lighting of an overhead bulb that hadn’t been changed in half a decade was barely enough to have a proper look at your craft, but more than enough to illuminate the depth of his inky hair as it grazed his cheek. Your dad had bugged you to change the light before leaving to Gotham two years ago, citing your future self’s gratefulness at not having to change a bulb the first day you came back from graduation. Now, you couldn’t imagine how you’d function if you were seeing Bruce in high definition. 

Two years. Two years? You barely knew about Bruce Wayne before moving; just enough to know that he was a sort of celebrity, and it hit you all at once that the man was now sitting here, in your sleepy little town, letting you paint his nails. What the fuck? 

Two more.

Ring finger… painting this one felt different. Childlike electricity pulsed through you as you imagined a metal band adorning it. You loathed to know it could never be you. Plagued by how intensely you wished things were different. If you let yourself digest just how intensely, it would end in a state of tears and disbelief. 

Bruce’s eyes followed yours like they were his own, flicking from the nail to your face with an encouraging grin. You rushed through his pinky, your body filling with a vague sense of anticipation that bubbled up all types of emotions you’d tried to stuff down the past hour. 

While you capped the lacquer, you reminisced on how scared he’d looked at the thought of having sex with you. So scared, in fact, that it nullified your original hypothesis (and left you reeling—he didn’t want to fuck you?). If not to control you, dominate you, what the hell did a billionaire want with the one person who knew his biggest secret? As much as your mind wanted to run away with alternative explanations for why this vigilante was sitting pretty talking about girly sleepovers, none took. He’d been trustworthy on every other front, so what reasons did you have to think he was lying now? Your own insecurity? 

Still, the visceral sensation of forcing someone to ‘go along’ with your interests made you a bit sick. If you hadn’t offered to paint nails, it wouldn’t have happened. If you hadn’t needed a flight home, he wouldn’t be here. Who was to say he wasn’t just humoring you? Perhaps in it for the long-con? 

He was smart enough for it. God, his mind worked like a whip. The ease with which he switched into Appeasing Bruce in front of Oz, the way his posture and cadence changed the few times he’d addressed a group, and the mere fact he’d been going out nightly as a fucking vigilante for four years and not one person was onto him. For how antisocial he was, he could transform into a chameleon at a moment’s notice. 

What if he thought appeasing you was the only way to safeguard himself? Your heart fluttered. Could he cry on cue? Get his eyes to look as tender as they did whenever you tried to leave?

Too late you realized you’d gotten lost in your thoughts. And like the softest yet sharpest knife you’d ever felt, Bruce waited patiently. His mouth was even sloped to form a soft grin. 

“You can choose what we do next.” You clasped your hands around your knee, subtly rocking your hips to self-soothe. He glanced at the box of polish, confused. 

“You don’t want yours done?”

“Didn’t think you’d want to.” 

He laughed like you’d challenged him, and it entered you like fresh, cool air whistling through your tight chest. “I’d love to.” 

Something had shifted when he mentioned your friends. On the drive back, instead of silence, he’d asked how often you came here, what you liked about this road, if you knew any constellations, and occasionally to ID a tree when the headlights illuminated one. He held the front door open for you on arrival, and was already halfway to Walter’s bowl when all you’d done was mention that he might be hungry. Not to mention: tolerating this. 

Your friends had always disliked Walter. Complained about how ‘needy’ he was, and walked through the house without worrying if he was underfoot. They stepped on his paws and tail and knocked the side of his head when they’d walk down the hall, to the point you’d had a breakdown the last time they’d visited. Cradling him, crying and sniffling over how careless they were. Bruce paused every other step, letting Walter weave through his legs as much as he pleased. You didn’t even know if Bruce particularly liked you, and the bar was disastrously low, but you would’ve married him on the spot for that alone. He’d never been more attractive.

It hadn’t even been an hour since his shell cracked open, and you wondered who would cave first: you confessing how wonderful he was, or him burning out and reverting back to his old, man-of-few words ways. 

Bruce thumbed through the various tones and textures, and you told him he could pick. He pulled a few shades out and held them to the side of your face, analyzing. First a green, then a red, then black, then: a shimmer. His brow cocked almost imperceptibly. “You like glitter, right?” 

You’d crack. You’d absolutely crack first.

You nodded, and the anticipation bubbled into something almost unbearable in the space between uncapping it and him grabbing your hand. Was there some law of the universe that allowed only enough space for one of you to be talkative? Because since he’d started speaking, it’d become increasingly difficult for words to materialize. Like some sort of spell.

“The makeup you wore at March’s rally.” Bruce took your hand and gently pulled your fingers toward him; at this point noticing how softly he touched you read like an oxymoron. Who taught him to be so tender? Your breath came sparingly, mesmerized by the sheer force of what sat in front of you. “It looked like this.” 

“You know,” you cleared your throat, tightening your core to reign in a tremble from cascading down your arm. “It’s intimidating how observant you are.” 

“Could say the same to you.” 

“I’m not an infamous detective.” Somehow the words were falling out, and thank god, because any longer of this tension and you would’ve blurted something unhallowed. He just grinned, and very precisely placed a stripe of shimmer on your thumb. It was slightly cold, and stunk more than the black you’d put on him. He was so precise… even with his own wet nails. 

Said detective moved to the next finger, eyes twinkling with something unsaid you really wished he’d name. Was he having fun? Was he miserable and covering it up? You searched his face for any giveaway, but he looked almost peaceful. Taking his time with the painting, taking his time to respond. “Aren’t journalists the same? Never know when you’re on record.” 

“So we’re both intimidating.” 

“Very.” 

And there you sat for the next few minutes while he finished, the longest silence since stargazing. You couldn’t grasp where to focus your attention, with both hands wet and the only things in your point of view being Bruce and your bed. Which… you couldn’t focus on too much, not while he was literally being the sweetest, most attentive man alive sitting cross-legged, staring intently at your fingers as he painted them with unparalleled, meditative focus. 

But your mind wandered, unable to resist the temptation of learning he’d not only kissed someone before, but fucked them. You’d assumed so with someone like him, a miserably attractive billionaire in the big city, but it clung to you differently since he’d confirmed it. An undisclosed number of people walked around with the memory of his body on theirs, knowing how he looked, sounded, felt… was there anyone he’d gone back to?

“You okay?” 

“What?”

“Your breathing changed, wondered if we needed to open a window.” 

You looked down to see two fingers left. I can manage. I’m good. I’m so good. “Like I said: observant.” 

“Yeah, well,” he moved to your ring finger (only one left, fuck!) and sighed. “When one of my first memories of you was how you nearly stopped breathing,” he dipped back into the shimmer. “I started paying attention.” 

Oh, this man… “That’s why you brought the Benadryl to City Hall.”

Bruce tapped his upper thigh with the heel of his palm, careful not to smudge. A slight outline of a rectangle became apparent through the faded black fabric. “Just in case.” 

You blinked. Swallowed. This much consideration was excruciating, and decades of mistreatment washed over you at once. It would’ve been so simple to give you what you’d always wanted; someone to sit with you, really, truly sit and consider you. Enjoy you. Cooper had, but then she left. Never to be seen again. 

“Talk to me.” He flicked a well-executed stroke onto your pinky and covered it in one fell swoop, placing the polish back into the box. 

“It’s the same old shit.” That I don’t want to burden you with, so please, stop looking at me like it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted to do. 

“Then say the same old shit.” 

“I don’t want them taking up time.” You waved your hands around to try to stave off the trove of energy that launched into you, hurry up the process of the nail drying, and direct his attention anywhere but your face. None of it worked. “They just never cared about any of it. This, peaches, Walter.” 

“Walter?” He balked at it, eyes practically bugging out of his head. 

“Bruce, stop.” His name sat strangely in your mouth, like it was rapidly taking on a different meaning. 

“Stop what?”

“Handling me with gloves.” 

“I’m not.” He stared at you plainly, unwavering, and you felt pinned. He blinked a few times, then broke the contact to stare at the carpet. You let out a heavy breath. 

Silence stretched between you like a wide, empty field. You couldn’t begin to fill it, so you sat, willing your lips to stop trembling, and tears to stop forming, to no avail. He didn’t call attention to it, which you appreciated. His consideration was like a rose’s thorn, smelling so sweet but cutting through thinned skin.

“I think we have similar problems with people.” 

Such conviction. You stared into him like he could save you from slipping and asked a question that already had an answer. “Pity?”

Despite the exhaustion you were certain was wearing him down, his eyes were clearer than they’d ever looked. You wanted to tell him to get some sleep, let himself relax, but he wouldn’t listen. Apparently you not buying the concept of him liking that you knew his biggest secret was horrifying to him, instead of basic sense. He was steadfast on his mission of trust, like any mission he set himself on, you were learning. 

“I’m not pitying you, you’re not pitying me.” Bruce surprised you when he held out a pinky, so out of character you almost didn’t track what it meant. “Truce?”

Leveling the playing field. You hesitated. “But what if it’s not pity but it’s still something bad—”

“Y/n.” He said your name with a sigh that blasted through your eardrums; a sigh that was kind, that straddled the line between amused and apologetic. 

“Bruce.”

The moment stalled, and he was caught between two choices: tell you it, tell you it all, to take you out of this momentary suffering and clear the air that was so tangible, that you were so right about; or keep you from what it might mean. Keep you safe. This was strange, he could tell you knew it, and he could tell it was affecting. He was here with things below the surface, sure, but it wasn’t an ulterior motive. Just… keeping a secret. One that helped you.

Your eyes glittered with tears, and all deliberation left his body as he was struck with the realization that keeping you safe would win every single time. No matter what. 

Eventually the silence hung too thick and you took his pinky in yours, moving quickly to put away the polishes like you were running from the promise. Meanwhile, all he could do was barely keep himself afloat from the incessant touching and the intensity of your eyes when they locked onto his. 

“What’s next?”

“Uh,”

He attached to the hesitancy in your tone and dismissed it, pressing on. “What are you thinking?”

“I have an old jewelry kit I never opened, but it’s babyish,”

“Bring it.” 

You tinkered around in your closet, then plunked a plastic kit down on the floor. You stared at it. Then laughed. You mimed lifting the lid and heaved a sigh as you sat back. “Too wet. So disappointing.”

Jesus… what the fuck did I just say? Peeking at him showed he wasn’t reading into the diabolical innuendo, or at least he wasn’t showing it.

“We can wait.”

Could you?

Bruce and you sat in silence without anything to distract. You pretended to be very interested in the tree branches swaying outside your window, one you could barely make out through the streams of moonlight. The whisper of the kitchen clock ticked, and you concentrated on a leaf hitting the window’s glass. After you felt your body would implode from the tension, you tapped the edge of a nail and felt a slick smear. Like it’d only been two seconds. 

“What do you want to make?”

He rarely interrupted the silence, and it startled your wound-up spirit. Which magic word made him spill? Was he so offended by the notion that he just wanted to fuck? 

“There’s only a few things. Braided bracelets, beaded bracelets, or a necklace I guess if you get long enough string.” You tilted the packaging with the back of your hand to squint at the side label. “And stud earrings, but it’s probably nickel or some shit. Can’t do it.”

Bruce didn’t miss a beat. “I’m willing to try.” Nickel. You can’t have nickel jewelry. Allergic?

You barely heard him, seeing on the side in colorful cursive: Summer Edition, which apparently meant beads of apples, peaches, pears, and bananas thrown in the mix. Your stomach flipped, confronted with the memory that Rose had gotten this one for you way back when. She’d laughed with Gabbi and Lara when you thanked her, and you hadn’t known why, you just knew their laughter didn’t feel good. Maybe Bruce was right: they’d never cared. 

“Hmm?” 

“Earrings.”

You scoffed. “I’m not piercing your ears.”

“Way ahead of you.” 

You looked up expecting to see him brutally stabbing his ear with a stray pin or special gadget, but he just used the back of his hand to show a microscopic dot in the middle of his earlobe. 

“Pierced them in high school.”

“No way!”

Evidently your shock had alerted the only other resident of the house, and Walter came careening in. You shot your hands up and quickly told Bruce to stop his movement to pet him, or else his nails would be fuzzed to hell. Walter thought this was a game, and started jumping to reach the nothing that was in your hand. 

Standing became the only option, and you managed to squeeze your way out the front door to the windy porch. Bruce followed in tow, peeking behind him while he shut the door with the back of his calf. You held your hands up to catch the breeze, feeling the whoosh against your damp nails and your cheeks you had no idea were that flushed. 

Deep breaths brought the tension in your chest to a simmer. With shut eyes, you tried to pretend you didn’t feel him behind you like a physical touch. Slow and even, fresh and cooling, all that mattered right now were the breaths getting in and leaving. 

Part of you flooded with guilt at even thinking about something as trivial as sex while your mom was hospitalized. Another part argued through a stabbing feeling of defiance, reminding you that she was alright, that she was in some ways, once again, better than you thought before the call. That right now would be perfect; fuck around and get the grief out of your system on one of the last days you had the house to yourself. Fuck around and let yourself become a billionaire playboy statistic.

Bruce stepped to the edge of the porch, glancing at you in a way you knew was another wellness check before facing the road. Your heart strangled in your chest. This wasn’t just a ‘fuck around’ thing for you, and the mist was starting to clear around his intentions, too, in a way that sent your mangled heart to the back of your throat. A ‘fuck around’ perspective might not track here if he actually cared. 

You focused on the flicker of the driveway light for courage. Pretended like you were speaking to nothing but open air. “I’m sorry about what I said.”

“About what?”

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t know what I mean.” The flicker was frustrating, so you stared at the rusted, dinged windchime instead, remembering so clearly the day your mom set it up. “Thinking you wanted to have sex.”

“It’s okay.” He hadn’t let your sentence linger for a second before blurting a placation. He ached thinking about how you’d described it: power fantasy. Even if you were apologizing now, that had come from somewhere that wasn’t just gone. No wonder he couldn’t get a pulse on you; you might’ve thought you were evading a lion when to him, it was nothing more than casual conversation. 

“You probably get that a lot, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer, not knowing what to say. He did hear it a lot, in some variation; people mistaking his introversion for being a closed-off loser looking for nothing more than a conquest. He winced thinking about how many people treated him like a toy, a scandalous story to run and tell their friends about; and how long it took him to realize that was happening.

Bruce looked downtrodden, and a hole was drilled into your chest. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.”

The longer this continued, the greater the likelihood of him turning his filter back to full power. He shot you a grin that was weak, too weak, hoping that you wouldn’t press it, please god, and changed the subject. “Looking forward to the next item for tonight.”

