#that color looks way too close to a bleach gone wrong on black hair and he just made it his brand for the rest of high school

[paperultra]

THE FIVE NONSENSES

[ SOULMATE!AU ] Pairing: Miya Osamu x Fem!Reader x Miya Atsumu Summary: Like most people, you do not meet the Miya twins so much as they are thrust upon you. Unlike most people, you are thrust upon them as well. read on ao3 | read on quotev

CHAPTER THREE: SMELL Word Count: 8,205 words Warnings: Swearing

“Hey, you! Join the photography club!”

You narrowly dodge the flyer thrust in front of your face, knocking back into someone in the process. Flustered, you move in the opposite direction, only to knock shoulders with another student walking the other way. Both of your apologies get lost in the noise.

“Join the basketball team! Winter Cup finalists two years in a row!”

“Improve your focus in calligraphy club!”

“Join kyudo club!”

“Join marching band!”

With a small huff, you grab the strap of Osamu’s schoolbag and squeeze through the crowd. Osamu looks over his shoulder at you, and you meet his raised eyebrow with a grimace; not long after, a hand presses between your shoulder blades to usher you forward.

“Dammit,” Atsumu grumbles, digging his phone out of his pocket. “Where’s the volleyball club?”

“Hell if I know,” Osamu says. “Call Aran.”

“’S what I’m doin’, dumbass.” Punching a few buttons, the other boy presses his phone against his ear with visible impatience. “Aran!” Your cheeks burn with embarrassment as Atsumu’s voice carries high over the clamor surrounding you, causing several students to swivel their heads. “Where the hell’s the volleyball club? … Class 1-7? Seriously?”

Hanging up without so much as a thank-you, Atsumu quickens his stride down the congested hallway. Osamu follows suit, and you end up seizing the back of his blazer as the three of you head to Class 1-7, evading arms and signs and flyers the entire way.

Having visited the school before to watch Ojiro play, you had known that Inarizaki High School is big; navigating it as a student on the first day of school, however, is a whole different animal. You hadn’t realized it was this big. Or this crowded. After a year of being large fish in a small pond, you now find yourselves in an ocean.

At least you have the twins to rough it with.

(It should be noted that your thankfulness varies wildly from hour to hour.)

Near the entrance to Class 1-7, you spot Ojiro wielding a bright sign advertising the volleyball club. He easily stands head and shoulders above most of the other students, and the sight of a familiar face helps you relax – even though you’d just seen him at graduation a few weeks ago, he somehow looks older here, comfortable and self-assured in the raucous halls of Inarizaki.

“Yo! Aran!” Osamu and Atsumu call out, running up to the second-year. You, still holding onto Osamu’s blazer, are unceremoniously yanked along.

Ojiro perks up and grins widely when you all reach him, freeing one hand to bump fists with the twins. “’Bout time you guys showed up. Thought ya chickened out or somethin’,” he exclaims, then nods at you with a grin. “Good to see you here too, [L/n]-chan.”

You smile back. “Hi, Ojiro-senpai.”

(Of all the people the twins consider friends, which have always been rather scant in number, you like Ojiro Aran the best.)

“Chickened out?” Atsumu scoffs. “No way. You scrubs are gonna need us if ya wanna win nationals this year.”

A laugh bursts out of Ojiro’s chest. “Don’t ya think you’re gettin’ a little ahead of yerself?”

“Yeah, well, what’s new?” Osamu pipes up. He elbows his brother’s side, jabbing a thumb at the doorway when the latter chokes up and glares. “Hurry yer ass up, ‘Tsumu, we haven’t even signed up yet.”

You cough. Ojiro laughs again, leading the three of you into the classroom.

There’s a ton of students already inside when you enter. In one corner of the room is the girls’ volleyball club, and in the other is the boys’, though many are mingling and wandering around to chat. A few are upperclassmen wearing the Inarizaki volleyball team’s jacket – the rest, you assume, are first-years hoping for a chance to join.

It’s not surprising for a school that’s gone to the Spring Tournament almost thirty times. Most of these applicants will be benched for their entire high school career.

Following Ojiro to the desk for the boys’ volleyball club, you encounter the two people sitting behind it.

“Arata-senpai, Kobayashi-senpai,” Ojiro announces, clapping one hand on Osamu’s shoulder and the other on Atsumu’s, “got a package deal for ya.”

The first thing you notice about Arata is how tall he is when he’s sitting down. Then he slowly stands up, and your eyes widen as he keeps going and going, finally stopping about half a head taller than Ojiro.

Arata breathes in, vulpine eyes narrowing, before he slams his hands down on the desk with a loud thwap.

“If it ain’t the Miya twins!” he chirps, voice much peppier than expected, and you choke back a surprised laugh. “I watched yer match last year at nationals. You two think ya have what it takes to be part of a powerhouse?”

“Why talk big when we can just show ya, senpai?” Atsumu says, as if he hadn’t been gassing himself up to Ojiro moments before. He pulls out his signup sheet, already filled out in his usual large, messy print, and slides it over to the captain, leaning over the desk with one hand on his hip. “Got yers, ’Samu?”

“Yup.” Osamu slides his over as well, handwriting slightly neater.

Arata takes the sheets happily. Your gaze falls upon his hands by chance, and then it remains there, taking stock of the scribbles of purple and red decorating his skin.

Ojiro whistles. “Looks like yer soulmate’s havin’ fun with some gel pens,” he comments, pointing at Arata’s hands.

“Hm?” The other boy blinks and takes a moment to inspect the words curving below his knuckles. His brow furrows, and he squints before finally breaking out into a goofy smile. “Ah,” he says, and his voice takes on a distinctly fonder, dreamier tone, “guess they are. They’ve been practicin’ hiragana a lot lately. See? Pretty good, eh?” Arata stretches his hands out face-down, showing them off.

(You can barely read the characters.)

“Neat,” Atsumu says, though his tone has flattened just slightly.

“Right?” Arata doesn’t seem to notice. “We’re gonna finally see each other in person next summer after I graduate. They’re graduating high school this June in Spain …”

“He’s really excited,” Ojiro mutters to the three of you, “in case ya couldn’t tell.”

The volleyball captain’s cheeks turn an endearing shade of pink. “What’s wrong with that, huh, Ojiro? I’m gonna spend the rest of my life with them, so it’s a good sign I’m lookin’ forward to it.”

Next to you, Osamu shifts and shoves his hands into the pockets of his pants. You feel his elbow brush against your arm, bare skin separated by layers of fabric.

The rest of your life.

A strange feeling forms in the pit of your stomach. It’s the same kind you get whenever your parents ask about Osamu, and whenever you see couples wearing matching outfits at the mall – a feeling a little less than longing, and a little more than guilt. Like you ought to be doing more, saying more, expressing more. Feeling more.

You wonder what it is like to be Arata, infatuated, proudly flaunting the colors on his hands.

The girl sitting at the desk finally speaks up.

“I thought we were talkin’ about volleyball, not yer love life, Arata.”

Your gaze moves away from Arata’s wrists and onto the girl.

Still sitting, she and the captain paint a picture of a mouse and an elephant, her tiny form complemented by large, expressionless eyes and a small nose. The maroon jacket hanging off her shoulders looks one size too big.

And yet, when her gaze flicks over and meets yours, you’re overtaken by a sudden chill.

Scary.

Arata jumps and glances down at her. “O-Oh, right! Sorry, Kobayashi-chan, I guess I got carried away.”

“It’s fine.” Kobayashi continues to stare at you, and you start to feel slightly uncomfortable. “’S why I’m here.”

“Yeah!” Coughing, Arata rubs the back of his neck and turns his attention back to the twins. “Gettin’ back on track … if it isn’t obvious already, Kobayashi-chan is our manager. She’s real good. Real detailed.”

“But I’m also in my third year, which means we’re currently lookin’ for a new manager for next year,” Kobayashi supplies. “So if ya happen to know any first-years who’re qualified and willing to apply for the right reasons, please let me know.”

Your brow furrows at that.

“Whaddaya mean, ‘the right reasons’?” Osamu asks.

A sheepish laugh escapes Arata’s throat. “Well … the volleyball team’s pretty popular, so we get a lot of folks wantin’ to be manager just to get closer to the team and see if one of the members is their soulmate.” He sighs. “It’s not that I wanna keep any soulmates apart, but those kinds of applicants slow down the search, and obviously, we want a manager who actually wants to manage.”

Ah. Already, some of your peers already seem like they’re on a time crunch to find their person. Soulmates are getting to be a bigger and bigger deal as you get older, and with that comes certain expectations. It’s not hard to figure out why some would hope to have someone popular and athletic.

“Sorry, don’t know anybody like that,” Atsumu replies at the same time Ojiro says your name.

You look at your senior, surprised.

He directs a finger upwards. “Ya know volleyball pretty well,” he points out. “Wanna apply? You already manage the twins, after all.”

“Oi, what’s that s’posed to mean –”

Arata seems to finally notice you, eyebrows raising. “Oh! Sorry, didn’t see ya there,” he exclaims. “What’s yer name?”

Reluctantly, you step up next to Osamu and introduce yourself.

“[L/n]-chan. So ya know the twins?”

“I’ve lived on the same street as them since elementary school.”

“Really! Ya must know them well, then.”

“More than well,” says Kobayashi.

She points down at your hand. Arata follows her finger, and you resist the urge to curl your pinkie when his mouth drops.

“Oh, damn, you’re soulmates with – er, uh –”

Osamu and Atsumu just stand there, watching the captain flounder. After a few seconds, you reach up and tug Osamu’s earlobe sharply.

“Osamu,” you say, both as an answer and as a scolding, ignoring the muttered ‘ow’ coming from your right.

Clapping his hands, Arata nods. “You’re soulmates with Osamu-kun! Wow, that’s amazing. And you’ve been together since elementary school? He’d think and play better with you just bein’ there.”

You smile, embarrassed.

“That doesn’t make her the right candidate, Arata,” says Kobayashi. “Even if she really wants to manage the team, she might still prioritize Osamu-kun over everybody else. The last thing I want is a manager who picks favorites.”

She says it so bluntly, so seriously. Your smile weakens as her words hit a sore spot you didn’t know you even had.

There must be a good way to disagree. The two truths of the matter are that being a good manager would mean risking being a bad soulmate, and that being a good manager is a risk you can afford. Osamu isn’t the type of person who needs to be worried about. He gets scraped up, but he doesn’t mind it, and he knows his limits. If a player got hurt right as Osamu called you for something, you know you’d check on the other player first. Even if the other player was Atsumu. (Maybe.)

Osamu simply does not need you to take care of him. You don’t know how to express this without seeming like you don’t care as much as you should.

Atsumu cuts in before you can organize your thoughts into words.

“She wouldn’t,” he says, “unless it’s me. But ’Samu and I are soulmates, so we’re already at our best when we’re on the court.”