“If my nails ever dry.”

Bruce gripped the front of the porch, its wood paneling weathered and splintered. It was hard to believe anything moved out here. That time even passed. 

The pause between was physical pain. 

Nothing marked the passage of time here. No ambulances, no cars, the only light source a dim porch light and half-dead carport bulb. Thoughts were hard to form. Nothing, absolutely nothing served as a distraction. And he’d committed to stepping up for you, so he couldn’t very well crawl inside of himself. 

What to say?

What to say?!

You drummed your fingers on the feathered wood, the edge of your shirt catching on a splinter. For some reason, it reminded him of Alfred.

“Alfred texted, by the way. Said they got everything.”

“Nice.”

What were you thinking about?

He couldn’t tell if you were upset. Did you feel trapped having to come back to his place? When he’d offered it, did you feel obligated to agree? When else had you ever felt obligated to agree with anything he ever said? 

“You don’t have to stay tomorrow. I’ll be fine if you want to head back.”

Oh. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it does.”

You wondered how this might feel if people had chosen you at any other point in your life. If this wasn’t the first time someone was persistent in their want to be around you, would it sit differently? Would it feel soothing, would it feel normal? right now, it tempted to piss you off. He said no ulterior motives, but it was so foreign you couldn’t enjoy it for what it was. Pity reared its ugly head. 

“You might be right about the pity thing.”

“Hard to swallow?”

“Don’t say that.” 

“A lot of innuendos tonight.” He said it so plainly, giving you no choice but to surge forward to excavate meaning.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” 

“Just worried about you.”

“So because someone talks about sex it’s worrisome?”

“You never talked about it before your mother was hospitalized, and we were completely alone.”

He wasn’t terse, or rolling his eyes; in fact, he wasn’t saying it how you could so easily imagine he would’ve if it’d only been a month prior. Spoken in an accommodating tone, with gentle curiosity, and it threatened to piss you off. Ants crawling on your skin. A feather kissing the back of your neck. 

“What’s your diagnosis, detective?” Flustered. Annoyed. 

“I don’t want you to feel pressured.”

He fucking looked at you again, and you were set to liquify unless you steeled yourself. You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing. “I don’t.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“I can hold my own boundaries, Bruce.”

“I know you can.” He faced the outside of the porch, and you couldn’t tell whether he was staring at the concrete or the car’s trunk. “But when you start talking about power fantasies, I start thinking about how long that’s been festering.”

“Where did all this chatter come from?”

“You’re deflecting.”

Fuck. Couldn’t his generosity extend to not calling you out right now?

“I thought you didn’t want me to talk about sex.” Saying the word around him still felt blasphemous, like every time was an invitation. He didn’t react, again, like the concept of sex was the most benign thing. You glanced at his lips, and realized the concept of kissing him felt even more intimate. At least right now. It was softer. More… romantic. Can’t think about that right now.

“I’m pointing out something I’m seeing.”

“Which is pressure?”

“Are you denying it?”

You huffed, steepling your fingers against the aged wood. “I don’t get how this turned into an argument.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“Don’t like how you said that.”

“There’s a lot going on, you don’t need to feel pushed.”

Don’t tell me what I need. “I don’t.”

“Actually?” 

“You can’t believe that someone would want to hang out with you without wanting to fuck.”

“Isn’t that what you accused me of?” Bruce turned toward you, and you burned. A rush of throbbing, untended grief only barely covered by rapidly slipping defiance. His blue eyes pulled you in, but you resisted. Weakly. 

“Whatever.” 

Another standstill; where one was right, and the other didn’t want to accept it. Your shoulders tensed then relaxed when he leaned close, his smooth rumble in his voice soothing your eyes shut and coaxing tears out. “I’m trying to check in.” 

Tears smeared across your arm as you swiped at your cheeks, sniffing up snot before it could dribble. The air was no longer breezy, slicing through you with a vengeance. You felt his eyes right on you though you fought to avoid them, and him, and the very fact that you were here now when you didn’t plan to be, but you had, but you’d forgotten, too busy with Bruce to remember your sick mom. You should be in bed, sleeping, or thinking about Bruce, not standing here in front of your empty house with him because your mom was, but she didn’t, she was, everything was fine. 

You shoved words from behind your teeth. “‘A lot of innuendos tonight’ doesn’t sound especially caring.”

It was his turn to be silent, giving you time to shove your tears in a bag. Still, still still still, his presence was an undeniable force that let no other thoughts visit. 

“It feels awkward to be straightforward.” 

His candor made you laugh, then pause. How many layers did he have up, then, because you never knew him to beat around the bush. “You had no issues being blunt when we first met, Batman.”

“Things were different then.”

“How?”

“Before I cared what you think.”

Per usual, in a way that was quintessentially you, you rolled your eyes at any sign of compliment. He smirked. “Fine. Blunt.” 

Bruce leaned forward, the arm of his shirt brushing yours. You were so… you. “You’re not used to people saying they care.” 

“Maybe I’m not.”

“It’s so impossible to think someone actually cares that you can’t hold it.”

Fingertips brushed goosebumps as you tried to cover them with crossed arms. Couldn’t he get off your back? “Psychoanalyzing me now, huh?”

“We have the same problems with people.”

A shy grin tugged at your lips. Air shot into Bruce’s chest. “… you are Bruce Wayne.”

“You do know.” He didn’t know what he meant by this next part, but he said it nonetheless, because it was teetering off his tongue. “Does that make this impossible?”

Your grin was now a smile. “Maybe.”

“Maybe not.”

It faltered. “Says the person with all the power. To someone who does know.”

“I know.” 

You remained tense, and if anything, his response had made your shoulders scrunch in on each other. Did he know? 

A small knocking sound signified the late closing of the screen door. A peek over his shoulder and his eyes immediately locked onto the worn black handle, slightly warped and rubbed down to its base metal tone from decades of use. It was thin, and didn’t have a lock. The front door was sturdy, but singular. One lock, one deadbolt. Hell, this porch was available to anyone at any time. If something happened to you, you’d be wide open. This wasn’t an even field. Whatsoever. 

“But I don’t.”

The last piece of it all thunked into place. Standing here in the middle of your life, seeing how quiet and tight-knit things were, the wear and tear, the life of it all, it had never felt so fragile. 

You weren’t. Your family wasn’t. But it was. The container that held you. 

“I don’t know.”

Relaxed. You finally relaxed. All of this fighting, all of this wanting to bridge something so impossible; no wonder you’d been so pissed off each and every time. Everything felt different here. You sounded tired. Of course you did. Of course. “How could you?”

“By not spending all my time with stockbrokers.”

“So I’m a growth opportunity for you?”

“No,” he winced, having meant it as a joke, but why was he joking right now? Why was he so uncomfortable? He felt like fucking Mount Everest. “But you are helping me get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you don’t like me.” 

You spun to glare at him like he hadn’t reflected what you’d told him from the beginning. It was like he’d thrown a brick at you. “You think I don’t like you?”

“Of course you don’t like me.” 

“You don’t like me!”

“I do.” Bruce’s heart began to pound. Did you like him? Suddenly, he felt a pint of lukewarm Phish Food in his hand and the breeze of a dingy alleyway.

You laughed. Just like stargazing. Like it was ridiculous. Hadn’t he made himself clear? Too clear, in fact?

“You’re fun to spend time with.”

“What’s fun about me?”

The pounding built to a goddamn racket. “How stubborn you are.”

“Now I know you’re kidding.”

“I mean it. People aren’t usually like that with me.” It dawned on him that that might have been the reason he always argued back. With Alfred he tried to leave, the man was too firm, not passionate, always sounding like a parent. 

“So you like arguing all the time?”

“I like someone vehemently disagreeing.”

Billion-dollar word. The flushing that just died down was warming your cheeks again. 

“I like your perspective on politics, too.”

“So we can argue about politics all the time, got it.” Should’ve taken him for a masochist.

“I like hearing you talk about your family. How you like animals. Nature.”

“Sounds like the most basic Tinder profile.” Throw, deflect.

“I like how easy it feels around you.”

You swatted that one away the instant a tingle ran up your spine. “You’ve spent most of the time I’ve known you either avoiding me or actively telling me you don’t want me around.”

The wounds from those times were still fresh. Yelling at you in the kitchen. The car. Glaring you down like you were gum stuck to his shoe. Avoiding looking at you. Grimacing when you’d show up. The scowls and clenched jaws. They were all branded into your skin. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Yeah, sure.

“Hey,” he tapped your shoulder, and only then did you notice you’d shifted away from him, absentmindedly staring at the concrete. You knew when you looked up that he’d…

“I wish I could take them back, but I can’t. I’m sorry.” An apology. An apologetic face. Apologetic tone. Like he actually meant the damn thing, and meant it so thoroughly you couldn’t reasonably ignore it. “I’m not used to you, and that’s not an excuse” 

“So I’m an acquired taste?”

“You have a rebuttal for everything.” He was standing across the U.S., thousands of miles away from people who needed him, right NOW, and he was hellbent on having you know he liked you. His world had become backwards in a matter of weeks. 

“Maybe I do.”

Honesty was the best policy here, right? Outside of blurting that he liked you, like a fucking middle schooler? He chose his words carefully. “I didn’t think I could enjoy someone’s company so much.” 

While the compliment struggled to grip, your heart fluttered like it wanted to accept it. So much? A war broke out in the few seconds it took you to conjure a response. The familiar refrain spun your thoughts of if he’s mean to you, that means he likes you. But that was bullshit. Entirely bullshit. Throw it back at him. “So you secretly like everyone at City Hall?”

“I pretend to.”

“I should be honored you’re an ass to me, then?” You raised an eyebrow at him, sizing him up. “Because at least you’re not pretending?”

“Do you want me to pretend?” 

To you, it felt like he already was. “You’ll just treat me like you do when Oz is watching.”

“Do you want that?”

“So concerned with what I want when you’ve rarely given me it.”

The air clumped together and thickened like clouds. 

“And what’s that?” His mouth was dry as the Sahara, his tingly, numb arm moving to rest on the handrail. 

It could’ve been something raunchy, and your mind landed there initially. I want you on top of me, I want you inside of me, I want to know what you taste like. But what you really, deeply, truly wanted, was to know him. “To figure you out. To know you.” 

“Our interests match, then.”

“Someone to match your stubborn?”

A roguish grin dazzled you. “I’m known to be very flexible.”

“Another innuendo.”

His laugh was lemony—bright and sharp—like you’d read into his smile a little too excessively. You inhaled slowly, then exhaled hard. 

“So you’re a fucking Wayne, I’m not. You know that.”

Could be, Bruce thought, but held it close to his chest. 

“I know shit that you don’t want to get out, and that makes me second-guess everything, too. You’re antisocial and I’ve been basically bullied by my friends since forever.”

“Well said.”

“Shut up.” With a twinkle in his eye, like you were so amusing to him. It was a lost cause stifling the laugh erupting from your belly. “Like actually, this is the most you’ve ever talked and it’s weirding me out.”

“I can be stoic.”

Another giggle. So he was self-aware. “I like it. It’s just new.”

“Hmm.”

“Stop.” Your cheeks scorched, strong as a hot flash. 

“What?” Bruce played innocent, soaking up the way it plucked at you in just the right way to make a laugh rumble.  

“I know it’s the same thing you’re saying.”

“Perhaps.”

“Oh my god.” Rolling your eyes. Shaking your head. The apples of your cheeks becoming prominent as you fought showing him a smile. Such normal things eliciting such an intense response; he always wanted to do this to you. 

“I want you to know me.” 

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

“It is. I want to talk like I write.” To you. With you. No one else. 

You recalled a stack of old journals taking up considerable portions of his desk. Titled Notes and Observations: Gotham Project, you hadn't exactly thought he was spilling his personal guts. If you had, you might've snuck a guilty peek. You only thought you'd been named there because it related to Batman. 

“I don’t want you to leave.” You slapped the wood, and Bruce wondered how your palm wasn’t covered in pointy fibers. “But I know you want to go.” 

“I said I want you to know me, not that you already did.” 

You shot a playful glare at him, equal parts pleased and annoyed at his newfound comfort. “You said before that I know you better than most people.” 

“I did.” 

“One is still better than zero, so.” You scrunched your nose at him and moved to open the door. “Neither of us is technically wrong.” 

A satisfied sound accompanied the successful tapping of your now-dried nails. “Let’s bake.”

He caught the door on its wide swing. “Bake?”

“You cannot drop this, Walter can’t have chocolate.”

Glaring beeps signified the oven had preheated. In his squinting at the neon-green numbers he apparently moved the bowl slightly off from the middle of the pan, and you scoffed, swiftly grabbing his wrist to reposition the batter. 

“Ever made brownies before?” You took the bowl from him and licked the back of your thumb, tossing the bowl in the sink before spreading the batter to each side of the glass pan. 

Bruce filtered a snide comment about salmonella. “I’m still a human.”

“Didn’t know if Alfred was the only person to ever cook.”

“My mother didn’t want me to be spoiled.”

“Is that why Alfred gets Breyer’s and not overpriced custards?”

A spoonful dropped in the utensil’s journey to the sink. Walter, who had been watching at a very close distance, was narrowly intercepted by Bruce’s elbow.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “She says you can’t have it.” 

Completely oblivious to the conversation you were interrupting, you finished rinsing the bowl and mused aloud. “You’ve had Betty Crocker?”

“Oh, yeah. All the time.”

A glance over your shoulder saw Bruce wiping his hands with a paper towel, nonchalant. Too nonchalantly. You turned off the water and stared at him until he broke, giving his head a little shake. “Knew it.” 

Walter suddenly caused a commotion, snagging his claws into Bruce’s pants. He jumped, scaling up past his knee until he plopped onto the ground, meowing and trying to re-claw. Bruce looked mildly alarmed, a single step back ramming his hip into the counter of the small kitchen. “Um,” 

“He hasn’t done that since he was a kitten.”

The kitchen lights appeared to dim when he bent down to pick him up. Correctly. Bruce’s hands under Walter’s armpits, hoisting him up to rest on his shoulder. He flopped in his arms and batted at the frayed edge of Bruce’s tee shirt collar. Faintness threatened to overwhelm you. “He really likes you. Are you sure you didn’t sneak in catnip?”

“Impossible for someone to like me.”

He moseyed to the living room, putting half a wall between you. Did he wink? Had he even been looking at you? 

This wasn’t kind to your heart. Ever since watching the recording from the club, it’d been run ragged. Not only was now no exception, it might’ve been the worst outside of stumbling the hospital hallways. It was the only thing which felt tangible and real; Bruce certainly didn’t, and not having your mom laughing in the other room had her disappeared like quicksand. 

Closed eyes. Puffing breaths. Time moved too fast, packing too much into a moment. Brushed shoulders, shared gazes, navigating a shared kitchen. The warmth propelling from the oven reflected a surge of kindling he’d placed in your chest. Unprecedented—this was unprecedented. 

A strong wind sought to fell you, striking you at the knees from behind. Something felt close. Too close. You gripped the counter for balance and tried to breathe through it. Accept it, whatever the hell it was. The atmosphere was too warm. So inviting it loosened your filter, rapidly breaking down the walls between what was said and what was known. 

Walter thumped and jumped in a race around the living room, a back paw sliding onto the linoleum as he regained traction. Bruce’s low, rumbly chuckle swaddled you in warm cotton. Despite how weird it felt, it felt… 

Walter slammed his paw on the wall precisely where the laser was pointed. 

Steady. 

Despite it all, Bruce was steadfast, and holy hell did that feel great, and terrifying. So great that you wanted to run up, grab him, and never let him go. Let yourself talk for hours, knowing that he’d actually listen. And terrifying: he’ll actually listen. It injected lead weight into your words. After so long of no one seeing you, it felt like a magnifying glass beneath the sun. 

The oven beeped again. On autopilot, you put the brownies in, cleaned the bowl, and bit your lip when Bruce emerged, asking if you needed any help. Walter sat beside him, tail flicking, eyes bright and dilated. God, he’d never liked anyone as much as Bruce. “What do you want to do now?”

“Jewelry?” 

“Eh.”

“Talk?” 

You wiped your hands on a dishtowel, his offer reminding you of how much he had back home and he was just sitting here, doing what you wanted. “Do you want to talk about the journalism student stuff? The people we housed, or Oz, or Morrison, or anything about your work?”

Work. No one had called it that before. “Not right now.”

“Are you sure? I know if you were in Gotham right now you’d be… patrolling?”

He would be. He needed to be. Guilt nipped at his frayed nerves. Only a few days. Only while you needed him. “If I need to talk about it, I’ll let you know.” 

You rested your weight against the fridge, crossing your arms like it might protect you from his charms. He filled the space, of course he did. His stamina was shocking. 

“Now: where are you taking me tomorrow?”

“I thought we’d drive and walk around.”

You measured his expression for signs of disappointment. There were none. 

“What’s your favorite place in town?” He mimicked your body language, pressing his shoulderblade into the side of the doorframe and crossing his arms. 

“This field down the road. We can bike there to start in the morning.”

‘This field down the road’, and you looked about to burst at its mention. He could do this forever, even with the frame jamming into his back. “What do you like about it?” 

What did you like about your favorite place in the world?

“It’s quiet. But a good quiet. Like no one could bother me, or see me, and there’s this little creek that probably has a billion different bacteria in it, but it’s pretty. Lots of trees surrounding it. Big open space, lots of grass, some wild plants. Blackberries grow near the creek. I’d get sick eating so many of them and my mom would have to ban me from going, or check my fingers to see if they were stained.”

Bruce swore you didn’t even take a breath rushing it out. He also swore he’d never known the word ‘invested’ until looking at the crinkle in your eyes. “Did you find a work-around?”

“I’d squish them off the vine with a leaf, and open my mouth super wide so it didn’t stain my lips.”

He swore his smile would break his cheeks. 

“I think they’re still in season, so you might get to try them.”

“You’re setting a high bar. Don’t know if they’ll measure up.” 

There was a comfort in his teasing—a billowiness that caught wind. “I like when you’re not overthinking yourself.”

He eyed you. “Sure you won’t regret it?”

You nodded, sealing fate. 

The glimmer in his eye intrigued you. “I really think we should revisit that kit.” 

“I really think you’re humoring me, but I’ll allow it.” 

Crossing the threshold from the hall to your room, guilt grabbed you by the throat. It squeezed your cheeks together, put pressure on your teeth, and made your skin hot. I’m lying to him. He wouldn’t act like this if he knew. 

You grabbed the box, and the instant you brought it to your chest, Alfred bobbled in and out of your psyche. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

Steeling yourself with the memory of that and Bruce telling you—vehemently—that he’d never be upset about safety, you made your way back to the table. Walter stared at the tabletop like the secrets of humanity lied just out of reach, and Bruce pulled up the seat to your left. 

No one had ever sat in that seat. You’d never realized how empty it was.

He took the initiative and opened the kit, snagging the leaflet to peruse. He kept one hand holding a packet of beads, zooming through the instructions to not waste a lick of time or show a grain of hesitancy. You wanted to make jewelry, and suddenly that was all he ever dreamed of. Out of the corner of his eye he noted you ogling at the back of his chair, and shifted in his seat. Was he sitting in some sacred space? 

He cleared his throat. “‘Friendship Bracelets’, hmm.” 

“We don’t actually have to follow the instructions.” 

“I think it’s required.” He fixed his face with a deep concentration, scouring the page in a flurry. “Says here there’s two sets of each ‘specialty bead’.” Leaning in, he placed a finger on an imaginary line, squinting at it for good measure. “‘If you’re making brownies, specifically at a sleepover,’”

“Bruce,” your mouth twitched.

“‘It is critical to use each set together, or the knot won’t hold.’ Crazy tech they got in this.” 

You looked away, hiding your smile. So fucking ridiculous… 

“This is serious business, Y/n.” He was trying to stay serious, and shit it was impossible, but he managed a confused, affronted look; he held the pamphlet to you. “Do you want to read it?”

“Fine.” You snatched it from him. “Since the kit will blow up if we don’t, what do you want to make?”

“Hm,” he reflected on it, feeling the smack of Walter’s paw at his ankle. “I believe the owner of the kit has to pick.” 

The moment was almost too saccharine; the twist of your mouth as you swirled beads in your cupped hand, the subtle scent of chocolate wafting from across the room. He let his muscles relax, the chair creaking as he rested against it. He watched as you discarded blue, then purple, then green. 

A delicate sound hummed from your chest. He longed to bottle it up. Bead picking was evidently deeply significant; he saw your thoughts whizzing by like a comic strip. He felt Gotham slip away into the buttery melt of being with you. 

Apples, pears, bananas… apple? Peach! 

It clicked, and you poured two of each into your palm. “Since I almost died from them the night I found out about you, one peach each.” 

Two more. “And apples for the mulligan…”

“Mulligatawny.” 

“Yes! Also because they’re ninety percent of your diet.” 

It felt absurd to enjoy something this much. Just a table, circles of plastic, and some words. Simple materials for such ambrosia. 

“I’ll make yours, you make mine?”

“Red and… pink?” Orange wasn’t a bead color, making him very aware that citrus had been excluded from the affair. You knotted the bottom of your string, and he followed suit. Wrapping it around your wrist, you clipped it an inch further, then slipped it to him. You got straight to work, alternating beads with practiced ease. 

Pink, red, pink, red. Having a purpose to the beading that wasn’t just getting discarded in your jewelry box put you into hyperdrive. Each clink of plastic on plastic fueled the sunlight spearing through your ribs. Maybe he wanted to be here. Maybe you could trust it. 

He fell behind two thirds of the way through, struck by the crooked smile creeping up on you. He’d judged you too quickly. If not for your persistence, he wouldn’t be here. Enjoying this. Feeling this. 

“Which wrist do you want to wear it on?”

Done already? 

Carefully setting down his work-in-progress, he held out his left wrist. You pulled the bracelet on; it fit with the perfect amount of slack, the peach and apple nestled together in the middle. He knew the second your hands left that he’d wear it until it fell apart. “I love it.”

You beamed, securing a long-awaited triumph. Feeling impossibly silly, you got up to metabolize the rush prickling your fingertips. “I’m gonna check on the brownies.” 

Ripping his attention from you to the task at hand, he hurried beads onto string with manic focus until he: “Finished.” Pride circled him until he noticed his mid-job pause resulted in a solid chunk of pink too deep to redo. 

You walked over and held out your right wrist. He apologized for the mistake, but you told him that was the point: “It’s homemade. I love it.” And your smile sold it to his anxious heart. 

The coolness of the hollow plastic stuffed your head with static. Not even a couple hours in and he’d accomplished his mission. A silly little thing, so pathetic you wouldn’t dare name it aloud. You’d forgotten about the kit. You’d forgotten this part of you hurt. 

“Peaches and apples go well together.” Pads of your fingers caressed the perimeter of the fruit, speaking just loud enough to travel the silence. “Never thought they would.” 

You left him sitting there, breathless, swirling in repose as you grabbed a knife. His rose-colored glasses bloomed crimson. 

“I like to cut them immediately so there’s less crumbs,” you pulled the dessert out and fussed with a hard edge, accidentally flipping a chunk to the floor. In the space of placing the knife down, your hand collided with Bruce, already knelt in front of you picking up the pieces. It was suddenly too loud, your pulse hammering in your ears. 

“Thanks,” you breathed. 

Bruce sunk into a calming bath under your praise. Blush shrouded his skin in words he couldn’t say as he pulled himself to his feet. As he tossed the brownie in the trash, the weight of the bracelet shifted. The first anchor he’d felt in twenty years.

taglist: @noisylime @jonathancranesgf @hedonisticwomen @vampiresvengeance @serynstorylover @crayzmarvelfan800 @dreamer7black @sarcasticwalrus0 @sad-ghouls @smellingbats @eddiew-k @kha0sblossom @omithemonki @badbishsblog

[what-even-is-sleep]

thinking about Bodkin again bc I mean,,, ALL THE SYMBOLISM OHHHHHGH. i NEED some tumblr film analysis hobbyists to watch this show and tell me all the themes n such

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent life photos

[bonestrouslingbones]

now realizing that i haven't seen an edgepuff fic any longer than a oneshot since fucking. 2022. and not even a oneshot since 2023. god.

[passerinesoncaffeine]

I'm actually going to gnaw my own hand off.

[tytonnidaie]

people who are starved of stories that make them feel things to the extent they groan and writhe like a worm HATE being told that they might have to read technically poor writing. like grammar is that important

[skyllion-uwu]

*Gritting my teeth* It's for the narrative it's for the narrative it's for the narrative

[blodeuweddschild]

Frankensteins monster is the autistic character of all time

[haologram]

what do i call you? 🕹️ k.mg [m]

synopsis: your best friend is a man of many facets - a creative architecture student, a skilled football player, a wonderful friend and a sought-after lover. not that he'd ever truly glance anyone's way, especially not when his heart has always been set on you. genre: college au, idiots friends to lovers au ; angst, fluff, suggestive ? slightly smutty? themes. pairing: football player!kim mingyu x fem!college journalist!reader word count: 15.3k rating: 18+. minors do not interact. warnings: swearing, mentions of smoking (weed), mentions of food and eating. mutual pining, vernon is a plot device (because i love him.) mentions of infidelity and situationships. vernon calls reader bunny. mingyu and y/n are fucking stupid. mentions of omegas (i had to do it.) kissing, petnames (baby, honey, pretty, etc.) brief dry humping, making out. what to listen to: what do i call you? - taeyeon ; run for the hills - tate mcrae ; number one girl - rosé ; rain - swv ; hooked on your love - en vogue ; cherish the day - sade ; call me baby - exo. author's note: happiest birthday to my dear @tomodachiii ♡ i hope you forgive me for having been so ominous in the chat, and know that i love you so dearly. also, i was going to write the smut but i chickened out, mingyu is just too sexy for my brain. please eat well and stay healthy. also, thank you to both @100vern & @wonuwoe for giving me their journalism insight, as i am unfortunately a woman in stem that knows nothing about it.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU'RE NOT WRITING THE COLUMN ABOUT ME?"

You roll your eyes, sighing as your fingers rub your temples. Your best friend is currently seated not even five feet away, his lower lip jutted out in a pout as the steam from his oxtail bone soup wafts in his face. You'd been attempting to soothe his woes about the stupid column piece for the last thirty minutes, even bribing him by saying you'd spend your last twenty dollars on dessert if he dropped the topic. While nothing can get in the way of Mingyu and his food, his best friend writing a column about a sport he plays, giving one player spotlight, and not choosing him was something he simply could not let go. "Y/N, that's not fair."

"Except it is, Gyu. All the features I've written this season have been about you. One more and people might think I'm in love with you." You huff, forcing your lips into a smile as the waitress slides your order of soft tofu stew in front of you. You thank her quietly, and she simply nods her head curtly before going about her way. Mingyu eyes your bowl, the pout on his lips only deepening as you sigh, sliding your bowl over for him to dip his spoon into.

"I just think you should care about me more." He sniffs, blowing softly on the spoonful of broth from your stew. You quirk a brow as he brings the spoon to his mouth, your own lips twitching slightly at the roll of his eyes from the perfect balance of flavors on his tongue. You loved watching him eat, it was one of your favorite past times.

Not that he needed to know that.

"Mingyu, I do care about you. The newspaper has given me six columns this season alone, and I've interviewed you every single time. Let someone else have a chance." You take your bowl back, but not before he spears the jiggly tofu with his spoon, making you snicker as he burns his tongue on it.

"Why would I do that when you're my best friend? Are you saying you want to give someone else that chance? Like who, Chan? You know he smells like macaroni, right? And he bites." Mingyu breathes around the hot piece of tofu in his mouth, and you only laugh as you slide his bowl of rice closer to you. You take a bit on your spoon, dipping it into your stew before shrugging your shoulders.

"Mingyu, everyone knows you're a star, okay? You've scored sixty-two out of sixty-seven touchdowns so far, and that's just this season. You're the only quarterback in Hawk history that hasn't blown out his shoulder, which is insane. You're one of the best players in terms of field time and academics. That thing you made for your Architectural Design course? Your Apartment of a Lonely Soul model? You got displayed at the Museum of Arts for that two fucking weeks ago, and I put you in the paper for that. The people love Kim Mingyu, I think it's only fair that I give someone else a smidge of the spotlight."

He rolls his eyes, but you see the faint blush creeping on his cheeks and ears as he takes a sip of his water.

Whether you care to admit it or not, you know that the people you speak of, also refer to you. 

You know that the way you write about Mingyu in your columns is the way a proud friend does, someone who cares, someone who loves him – and you know it shows bias. You know that if anyone watched your relationship with Mingyu from afar, they could tell how much you care about him, how much he means to you, how much you love him.