The upperclassmen before you tilt their heads simultaneously.

“… Wait,” Arata says after a while, slowly. “You’re tellin’ me that Osamu-kun has two soulmates?”

Osamu glances at you, eyes half-lidded, and you can only meet his eyes for a few seconds before you have to look at the ground.

“Guess I’m favored,” Osamu replies.

“Wow.” Huffing out a laugh, Arata crosses his arms. “Two soulmates … huh. I wonder how that works …” Kobayashi grunts and he clears his throat. “S-Sorry. Anyway, [L/n]-chan, if you’re interested in the manager position, just fill this out and give it to Kobayashi-chan. We’re taking applications until July first or until we find someone, whichever comes first.”

He hands you a sheet of paper, and you take it tentatively.

“My phone number’s at the top in case you have any questions,” Kobayashi adds. Her voice lowers, but its monotony remains. “And if ya end up applying, know that I won’t show any favoritism just because of yer soulmate.”

You take in a breath through your nose, fingers curling into the application in your hands. “Yeah, of course.”

She nods once, then leans back in her seat. The set of her mouth relaxes just slightly, and she crosses her arms, morphing from a cutthroat manager to a tired senpai.

“See ya after school. Good luck,” she says. Her eyes bore into yours. “To all of ya.”

There’s a moment of silent surprise between you, Osamu, and Atsumu. Then all three of you bow as Ojiro and Arata chuckle.

“Thank you!”

—

The twins, predictably, become one of three first-year regulars on Inarizaki’s boys’ volleyball team. You place your manager application in the top drawer of your desk, which you pull out frequently over the next three weeks just to stare at the blank form, unsure about the whole thing.

Saturday afternoon rolls around, and you’ve taken the paper out of your binder and set it on top of your desk at home when your phone buzzes.

Osamu: you home

You: yeah

Osamu: ok

And that’s it. You stare at your screen for a few seconds, unblinking, before you shoot up from your seat and scramble to your dresser to get changed.

Five minutes and a bit of haphazard cleaning later, there’s a few firm knocks on the front door, followed by incessant banging. You stalk over to open the door before it’s knocked off its hinges.

“I could hear you,” you tell Atsumu, unimpressed, as the two enter and shuck off their shoes.

“I know.”

He deftly dodges the kick you aim at his ankle. This usually happens nowadays, unfortunately, but it doesn’t stop you from trying.

“’S just you here?” Osamu asks, shuffling into some slippers and walking further into the house. His gym bag hangs from his shoulder, big and bulky, and you look at it curiously.

“… Yeah?”

“Fer someone left home alone all the time, you’re duller than a rock,” Atsumu says. “Folks’re gone and ya don’t even throw a party? Geez.”

You narrow your eyes as he grins. “Maybe I just want peace and quiet after havin’ to sit in class with you all week, Atsumu. Anyways, why are you guys here?”

You receive no answer. After eyeing the kitchen, Osamu turns and heads down the hallway, prompting you to follow. You’re further confused when he enters the bathroom and sets his bag on the countertop.

As he unzips it, Atsumu squeezes past you and reaches into the bag, pulling out a –

A shower cap.

“… Is the shower at yer place broken or something?”

“No,” Osamu says, and he pulls something else out. “Ma’s home.”

You stare at the box in his hands. Then you look back up at the twins.

“She’s gonna kill you.”

—

Watching Osamu and Atsumu bleach each other’s hair is like watching a train wreck in slow motion.

Their dark T-shirts have speckles of orange on them, there are bits of foil littering the sink and the bathroom floor, and the acrid stench of bleach filling the bathroom is starting to creep down the hallway. You can only hope it doesn’t linger past Sunday night when you go back to the dorms.

“If you screw this up, I’m shaving yer giant head in yer sleep.”

“I’m doin’ it better than you did, ya scrub!”

You stand outside, shirt collar pulled up and over your nose, as Atsumu finishes combing through the top part of Osamu’s hair. It’s an incredible thing to witness: Osamu sitting on the shower seat, hunched over and holding a sheet of foil over his undercut while Atsumu hangs over him, wearing one of the shower caps to keep his own hair out of the way. It’s also a disaster.

You lift your phone up to snap a quick picture.

“Oi! What’re ya doin’?”

“Making a present for Ojiro.” Upon viewing the photographic evidence, you realize something. “You’re not gonna tell Auntie that you dyed yer hair at my house, right?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Osamu assures, letting Atsumu hold onto the foil while he pulls on a shower cap. He sets a timer, and the two of them hurry out of the bathroom to escape the fumes. “She won’t be thinkin’ about the details when she finds out.”

“Like she’d ever blame ya, anyway.” Atsumu scoffs. “You’re the favorite and you ain’t even her kid.”

“Well, I don’t wanna take my chances.” You recall the countless number of times the twins had received a whooping for something stupid they did, and the countless number of times you had just barely managed to slip under the radar by keeping your mouth shut. “Y’know, she might make ya dye it black again if the school doesn’t like it.”

“Please. If anything, they’ll thank us fer givin’ them an easy way to tell us apart.”

“Is that why you’re dyein’ yer hair? You’re already in different classes.”

“It ain’t fer class,” Osamu says. “It’s fer volleyball.”

Atsumu presses his back against the wall and slides down to the floor, pulling up a game on his phone. “Some of the scrubs still can’t tell us apart on court,” he sniffs. “’M tired of it.”

That, you think, makes a lot more sense.

Osamu and Atsumu have always taken full advantage of being identical twins. You’ve seen them pull just about every stunt in the book – switching the way they part their hair on random days, pretending to be the other when one of them gets in trouble, making money off classmates who bet on knowing who’s who (and lying on more than one occasion). Looking alike isn’t usually a point of contention between them.

When it does bother them, volleyball is usually involved. They don’t always wear different shirts or numbered jerseys at practice, and you’ve been to enough of them to know that this can cause issues at the beginning of the year. The coach calls out the wrong name, a teammate calls for Osamu when they mean Atsumu, things like that.

They get especially miffed when one gets praised for something the other did. Atsumu, in particular, hates that the most.

“Ya have anythin’ to eat?”

Head snapping up, you look at Osamu and nod halfway through absorbing what he’s just asked. “There’s leftover onigiri in the fridge and snacks in the cupboard,” you reply, stepping over Atsumu’s outstretched legs to lead his brother towards the kitchen.

(“Heat up an onigiri fer me,” Atsumu calls out.)

(“Get it yerself, lazy-ass,” Osamu shoots back.)

In the kitchen, you fish out the last two onigiri the twins’ mom had given you yesterday and present them to Osamu.

“Here. You and Atsumu can each have one.”

“These the ones with salted salmon?”

You nod.

Osamu thinks for a moment. His lips purse, his eyelids droop, and even though he kind of looks like a lunch lady with that shower cap on, it’s cute.

“I’ll make ochazuke and yaki onigiri,” he decides. “What do ya want?”

“I’ll just have some chips or something. I just ate lunch, so I’m not that hungry.”

He stares at you, then accepts the onigiri from your hands. “Okay.”

Putting the rice balls on the counter next to the stove, Osamu retrieves a small plate, a bowl, and a mug from the cupboard. He finds most of everything else pretty quickly – the cast iron skillet under the oven, the spatula in the drawer right next to the fridge, and the soy sauce and oil in the lower corner cabinet. The only thing he asks for you to locate is the green tea, which you get from the depths of the second shelf in the pantry.

While he works, you grab a bag of your favorite chips and pop it open, leaning against the unused counter on the other side of the stove to watch.

You like it whenever Osamu cooks. The click of the stovetop turning on, the curve of oil being poured into the skillet, and you’re rocking gently in a small boat, curled up in an overstuffed chair on a rainy day.

(It’s an extension of how he feels, you’ve learned – for as much as Miya Osamu loves volleyball, he loves food just a teeny bit more.)

When the oil is hot enough, he unwraps one of the onigiri and places it in.

You turn the opening of your chip bag towards him as he wipes his hands on a towel. “Here,” you offer once he notices.

“Thanks.”

Atsumu’s onigiri sizzles in the skillet while the water for Osamu’s tea continues to heat up. Osamu mirrors your posture on his side of the stove, messily crunching down on several chips, and the two of you wait.

“Didja apply for the manager position yet?”

You swallow too early, rough shards of chips cutting down your throat. Fighting the urge to cough, you shake your head and reach for the water you’d left on the table this morning. “No. Still thinkin’ about it.” He hums. “You guys haven’t found one yet?”

“Kobayashi-senpai’s real picky.” He flips the onigiri over with one sharp push of the spatula, brushing soy sauce over the freshly grilled side. The water boiler beeps right after, and he seamlessly transitions over to pour the hot water over the teabag in his mug. “Most of the applicants we saw were annoyin’, anyway.”

“Oh.”

You recall the last practice you’d attended, watching from the balcony with your homework as the team ran laps around the court. The applicant on trial that day had watched them go by a few times, still and proper, before suddenly turning to Kobayashi and excusing themselves from the gym. They never came back.

On the walk back to the dorms that evening, Atsumu explained that the student had a counter for how many times their soulmate would pass by them.

(“Waste of time n’ space,” he’d complained. “Who’d wanna be with someone that desperate?”)

“Ya wouldn’t be half bad at it.”

“… Yeah …”

“If ya don’t wanna apply, just say so.”

“It’s not that. I just don’t know if I’ll wanna do it for the next three years.”

“Whaddaya want to do, then?”

“I dunno.” With a sigh, you set your bag of chips down. “I mean, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to apply.”

Osamu shrugs. “If ya are,” he says, turning off the stove top, “don’t do it just ’cause of me.”

Your teeth sink into your lower lip, sharp and knowing as he flips the yaki onigiri onto the plate he’d pulled out earlier.

After calling Atsumu, who had migrated to the living room couch while he had been waiting, the twins scarf down their afternoon snack in no time at all and raid your cupboard for the complimentary snacks your parents usually bring back from their trips.

Halfway into his fourth wafer, Atsumu’s timer goes off.

“Oh, shit.” Shoving the rest of the wafer into his mouth and silencing the alarm, Atsumu gets up and eagerly makes a beeline to the bathroom.

“… Do ya think it worked?” you mutter as you and Osamu stand up more slowly.

“I dunno.”

A loud swear explodes from the bathroom.

You look at each other sharply. Wiping the crumbs from your lips, the two of you run over to investigate.

As you get closer, you hear the sink running, then Atsumu muttering underneath his breath.

When you peek into the bathroom, your eyebrows shoot up into your hairline.

Holy shit.

“Holy shit,” Osamu says, leaning past you to get a better look. “’Tsumu, ya look like a carrot.”

“Shaddup, ’Samu,” Atsumu moans, rinsing his hair angrily. “I know. Fuck.”