And you're worried that one day, someone might look too close and realize that your love for him is nothing even remotely close to platonic.

It hasn't been for the last six years of your life-long friendship.

If someone asks you, you're honest. You tell them Mingyu has been your best friend for years. You tell them that you've soothed his broken heart time and time again, that he's held your hair while you've thrown up and he's scared off shitty guys constantly. You tell them that when he's drunk, he sends you ramblings on Snapchat and eventually makes his way to your apartment to crash on your couch. You tell them that you feed him before he crashes, and make him hydrate before he goes down.

You tell them that your mom loves Mingyu, and how helpful he is when he goes home with you every so often. You tell them that he makes the best short rib soup and you've never seen someone so willing to build a bookshelf with your father. You tell them that Mingyu gets along well with your siblings, even going as far as going home with you one summer to coach your little brother's flag football team with your dad.

And then, like always – they tell you that there's no man that does that for anyone he sees as just his friend.

You choose to ignore it.

You continue to write your pieces about him, long-winded and full of purple prose in order to talk him up. You're of the idea that everyone who is capable of loving, should love Mingyu. They do, everyone on campus adores the gentle giant that he is – everyone includes girl after girl after girl. Mingyu has had three girlfriends in the twenty years that you've been his friend. He's definitely the kind of guy that likes to commit – each one lasted anywhere from a year to three. His last one, Sowon, lasted a year and a half – before he found out that she was hooking up with a guy (read: your ex-boyfriend, Daewon) on the baseball team while he was at practice. 

He didn't even need her to confirm it, because he walked in on it in the men's locker room. He'd been twenty minutes late to practice, opting to drive you to a game tech convention on the other side of town. You'd practically begged him to, saying that you wanted to write a report about it for your Digital Media course and he just couldn't say no. He doesn't remember exactly what he said to her, her eyes full of guilt and regret as she quickly dressed herself and pushed past him. However, he does remember the odd feeling in his chest, and the way he tried to figure it out as he skipped practice and drove all the way back to the other side of town to pick you up.

He remembers the look on your face when you came out of the convention with your phone in hand to get a rideshare, only to see him parked front and center waiting for you against the grill of his old pick-up truck. He didn't want to talk about it, but essentially told you things between them were over as he drove the two of you to the very same diner the two of you are sitting at now, ordering all of his favorites and scarfing them down while he asked you to tell him everything about the convention. It was the most dejected you'd ever seen him look, but you also knew Mingyu well.

There was a hint of relief behind the glaze of hurt.

That was a year ago. Now, the two of you are sitting on the impending doom of graduation. You're awaiting a call back from an internship you applied to last year, and Mingyu was awaiting a letter from a Masters' program. You were both single, your last situationship ending shortly after starting because the guy was convinced you and Mingyu had a thing – simply because he came over (uninvited, unannounced) on a night where Mingyu insisted you watch the entirety of Park Chanwook's Vengeance trilogy. You didn't care too much – not when the two of you were nervous wrecks, doing everything and anything to fill your racing minds and not think about your futures.

Much like sitting in this diner and sharing a meal, your foot resting on the side of his thigh as he sits on the opposite side of the booth.

"You're too far away." He pouts, before sliding his bowl across the table and standing up, slipping next to you in the cracked vinyl booth. You worm slightly closer to the window, pretending the sudden wave of his spicy cologne doesn't make your head spin. It settled so well with the powdery scent of his detergent, the softer smell that reminded you of laying on a blanket with him, stargazing out on the football field during spring midterms. 

You can't hide the way your hands tremble slightly as you reach for your spoon, but Mingyu's hawk-like gaze misses nothing.

"You cold? You're shaking like a leaf." He eyes you with a raised brow, and doesn't allow you to respond before you feel him tug his hefty letterman jacket off. The black leather sleeves brush your sweater, and you find yourself being cocooned in the warmth that now filled the jacket, radiating off your best friend's body with ease. "You're a human furnace, Mingyu." You mutter to yourself, feeling him ruffle your hair as he moves his water closer to him, opting to rearrange all the side dishes as you carefully inched away from him. You could be caught staring and Mingyu wouldn't tease you about it, you knew that much – but to be caught tensing at the brushing of your thigh with his, your arm with his, your hand with his…would be much more embarrassing.

"So I've been told. Don't think you're gonna butter me up into forgetting about the fact that you hate me, Y/N." He gives you a pointed look as he stirs his soup, your jaw dropping slightly to gape up at him.

"Oh my God, Mingyu! I don't hate you, you're making this a bigger deal than it is!" You whine, but don't miss the way he smiles around his straw, his broad shoulders taking up way too much of your space as he shrugs. 

"I mean, six pieces on me in one season, but you won't make your last piece about me? And it's to spotlight a player? You've been giving me the spotlight all season! You can't take it away from me, I'll get withdrawals." "Mingyu, there has gotta be something I can do to get you to get over this. I already offered to pay for dessert, and I'm letting you pick. What else do you want from me?" Your voice is exasperated, but you don't like the glint of mischief in Mingyu's eyes as he looks down at you. He traces your features, before a soft smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"What are you doing Friday night?" "Mingyu." "You're not doing me, sweetheart. I need you to focus." You gape inwardly, scoffing out a laugh and running your hand through your hair as you tilt slightly to face him. He's already looking at you, his tongue running over his lower lip as you meet his eyes.

"I mean…unless you want to." "You are so fucking irritating." You scoff, shoving his shoulder as he giggles. Mingyu rarely made comments like that, but when he did, it was like he was the master of timing. He loved to catch you off guard, even going as far as pinching your cheek or sidling up to you really close to emphasize his point. He'd give you that cheeky smile, he'd look at you like you put the stars in the sky and sometimes, just sometimes, those eyes would dart down to your lips before flickering away and ending the bit.

All in good fun, you always thought. 

Of course you'd thought about it, about him. About what being a lover to him would be like, about what he was like as a boyfriend. You saw it, the way he treated his girlfriends – with the utmost care, the biggest gentleman you'd ever met. He held doors open, he carried them over puddles, he retired his jackets and hoodies to their shoulders if the air even had a hint of a chill in it.

But, he cooked for you. He cleaned for you, he helped you with your projects and asked for your opinion on his. He held you close, no matter who was in his life – and it became a point of contention in his relationships. So much so that any girl that he began talking to had to meet you first – and he'd observe quietly. He'd watch you try to befriend them, how your animated personality often dwindled in their presence. He'd notice the way your smile would softly fade, often replaced with a furrow in your brows before you glanced at him, as if to say, next.

You approved of Sowon, because she was sweet. She was nice to you, and she was nice to Mingyu, until she wasn't. 

You approved of his longest girlfriend, Soyoung, because she tried her hardest to get along with you and even invited you to her own social gatherings – regardless of if Mingyu would be in attendance or not. The two ended when Soyoung decided she wasn't built for sharing Mingyu's attention, and he let her go without so much as a second thought. 

You approved of his first girlfriend, Sohee, because you were all idiots in high school and you didn't think it would matter that much to Mingyu – and you'd told him so.

You also did it because it was year two of you dealing with your newfound romantic feelings for Mingyu, and you figured if he had a girlfriend – he wouldn't notice the way you drifted from him. If it meant keeping your friendship and dissolving your romantic feelings for the puppy-eyed man, you would take the leap of being distant. However, return to the abovementioned point: Mingyu's hawk-like gaze misses nothing. He broke things off with Sohee after a year, noticeably missing your presence and seeking you out so much your mother asked you if you were dating. You remember the look of pity in her eyes when you'd answered in the negative.

"What, Miss Y/N, are you doing on Friday night?" You try to ignore the smile on his lips as he leans slightly closer, closing your eyes as you sigh. "Nothing, Mingyu. I'm not doing anything." "Now you are." "I'm broke, Gyu."

"Pretty girls never pay, hm?"  He gives you a pointed look, and you sink slightly into his jacket, sliding a bit down the booth as your cheeks burn. He only laughs, his warm fingers pinching the fat of your cheek before you swat him away. "God, you'd think I've never complimented you. We've been friends our entire lives, what's your deal?" "Nothing! You're just a twerp who doesn't mean it." You stick your tongue out at him, before feeling the tips of his fingers graze your jaw. He tilts your head up to face him, a quizzical look in his eyes.

"What makes you say that? You think I say things just to make you feel better?" You raise a brow as his fingers squish your cheeks together, your lips puckering slightly as you reply, "I mean…don't you?" "No, Y/N. I don't. I think you're pretty, why would I lie about that?" He scoffs, before tilting his head in the direction of your stew. "Eat." The rest of the meal was spent in comfortable silence, your cheeks remaining hot under his soft gaze and gentle gestures. He drove the two of you to get dessert across town, his card hitting the reader before you could even fish out your wallet to spend your last twenty dollars as promised. He wiped your face of stray cookie crumbs as you ate in his car with the heat blasting, your own hand swatting him away constantly.

He walked you up to your apartment, biting back his laugh as your roommate, Hansol, nearly fell on his ass trying to pry open the living room window to air out the smell of weed. He smiled hazily at Mingyu, before Mingyu's best friend appeared out of your bathroom, stoned out of his mind.

"Sol, you said you wouldn't hotbox the living room again." You groan, setting your purse down on the foyer table. He winces, before pointing at Wonwoo.

"His idea." "Your apartment, idiot." Wonwoo rolls his bloodshot eyes, and Mingyu only grimaces as he quietly offers to let you spend the night at his place. You decline it almost immediately, not wanting a repeat of the first (and last) time you ever spent the night at Mingyu's apartment. Yours had flooded, and Hansol had found solace in his girlfriend's arms (and apartment) while you were left to fend for yourself.

Not really. Not if Mingyu had any say in it – and he did.

That night was like a scene out of a movie, the way he literally slammed into you fresh out of the shower. You remember the perfect way the moonlight lit him up through the cracked window, the drops of water on his abdomen burned into your brain. You also remember sleeping on the very edge of his bed that night, so much so that he eventually moved to the floor to let you get a good night's rest. You left the next day to invade Hansol and his girlfriend, Saerom, for the next two days while your apartment was fixed. 

Neither of you spoke about it since, and you thanked your lucky stars that it was never brought up.

You let Wonwoo and Hansol bicker on your ratty couch, rolling your eyes as you held the door for Mingyu. He leaned against the doorway slightly, smiling down at you through perfectly bitten pink lips.

"I'll see you around, Gyu." You offer softly, rolling your eyes and tilting your head towards the two stoners now fighting over the remote to watch movies on your Amazon Prime account. "Friday." He corrects, and you suddenly realize how easily he stares at you like he knows something about you. You clear your throat, your cheeks growing even hotter as he tilts your chin up to look at him. "Say it. Say you'll see me on Friday. I'll pick you up from the office." "I'll see you on Friday." You murmur, earning a wink from him. 

"See you, pretty." He spins on his heel, tucking his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket as he barrels down the stairs of your apartment complex. You watch over the railing as he gets to his car, waving as he looks up. He waves back, opening his car door and almost instantly pulling out of the parking lot.

What you don't know is how he settles into the way your citrus perfume is now infused with his on the material of his jacket. His cheeks are warm at the idea of your flustered state in the diner earlier, and when you were sitting in his car eating your cookies. How your shy smile was only ever present around him, immediately disappearing if someone else joined your conversations or if you were around literally anyone else.

Like he made you nervous, something he'd noticed almost a decade ago. The way he could listen to you, talk to you, look at you all day – and you just brushed it off like it was nothing but you couldn't hide the twinge of fluster in your voice around him. The way you constantly talked about him if you thought he wasn't listening. How you wrote all your pieces about him, and how all his friends teased him about how in love you sounded. How enamored you sounded when you wrote about him, how passionate you were about sharing him and his success with the world to appreciate. He could date these pieces back to the first semester of your freshman year together, but he's liked you far longer than that.

Mingyu knew a lot of things, but he knew you best. You hadn't ever cared about someone the way you had him, and you made it very obvious. He crossed all his fingers, hoping the feeling in his chest when you brushed against him was something you felt, too. Hoping that you also settled in your bed and your only thoughts before closing your eyes were of him as his were of you. 

Hoping that you liked him, in the same way. Hoping that you wondered what his lips would feel like against yours, what it would feel like to slot your fingers together in more than just a platonic way. He wondered if you'd let him kiss you breathless, he wondered if your eyes lingered on him that night because you liked what you saw. 

Yeah, Mingyu likes you. He likes you a lot.

"NO CAN DO, Y/N. YOU ALREADY SAID YOU'D INTERVIEW LEE CHAN."

Hansol was sitting on the edge of his desk with a lollipop between his lips, looking over the rough drafts of your fellow journalists. How all of you at the Hawk Review ended up under Hansol Chwe was beyond you, but you weren't complaining. He was smart and calculated, creative, and he figured out a way to redirect some of the funding to better snacks and a Keurig for the Hawk Review Committee. 

And you can't lie, either – he was a very just and fair editor. He didn't let just anyone onto the committee, often going through rigorous interviewing processes (for virtually no reason except vibes) and even going as far as making you his second in command – so long as you agreed that what happened at the HRC, stayed at the HRC. As your editor, he was more than willing to listen to you drone on and on about literally anything having to do with any of your columns or articles. As your roommate, Hansol did not want to talk about the committee at all – he preferred throwing popcorn at you while you bickered over who was dumber in How I Met Your Mother. You both agreed it was definitely Ted for the majority of the show.

"I'm gonna have to pull a veto on that, Chwe. I need to write about Mingyu." You sigh frustratedly, running a hand through your hair as you stuff your laptop into your tote. Hansol eyes you, before sliding the lollipop out of his mouth and pointing it at you.

"You are down atrociously for that guy, you know that? The dating rumors that I've had to deny for you are driving me towards the brink of insanity." You scoff in offense, your mouth attempting to form around words but only resulting in odd noises before you cover your face with your hands.

"Hansol!" "Y/N!" "I am not down anything for Mingyu, okay? I just know that if as a journalist, consistency is key, is it not? If I have put my best foot forward towards a project, in this case, interviewing Mingyu regularly for my columns…wouldn't it be just and fair, as a journalist with a semi-Mingyu-based following, to give him Spotlight of The Season? Wouldn't it be, oh wise one, something just and fair to have him be the topic of my last column as your second-in-command, Editor Chwe?"