Hair bleach on dark hair, as you find out, works similarly to hair bleach on dark fabric. Contrary to the sandy blond the older twin had desired, the result he had gotten is instead a bright, burnt yellow-orange matching the stains on his T-shirt. Not carrot, necessarily, but definitely not blond.

“Ugh.” Nose and forehead wrinkling, Atsumu leans toward the mirror, pinching a section of hair between his fingers. “It … it ain’t that bad, right?” His pitch rises with the slightest hint of denial. “I’m pullin’ it off.”

“It’s that bad,” Osamu says.

“’Samu!”

“Maybe you can bleach it again?” you suggest.

“And then his hair falls out? Bad idea.”

“Dye it, then, like you are.”

“We don’t have money left to buy a different color.” With a sigh, Osamu puts his hands on his hips. “Damn. Sorry, ’Tsumu.”

Atsumu groans and thunks his forehead against the mirror, dripping water all the way down its surface onto the counter. His frustration is so palpable that you can feel it prickling your skin.

If he hadn’t been so excited before, you’d probably poke fun. You should poke fun, but the disappointed twist of his lips and the droopiness of his sopping wet hair just makes you feel bad. He looks like a wet puppy.

Dammit.

You take your phone out.

Osamu tracks the movement. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Lookin’ something up.” You press on the first link you see, skim the webpage quickly, and put your phone back into your pocket. “I’m headin’ out fer a bit. Stay here.”

“… ’Kay.”

“Whatever,” Atsumu grumbles.

After grabbing your wallet and checking its contents, you head outside to drag your bike out from underneath the vacant carport. And as you hop onto the seat, pedaling down towards the nearest drugstore, you tell yourself that Atsumu better thank you on his hands and knees once you get back.

—

“Blue shampoo?” Atsumu’s tone is suspicious as he slathers the back of Osamu’s hair in grey dye.

“It’s supposed to cancel out the orange.” Turning the bottle to face you, you read the description beneath the brand name. “‘Eliminates brassy, orange undertones.’ See?”

“It ain’t gonna fuck up my hair even more?”

“’Course not,” you retort, all hopes of veneration quickly fading away. “I ain’t an asshole, Atsumu.”

His eyebrow twitches, hands slowing. You take the opportunity to place the bottle sideways in the crook of his neck, forcing him to tilt his head to hold it in place.

“Oi –”

“Go try it. I’ll finish Osamu’s hair.”

“Yer so bossy,” Atsumu grumbles, but he lets you nudge him out the way, peeling his gloves off and grabbing the shampoo.

You snap some gloves on in turn, keeping one eye on Osamu’s hair and the other on Atsumu as he ducks his head beneath the sink faucet. They’d pretty much finished up applying the dye for Osamu, at least from what you can tell, so you start combing through the locks with your fingers to make sure everything is covered.

Miya hair is very thick. Soft, too. You hope all this bleaching and dyeing won’t ruin it too much.

“Hm,” Osamu hums abruptly.

You stop. “What?”

“Nothin’.” You furrow your brow but resume, only to just barely hear him mumble, “… Feels nice.”

Oh.

A smile crawls onto your lips without warning, the space behind your ribcage suddenly cozy and soft.

“Alright, I’m doin’ it,” Atsumu announces. You look up just in time to see him squeeze a dollop of shampoo into his hand. “Euch! It’s so blue!”

“Why do ya sound so surprised?!”

“Shaddup, I just wasn’t expectin’ it to be so dark! … Smells okay, though …”

While the shampoo does its work on Atsumu’s hair, you take a little extra time combing Osamu’s. He remains quiet and still, thumbs tapping idly on the dark screen on his phone. You wait for him to make more snide remarks at Atsumu’s expense or complain about the smell of the dye, but he doesn’t.

You eventually finish up while the water still runs blue and sudsy into the bowl of the sink. Osamu mutters a thank you and ambles off after eyeing his brother for a few seconds. You linger for a while longer.

(God, you hope it works. If not for Atsumu’s sake, then for your pride and your wallet.)

After what seems like forever, he rinses out the last of the shampoo, wrings his hair out a bit, and straightens up to look in the mirror.

You examine his reflection as well. It’s less orange, yes, but still not as light as he had wanted, more gold than sand. Not necessarily good, but certainly less bad.

Atsumu fixates on the more muted shade of his hair for a minute or two. His lips press downwards at the corners, and then they part to say your name.

You blink.

“What?”

“Why’d ya buy the shampoo?”

He sounds almost accusatory, but not quite; there’s an undertone that you very, very rarely hear in his voice. He meets your eyes in the mirror, hair a dripping, tangled mess.

“… ’Cause I felt bad fer ya,” you admit unwillingly. Atsumu makes a face, and you sharpen your tongue, because that is what feels comfortable with him. Normal. “And I didn’t want to hear ya mopin’ and complainin’ about it all week.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” he persists. “I coulda pulled it off.”

You scoff. “Just ’cause you’re taller than most of the school doesn’t mean they wouldn’t’a noticed. And anyways, it’s better now, ain’t it?”

“I didn’t ask ya to buy it.”

“Ya didn’t even know what it was until I told you.”

“An’ if I did, I still wouldn’t’ve asked!”

“Yeah, ’cause yer prideful ass would rather die than ask fer help!” you snap, jabbing his bicep with your finger. “God! I knew ya wouldn’t even say thank you!”

“Well, if ya knew I was gonna be a dick about it, why’d ya waste yer money?!”

“I felt bad fer ya!” you screech. “My mistake!”

“Yeah, yer mistake!” Atsumu shouts back.

Chest heaving for breath, you glare at him. He glares in return. Temper pinks his face and the tips of his ears, flares his nostrils and curls his lip in that fierce and familiar way. In the back of your mind, you know you are doing the same.

Asshole.

You’re angry, yes. And offended, and exasperated, and and and –

And hurt.

“It’s so hard,” you say, your voice deciding to crack at the worst time possible, “to be nice to you sometimes, Atsumu.”

When the words leave your throat, his face grows blank in that way you’ve always hated, his mouth pressing into a fine line.

“So?” he replies.

You roll your eyes. “Forget it.”

Casting one last glance at the bottle of shampoo next to the sink, you clench your fists and turn to leave. What a waste of money. This is the last time you’re ever going to feel bad for him.

A hand wraps around your elbow upon your first step outside the bathroom.

“… Are ya cryin’?”

“No,” you bite, wishing he hadn’t asked because now you do feel like crying, just a little bit.

Atsumu pauses for an excruciating moment. You can practically feel his distaste for whatever words he’s about to say.

“I’ll pay ya back,” he mutters. “Fer the shampoo.”

“No.”

“Whaddaya mean, no?”

“I don’t want yer money.”

“Well, what do ya want, ’cause I ain’t owin’ ya anything.”

“I want a thank you.”

“… Can’t I just –”

“No.”

Atsumu throws his hands up. “Fine!” he says. “Thanks fer buyin’ somethin’ I didn’t ask fer! There, ya happy now?”

“I want ya to mean it,” you say quietly.

“I did mean it.”

You cross your arms.

He groans. Glancing around as if checking for hidden cameras, Atsumu slowly pushes his bangs away from his face and wipes his nose, sniffing.

“… Fine,” he eventually grumbles at the floor tiles. Cheeks puffed, he looks up at you from the corner of his eye and scratches the back of his head. “The shampoo fixed it a little bit,” the words struggle their way out of his mouth, “so … thanks … fer gettin’ it fer me. Ya didn’t have to.”

He looks like he’s just eaten soap, his ears still red, and that’s how you know he’s being sincere. Your shoulders relax a little bit.

“You’re welcome,” you say.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Atsumu’s expression, almost doleful for just that moment, blooms into something more sarcastic once you accept his gratitude. He gestures at the doorway behind you. “Can I go now?”

“Dry the mirror and the counter first.”

“But I said thank you.”

You throw a towel at his face and walk away, more satisfied than not.

—

“How’s Osamu-kun doing?”

You prop your phone up against the wall behind your desk, tilting your pen between your fingers. “He’s fine, Ma.”

“Did ya tell him how good his curry is? He makes it better than me.”

“Yeah, he says he’s glad you guys like it.”

After resolving the blue shampoo issue with Atsumu on Saturday, you’d gone back to the kitchen and found Osamu chopping vegetables and tofu next to the sink. At first, you figured he was hungry again, but upon your questioning, he’d only denied it.

(“’S fer you.”

“… Fer me? No, you don’t have to –”

“Yeah, I know. Ya don’t like the curry at the cafeteria, so bring mine back to the dorm and save it in the fridge fer later. If ya don’t want it, leave it fer yer folks to eat when they get back.”)

He didn’t leave much room for debate. And since he was using your family’s food to make it anyway, you accepted, a bit perplexed but happy nonetheless. You hadn’t expected him to remember your complaint about the cafeteria’s bland curry.

The amount he made was enough to fill two Tupperware containers, one of which you left for your parents when they returned two days later. Needless to say, they were delighted.

“What a thoughtful boy. He’s so good to you, honey.”

You smile, walking back to your desk. “Yeah.”

(“Ya like dark chocolate in it, right?”)

Your mom sighs. It’s a familiar sigh, and you click your pen, knowing what she is about to say before she even takes a breath.

“I just don’t know why he hasn’t asked ya out yet.”

You can hear your dad speak up between chews in the background. “It ain’t like how it was back when we were young, dear. Soulmates these days don’t like makin’ things so formal and official.”

“Oh, I know, but wouldn’t it be sweet? I was so happy when we went on our first official date.”

“The one at the konbini ’cause I couldn’t afford anythin’ nicer?”

“Yes. I loved it.”

“I know. You were smilin’ the whole time.”

“Glad you’re still in love,” you say dryly when they giggle over the phone, your nose wrinkling when your dad comes into view to give your mom a loud smooch. During these moments, you wish you’d called instead. “I’m still here.”

“Oh, I know, I know. Honey, you should bring Osamu-kun somethin’ fer his next game! A snack fer afterwards. He’ll like that.”

“Okay.” You’ve done that before. The first time you gave him an orange in your first year of junior high, he and Atsumu squabbled over dividing it for five minutes. Now you get double portions whenever you have the compulsion to bring something after games, just to keep the peace.

“Speaking of games …”

Here we go.

“… Have ya applied to be the manager for the volleyball team yet?”

“Um.” Glancing at the wall to your right, you click your pen some more, taking your time to answer. “I filled the form out …”

“[Y/n]! If ya dawdle, someone else’ll snatch it up. When’s it due?”

“July first or until they find someone.”

“Turn it in tomorrow!”

“Okay, okay.”

Your mom sighs again, and she places a bowl down onto the table. “… Otherwise, are ya okay? I’m sorry we missed ya at home.”

“It’s fine. I hung out with Kokomi and the twins. How was yer anniversary?”

“We’ll make sure we’re home next time you’re on weekend leave. And it was lovely! Oh, honey, ya should’ve seen the fish yer pa caught …”

You talk with your parents until they finish their dinner, hanging up once they’ve started cleaning up. As soon as the video cuts out, you release a breath and turn your phone face-down.

You don’t know why you’re so nervous about applying for the manager position. It’s the natural thing to do, because it’s natural to want to be involved with something Osamu is interested in, his own opinion on the matter notwithstanding. You think you might like being a manager. It’s not like you want to do something else more.

Getting rejected by Kobayashi would be horrible, though.

Maybe you’ll wait a little longer to turn your application in. Polish it up some more, and such.

—

After volleyball practice ends, and after everyone who had lingered behind to practice some more is ready to call it a night, Atsumu tells you and Osamu that he’s staying a little longer to practice his jump float serves.

“Are ya sure? Cafeteria’s servin’ all-you-can-eat pasta for dinner.”

“I’ll be done before it closes.”

Osamu doesn’t look convinced. To be fair, neither are you; Atsumu often loses track of time when he stays behind, resulting in an extra hungry, extra irritable Atsumu.

“Atsumu,” you say.

He huffs at you. “Seriously, I will!” he insists, before turning to walk back to the end line. You, Osamu, Ginjima, Akagi, and Ojiro all look on helplessly as he throws a volleyball into the air and gives himself a running start.

“Don’t worry,” Kobayashi says, grabbing your attention just as he jumps. She holds up the key to the gymnasium. “I’ll kick him out before he misses dinner.”

Ojiro, ever the responsible one, lets out a noise of protest. “Senpai, I can lock up. You should go.”

“No, it’s fine.” Though her tone is impassive, she makes it clear that her mind is set as she waves him off. “I’m goin’ out to eat with my boyfriend later, anyway.”

You blink.

Though Ojiro is visibly reluctant, he acquiesces. “… Okay. Thank you, Kobayashi-senpai.”

“Mmhm,” Kobayashi hums, and her gaze falls upon you. “Make sure they get to the cafeteria in one piece, [L/n]-chan.”

“I will, senpai.”

You wait outside while the guys change out of their gym clothes and gather their things. Once they exit the building, you join them, listening idly to their chatter about today’s practice as the five of you trek towards the cafeteria.

“Hey, Ojiro-senpai, Akagi-senpai,” Ginjima speaks up during a lull in the conversation. “What Kobayashi-senpai said earlier …”

Attention piqued, you look at your upperclassmen for their reactions to Ginjima’s question. Next to you, Osamu does little to hide his curiosity as well.

Ojiro and Akagi, in turn, share a glance, and Ojiro raises an eyebrow at Ginjima.

“Yeah?” Ojiro replies.

“Well, y’know …” Ginjima presses expectantly, “when she said that she has a boyfriend, did she mean …?”

“That’s somethin’ you can ask Kobayashi-senpai about, ain’t it?”

You imagine doing just that and cringe.

Ginjima’s eyes widen, and he clears his throat. “Well –!” he replies, a bit too loudly. “I would, but I don’t want her to think I’m bein’ judgmental or somethin’. Plus, I’m just a first-year …”

“Aw, I think it’s fine if they know, Aran. It ain’t like she’s hidin’ it or anythin’,” Akagi says. Ojiro looks up for a moment in thought, then shrugs tentatively, and Akagi smiles at you and the two boys. “Kobayashi-senpai’s not datin’ her soulmate. They’re pretty serious, too.”

Ojiro rests his hands behind his head. “He’s a nice guy. Comes to games sometimes.”

“Oh, I see …”

You nod slowly, absorbing this new piece of information. Kobayashi has a boyfriend. A boyfriend that she goes on dates with, one she really likes. You wonder how long they’ve been together.

You wonder if Kobayashi’s met her soulmate yet.

“E-Excuse me! Hello!”

The quick patter of footsteps interrupts your train of thought. Glancing behind you, you stop short when you see one of your classmates running up to your group, waving one hand and holding a camera in the other. The golden orange of the sky burnishes her red hair.

“Naruko-san,” you and Ginjima greet at the same time. Ginjima laughs.

“Sorry to bother ya!” Naruko bows and quickly straightens, holding her camera up and smiling nervously. “I-I was just takin’ some pictures for photography club, and I was wonderin’ if you guys would mind me takin’ a picture?”

“How long’s it gonna take?” Osamu asks.

“Not too long. Five minutes? U-Unless y’all are in a hurry to get somewhere …”

“Not too much of a hurry. Just wanna make it to dinner.” Ojiro smiles, patting Osamu and Akagi’s backs. “Where do ya want us?”

Naruko brightens, her cheeks going red. “J-Just keep walkin’! The lighting’s perfect right now, and I wanna take a picture of yer backs with yer volleyball jackets on.” She glances at you, and her expression grows more nervous. “Er …”

You lock eyes with her for a few seconds before catching on. Nodding, you take a step towards Naruko to join her.

Osamu’s hand grasps your shoulder.

His hold is loose, but you bite back the urge to slump over at the sudden warmth of it, pausing instead to look back at him.

“Where’re ya goin’?”

You answer tentatively. “I don’t have a team jacket.”

“That’s fine. You’re walkin’ with us too.”

“Yeah, but …” You wet your lips. “Like, visually, it’ll look weird if one person doesn’t have one on …”

The corner of Osamu’s mouth twitches, and he frowns. You watch as his gaze moves past your shoulder. A sudden, brief twinge of irritation, not belonging to you, zings through your ribcage.

“Why’s that matter?”

“Yeah. C’mon, it’ll be fine,” Ojiro says.

“It’s okay!” Naruko suddenly blurts, and you jolt slightly, looking back at her. She bounces on her feet, voice even higher pitched. “I can do a more candid shot, now that I think about it! A-Actually, Miya-san, could ya give [L/n]-san yer jacket? And Ginjima-san, you can keep yers around yer waist …”

Her sudden change in idea perplexes you a bit. But Osamu seems to be satisfied, and he shrugs his jacket off, placing it over your shoulders.

After a bit of hesitation, you slide your arms through the sleeves.

(It’s just as warm.)

“Ooh, [L/n]-chan’s wearin’ Osamu’s jacket,” Ginjima teases behind his hand, and your face heats up.

“Okay.” Behind you, Naruko lets out a wistful-sounding sigh. “I’m ready. Y’all can start walkin’ now, just like ya were before.”

With only a bit of self-consciousness, the five of you follow her instructions. There are only a few clicks of the camera before Naruko calls out her thanks and goes off without another word, leaving you and the boys to speculate whether you’ll ever see the results.

“How cute,” Akagi comments. “She looked like she was gonna throw up, though.”

“I hope those were conflicting statements.”

“Okay, Aran, I wasn’t implying …”

While the two upperclassmen start to banter, you move to take Osamu’s jacket off, only for him to stop you.

“’S fine,” he says. “You can wear it if ya want.”

“Oh. Okay.”

And so you do.

—

The boys’ first practice game in July is brutal.

Many of your peers have come to watch. It’s a favorite after-school pastime of Inarizaki’s student populace, you’ve quickly discovered, to hop from one athletic club to the other simply to spectate and speculate. People pack the balcony and peek around the doorway, catching the scent of blood and sweat.

Between the crowd’s cheering and jeering, the squeak of sneakers on the gym floor, and the sound of palms ramming into volleyballs, the atmosphere is sharp, almost electric – something that you feel tingling on your skin as you stand on the sidelines, Kobayashi right by your side.

Atsumu delivers another devastating service ace. It ricochets off the corner of the other side of the court with a thunderous boom.

“Did you catch that, [L/n]-chan?” Kobayashi asks, arms crossed. “That was one of his better ones.”

“Ah, sorry, I didn’t.”

“Hm.”

You watch the slow, satisfied stretch of Atsumu’s smile, and wait patiently. “It’s okay. He ain’t done yet.”

Indeed, Atsumu is just getting started. You spare an amused glance at Osamu in front of the net, his hands locked protectively behind his head, before turning back to Atsumu as the volleyball is thrown back to him.

Raising your camera, you adjust the focus, finger ready on the shutter button.

Toss. Run. Jump.

Click.

On your other side, a girl pumps her fists and cheers.

“Wow! Another one!” she gushes.

You smile behind your lens. “Ya always sound so impressed, Tsubaki-chan.”

“I’m just excited! We’re crushin’ them in the last set!”

“’Course we are,” says Kobayashi. “Our offense is that much better. I’m a little disappointed.”

As your upperclassman patiently points out each player’s strengths and weaknesses, you keep an eye on the team and crouch low. You’ve got plenty of photos now that the game’s nearing its end – lots of sets, a few spikes and digs, some flashy jump serves. Hopefully, some of them have turned out halfway decent. Even though you’d widened the aperture to make up for the gym’s crappy lighting and adjusted the shutter speed for blurring, you still worry about your timing.

By the time Inarizaki scores the winning point, you’ve moved to the opposite end of the court and have to race back to capture their reactions.

One thing you like about the volleyball team is how expressive they are. Joy, passion, pride – off the high of a victory, they bare everything, whether it’s through their expressions or the way they move or both.

Tsubaki says your name excitedly as soon as the teams have finished thanking each other, tugging on your arm. “Can I see the action shots, [Y/n]-chan?” she requests.

“Ah, sure.”

You turn the camera towards her, and she leans in as you scroll through the photos, her grin widening.

“Wow! Yer timin’s amazin’. They look so cool!”

The praise brings summer to your cheeks. “Thanks,” you reply genuinely. After a moment of hesitation, you lift the camera again. “Smile, Manager-san?”

Tsubaki doesn’t hesitate to broaden her already present grin, throwing up a peace sign for good measure. Kobayashi looks your way as well, and you take one shot, knowing it will be kept.

“Cute!” Tsubaki exclaims.

Two shadows loom over your shoulders as the girl bestows you with another compliment. When you turn your head to the right, your nose nearly brushes Osamu’s cheek.

“Ya got any good shots of us, [Y/n]?” Atsumu asks expectantly.

“Yes, actually, I did,” you reply, going back through the camera roll with a particular image in mind. You’re only vaguely aware of the warmth they exude as they budge into your personal space, the smell of sweat lingering on their skin. “Here.”

You’re particularly proud of this one. It had been a split second of pure luck, standing on the sidelines when a window of opportunity opened for a fast-tempo set. You had felt it – you knew Atsumu would set to Osamu, and as Osamu jumped, arm reared back as Atsumu sent the ball to him, you had captured it.

Somehow, you always get the timing right with them.

“Cool,” the twins approve proudly.

“Email that one to us, will ya?” Atsumu says. “I ain’t lettin’ you photography nerds hoard it away.”