Hansol only smiles, shaking his head before sighing. "You drive a hard bargain, Y/N." "So I've been told. Please, Sol. Mingyu will kill me if I don't do my last piece on him." You clasp your hands in front of you, jutting your lips out in a pout as you bat your lashes at him. He only snorts, tossing his unfinished lollipop into the trash can. He slides into the chair behind the heavy mahogany desk, a glint of mischief in his eyes that you can't quite place as he opens his laptop. He types away as you cross your arms across your chest, bearing your weight on one foot, tapping the other nervously.

"Well, let's see. You've written six columns on Mingyu this year alone, and one of them had nothing to do with football. Your column about his exhibit at the Museum of Arts last month was actually a great piece." He peers at you over the top of his laptop, and you tilt your head. "The Museum emailed our coordinator, you know. Said that your piece brought their ticket sales up by five percent." Your jaw drops slightly, "You're kidding." "I'm not." He shrugs, returning his line of vision to the laptop in front of him. You can see the way his cheeks move slightly, as if he's suppressing a smile, "You know, the coordinator who writes the recommendation letters for our internships. Mrs. Lee." "Hansol, if you're kidding, please shut up right now." Your voice is whiny as he smiles softly. You'd only ever seen him smile that way when he's going to deliver good news, as if to soften the blow, lessen the shock value. A smile that screams you deserve this, and everything good that comes your way.

"Mrs. Lee asked me what I thought of you, Y/N." He leaned back in his chair, pulling the drawer open and taking out yet another lollipop. He offers you one, and you take the green apple, unwrapping it as you lean on the desk. "She also asked me if I'd be willing to write your recommendation letter." Your eyes widen, "Hansol, please–" "Don't beg me. I hate it when you beg." He rolls his eyes, turning his laptop to face you. It's open to Y/N LETTER - DRAFT 2 OF 6. You can feel your nose burn as tears sting your eyes, and he closes the laptop before speaking.

"It will still go through Mrs. Lee for review, and for her to add her own notes. I think your dedication to the Hawk Review Committee has been absolutely insane. You've never failed to deliver, and everyone always loves your pieces, whether they're about Mingyu's abilities as a quarterback, Mingyu's talent for architecture and eye for what looks good. I think you're right, consistency as a journalist is key." He nods, giving you a knowing look.

"I'm sensing a but, here."

"But, I won't submit something that goes against what is true. I wrote in here that I think you're a brave individual who takes on any challenge life gives you. Submitting that when I know it's simply not true is a violation of ethics, giving false information and whatnot." He taps the metal of his laptop, and your brows furrow.

"What?" "I'm not submitting this until you tell Mingyu that you're in love with him. That gives you…" He checks his phone, "Three days. Three days to confess, so I can submit this to Mrs. Lee and she can get it in at your internship before the deadline closes and you're inevitably out of an opportunity at your own volition." Your jaw drops fully, "You're kidding." "I can assure you, Miss Y/N, I am not." He smiles lazily, shrugging his shoulders as he leans back. You scoff, but nothing tells you he's serious more than the way he opens his phone and sets a timer for seventy-two hours. "Three. Days. Hop to, bunny." "Hansol." "Oh, and I need your Spotlight of the Season column by then, too. Gotta skim through to make sure you don't say he's the love of your life in paragraph three again." "Oh, fuck you! That was one time!" You pout, "Don't do this to me, Vern. I literally helped you get that date with Saerom last year!" "And look at me now, Y/N!" He holds up his phone, a picture of him and Saerom filling the screen. "Just because you don't have balls, doesn't mean you can't have balls, you know?" "Wise words from Hansol Vernon Chwe." You hear Mingyu's voice fill the room, making you jump as Hansol smiles. He winks at you, before making a shooing motion with his hand.

"Get outta here, Y/N. And I want that damn column on the desk before Monday at six, you hear me?" He points the new lollipop at you, and you ignore the way your cheeks heat as Mingyu's arm drapes around your shoulders and he bids Hansol goodbye. You flip Hansol the bird as he makes kissing faces at you, Mingyu pulling you towards the door of the office.

"How was your day?" He asks as the door closes behind you, the chill of the November air piercing through your thin cardigan and making you regret the short skirt you chose earlier that day. You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to tell him to cut it out with the small talk – when his fingers pluck the lollipop out from between your lips and plant it straight onto his tongue.

"Mingyu! You're so gross!" You gape at him, swatting his side as he giggles around the hard candy, scooting away from you. His arm that was around your shoulder falls to his side, before you notice the way he shrugs his jacket off his shoulders, making you hold your hands out in protest. "No. Keep it, it's cold." "You're shivering." He says matter-of-factly, and you try to ignore the forming green tint on his lips from your lollipop, your eyes flickering up to his with a feigned look of confidence.

"I'm in the presence of a collegiate football superstar and future architect of the coolest buildings in our city, forgive me for being a little excited." You huff dramatically as you feel his warm jacket being draped over your shoulders. A defeated sigh escapes from your lips as his hands rest on your shoulders, guiding you out of the Literature building and towards his old pick-up.

You remember when he got it, the powder blue paint job with white detailing being a choice from his father before he passed it down to Mingyu. It was a 1992 GMC Sierra 1500, and he was definitely too big to fit in the cab but he loved that old thing more than anything in this world. He learned how to drive in it when he was sixteen, and his father finally gifted it to him on his eighteenth birthday – you remember being half-awake, toothbrush still in your mouth when you started getting shaken like maraca when he came to pick you up for school the next morning. Your mom did not trust Mingyu to drive you both to school, but with Mingyu's puppy eyes comes a certain brand of begging that no one can say no to.

Granted, he almost crashed from excitement but you both made it safe and sound.

"Where are you taking me?" You ask suddenly, remembering nothing had been discussed the night he brought it up. He shrugged, opening the passenger side door and helping you into the bench seat. 

"Just relax, okay? It's, like, a twenty-minute drive." 

You struggle not to roll your eyes, settling into the felt cushion and sliding your tote onto the dash. You pop open his glove box, his collection of cassettes messily thrown in. You pluck out a random one, hearing him pry open his door and settle in his seat, the rickety door definitely needing a good wipedown with WD-40.

"Only you would have a cassette collection." You hold up his November Rain cassingle by Guns N' Roses, and he snorts inwardly. It was a senseless dig, because cassettes were all his car radio could read. It was either the cassettes or the staticky sound of the FM radio…so, pass.

"You're judging me, but I went out and found that En Vogue Funky Divas cassette for you. Remember, bidding on eBay is not good for you, sweetheart." He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out the still-wrapped cassette tape you'd fought some fifty-year-old woman for on eBay weeks prior. Your eyes widen, a huge grin spreading on your lips as you pluck it from his fingers, holding it to your chest.

"Oh, you love me, Kim Mingyu!" You squeal, and he rolls his eyes, reaching over you to buckle you in. You allow it, carefully peeling back the plastic wrap. Listen, you're a twenty-something in the twenty-first century, it's not that serious. (It is that serious, what did you fight that woman for if it wasn't to just keep it as a collector's item?)

"Hooked on Your Love should be side B." He says softly, shoving his key into the ignition as you crack open the plastic case. You nod, your smile still wide as you slip the cassette into the player, his hand moving to rest on your headrest as he backs out of his parking spot. 

You ignore the flutter in your stomach, before the sound of It Ain't Over 'Til The Fat Lady Sings fills the cab. You nod your head along to it, before glancing over at Mingyu and seeing a small bandage across his cheekbone. Your hand instinctively floats up to it, your fingers stroking his skin gently as he pulls up to a red light.

"What happened here, Gyu?" He looks at it in the rearview, his lip jutted in a pout. "Kiss it better and I'll tell." You snort, "Yeah, right." "I'm serious! I'm injured, oh, I'm so hurt." He feigns distress, clutching his chest just as the light turns green. You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to face forward. The sun is setting, the light hitting Mingyu's skin just right as you will your eyes away.

"Seriously, Gyu. Did you get hurt?" "Nah. It was Media Day, the stylist wanted something rugged. I didn't personally get it and she didn't explain how a singular bandage would convey that, but it's also not my expertise. I just let her do what she wanted." He shrugs, and you hum in response as he peels it off.

The silence between you, again, is comfortable.

But the growing knot in your stomach at his proximity, the smell of his cologne on his jacket surrounding you, the way the sun is making him look borderline fucking angelic – it's suffocating. You sigh inwardly, leaning your arm on the door and resting your head against your palm. You nod along to the music, your eyes scanning all the streets to see if you can figure out where Mingyu is taking you. He wasn't a secretive guy, but you couldn't ignore the roaring butterflies in your stomach at the idea that maybe he…had something planned.

Mingyu loved to plan things for the two of you to do. However, with your dedication to journalism, his practice and games and his studies – everything was far more sporadic and spontaneous. You didn't mind, you loved spending time with him in any way – but you were both sentimental people in the way that planning things you both knew you'd like was far more enjoyable.

You feel your cheeks burn at the realization that people weren't exactly wrong in assuming the two of you were a couple. You hated to admit it to yourself, because it was like giving into false hope and delusion. Sure, you were never going to think that you weren't enough for Mingyu – you were. At the end of the day, he is just a man. A man who picks his nose, probably.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" Mingyu's voice tears you from your thoughts, ones so clouding that you didn't even realize the car had stopped moving, the ending notes of Hooked On Your Love playing through the cab. You pouted, before looking up at him and seeing the old arcade you used to frequent during freshman year. Your eyes widen, noticing that you're parked under the same old tree you always parked beneath.

"Gyu, we haven't been here since freshman year." "I know. I figured we could just have a good time because I'm not sure if I'll have time after the semifinals. Everyone's super pessimistic about the championships this year." He shrugs, killing the engine. You only nod along, clearing your throat as you realize how empty the parking lot is. For a Friday evening, that's unusual.

"Kind of empty, isn't it?" You mumble as he unlocks the door, not missing his smile in the side mirror as he slides out of his seat. You move to open your door, but he's already yanking it open, offering his hand to help you step down. Tugging your tote over your shoulder, you climb down and reluctantly pull your hand out of his as you shut the door.

"Did you know that museums pay you for displaying your work in their galleries?" He starts, draping his arm over your shoulder and pulling you close. You suck in a breath, a little too loud for your taste as you cough.

"Really? That's great, Gyu. I assume they shelled out a few hundred bucks, huh? I know I would for Apartment of a Lonely Soul. I'd display the shit out of that at my place." You scoff, wrapping your arm loosely around his waist. He hums, his fingers twirling in loose strands of your hair as you glance up at him. He has a mischievous smile playing on his lips as you both near the doors of the arcade. It's empty inside, making you dig your heels into the pavement.

"Gyu, maybe it's closed." You frown, but he raps his knuckles against the glass door in a pattern that reminds you of Hot for Teacher by Van Halen. You wait quietly, seeing your good friend Soonyoung turning the corner of the cashier's booth inside. He grins widely at you through the glass door, unlocking it quickly.

"Mingyu. Y/N." He greets, and you can't help but narrow your eyes as Mingyu pushes you forward through the threshold. He takes your bag off your shoulder and hands it to Soonyoung, who drapes it over his own shoulder before holding his hand out.

"You two…what did you do?" Your suspicion only makes Mingyu laugh, and you see him slide something, presumably money, into Soonyoung's hand before he turns his attention back to you. Soonyoung flips the sign to say CLOSED, the click of the lock making your eyes flit up to him. He only smiles, pocketing the money and strolling away, whistling the melody of Galaxy by Taeyeon.

"What do you wanna do first? Skeeball? Air hockey? Bowling?" Mingyu's hands on your shoulders are reassuring, the pads of his thumbs working soft circles into your trap muscles. You nibble on your lip, turning your head to look over your shoulder back at him.

"Did you rent this place out with the money the museum gave you?" You ask softly, trying to hide the subtle hint of disappointment in your voice. You had a horrible habit of insisting that Mingyu not spend money on you, something he brushed off time and time again. He peers down at you, a quirk in his brow as he smiles.

"Just pick a game, sweetheart."

You try not to show your increasing suspicion, your gut feeling telling you he's buttering you up for something as he guides you towards the bowling alley. The music playing in the arcade is louder than normal, and you try to focus on the sound of By Your Side by Sade playing through the speakers.

"Have they always played Sade? Last time we were here, I swear they were playing, like, Cascada and Keri Hilson." You look up at Mingyu, who just rolls his eyes as he makes you sit down on a bench in front of the bowling alley, kneeling in front of you and yanking your shoes off.

"You always focus this much on things that are so minuscule? We're at an arcade, alone. No lines, no screaming, no odd Dorito-Eating, Mountain-Dew drinking, Piña-Colada-Vaping gamers fighting us for our spot in the Galaga queue." He makes it all sound so magical, like the two of you didn't get a bunch of sixteen year olds kicked out several times the last few times you visited the arcade.

"Gyu–" "Just chill, okay? And if I have to guilt trip you, I will. I'm not above it." He says pointedly, slipping the bowling shoes over your socked feet as you huff. You cross your arms as he ties the laces, before his warm hands splay across your knees. He smiles as your legs jerk at the sudden contact, before giving them a gentle squeeze.

"Now, beat me in two frames and I'll get us tickets to that furry convention that I know you're going to want to write a piece about." He stands, tugging you up from the bench and towards one of the alleys.

And it's easy. It's so easy to forget everything when you're with Mingyu, watching the way his shoulders tense under the tight black t-shirt he's wearing as he swings his ball back perfectly. The way his thick thighs are hugged by the slim fitting jeans he was wearing, the black watch on his wrist distracting you from the way his fingers slid easily into the bowling ball…

You don't manage to beat him in two frames, or three. Or four.

You don't win a single game, your brain entirely too distracted by just how couple-y this all seemed. How boyfriend-like Mingyu was acting, as he took you all over the arcade. He didn't ever go easy on you, beating you in game after game – air hockey, three games of Street Fighter II. He even managed to scam you out of the few coins you managed to get out of the coin pusher, before pulling you over to the Skee-ball machines.

"If you lose, you're buying dinner." He says pointedly, gathering the wooden balls in his hand as you gape up at him.

"This is so fucking unfair, Mingyu! You literally play football!" You stomp your foot like a petulant child, only making him laugh softly.  "But if I offer to go easy on you, you'll complain. So which is it? Do you want me to have a filling dinner or do you want to win the weasel way?" He tilts his head at you, brow cocked high on his face as you scoff, shrugging his jacket off your shoulders and shoving it into his chest, grabbing the balls from his hands. He slides the jacket on with a grin, watching the way you count the balls with your eyes. 7..8..9…Before looking up, your lip jutted out in a pout. "No way you just called me a weasel, Kim Mingyu." "Yes way. What're you gonna do about it, weasel?" He flicks the tip of your nose, making your brows furrow as you push past him to stand in front of the lane. He leans on Mrs. Pac-Man, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets as he watches you carefully. Your shoulders are too tense as you land a ball in the 40 zone, your elbows too stiff as another gracefully slips off the edge of 30 into the 10 when you turn around.