“She’s sendin’ all these to Arata-senpai, ya dolt.”

“Hey, I wanna see!” Gintama breaks into your little group, trying to sneak a peek in. “Did ya get one of my spikes?”

“Yeah, how about my jump serve?”

“That super cool block me and Ren did in the second set!”

“Didja get one of Coach?”

One by one, the team gathers around you, eager for a glimpse of their successes. The crowding is uncomfortable, but you try your best to show them what you can anyway, feeling a rare sense of pride about your own accomplishments.

You’re happy with your choice.

Tsubaki will be a great manager. Even when you first met her, you knew she had everything she'd need for the job – a passion for the sport, a desire to help others succeed, and an endless amount of perseverance. Inarizaki couldn’t ask for a better person to replace Kobayashi next year. She’ll do well in what she’s decided to do.

And so will you.

—

prev

[arrowflier]

Please please please write Mickey’s reaction to Ian having black hair when he walks into the prison cell thank you xxx

Probably not what was expected, but here's them talking about it that night!

See Me In the Mirror (on AO3 or continue below)

“Still can’t believe this shit,” Mickey mutters late that night, as they lay together on the too-narrow bottom bunk.

“Believe what?” Ian asks, too preoccupied with tracing fingers over Mickey’s chest to really care.

“I come in here expecting a fucking firecrotch,” Mickey jokes, “and you’ve gone and hidden the ginger for the first time in your life?”

Ian shrugs, shoulders barely moving against the mattress. Mickey gets a hand up into his hair, and he lets him.

“Almost turned right back around,” Mickey says, softer, letting Ian’s close-cropped curls slide through his fingers. “Told ‘em they gave me the wrong cell, took back my cooperation.”

Ian chuckles, and smiles. Still can’t quite believe that Mickey is there, that Mickey turned himself in, that after all of his bad decisions he ended up with a reward.

“Had to do something,” he says, eyes slipping closed to the rhythmic motion of Mickey hand on his head. “Was gonna run, you know,” he adds. “Maybe join you down in Mexico.”

Mickey laughs.

“You’d never have made it past the state border,” he says. “Black hair or not, you’ve never been good at flying under the radar.

Ian disagrees. Thinks he’s done pretty well at it for most of his life. The middle child that fades into the background, the man doing just well enough not to raise brows. Even half out of his mind with mania, he’d made it farther than anyone expected.

He doesn’t bother to argue. It doesn’t matter. What matters is Mickey, and his face close to Ian’s on the pillow, and his hand in Ian’s hair.

"Why black though?” Mickey asks, tugging at dyed strands. “You miss me that much?”

"Hmm?" Ian murmurs, whacking at Mickey's arm before settling his hand there instead.

"Couldn't see me in person," Mickey explains, "so you made it so you'd see me in the mirror?"

Ian opens his eyes. Blinks Mickey into focus, the faint freckles on his nose so close they seem to dance, never quite settling.

“No,” he says honestly, and wonders if he should have lied. But Mickey doesn’t frown, and he doesn’t pull away. He just lies there tangled in Ian, fingers stroking through artificially dark hair.

“I like that, though,” Ian muses, leaning into the touch. His thumb strokes Mickey’s wrist, once, twice, and he doesn’t let go. “A little piece of you on me where everyone can see it.”

And he does like it. Rather a lot, actually. That after years of hiding, and years of being apart, a stranger could look at him and see Mickey.

“What about you?” he has to ask.

It’s Mickey’s turn to hum in question.

“You ever miss me so much you tried to dye your hair red?”

Mickey snorts, the hot air of it blowing against Ian’s face.

“Nah,” he says, “I’d have to bleach it first. Helped Mandy do that once,” he adds with a grimace, “and trust me, it’s not worth it.”

“Not even to feel close to me?” Ian asks.

“Never,” Mickey confesses. “Kind of avoided anything that color for a while, actually.”

Ian feels like he should be upset by that, maybe. That Mickey avoided reminders of him when they were apart. And he must think about it a little too long, let his face show a little too much, because Mickey is cupping his face in his free hand a moment later.

“Not like that,” he assures, and leans in even closer. Their noses brush together, and Ian’s vision is filled with an endless, hazy blue.

“Way back,” Mickey says, “before Mexico, I mean.”

He pauses. Ian waits, content to breathe against his skin.

“Used to look for people that looked like you,” Mickey continues, quiet, soft. “People I could pretend were you, at least for a while.”

Ian can’t see Mickey’s mouth, but he can feel the wryness in his smile.

“Didn’t work out all that well for me, then,” Mickey says with a huff. “So I did a bit of the opposite, this time.”

Ian lets that sink in.

“So you went for people that weren’t anything like me?” he asks a moment later, curious, and Mickey shakes his head as best he can without moving away.

“No,” he says, then hesitates. “I mean, yes, but—”

“It’s okay,” Ian interrupts him. Nuzzles into Mickey’s palm against his cheek, Mickey’s fingers on his scalp. “It’s all okay.”

“Ian…”

“I mean it,” Ian says, and has decided that he does. That his brief moment before, of wondering how he should feel, was just that. Just wondering.

Because he wasn’t upset. He wasn’t put off at all. Mickey had done things, and he had done things, apart and together all their lives. Things that didn’t matter right here, right now, with Mickey in his arms in their tiny shared cell. Things that would never matter again, because neither of them were leaving this time.

“Okay,” Mickey agrees, and tilts his chin to brush lips to Ian’s cheek. “Okay.”

They lay there a moment more. Eyes closing on images of each other, lungs filled with the other’s exhaled breaths.

“Really wasn’t what I meant, though,” Mickey whispers eventually, and Ian tries to tune back in through the haze of sleep and comfort and Mickey.

“Didn’t need any reminders,” Mickey continues, “or any fake shit. Not down there.”

He doesn’t wait for Ian to say anything, to ask. He tells him anyway, like it needs to get out, out into the warm air between them.

“Just needed my memories,” he whispers. “Decided to let myself keep them.”

He kisses Ian’s lips, a gentle brush, there and gone. Gone but close, gone but never leaving.

“Kept a picture, too,” he adds, and that, Ian catches.

“What picture?” Ian asks sleepily, rubbing his cheek into the pillow.

“You’ll see it someday,” Mickey promises.

“How?” Ian asks, not really listening even though he wants to. “You stash it somewhere?”

“You’ll see it when we get out,” Mickey tells him, his voice fading as sleep comes to claim them. “When they give me back the clothes I came in, and I can take it out of my pocket.”

“Okay,” Ian breathes, and sleeps through straight ‘til morning.

[likeastarstar]

The Pianist

(A/N: Thanks to @xjoonchildx and the anon who recommended me to her for this prompt! The pieces mentioned in this fic are what I listened to while writing it, they're beautiful and I recommend them. Feedback is appreciated!)

masterlist.

You didn’t sleep very well most nights.

You didn’t really understand how people just laid down and fell asleep instantly, it just didn’t happen for you. You had tried everything but ASMR creeped you out, Melatonin didn’t work, chamomile tea just made you have to get up to pee a million times. Nothing worked for years- until the apartment above yours got a new tenant.

You weren’t sure when exactly they moved in but you were certain of the day they got a piano.

January 12, 2021: The day you were given the gift of sleep.

At this point, it was apart of your routine. Every night, after showering and brushing your teeth, you’d lay down and listen to soft melodies you couldn’t quite place pouring through your walls.

Now, you found yourself rushing back home in the evening just in case they decided to start playing early.

“Hold the elevator, please!” You called, rushing over to the closing doors.

A hand stuck out to block them from shutting at the last minute and you gave a sigh of relief- you’d be on time now. You rushed into the elevator with a pleased smile on your face, your eyes falling on a man who you could only describe as the most interesting person you had ever seen. Dressed in all black with thick rings around the hand that had stopped the elevator, he should’ve been intimidating. If it wasn’t for the soft slope of his nose and pink doll-like lips, you would’ve turned the other way in fear.

“Oh-“ You said awkwardly, staring at him with wide eyes for some reason. He looked at you awkwardly and smile slightly, pulling his lips into a thine line. His dark eyes blinked slowly, molten mocha peering down at you with mild interest. “Thank you- for the elevator.”

“No problem, you seem like you’re in a hurry.” He said politely, his quiet, deep voice rumbling in your ear comfortably. You found yourself leaning towards him and snapped yourself out of it, pressing your floor’s button quickly.

As beautiful as he was, you got distracted from the man quickly, refocusing on trying to guess what the pianist would choose to play tonight. You left the window cracked just to hear more of the classical sonatas, timing your breathing just right to the pacing of the tunes. As time passed, you grew accustomed to the presence of the music, reading the pianist’s mood by their choice of song.

Reverie, for calm evenings in the summer when your apartment was bathed in golden light, warming your skin. A jazzy rendition of Manhattan when you assumed the pianist had an absolutely wonderful day, sending you off to dream of fluffy clouds and creamy skies. Nocturne No. 1, when they were troubled and you physically had to stop yourself from crying upon hearing the emptiness in the notes that flooded into your ears.

As luck would have it, you stumbled across the man in the elevator again too, crossing paths in the mail room, where he held the door open as you lugged out copious amounts of packages from online shopping. You would’ve tried to strike up a conversation, only it was already dusk and the pianist would start practicing soon.

“You’re always rushing, aren’t you?” He quipped, an endearing smile on his face. You admired the way his cheeks fluffed up a little when he smiled.

“I have plans with a friend,” You excused, naming the pianist as a fond companion. You didn’t want to reveal what you were really rushing for. The pianist felt like your own little secret, a world you could immerse yourself in when real life got too overwhelming.

If only you had known you’d soon lose the one consistent relief of tension in your life. You assumed things in his life had gone south, because after a week of music that tore your soul apart- the music stopped. Gone were your nights of angelic tunes, gone were your nights of sleep.

You waited for him, laid in bed with an antsy heart waiting to hear something, an aggravated smash of keys, a simple chord, even a single note would set you at ease. It had been a week since you had a good night of sleep, your companion suddenly stripped away.

You trudged into the elevator one morning sleepily, barely registering a familiar man standing beside you. Your hands met as both of you rushed to press the ���close door’ button, the button shocking both of you at once. You jumped in surprise, flickering your eyes towards him sheepishly, “Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” He mumbled. It wasn’t until then that you took in his appearance, slightly disheveled with his hair fluffy and messy. It was bleached now, faded with the roots grown out too far.

The pair of you rode the elevator down in a comfortable silence, filtering out together without a passing glance. You walked in different directions, both consumed in your own thoughts. You figured the pianist would be back by now. When nothing came, you decided to do take action, composing your own masterpiece. You tacked the letter you painstakingly rewrote a million times, setting for a simple note of flattery that you hoped would entice whoever it was playing the piano to return the gift you had cherished back to you. You expected nothing, maybe music returning back. Instead, you were greeted two days later with a simple knock at your door.

You answered quickly, shuffling your feet towards the entrance of your apartment. You opened the door to a familiar face, the man from the elevator. This time, his hair was freshly dyed, denim blue with one side sleeked back. His eyes were bright, alert as he looked at you with a surprised expression. You skimmed the length of his body, noting the tailored pants and soft looking sweater, stopping suddenly on a familiar piece of paper between long fingers adorned with rings.

Your note.

“You’re the pianist,” You realized, staring at the note. The paper of the note was faded, fraying at the ends and softened at the creases. It had clearly been folded and unfolded a million times, pulling at your heart.

“You fall asleep to me playing?” He asked, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“I have trouble sleeping- you, your music helps.” You said lamely. “I’ve missed it….I thought, I mean, I noticed that you were playing more sad pieces than normal and then you stopped playing altogether. I figured something was wrong- Are you okay?”

He tapped his foot on the ground and shifted his weight, looking down at the ground awkwardly, “I was going to stop playing. I just…I didn’t see the value anymore.”

You felt panic sweep over your body and widened your eyes, leaning towards him instinctively, “Your music feels like a friend. It’s so beautiful and calming, it’s the only thing I have to look forward to some days. It- It has value. A lot of value, to me.”

He looked up at you and smiled, eyes crinkling slightly, “That makes me feel better- I’m Yoongi. Min Yoongi.”

You smiled back at him, tilting your head slightly.

The music came back after that, new songs playing every evening. You spent the mornings tracking down all of the songs he played the night before, listening to them while you went about your day, melting away time until you could listen to Yoongi practice again. You saw Yoongi a couple times in the elevator, exchanging shy smiles and excited suggestions of what you think he should learn next.

It wasn’t until you awoke one morning to the soft musings of a piano that you realized- you loved Min Yoongi. You recognized the song playing instantly- Dawn from Pride and Prejudice. You had suggested it awhile ago and how romantic you thought the piece was. It had been a slip of the tongue you thought he had forgot about it by now, since he hadn't played it. You remembered the small smile he gave you, nodding slightly when you blushed furiously at even the mention of romance. But now, listening to the music you knew he played for you, you were glad you had said it. It was fitting for the hour, the sunrise pouring cool colored light through your windows, a soft breeze filling your room because you had never gotten out of the habit of cracking your window to hear Yoongi play.

You smiled, laying in bed for a moment and soaking in the light keys. Eventually, you got up and walked to make yourself a cup of tea, stopping when you saw a piece of paper that had been slipped through the bottom of your door.

You picked it up quickly, opening it at once.

Would you like to have dinner with me? - Your Pianist.

[redrobin-detective]

The late Daniel Fenton

It was shaping up to be a beautiful if chilly December day and Casper High, as always, was bustling. It was 7:49 and class was about to start. The teacher watched the last few kids stumbling in at various levels of wakefulness. He already knew who would be the ones to rush in after the bell but that was alright. Life was too short to stress about being a few minutes late to class, especially in Amity Park of all places.

He looked up to see Madison, one of his shyer students walk in before making a beeline for his desk. She was biting her lip and nervously rubbing her hand down her skirt. “Hey,” she began quietly.

“Good morning. What’s up, Mads?” He asked casually. She looked upset, he could probably put on a video for the class if she needed to talk. They really needed a permanent counselor but the constant ghost attacks ran off most of them so he’d taken up the unofficial mantle. It felt good to help his students like that, make up for past wrongs.

“Are we um, expecting any new students?” She asked, her eyes darting over to the door she’d just come through. “Any transfers, exchange students or anything like that?”

“No,” the teacher frowned. “Amity isn’t the kind of place people transfer into. Why?”

“There’s a kid in the hallway,” she mumbled. “I don’t recognize him, he’s got a backpack and everything but he’s... I don’t know he doesn’t feel right.”

“Oh you’re talking about that weird dark haired kid,” Kyle said as he entered and sat down with a slouch. But even the class slacker looked unusually tense. “Dude’s creepy, can’t put my finger on why but he definitely doesn’t belong.”

“Oh,” was all the teacher had to say. Suddenly he realized how cold the classroom had become, the uncomfortable feeling that was pressing ever so slightly down on them. “I suppose it makes sense, the ghosts have been quiet lately with the Truce and all. He probably got bored.”

“Sir?” Madison said.

“Shannon,” he said instead, looking over at the frizzy haired girl hunched over her sketchbook furiously at work. “Would you do me a favor and move to the vacant seat in the second row? Just for today.”

“What? Why?” the girl whined even as she gathered up her various arts supplies and got ready to move.

“That’s Mr. Fenton’s seat,” he said taking in a deep breath and closing his eyes in preparation for what he was about to see. Danny would come here, of course he would. This was Lancer’s old classroom and Danny had him for first period English Lit. He and Dash both did.

“Mr. Baxter? What’s going on, is it a ghost?” Malik asked from the back row while Shannon shuffled to her new temporary seat.

“Yes but you don’t need to be scared,” he said softly, evenly. “He won’t hurt you.” The bell rang but Dash didn’t start the lesson. Instead, he waited. Danny had never been on time to class the entire time Dash had known him, of course death wouldn’t change that.

“Sorry, I’m late Mr. Lancer,” Dash gripped his desk so he didn’t jump when Danny Fenton simply appeared in front of his desk instead of walking through the door like any other student. “My folks couldn’t drive me, they’re still working on their stupid ghost portal.” A quick glance over at this class showed varying levels of fear, shock and curiosity but they were Amity kids through and through. The cold, powerful energy radiating off Fenton told them it was best to play along with whatever the ghost wanted.

“Perfectly alright Mr. Fenton,” Dash said softly, searching the 14 year old’s perpetually young face. He hadn’t changed a bit since Dash last saw him their second week of freshman year. It seemed unreal seeing how the years had taken their toll on Casper’s favorite son, Dash Baxter. God had they really been that young once? “Take a seat and we’ll get started.”

Danny shrugged and walked over to the seat Shannon had just vacated. He sat just the same, one leg stretched out and the other propped up against the leg of the desk. As soon as he took off the backpack and put it around the chair, it disappeared. He didn’t say anything else, just sat as stared at Dash with piercing blue eyes like he could see right through him.

“We had been talking about the lead up to the Civil War but let’s table that for today,” Dash said, proud his voice only wavered a little. He knew other people had seen Fenton around town. Lina saw him standing outside the Nasty Burger maybe five or so years ago. Dale, who used to live near Fenton Works swore he sometimes saw someone moving through the windows of the long abandoned house. He’d always secretly dreaded the thought of seeing Danny Fenton again, afraid he’d finally get was coming to him.

“Instead, we’re going to talk about local history,” he continued, not daring to take his eyes off the undead teen. Every other living student was tense, afraid. He wished he could assure them that the ghost wouldn’t lay a hand on them. In the event Fenton decided to ditch the hero schtick, it would be Dash and Dash alone he’d come after. “Amity Park has long had rumors of being haunted dating all the way back to the 1600s. It wasn’t until the last century that scientists determined that Amity Park is located on top of a thin spot between our world and the ghost realm. Natural portals form here all the time allowing spirits to pass through.”

No one spoke and barely anyone breathed except for Danny would wasn’t breathing at all. He just sat and stared at Dash with steady, unblinking eyes.

“Jack and Maddie Fenton were the scientists who discovered the weak point in reality in Amity. They devoted their entire life to the study of ghosts and made remarkable advancements in our knowledge of ectobiology and culture, the first being,” he paused as Danny cocked his head in confusion, squinting his eyes suspiciously at Dash. “The first being their manmade portal to the ghost zone. The portal remained active for almost two decades for research purposes but was shut down following their deaths.”

“You’re not Mr. Lancer,” Danny said suddenly, his eyes shifting from baby blue to an ectoplasmic green. Marty, who was sitting to the left of Danny, swallowed a squeak of fear and squeezed his eyes shut.

“No,” Dash sighed, “Lancer died almost thirty years ago now. Best teacher I ever had, he gave me his blessing when he passed on the job to me.”

“I,” the ghost ran his hand through his hair which was starting to lose its color. Seeing Fenton looking so scared and confused made him ache. It reminded him of old times. Dash had spent most of his life making sure he helped hurt kids if only to make up for the one he’d never been able to make it up to. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s okay, Danny,” he soothed. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”

“The portal, it wasn’t working at first,” Danny justified, his aura glowing a little more. “Sam and Tuck, they were curious. They wanted to look but I told them it wasn’t allowed, Sam, Sam she dared me to go in. I put on the hazmat suit and went inside and found the on button inside. I accidentally hit it and-” he paused midsentence and looked down at his hands. They weren’t pale flesh anymore but covered in white gloves. The black was completely bleached from his hair. A few of the students gasped as they saw the strange would be student melt into Phantom, the ghostly hero who’d been protecting their town since their parents were young. “I died.”

So much time had gone by. People were born and people were buried and the truth became distorted until it was just a legend passed jokingly around cafeteria lunch tables. Amity’s youth had forgotten their town’s history until it was sitting in a desk, trying once more to be one of them.

“You did,” Dash said sadly. He remembered hearing the news of Fenton's death. An assembly had been called the morning after the accident. Lancer had cried at the podium, Manson and Foley hadn’t returned to school for a week and had never been the same again. Dash hadn’t known what to think at the time, only that the kid he’d beat up for the crime of being different would never show up to school again. Or so he’d thought. “It was a tragedy, you were mourned by a lot of people.”

“I know you, don’t I?” Danny said quietly before he sat up straighter. “Dash?”

“In the flesh,” Dash grinned shakily.

“But you’re so old,” Danny said, once more distressed. “Your hair is grey and there’s wrinkles on your face and-and you’re a teacher now?” The last line was said with incredulity, his eyes flaring again. “You used to push me down the stone steps of the school and shove me into my locker and call me names.”

“Yeah, I did,” he sighed, feeling every one of his years. He was pushing 70 but he didn’t think he’d ever stop feeling like a stupid 14 year old who took out his frustrations on the ones who didn’t deserve it. “But you were the last; I never touched another kid again. I’m married now, four kids. I’m vice principal now, teach History and coach the school’s football team. It’s,” his voice caught again, still unable to process how young and stupid Fenton looked sitting there like no time had passed at all. It made Dash feel like all his accomplishments and attempts to be better would never amount to anything so long as his last victim roamed the earth unable to find peace. “It doesn’t fix what I did back then but I make damn sure that there won’t be any bullying at Casper so long as I’m here.”

“Huh,” Danny said, slouching once more in his seat but it looked less like his earlier teenage laziness and more weary. He and Dash were the same age after all, just because only one of them got old doesn’t mean time didn’t still affect them. “You did change, a lot of things did.” Danny looked down at the desk, “how long has it been?”