"Stop staring at me, I can feel the heat of your eyes on my back."

"Wasn't looking at your back, sweetheart." He chides, making you scoff and turn back around, rotating your wrist as you assume position. He steps forward slightly, sliding his arm around your waist and tilting you forward a bit. He feels your back stiffen as you suck in a breath, almost like he scared you.

"Mingyu!" Almost.

"You're too tense. This is a game of grace, Y/N. Just relax." He murmurs, his other hand wrapping loosely around your wrist. You can feel his hips pressed against you, but it's fully innocent – aside from where your mind goes. He swings your arm back before pushing it forward and you let the ball slip from your fingers. You're grimacing as you watch it, feeling your lips twitch as it falls perfectly into the 100 zone.

"You just got lucky."  You mutter, feeling his chest move against your back as he laughs. "Yeah? Just luck, huh?" Your breath hitches as his hits the back of your neck, and you curse yourself internally as he drums his fingers on the expanse of your belly. Swatting his hand away, you push him back but he doesn't move away. In fact, his arm around you tightens, pulling you slightly closer as you twist your head to look up at him.

"Then those hundred points should count in my favor, shouldn't they?" You gape up at him, his smile all too warm and inviting as he winks at you, his finger coming to your chin and manually closing your mouth. "Focus, sweetheart."

He turns your face back to the lane, and you huff out a breath. "This feels like that meme of a broke guy holding onto his girlfriend while she pays for his shit." "I hold you all the time, it's never bothered you before." He shrugs behind you, and you feel him settle his chin on your shoulder as his other arm wraps around you, linking his fingers above your navel. You can't help but roll your eyes, the action the only thing keeping you grounded as you reluctantly swing the rest of the balls in. 50, 40, 40, 30, 10.

"Last one." He whispers, his fingers lightly squeezing the softness of your belly between them. You squirm, elbowing his ribs lightly. "Get away from me! I'm going to lose if you keep doing this." You whine, and he only giggles as he slides his arms away from around you. Huffing, you smooth your shirt and shake yourself off, assuming your position in front of the lane and swinging your arm back in the perfect slope for a 100…

…When you feel Mingyu's fingers poke at your sides, making you squeal and the ball goes barreling into the 30 zone.

"Mingyu!" You push his arm lightly as he laughs, grabbing your wrist to stop you from landing a smack to his shoulder. He pulls you into him, and you feel your stomach flip as you slap his chest.  "You've been hanging out with Jeonghan, haven't you? And you have the nerve to call me a weasel?!" "You would've lost anyway, sweetheart. You've got 350 points on the roster, there's no way you're not buying dinner." He taunts you, his nose mere centimeters from yours as he smiles. You're silent, the proximity far too much to even let out a breath when you feel your lips twitch into a scowl.

"You're not playing fair, Gyu." "You're cute, honey. Now watch this." He lets you slip from his grasp, slipping another quarter into the game and receiving his share of the wooden balls. And you, like an idiot – watch him. You watch him land 100 after 100, only once landing in the 50 zone. 850 points, 950 if you count the ones he got for you. He looks over his shoulder, eyes peering down at you with a glint you can't place as you cross your arms.

"I think I'd like to try that new place on Sixth Street." He says proudly, making you scoff in disbelief as he throws his arm over your shoulders. You shove him away lamely, only feeling his fingers pinch your cheek as he cooed. "Don't be such a sore sport, Y/N. Skeeball is not your forte." "Neither are any of these other games, apparently." You grumble as he leads you through the arcade, his thumb lightly rubbing back and forth on your jaw. He hums, pulling you into him impossibly closer.

"You wanna win something?" He asks gently, and you shake your head. You can almost hear him smiling, because you're not looking up at him, no fucking way – when he tilts your jaw up to face him. "C'mon. What do you want to play? Pac-Man?" "No." "Space Invaders?"

"No." "Oooh, Sunset Riders?"

"Mingyu." You rolled your eyes as he leaned against one of the air hockey tables, keeping you close. Your lip was jutted in a pout, making him laugh softly as he enveloped you in a hug. Your hands pushed against his torso in an attempt to push him away. He sucks his teeth, looking down at you. Your eyes look guilty, and you can feel it sinking into your stomach as he analyzes you. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but you know the words that come out aren't what he's thinking.

"Tell you what, we can take pictures in the photobooth and I'll buy dinner." You hate how you instantly light up, your hands now fisting the fabric of his shirt as he rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide his smile. "See? How aren't you a weasel when you make me feel bad and now I'm the one paying for dinner?" "You said it yourself, pretty girls never pay." You reply smugly, your lips stretching into a smile as he scoffs. However, it seems like the world stills as he smooths your hair down, thumbing at your earrings – a pair he got you ages ago for your birthday – and mumbling.

"I did say that, didn't I?" He nods, before seemingly snapping out of whatever trance he was in and pushing off the air hockey table. You stumble back a bit, but your grip on his shirt is enough to keep you upright as his arm tightens around your waist. "Easy, pretty. Need you in one piece for these photos." "And dinner!" You manage to stutter out, making him shake his head as he pulls you near the booth. The two of you see Soonyoung and his coworkers lounging around the cashier's booth, casually chattering while passing around a baby blue dab pen. Neither you nor Mingyu say anything, but neither does Soonyoung as he catches your eye – and he makes kissing faces at you. 

Enough that you stick your tongue out at him, the feeling of Mingyu's fingers sliding between yours is the only thing that brings you back to reality. The photobooth had been much bigger the last time you came here – or maybe Mingyu had been much smaller? He takes up over ¾ of the bench inside, and you scoff. "Where am I supposed to sit?" Mingyu glances up at you, shrugging as he pats his thigh. "Hop to." "Yeah right, Gyu. Make yourself smaller." "I'd make the booth bigger if I could, Y/N. Just not possible." He speaks as if he really cares that the two of you have outgrown the photobooth meant for children, shrugging his shoulders before patting his leg again. "C'mon, pretty." You sigh, making the mistake of looking over your shoulder at Soonyoung. He just smiles, wiggling his brows as he takes a rip from the pen before handing it to Minghao. Mingyu holds his hand out, and you take it to steady yourself before pulling the curtain closed (much to Soonyoung's dismay.) You barely perch on his leg, smoothing your skirt slightly when he snakes his arm around you and pulls you down on his thigh fully, scooting you up higher.

"Act like you know me, will you?" He teases, before his hand comes to sweep the hair out of your eyes. "Ready? Need lip gloss?" You grimace, crossing your arms as he tucks a stray curl behind your ear. "Did you just call me crusty?" 

"No, but I did find your lipgloss in my car. It's in my pocket, the MyMelody one?" He shrugs, pushing your hair back over your shoulder and looking into the camera. You hesitate, before holding your hand out. "Give it here." "Is that how you ask?" "Can I please have my lipgloss that I bought with my six dollars at Daiso? Pretty please, Kim Mingyu, football superstar and future architect of my home because I'm your best friend and you love me?" Your monotone voice makes him bite back his laughter, his hand sliding into his jean pocket with ease before pulling out your lip gloss. You eagerly snatch it out of his hand, screwing the top open and pressing the applicator to your lips in the camera.

If you looked just an inch to the left, you would've seen Mingyu admiring you.

"Ready now, Miss Diva?" He squeezes your hip lightly, and you smack your lips together before shoving the lipgloss in his jacket pocket and nodding.

"Yep! What pose? Smile first?" You press the camera button quickly, and he nods. You lean back a bit, your head pressed to his slightly as you both smile. The camera counts down from eight, and takes the picture as you feel your cheeks start to hurt. "Remember that photo your mom has of us? Where you're winking and I'm holding up a peace sign over your eye?" He reminisces fondly as the camera begins counting down, and you snort before nodding, humming an alright.

The two of you pose for the camera again, your chest warming at his kissy-face on the screen. The camera flashes, and you look back at him, only to see him already holding up half a heart sign with his hand. You meet it, smiling in the camera again – only to see him smiling up at you.

"Mingyu, look at the camera." You say through gritted teeth, and he does so almost reluctantly, resting his temple on your shoulder as he smiles softly. The camera flashes for the last time, and you hear the strips print on the outside. You uncross your legs, pulling the curtain open to see Minghao sweeping in front of the cashier's booth as Soonyoung crunches numbers over the calculator, a pencil in his hand quickly scribbling on his yellow legal pad. You duck out, grabbing the strips as Mingyu follows suit. You hold one up to him as you analyze yours, your heart slightly sinking at how much of a couple you guys look like. Tonguing your cheek, you run your thumb over Mingyu's face, before glancing up and seeing him looking down at you.

"Don't like them, huh?" He says defeatedly, and you shake your head quickly. "No, no! I love them." You say softly, before shrugging your shoulders a bit. "I guess it's just odd that we look so much like a couple. No wonder people think we're dating." He nods inwardly, tucking his strip into his back pocket before stuffing his hands into his jacket pocket. "Is that bad? To look like a couple, I mean?" "Considering that we've been best friends since I shoved you on the playground twenty something years ago? I'd say so." You state, and he snorts. You miss the way he tongues his cheek as he leads you over to Soonyoung and Minghao, who both smile slightly at you. "So? How was it, to have the entire arcade to yourself?" Minghao leans against the cashier's booth, his eyes slightly red from the dab pen. You roll your eyes with a smile as Soonyoung lifts your tote bag over the counter. "Glad you guys got paid to stand here. Kind of nice and calm when someone rents out the entire place, huh?" You wiggle your brows, tugging your tote over your shoulder and slipping your photo strip into it. 

Soonyoung nods, "It's nice to watch two idiots play a bunch of games that are rigged and somehow still win. I still have no idea how you understand those coin pushers." "Elementary, my dear boy!" You smile widely, and Mingyu taps the counter with a small smile. "Thanks, guys. I owe you one." He says softly, and both of the men behind the counter return the smile. Minghao follows closely behind as you both say your goodbyes, unlocking the door to a bunch of teenagers who are impatiently waiting with skateboards in their hands.

"Sorry, guys. We're closed." Minghao says as Mingyu instinctively grabs your hand, pulling you in front of him. You both worm out of the door as one of the teenagers scoffs.

"So dude and his girlfriend here can go in but we can't? Come on, we've been waiting for two hours!" The kid sneers, the group behind him making noises of agreement as you laugh inwardly. Minghao rolls his eyes, sighing as he calls over his shoulder for Soonyoung.

"You guys have a good night, okay?" He waves you off as Soonyoung pops up behind him, the two of you walking towards Mingyu's truck in the moonlight. Your shoes crunch a few leaves as you hear the gaggle of teenagers slip into the arcade, Soonyoung flicking the sign over to say OPEN as you make it to the car. "Thanks for tonight, Gyu. Even if I was a sore loser, I missed spending time with you like this." You admit softly as you both round the passenger side of the truck, his hand reaching for the handle with a shrug. "No big deal. I love hanging out with you, it's like number two on my hierarchy of needs. Second only to the absolute need to beat you at every game ever." He jerks the door open, offering his hand for support as you climb in. He smiles at you, "Still up for dinner? I really do want to try that new place, they have a drive-thru and we can stargaze or something." "Yeah, I'm down. I'll pay my share with the two coins you didn't scam me out of earlier." You roll your eyes as he only grins wider, shutting the door and rounding the car. You open the glove compartment again, fishing out Sade's Love Deluxe cassette as he jumps into his seat. He cranks the ignition without another word, buckling his seatbelt in as you trade the cassettes out. The ride is once more filled with comfortable silence aside from Sade's comforting voice seeping through the speakers. You find yourself sitting slightly closer to Mingyu than you had on the ride to the arcade, but it seems neither of you really care as he swiftly maneuvers the streets, pulling into the drive-thru for the new burger place everyone in your town had been raving about.

"What do they have?" You ask softly, unbuckling your seatbelt and leaning over Mingyu's lap. The attendant blinks at you, the warm smile on her face only deepening as Mingyu's hand hovers over your waist. "We have a really good swiss and mushroom burger if you'd like to try it? It comes with caramelized onions and the bun has garlic butter brushed on top! It can get super messy but it's borderline orgasmic." She nods her head, and you glance up at Mingyu, who is biting back his laughter at her animated persona. You roll your eyes, your hand resting on his knee as you shake your head.

"You still got those mints in the glove box?" You ask, making him snort as he looks over at the attendant. "Can we get two of those? Are your fries any good? Be honest." His hand splays across your hip, his thumb rubbing circles into the fabric of your skirt as you continue leaning into him. The attendant assures him that yes, our fries are great! "Care to add a milkshake? We often get couples like you guys asking for one to share, it's adorable." She beams, and you open your mouth to speak before Mingyu talks over you.

"Do you want one?" His fingers squeeze your hip, and you can't find any words so you just nod dumbly, the attendant rattling off flavors when Mingyu speaks again. "Vanilla is fine, she's one of those people that dips her fries in it." "You guys are so cute!" You can't bring yourself to say anything, and you feel your cheeks heat as Mingyu clears his throat and mumbles a thank you before fishing his wallet out to pay the girl. She bids the two of you a good night before sending you down the drive-thru, and you can't move from your spot damn near on top of Mingyu.

"I'm sorry if she made you uncomfortable by saying that." He murmurs, and you shake your head slightly, squeezing his knee. "Nah, don't worry about it. It was kinda cute, she seemed really excited about it." You force a laugh, before feeling Mingyu pat your hip. 

"It's okay, Y/N. You don't have to pretend like you're okay with it. We're friends, yeah? That's all we'll ever be." You don't know why your chest tightens at the words that fall from his lips, but you only hum in response as you slink away from him. His hand on your hip brushes across your back as you make it to the window, another attendant smiling brightly as she hands your food out. "You guys are so cute! Date night?" "Ah, we're not together." Mingyu replies quickly, and you nod as the girl gives you a glance. A hint of something, maybe pity, in her eyes. It makes your stomach turn as you take the bag of hot food from Mingyu.

"You should be." She hands Mingyu the milkshake for you, and you take it from him as you give her a sad smile in return. She bids you both a good night, and Mingyu repeats it as you steal a fry from the bag and wave. He drives back into the street as you sneak another, before he glances at you.