“Almost 50 years,” Dash sighed. “My wife wants me to retire but I guess I always find more things to do.” He paused then decided it was now or never. “I’m sorry Danny, for hurting you back then. I wish I'd gotten to know you better.”

For just a moment, Danny was perfectly clear. Even half floating out of his chair and looking like the local celebrity, his eyes were so painfully human. A boy killed before he ever got a chance to get started. Who’s will to protect was so strong it lasted half a century. It haunted him late at night to think of the glory and power of Phantom overshadowing just how incredible Danny Fenton had been. Not that anyone had seen it at the time. Soon there wouldn’t be anyone left to remember that quiet, kind teenager and then Danny Fenton really would be dead. Kill him just as thoroughly as that portal had.

The moment was broken by a breath of cold leaking out of the ghost’s lips and, just like that, his highschool classmate was gone and Phantom was left in his stead. He looked curiously around the classroom as if he didn’t know how he’d gotten there.

“There’s a ghost, stay here and don’t leave unless the fighting gets too close. I’ll get it though, don’t worry. No kids are dying today.” Maybe it was Dash’s imagination but he thought he saw Phantom’s eyes linger on him for an extra moment, trying to place where he knew the teacher from. Dash just smiled.

“Our lives are in your hands. Good luck, Phantom,” the ghost teen saluted before fading away entirely. Dash let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, suddenly exhausted but also lighter at the same time. It wasn’t every day you got to look your mistakes in the face and apologize. “Shannon, you can move back now.”

“No, I’m okay here,” Shannon said as she flipped to a new page in her sketchbook and looked intently at the spot where Fenton had once sat. “It’s like you said, that’s Danny’s seat.”

“I had no idea, Phantom’s been around for like, ever,” Freddie mumbled, pushing up his glasses. “But he used to be just like us.” And still was, Dash thought sadly. Danny would never grow old, never go to space like he’d always dreamed or marry Manson like he’d probably intended to. He was stuck, in more ways than one for who knows how long.

“Yes, that’s why it’s important to know your history. The Civil War and my other lessons are important but we can’t forget these smaller, more intimate histories. If we lose these lessons to time then we risk repeating the same mistakes over again.” He looked his students in the eyes, holding their attention.

“So we’ll continue today with the local history. Before he was ghost butt kicking superhero, Phantom was Danny Fenton, son of the local ghost hunters and a bit of an outcast in town. The Daniel Fenton Foundation was founded about a year after his death and was-”

[kimnjss]

looks different | myg

⤑ series: be my baby

⤑ pairing: rapper!yoongi x mom!reader

⤑ genre: angst, not even kidding...

⤑ rating: PG13.

⤑ word count: 4.2K

⤑ warnings: there aren’t any. except a very sad min yoongi :( yeah, if you got tissues - bring ‘em. 

⤑ A/N: okay so first of all?? guys!! thank you sooo much, for the quick support i’ve been getting for this fic! i mean we’re only five chapters in nd ., ugh!! just thank you sooo much i love you guyss!! also~ don’t get mad at yoongi, he’s just out here trying his best :(

APRIL 13TH, 2020 | 15:31

It's automatic the way his heart stutters at the sight of you walking through the glass doors of the studio lobby. Every last moment he's rushed down to this very lobby to wait for you, the biggest of smiles taking over his features when you'd finally arrive. More often than not with something healthy for him to eat, paired with the nagging of how he should stop ordering out even if he was working late.

His heart would stutter than too.

Different this time, though. Feeling more relieved than anything. There's no telling the dark places his mind has gone in the years that you've been gone – wondering what could've happened to you. And now you're here – safe. Yoongi loved you, of course, he'd feel relieved knowing that you were fine.

Fine, but different. He can't help but notice all the things about you that just... looks different. Your hair, the long dark waves that he loved to bury his hands in now cut short falling just below your chin. Made you look much older than your new twenty-four. Birthday had just passed, he remembered.

Your hips much, much wider. He can't help but pick up on that huge detail as they sway with each step you take closer to him. Very slow steps, for the record. Nervous steps. The same way you'd approach him if you were wielding bad news. That didn't change. Neither did the tentative way you nibbled at your lower lip, fingers pushing your hair behind your ear as you locked eyes with him.

The nerve to smile. Actually push the corners of your lips up and smile at him, but he's reacting the way he always has. Mouth dropping in slight awe because you were so pretty when you smiled. Even if it was riddled with anxiety.

Yoongi stands just as you're stopping in front of him, eyes traveling over his frame in wonder. He had changed in the past three years too. The hair that he kept bleached now it's natural dark color, his once lanky skinny frame holding more muscle. He's been eating well lately and you can tell in the fullness of his face.

Never the type of guy to wear his wealth, but you can't help but notice the diamond-studded single chain that hangs from his neck. A dazzling 'A' pendant hanging from it. Just a plain black tee and sweats, probably spent the day mixing and didn't bother to change from his night clothes.

That was so like him. And you had no idea how much you missed him until now. Seeing him, so close that you could reach out and touch him. But you don't, given the circumstance. No matter how much you want to – it'd be inappropriate. Could basically feel how angry he was, keeping your distance was best.

Realizing, the two of you had been standing there for quite some time – speaking no words, you decide to be the one to break the ice. It was your fault you were even in this situation, to begin with, right?

“Yoongi-,” You start, ready to explain yourself. Right then and there, lay it out flat for him. Everything. Why you left. The baby. What has happened in the past three years. But you're not given the chance.

His dark eyes widen at the sound of your voice as if he hadn't expected to actually hear you speak, as if you weren't real. And he's reacting all at once, arms reaching out to circle around your waist and pulling you into his chest. The force of his pull surprises you, but not enough to keep you from closing him in.

He smells the same. Has definitely swapped his cologne in the time passed, but that doesn't change a thing. He still smells like him. And you missed him. The sob that breaks through his chest, vibrates your body. With his face nuzzled in the crook of your neck, arms clutching you close to his chest – he cries.

Not able to properly handle the emotions overwhelming his body, so he can't do anything but cry. Happy tears that you're safe, that none of the terrible things he thought had happened. Sad tears that you felt the need to leave him without a trace, leaving him to wonder what he could've done to make you feel so alone. Angry tears for all the shit you put him through by leaving, because he hadn't done anything wrong – it took him a while to realize that one.

All of those tears soaked the collar of your shirt, shaking his back. Fists clenching the fabric of his shirt, you forced yourself to keep your composure. To not break down the way you wanted because right now he needed you to be strong for him. You had no right to cry when this was your fault.

“I'm so sorry,” The words come out hushed at first before you're repeating louder. And then again. Until they're falling from your lips over and over again, you're worried they might lose their meaning. 

But you don't stop, because ever since you made the decision to leave him – apologizing was the only thing you wanted to do. Woke up every morning with a new way to tell him, to express to him, how sorry you were. How shitty you felt by doing this to him. And now that you had the chance, all your practice speeches were gone out the window.

All you could muster was a simple 'I'm sorry' and hope that it held as much weight as it did in your heart.

The two of you stay standing there for moments to pass, your hand soothingly rubbing his back as he let out the frustrations he had been feeling for the past years onto your shoulder.

He's pulling back only after he's calmed down, eyes glossed and cheeks flushed as he searches your features. A soft, cool hand finding the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Are you sure you're okay?” The slight crack in his voice from his crying nearly shatters your heart.

“I'm okay. I'm so sorry, Yoongi...” Again, you try to find the words, but you're at a loss. Don't know what to say, no matter how many times you’ve imagined this exact moment. Where do you start? How do you get him to see that this, him like this, was not what you wanted when you left?

“I can't believe it's really you.” Both hands sliding down the sides of your arms until he's able to reach for your hands, loosely holding them in his as he has done a thousand times before. “We have a son?”

The words that leave his lips are hushed as if he's afraid to say them out loud. Afraid to let you hear him. But you do. Loud and clear. And your eyes are widening at his words. He knew? How could he...

“Your Instagram. The pictures, that little boy. He's my son?” His ability to read your mind hasn't faltered. You can see the sadness in his eyes, clearly. And you know exactly why it's there and it's your fault. All because you were too much of a coward.

The weight starts in your chest, quickly rushing up your throat until a sob is breaking through. Eyes watering as fresh tears slide down your cheeks. “I'm so sorry, Yoongi. I-I should've... I didn't think-” You try to speak through your cries, but he stops your struggle; reaching to pull you into his chest again.

Gentle fingers stroke the back of your head, twisting in your short strands of hair. “Shh, it's okay. Relax, it's alright.” Except it wasn't. He knew that and you did too. Because of your stupidity, he lost the first three years of his son's life, time that he would never get back and it was all your fault.

He should be angry at you. Screaming at you. Cursing you ten times over. Not holding you and stroking your hair and telling you that it'll be okay. This was wrong. You didn't deserve his kindness, you didn't deserve him.

Lifting your hands to find his chest, you're gently pushing yourself back to create some distance between the two of you. “I'm sorry, Yoongi. I should've trusted you.” No idea that your trust in him and wavered, but Yoongi doesn't dwell on the small detail. He had a son now. He was a father. There were bigger things to focus on.

“Hey, listen. Whatever happened, happened. We can't change it, alright? Why don't we go somewhere? Get something to eat so we can talk properly?” You're nodding at the request despite the fact that you're not all that hungry. Can't eat with the guilt filling your stomach.

Yet, the last thing you want to do is stay in this studio. Haunted by the memories that the two of you made in this very lobby, every square inch of this place was covered with the two of you – and you ruined that.

Never realized how shitty being back here would make you feel and now you needed to get out.

An easy smile is spreading across his face at your agreement, a gentle hand rubbing at your shoulder. “Why don't you go wait outside? I'll call my driver.” You don't even bother to mull over the fact that he has his own driver now. One of the perks that came with his new lifestyle, you assume.

With another small nod, you're turning to exit the building to wait for him. Mind racing with how you'd be able to tell him about this without ruining everything he has now. He's accomplished so much and here you come ready to ruin everything. 

Again.

Two large men lead you into a restaurant a bit too fancy for a late lunch that neither of you is in the mood for. Ushering you to a table hidden in the back corner before stealing seats a few feet away. Yoongi orders food for the both of you when the waitress is coming with waters. 

“Water? Think we might need something a little stronger for the conversation we're about to have.” Trying to lighten the mood, but the stone-cold expression on his face as the nervous laugh dying on your lips.

Lips pulled into a tight line, you watch as he reaches for the wrapped straw at the side of the table. He takes his time with peeling the paper from it before crumpling it between his fingers, dipping the straw into the iced drink with the other hand.

“I don't drink anymore.”

Eyebrows shooting up in surprise at his quiet admission. You had always known Yoongi to be a man that valued a good glass of whiskey. Liked to have a few sips while he worked, always brought his own bottle to parties claiming 'you young-ins don't know how to drink'.