"Yah! If you're going to sneak fries, at least do it with your seatbelt on!" He swats at you, crumpling the bag shut as you reach for the seatbelt and tug it on. You reach for the bag again as you click it in place, offering him one as he makes a left turn. He takes it between his teeth, the music playing softly as he speaks again. "There's a cliff that oversees the city. It's lowkey haunted but I like it a lot. Wonwoo found it sophomore year when he and Hansol got too high, he called me telling me he felt like he was going to fall off the Earth." You laugh, nodding along. "I remember, because you practically banged my door down trying to get Hansol inside when you've always had a key." "I couldn't find it! And it was three in the morning after the semi-finals, I was so tired I'm not even sure how I drove around for so long looking for them." He shakes his head, taking another turn before the road becomes carved dirt and gravel. He does a u-turn, parking on the cliff so the bed of the truck is facing the overview of the city. You snag one last fry before Mingyu rolls his eyes, turning the truck off with a sigh, before glancing over at you.

"C'mon, let's go sit." The two of you climb out of his side of the car, his hands carefully grasping your hips to help you down. He grabs the milkshake for you as you plop the bag of food into the bed of the truck, before climbing into it by nestling your foot on the tire and swinging your leg over the wheel arch panel. You stretch as he does the same, when you hear the thwip of him shaking off the blanket the two of you kept back here for nights like this. You fluff one of the odd cushions thrown in from random thrift store stops, waiting as Mingyu spreads the blanket across the metal of the bed before throwing the cushion down.

"Sit." He says, popping his old cooler and fishing out a bottle of water. "In case you choke." "You wish I would, don't you? You'd get all my belongings." You roll your eyes, taking the lid off the milkshake and resting it on the wheel arch panel. The two of you dig through the bag in silence, and you unwrap the wax paper from the thickest, greasiest burger you'd ever seen. You inhale deeply, your head lightly hitting the rear window as you sink your teeth into it.

"Holy shit." You groan, your eyes fluttering shut as you chew around thick mushroom bits, the sweetness of the onions coating your tongue as you look over at Mingyu – who is just shaking his head with a grin as he unwraps his own.

"Good?" "Fucking amazing, Gyu."

He seemingly agrees, a noise similar to a moan erupting from his throat as he sinks his teeth into the burger. You smile to yourself, fishing a fry out of the bag as he crosses his ankles. Neither of you say anything as you eat, and you wind up moving the milkshake between the two of you when he gestures one of his fries towards it, the last bite of his burger stuffed into his cheek. "I have a question." He speaks and you grimace.

"Swallow that first."

He rolls his eyes, doing as you say before turning back to face you. You reach out to his face with a napkin in your hand, wiping at the corner of his lip before shoveling the last of your burger into your mouth. "Why not me?" He asks, resting his head on the rearview window, and you stop chewing almost abruptly. You cough around your food, forcing yourself to swallow and take a sip of the water bottle he gave you. "What?" "I mean, it would work, wouldn't it? We've been friends since we were kids. I've seen you in almost every stage of life. We hang out constantly, we're like chopsticks. I'm never seen without you, and vice versa. So, why not me?" He shrugs, and you gape slightly.

"Mingyu, I don't think you're thinking very straight right now. I mean, again, we've been friends our entire lives. Why would we risk ruining that?" You mumble, not looking at him as he sighs.

"Is it ruining it? Are you saying you've never thought about it? The comments don't get to you?"

You look up to see him already staring at you, a quizzical look on his features as he scans you. He seems…tired. Mingyu never looks tired.

"I…Mingyu, I don't know. I guess? I mean…it's weird, isn't it? You've literally held my hair when I've thrown up. You've seen me so drunk I've done cartwheels down the street barefoot." You run a hand through your hair, a humorless laugh slipping through his lips before he sighs.

"I've also seen you graduate high school with me. I've seen you grow up, every single birthday I've been right there. I've stuck by your side my entire life, and that's never been out of anything but love for you. Whether or not it remains platonic is up to you." He looks away, looking up at the moon before clicking his tongue. "I've been in love with you for six years now." 

You swear the entire world stops spinning at that moment. No cicadas chirping, no birds flying, hell, even you've stopped breathing. He keeps talking.

"It sounds like bullshit, especially when I've dated other girls. I guess a part of me thought that if I diverted from the feelings, if I ignored them and tried to redirect them, they'd go away. It was definitely a stupid thing to do, because I've hurt people along the way. I should've been honest from the beginning, maybe your direct rejection would've made getting over you easier and things would be different now." He shrugs, and you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. He glances at you, "You should take that." You pull it out, seeing Hansol's contact flashing across the screen. Groaning, you answer it and put it on speaker.

"What, Sol?" "Damn, my bad. I heard from a little bird that you went on a date with Mingyu."

Your eyes widen, and Mingyu runs his tongue over his teeth as he shakes his head. He scoffs, and you open your mouth to speak when your roommate pipes up again.

"Have you told him you're in love with him yet?"  His head snaps up, and you groan, squeezing your eyes shut when Hansol speaks again. "Hello? Did you tell him yet or not, Y/N?"

"You just did, Sol. Fuck, I'll see you later." You don't wait for him to respond before you hang up, carelessly tossing the phone across the bed of the truck as you rub your face with your hands. You bring your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them and leaning your head back against the window. He hums. "How long?" 

You sigh, nibbling on your lip as you peer at him through your lashes. He doesn't smile, doesn't offer you any comfort in his face as you rake your eyes over his features. Strong brows, soft eyes that have never held anything but support and love for you. Pink lips that spread over that perfect set of teeth every time he saw you, pink lips that mocked you and taunted you.

"Unless it's not true." He shrugs, tossing the trash from dinner into the bag it came in. You don't say anything as he moves it from between the two of you, opting to turn to face you. He crossed his legs, resting his hands in his lap. "I think a part of me always knew." You mumble, and he nods. His eyes are patient, thumbs twiddling in his lap as you sigh. "Yeah. I always knew, I just didn't want to come to terms with it. That's why Daewon and I broke up, you know." "Fuck that guy, he sucked anyway. And he's a ball hog, he can't fucking pass to save his life." Mingyu scoffs, making you smile inwardly. "Yeah, he does suck. But he was there, and he was a good distraction. We're both guilty in that sense, you and I. Something about hurting people along the way." You pull at a loose thread in the blanket, and Mingyu hums.

"We don't have to do anything about it if you don't want to." You peer at him through your lashes, tapping your foot lightly. "You don't?" He sighs, shrugging his jacket off to stretch his arms over his head. You follow the movement, your eyes glued to the muscle of his arms being pulled taut under his t-shirt. He leans his head back on the rear window, and you will yourself to scoot closer. He glances down at you, eyes full of defeat.

"Why didn't you tell me?" "Why didn't you?" "Touché." He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a mint. He holds it out to you, and you take it gently as he takes another out for himself. He doesn't say anything as he unwraps it, but you attempt to make a joke anyway.

"Telling me my breath stinks, aren't you?" He snorts as you pop the mint into your mouth, and lean your head on his shoulder.

"So does mine, so I guess we're even. Plus, you asked if I still had mints." You chuckle as he reaches for your water bottle, taking a sip before he sighs again.

"So, what now? We just live with it?"

You put your chin on his shoulder silently, looking at him as he turns to face you. You don't miss how his eyes flicker to your lips, before he speaks again. "What if it doesn't work? What if–" "I don't plan for the negative parts of life." You interrupt, switching the mint from side to side. "And I don't know why you're even allowing it to seep in, that's not like you." He scoffs as his cheeks turn pink, your hand reaching for his jacket. You pull it off his lap, wrapping it around your shoulders as you swing your leg over his thighs. His hands dart to your waist to steady you, and you sit comfortably on his lap. Resting your head on his chest, you hum.

"Why tonight?" His hands wrap around you, pulling you slightly higher on his lap as he sighs. You look up at him, the blush on his cheeks only deepening as he looks away. "You have to promise me you won't laugh."

You snort, making him huff as you let the jacket slide down your shoulders, bunching around your hips. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you coo at the pout on his lips before nodding. "I promise."

"I was jealous." He mutters, and your fingers card through the hair at the nape of his neck. "I was jealous and it was impulsive but I don't regret it. I would blow any amount of money if it meant I get to spend time with you like this. I'd sell my soul if I had to." "Jealous? Of what?" He huffs, not meeting your eyes until you slide your hand onto his jaw, your thumb stroking his cheek gently. "C'mon, Kim. Tell me." "Don't call me that." He grumbles, and you can't bite back your smile as his eyes continue to avoid yours.

"What do I call you? Mingyu? Gyu? Baby?" You're taunting him, your hands holding his face in place as you brush your nose to his. "Mine?" His eyes flicker up to yours, the pout deeper still. "Yeah. That one." "Mine?" "Yours." "Maybe. Spill your beans, first." You pinch his cheek, making him roll his eyes.

"You said you were going to write the Spotlight of the Season for Chan." He murmurs into his chest, and you bite back the beginning of a laugh that starts to bubble up when he pouts. "I want you to spend time with me. You have to interview for hours for those pieces and that means he can make you laugh and smile and have your attention. I don't like it." The laughter you once felt in your belly dissipates, Mingyu's arms tight around your waist as you cup his face in your hands. He looks up at you, eyes wide and slightly watery as you swipe your thumbs under them.

"Mingyu, I spend all of my free time with you." "It's not enough. I need to live in your skin." "That's terrifying?" You snorted, letting out a short laugh as Mingyu buried his face in your neck.

"You said you wouldn't laugh." He whines, his lips brushing against your skin. You try not to jolt in his lap, his arms only tightening around your waist. "Stop laughing!" "I'm not, I'm not laughing! I promise." You pat his shoulder, before pulling his head back by his hair. "That's actually really cute. A little scary, the bit about living in my skin, but I understand."

His eyes scan your face, trying to find a hit of deceit. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. "Breath check." "Y/N–" "Nope, we've been doing this since we were teenagers. Does my breath stink?" He rolls his eyes, "No, Y/N. It doesn't."

You nod, before brushing your lips against his. His eyes widen, and he's pulling your hips flush to his as you smile. "No, no, no. Please kiss me, please." "So cute." You mumble, pressing your lips to his. He whimpers softly, the grip on your hips bruising as he kisses you back, his lips perfect and soft and addicting against yours. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you nip at his lower lip, a low groan from his chest as you slip your tongue into his mouth. You melded together perfectly, his every breath matched yours, the taste of the mint coating your tongue mixed with something just so Mingyu.

His warmth, his attention to detail. The way he teases you so lovingly, the way his hands make you feel like you're on fire even with the most innocent of touches. His soft sounds pouring into your mouth like honey, the way you can feel how hard he's trying to hold himself back from melting into you until he's had his fill.

And you hope he never does get his fill.

"Wait, wait."

Mingyu fights himself to pull away from your lips, and you can feel his heart thundering in his chest as he pushes you away. He looks a bit dazed, his thumb reaching to wipe the corner of your mouth from leftover lipgloss. You feel a bit of worry settle in your stomach, your hands moving to rest on his stomach as you nibble on your lip.

"Sorry, was that too much? I'm–" "No, no. You're…you're perfect. I'm just…" He trips over his words, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against your chest. "I don't want to ruin this before it's even started." You actually laugh this time, running your fingers through his hair and pulling him away from you. "Bro, you could never ruin this. I'll always want you, Gyu." "First of all, don't call me bro ever again. I will cry." He furrows his brows, pushing your shoulder lightly. You stick your tongue out at him, before pressing a kiss to his forehead. He pouts, bringing your face closer to his before kissing your lips gently, feeling you smile into it as you nip at his lip.

"Second of all?" You murmur, and he blinks, pushing you back slightly.

Mingyu huffs, his fingers dancing across your bare thighs before he yanks your skirt down slightly. "It's late. Hansol is probably wondering where you are." "He's not my father, you know." "He's your roommate, it's courtesy."

"So…you're not going to take me back to your apartment tonight?" Your voice is soft, and Mingyu's eyes widen as you tug at the collar of his shirt. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out as your fingers move to tug the hem of his shirt out from under his jeans. His cheeks flush in the moonlight as he allows you to untuck his shirt, your fingers slipping under the soft fabric and tugging at his belt. 

"Y/N." "Just wanna see. Wanna feel you."

He rolls his eyes, his cheeks beet red as he lets you slip your hands up his shirt. You don't miss the way he shudders lightly as your fingers ghost over his skin. Pushing the fabric up, your eyes take in the expanse of his softly chiseled stomach, the dip between his pecs. You lean forward slightly, pressing your lips to the warm skin above his heart, earning a soft groan from Mingyu's throat.

"You're quite the temptress, you know." He murmurs, his hand moving to swipe your hair out of your face. You lean into his touch as he holds your face softly, his thumb toying with your bottom lip. You kiss it chastely, before he leans forward, capturing your lips with his.

His arm wraps around your waist as his hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place as he kisses you how he likes – slow, passionate, sloppy as he pushes your chest against his. Your arms wrap around his shoulders again, absently rolling your hips against his. Mingyu whines right into your mouth, only fueling the fire in the pit of your belly. 

"Y/N." He sighs against your lips, but it comes out more breathy than it usually would. You don't respond, kissing him as his fingers push the hem of your skirt up further and further up your thighs. You can feel your underwear start sticking to you uncomfortably as his hands circle your thighs, pushing you harder against his growing bulge before he suddenly pulls back from your lips. "We're in public. We could get caught." "Star football player caught fornicating with his girlfriend on Lovers' Peak. More at eleven." Mingyu scoffs, pinching your thigh playfully. "Girlfriend, huh?" "I don't kiss my friends, Mingyu." You say pointedly, before gesturing at his hands high on your thighs. "I also don't let my friends take my clothes off." He sighs, "You could at least let me ask you. You're half naked on my lap and we're not even in the privacy of my bedroom." "Then take me home, Mingyu." You roll your eyes, tugging on his shirt. "Take me home and we can figure this all out there." He eyes you, making your own give him an expectant look. 

"Will you spend the night?" "Yes." "Will I have to kick Wonwoo out?" "Yes."

You huff, tapping the watch on your wrist. You move to get up, but his hands on your thighs move to hold your hips, pulling you closer to him. Your hands grab his shoulders for balance, and he looks up at you with a shy smile on his lips. "Will you be my girlfriend? Please?" You grin, "Star Football player becomes an Omega on Lo-" "Nevermind." "No! Wait, please. I'll be your girlfriend, I will."

You kiss Mingyu before he can refute it, feeling his pout against your lips.

"Kiss me back, you twerp." "You called me an omega." "Would it be better if I said you're my omega?" You wiggle your eyebrows, and he scoffs, lightly smacking the outside of your thigh. From the blush on his cheeks, you can tell all is forgiven – but it doesn't stop you from kissing his cheek softly. "Take me home, baby."

"Y/N, I SAID I WAS SORRY. CAN'T YOU TELL HOW SORRY I AM?"

"You outed me to the love of my life." You mutter as you stuff your laptop back into your tote.

The weekend had passed, and you and Mingyu didn't have to worry about kicking Wonwoo out of the apartment – he'd actually gone on a date that night and spent the weekend at her apartment. Hansol obviously didn't question when you got home the next afternoon, but had been surprised at the deep frown on your face and how you avoided him through Monday afternoon.

"You're telling me Mingyu didn't feel the same?" Hansol's jaw dropped as you tongued your cheek, even bringing forth some tears. "No, Hansol." You grumbled, shoving your Spotlight of the Season paperwork into his hands. Hansol has a guilty look in his eyes as he groans.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

Hansol is pouting as you finish packing up your bag, trying your hardest to bite back your laughter. You glance over your shoulder to see him unwrapping a lollipop and shoving it in his mouth before opening his laptop. Smirking to yourself, you make your best attempt as a discontented sigh, shoving your bag over your shoulder.

“You’ll get my rec letter in, right?” “Yes.” “And you’ll proofread my column by tonight?”

“That means taking this home, you know how I feel about that.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the blank cover page of your paperwork. You give him a pointed look as you cross your arms over your chest.

“You take it home and do it, or I’m telling the landlord that it’s not actually our neighbor smoking all that weed.” You scoff, and he sighs.

“Bunny, I said I was sorry! How was I supposed to know he’d react that way? I mean, the guy is practically all over you anyway!” Hansol huffs, and you’re opening your mouth to speak when you hear someone clear their throat in the doorway of the office.

Hansol winces, and you glance over your shoulder to see Mingyu leaning against the doorframe. He’s wearing a tight, white shirt and your favorite black jeans on him, with a watch you gave him a few years ago as a high school graduation gift. His letterman is flung over his shoulder and he’s spinning a football in his other hand.

He raises his brow at the silent scene, watching as you skirt around the desk and yank open the drawer, stealing two lollipops. Hansol doesn’t even argue, just sighs as he cowers behind his laptop.

“Should I be concerned?” Mingyu asks you as you near him, and you shake your head as you hold a lollipop out to him. Hansol is peering over the top of his laptop as a confused Mingyu presses a kiss to your hairline — but it’s not enough to make him suspicious about the weekend itinerary.

“I want my column reviewed by the time I get home, Hansol.” “Y/N, this is agony. At this rate, you’ll be home before I am!” “Now you know how I felt! Get to it!”

Mingyu snorts, shaking his head as you skirt out of the office. He bids a gentle goodbye to the younger man, who only sighs in response.

“You’re awful to that kid, you know.”

You smile as you wrap your hand around his bicep, unwrapping your lollipop as you shrug. “He taunted me with my recommendation letter! He said if I didn't confess to you in seventy-two hours, he wasn’t going to send my letter and I’d miss my opportunity at a great internship, Gyu.”

“So you should be thanking him, because technically you haven’t confessed shit.”

“I’m your girlfriend, I think that's enough of a confession.”

“Mmh.” He nods, biting back his smile as he slides his hand into yours, squeezing softly. “What do you wanna do? Practice was canceled, I have no upcoming projects. Wonwoo’s asleep on the couch at home, though, so my place is off the table.”

You glance up at him, huffing out a laugh as you shake your head. 

“What makes you think I’m free?”

“It’s a Monday afternoon. You usually con me into buying you dinner, we eat in your bedroom. We watch movies before you kick me out because you say I snore.”

“Actually it’s because you sleep shirtless, and I was a wimp back then.”

Mingyu laughs heartily, letting go of your hand to ruffle your hair. You swat at his hand, scoffing as he wraps it around your shoulders and pulls you closer to him. You rest your head on the side of his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist as you look up at him.

“My place is free.”

“Mmh, maybe you can read me the Spotlight of The Season column you wrote about that guy.”

“Oh, that guy? You mean Kim Mingyu? God, that guy is so cool. Did you know he has omega eyes?” You feign excitement as you taunt him, making him roll his eyes and pinch your cheek.

“Tell me you didn’t put that in the column.”

“Are you crazy? Why would I expose my hot, sexy, cool boyfriend for being a down-bad simp? That’s just not fair to me, they already want you.”

“Yeah, well.” He sighs, his thumb gently stroking your cheek as the parking lot comes into view, his old truck shining in the setting sun. “I only want you.”

You don’t respond, feeling your cheeks warm as you make your way to the parking lot. He opens your door as he usually does, but lingers as you climb up and put on your seatbelt. He gingerly takes the lollipop from your lips, making you roll your eyes as he silently asks for a kiss. You give in, you’re sure you always will give in to those puppy eyes and pouty lips — when he pulls away and steals your lollipop.

“Easy.” He smiles as he shuts your door, leaving you to sulk into your seat as he rounds the car. He hops into the driver’s seat, your green apple lollipop lodged between his lips as he cranks the ignition.

“Read the column, I want to know what you chose to put in.” He speaks again as he pulls out of his spot, and you snicker to yourself as you pull your phone out.

“You sure?”

“Positive.” 

You begin to read it calmly, ignoring the incessant buzzing of Hansol’s flooding messages.

NEW! Msg From: Sol ☀️👽 [4:32PM] dude [4:32PM] ur such a liar [4:33PM] i would say i hate u but im happy for u bro [4:34PM] i’m omw home tho 

Msg To: Sol ☀️👽 [4:35PM] find somewhere else to go 🫶🏼

NEW! Msg From: Sol ☀️👽 [4:36PM] bro

SPOTLIGHT OF THE SEASON — NO. 97, KIM MINGYU. BY Y/N Y/L/N.  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 10. 8-MINUTE READ | UPDATED: 5:39PM.

Author’s Note: Typically, I reserve the interview questions and responses for myself. However, I’ve decided to share this snippet in order to settle some rumors and ruffle a few feathers. I have also made this column a bit more personal, with the permission of my editor.

No. 97 on the field but No.1 in my heart — I love you, Kim Mingyu.

——————————————————————————————————

— INTERVIEW #53 —

Y: This is Y/N, starting Interview No.53 for Kim Mingyu, Spotlight column. Testing, one, two. KMG: Letting you know right now, I have to pee.

— INTERIM BREAK — 

— INTERVIEW #54 —

Y: This is Y/N, starting Interview No.54 for Kim Mingyu, Spotlight column. Testing, one, two. KMG: [laughter] Y: Hello, Kim Mingyu. Welcome back to the Hawk Review Committee. KMG: Has the interview part always been this awkward? Y: Suddenly I’m your girlfriend and you forget how to talk to me? KMG: Babe, don’t put that in. We have to hard-launch before it gets published on Friday. Y: Honey. I love you. KMG: Okay, just a little snippet. Y: [laughter] Okay. Can I at least make those cheesy puns football girlfriends make? KMG: [laughter] Your world, baby. I’m just living in it. I love you.

KIM MINGYU has long been the subject of my articles. Long-winded columns full of my affections, hidden behind words far too long to be understood by the average mind. A lot of readers would call it hyperbole, would call it ‘purple prose’, but I consider my pieces about Mingyu to be the most authentic works I’ve ever written. There is something about enjoying the information I am spreading — to talk about somebody I care about, to air his successes and see other people enjoy who he is. To walk around campus and understand that though Mingyu may be my best friend, he is also a friend to others. He is a helping hand, he is smart and thoughtful. 

In his college career, Kim Mingyu has made incredible Hawk history. He is the only quarterback to not be injured during a single game, and he and the Seoul Hawks are taking home the championship trophy come Saturday night. Be sure to buy your tickets from Jimin and Jungkook!

Kim Mingyu has been an inspiration to many, including myself. Take Apartment of A Lonely Soul: being displayed at the Museum of Arts, his piece has contributed to ending the stigma of allowing self-doubt to wallow in the mind and finding comfort in being alone and making decisions that may not seem feasible. I remember when I nervously asked him if he had submitted it to be displayed in the gallery — without a second thought, he replied: Why wouldn't I? 

Kim Mingyu's unshakeable confidence has always brought comfort to others. He has time and time again shown that he is reliable, a pillar in our community. He has shown up for me countless of times — whether it is to soothe my damaged ego or celebrate my milestones, he is always there for those he cares about. 

His mistakes are also something he takes in stride. He can admit when he is wrong and when he needs help — he’s come to my apartment for study nights that have left his head spinning. He called me when his car battery died on him last spring, and I walked six miles with our friends and jumper cables to wave down some random on the road. I remember how he made our friends sit in the bed of the truck, but sat me right next to him in the cab.

In tune with confidence, he wears his intelligence and care with pride. A true team player, a student that sets the standard and wonderful friend: there will never be another Kim Mingyu.

haologram © 2025 || no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Watch my 9mm go BANG!

Tags: Caleb x fem!Reader, smut, gun play, dead dove, caleb is a walking red flag in this one, the gun goes WHERE???

An: So um… I’m obsessed with him, and I sincerely apologize for writing this.

No, you’re absolutely right. Sylus would never fuck you with his gun. He cherishes you, worships your body as if you’re a goddess who fell into his lap. He’s too weary of accidentally hurting you. He couldn’t fathom shoving an object of war inside your pretty little pussy, the most safest of places that he knows. It’s a blasphemous thought really.

but you know who would do that…

“C-caleb, th-that… oh my god… what are you doing-? Mmph! Shit,” you gasp and pant, looking down between your legs to marvel at the black weapon adorned with silver attachments sliding through your slick folds.

Caleb’s lilac eyes are on you, watching you from between your knees, and he has a satisfied smirk on his face as he watches the confusion, fear, and arousal take precedent on your face.

This type of debauchery is only something you could take part in with someone you trust with your whole life. Caleb already knows all your secrets… What’s one more sick kink to add to his arsenal of blackmail?

“What’s the matter, pipsqueak? This is only such a small step up from my hand.” He taunts, raising his robotic arm up to give you a teasing wave.

His other hand is carefully dragging the handgun up and down, watching as you coat his gun in the most beautiful of shine. Truthfully, he’s considering doing this with all of his guns. He needs his pretty girl to christen all of his weapons. You know… for luck.

“Ah-!” you gasp and tense as you feel him aim the weapon right at your small bundle of nerves, applying a small amount of pressure before he skillfully maneuvers the gun in small circles.

Your hands are fisting at the sheets, slightly pulling at them as you try to take your mind off of what’s happening to you. He’s using a gun to bring you to the edge, and the worst part was you’ve never been this close to finishing so quickly before.

Your stomach tightens, and you’re on the cusp. Your legs try to clamp around Caleb’s arm and the gun, but his other hand presses to your knee and forces you to keep your legs open.

“Tsk. Come on. Let me see~ I wanna see you unravel on my gun,” his eyes are glimmering with mischief and perversion as he applies more pressure, and he flicks his wrist in tighter circles, pinpointing your pleasure center down with such ease.

“Fuck-! Caleb… I-“ you can’t even get the words out before you feel your body snap like a bowstring. Your pleasure ripples through your body in waves as your walls clench around nothing.

“What a pretty sight,” he murmurs proudly as he finally relieves some of the pressure. “I wanna see it happen again,” he proclaims, sliding the gun further down towards your entrance.

“Wait- You can’t be serious, C-caleb,” you choke out, squirming backwards on the bed away from the handgun being pointed towards your very core.

“Dead serious, pipsqueak,” he affirms as he gives you that cold gaze he’s mastered since becoming a colonel. “What? Don’t you trust me?”

He flips the gun upside down, tilting the handle towards your clit as the muzzle plugs your entrance.

Your body vibrates with anticipation, and you find yourself stilling for him. Some deep depraved part of you is just as enticed as it is repulsed.

“Look at you being such a good girl,” he purrs, pressing a kiss to the inner part of your knee before he slides the barrel of the gun inside you.

“O-oh!” you gasp, arching your back off the bed as you squeeze your eyes closed. The metal isn’t very cold anymore, and it’s adequately lubed with your arousal from earlier.

“Shh, shh.” he whispers as his hands slowly work the gun further inside you. His eyes are enamored with the sight of your puffy folds, happily swallowing his gun like the needy slut you are. “Feels good to let go, don’t it?”

You’re too focused on the feeling of his gun slowly sliding in and out of you. Your warm walls hug around the barrel. You’re completely baffled at how you’re getting so turned on from this. You should be scared out of your mind, but instead, your hips are rolling, trying to seek out more stimulation from the weapon.

“Sooo eager. God, you’re so beautiful,” his voice is husky as he whispers. He can feel the strain in his pants from his erection, but he’s not looking to relieve himself. This is all about you.

He tilts the handle of the gun upwards, pressing the butt of the handle against your small bundle of nerves. The angle of the gun making it possible to stimulate twice as much.

“Oh my— shit, Caleb!” you’re stumbling over words as your cunt flutters around the gun. You’re already close again.

“That’s right, pretty. Cum on my fucking gun. Come on. Give it to me,” he demands, gripping the gun tightly with one hand as he’s pumping it in and out quicker. The sound of metal clicking and squelching echoes in the room.

His face is twisted in pure concentration, and his muscles flex with each time he moves the gun inside you. His chain bouncing around his neck as he works you down.

Your body goes taut, and you lift your hips up off the bed. Your slick is gathered beneath you onto the sheets. You’re dripping.

Your ears begin to ring, and you shout his name as you squeeze around his gun. His hands become more methodical, pumping the gun leisurely with his hand.

You can hear him let out a low growl as he watches your pussy constrict. You’re such a pitiful thing — trying to milk his gun as if it could even give you anything.

You’re gasping for air as he slowly pulls the gun out of you. Its shiny metal was glistening in your slick. Caleb smirks to himself, knowing that every time he cleans it, he’s going to have to plunge it into you again.

“Messy girl,” he grins as he admires his weapon. He then slowly brings it up to his lips before his tongue lulls out, and he licks your juices straight off of his gun, savoring your taste.

“You’re sick,” you pant, unable to tear your eyes away from the downright pornographic sight.

“Says the one who just came on my gun like a psychopath.”