He always knew his limit, a couple of glasses here and there but he'd never push it where it became an awful habit. Made sure of it. But the sound of his voice when telling you he quit? Told you that he might've slipped in that department. And you can't help but wonder if that was your fault too.

“Tell me about my kid. What's he like?” Clearing his throat, his back straightens slightly – in an attempt to change the subject. Put a halt to all the questions he knows are bouncing around in that head of yours.

And you know him well enough to know when he doesn't want to be pushed. So you allow the shift, unwrapping your straw and dropping it into the glass.

“He's like most three-year-olds, you know? I named him Hyunki.” Another thing that you had wanted to tell him since you left. 

It had only been a few months into your relationship when Yoongi told you. The largest of smiles on his face as he went through the list he kept locked away in his head, gauging your expressions as he listed each off. As if he was checking to see if you liked any of them.

SEPTEMBER 18TH, 2015 | 21:42

“You're telling me you've never given it any thought?” The surprise is clear in your boyfriend's voice as he cranes his neck to get a better look at you. Arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you to his chest.

The movie that he had picked out has faded to background noise since he started this random conversation. If you had been paying attention to the screen rather than noting every cute thing he did, you'd know that his words weren’t as random as you thought. That they were related to the passing scene.

It was so hard to concentrate around him, you were discovering. Could never focus too long on the things that didn't involve him when he was near you. Always found yourself lost in those pretty dark eyes or mesmerized by that gummy smile of his. 

How were you supposed to focus on the plot of a movie when the world's most attractive man was behind you? Holding you to him and chuckling so close to your ear it was like surround sound made just for you. You didn't even remember the name of the damn film.

“I can honestly say I don't have the identity of my future children chosen.” You speak through a laugh as he’s rolling his eyes, hands falling low on your waist until he's able to grasp your hips.

Easily, he's lifting your body from between his legs, turning you to straddle his lap. The movie has been forgotten in his mind too. Your hands find the sides of his neck, tips of your fingers tickling his blond hair. “That's not what I mean, you can't pick who your kids are gonna be.” He speaks in a matter-of-fact tone that has a smile tugging on your lips.

Soft hands find the backs of your thighs, holding your body to his. Yoongi tilts his head back just slightly so he can get a better view of your face. Searching your features carefully before he says what he's thinking.

Can basically see the wheels turning in his head as his nibbles on his lower lip, deep in thought while he watching you. And you watch him right back, lips pursed in an attempt to mask the smile threatening to take over your features. You had always loved the way he looked at you.

“What do you think of Hyunki, then?” Different from all the outrageous names he had listed before. Hyunki. You could definitely see yourself raising a little boy with his face and that name. But it's too early to say it, relationship still too new no matter how you felt. You didn't want to scare him away.

“Hyunki's nice.”

One of the hands he had rested on your back of your leg is shifting, moving forward so he can reach your stomach. Through the fabric of your t-shirt, he traces random patterns – eyes focused on the movement of his fingers.

“My first son. I want to call him Hyunki.” Eyes slowly traveling up the length of your body until he's pinning you with such an intense stare it has a gasp falling from your lips. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, hopeful.

“Okay. I like Hyunki.” Yoongi's smile grows on his face, head tilting up to capture your lips with his. His grip tightening around your thigh to pull your body further onto his. Large hand flattening on the small of your back, guiding you until you were lying underneath him.

That was the first night you slept together.

APRIL 13TH, 2020 | 15:58

Warmth spread through his limbs with the knowledge that you had remembered your conversation all those years ago. Not only remembered it but honored him by using the name he had wanted. Just knowing that was enough to take a bit of the sting of leaving him away. Just a bit.

“So? What does he do? What does he like?” Had expected him to have more questions about you leaving, but it seemed his interest was elsewhere. And the least you could do was tell him whatever he wanted to know.

He was in charge here.

“He doesn't do much, you know?” A soft laugh falls from your lips, hand reaching up to push the hair from your face. “He's been really interested in sports lately. Plays soft basketball with Taehyung sometimes and-”

“Taehyung?” Yoongi's brow lifts at the mention of the unfamiliar name. Head tilting to the side slightly. “Who's Taehyung? One of his friends?”

“Kookie's boyfriend. He hasn't started preschool yet, so he doesn't really have any friends.” The waitress is heading toward the table, food in hand as two other women follow her.

Yoongi considers your words as the food is set down in front of you. Willing himself to keep calm as he takes in all the information that you're giving him. All of the things he missed. The fact that he has to ask questions about his own son, things that he should already know.

But he doesn't go off the way that he wants to, doesn't chastise you and place the blame exactly where it belongs. Instead, he's blowing a thick breath through his lips – leaning back against the cushion chairs.

“You moved to Busan, then?” From your countless stories about your best friend from Busan, he remembered enough to know that the 'Kookie' you were talking about was that same friend. So, the nod of your head is expected.

You watch as he blinks slowly, hand reaching for the clean utensils on the table. He clears his throat slightly, head tilting to the side in the way it does when he's thinking things over. Distracting himself by filling his personal plate with the various foods spread out in front of you two.

Silently, he gestures for you to eat and despite your hesitance, you move to fill your plate as well. Nervous. Pondering on whether or not you should just blurt it out. Ignore how he obviously doesn't want to know the ins and outs of your disappearance, if he did then he would be hitting you with questions, right?

Wished you were able to read him. Know what he was thinking right now. It had been something that you could do easily, simple gestures and facial expressions giving way to exactly what was going on in the head of his. However, it seemed that through time you've lost that ability.

“If he's three... shouldn't he be in preschool by now?” Yoongi's asking casually, shoveling a spoonful of food into his mouth as he watches you. How could he eat? Why wasn't he yelling at you? Pissed out of his mind. He's being so cool and it was throwing you.

You begin to eat after the expectant stare he gives you. Taking small bites, sitting on pins and needles in front of him. “Tae stays at home with him, but we were planning to enroll him once he's settled here a bit.”

There it was again, that 'we'. The 'we' that didn't include him in decisions that he should very well be included in. Only in this case, you weren't referring to the 'we' who decided on your disappearance, just the 'we' that have been helping you raise the son he had no idea about.

Yoongi can't help but feel bitter at the small fact. But he wills himself to bury it. Can't argue with you. Not when there's now so much at stake. When you have a kid that he doesn't even know, a kid that he wants to know. Needs to.

You held all the cards and without the knowledge of why you left in the first place, he had no idea what might set you off to where you were packing up and leaving again. That was the last thing he wanted, then and now.

He had to play his cards right.

Casual conversation remains steady between the two of you as you're finishing your meal. Filling Yoongi in on all the things he's missed in the past three years has your heart growing heavy. He's missed so much and it was because of you. Because you couldn't stand your ground and be with him.

He'd only ask you for one thing. Expected just one thing from you. And you couldn't even handle that.

“Does he know about me?” The words are coming out hushed after a stretch of silence. You had just finished sharing with Yoongi the slight obsession Hyunki has with Lego sets. How he could spend hours at his play table, building. He smiled real big at that, but from the slow way it vanished you could tell something was weighing on his mind. And this was it.

It pains you to shake your head. Hurts even worse when you see the sadness that flashes through his eyes. “Why not?” He's almost afraid of the answer, but can't keep himself from asking. 

“It's always been us, you know. Me, him, Tae and Kookie. And he likes having them around. I didn't want him to feel like he was missing out on something.” So young that he hadn't started asking questions yet. Wondering why kids around him had two parents instead of one plus two respective uncles.

You thought you had been making the right decision, but as this week was set out to prove – you had no idea what the right decision was. And judging from the look on Yoongi's face, you were more than positive that you had made the wrong decision by keeping the fact that Hyunki had a father secret.

“So who does he think is his dad?” He's doing the thing where he's trying to keep himself from losing it. That hasn't changed.

The slight twitch of his brow, the flare of his nostrils as he took deep calming breaths. Desperately trying to keep his composure and not freak out on you the way he wanted to, you wished he just let go and give you what you knew you deserved.

“No one,” You're rushing out, hoping it could do something to relax him. “I don't even think he knows what that means.” Flinching at your own words, you force a breath from your lips. You try to change course. “I honestly thought it would be better for him this way.”

Hesitantly, you reach for his hand that had balled into a fist on the table. Soothing fingers running over his knuckles. “You can tell him if you want. Do you want to meet him?”

“Obviously, I'd like to meet my son. He's my son.” There's harshness in his tone that he doesn't bother to mask. That you don't miss as he's pulling his hand from your grasp, going back to the meal in front of him.

Lunch ends in silence. Yoongi quietly pays the bill, mumbles a goodbye to you as he puts you in a cab. Doesn't even bother to look back as he turns with his bodyguards to walk toward the car that had brought you here.

Yoongi is slouching in the back seat of his car, arms crossed over his knees and face pressed against his sleeve. Of all the scenarios he's imagined with seeing you again, he never thought it'd be like this. Had been so sure it would be clear where he'd stand with you if you were to ever appear in his life again.

But, it wasn't that simple. Because nothing in his life was ever that simple. Of course, he still loved you – an annoying fact that was hard to ignore. Yet, he'd be able to do it, would be able to move on despite his heart being filled with you, if it wasn't for the fact that you had a kid together now.

A human binding the two of you, of which he hadn't even met. And he wanted to. Wanted nothing more than to be apart of that kid's life, but that meant being apart of your life too. He had been too afraid to get the answer's from you today, not wanting his deepest worry to become true within your words.

Not knowing was better than knowing in his mind. Whatever it was, why you left him – took your unborn child and bolted, he didn't want to know. Afraid that it would be something so horrible that it'd crumble his already cracked heart.

“Everything alright back there, Mister Agust?” His driver speaks noticing the shake of Yoongi's back that accompanies the fresh tears that roll down his cheeks. Face hidden, he takes a moment to compose himself before lifting his head.

The back of his hand wiping at his damp eyes before he's pushing his hair back on his forehead. Eyes shifting to look out the window as he nods his head. A heavy sigh falls from his lips, dark sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose to cover his reddening eyes.

Tires skid to a complete stop in front of the building and Yoongi is stepping out of the car, hands shoved in his pockets as he takes slow steps to the front doors of the studio.

Words leave his lips as a hushed plea, a delayed answer to the question he had been asked in the car. What he had been thinking since he first scrolled through your pictures, seeing the life you had created without him.

“I just want to see my kid.”

— when the love of his life suddenly vanishes, he drives himself mad looking for her. seemingly erased from the world, he’s forced to pick up the pieces of his life and move on… fast forward three years and someone who looks a lot like the woman he lost is being spotted, holding a kid with an oddly familiar gummy smile…

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A/N: timestamps make sense throughout the fic. to be added to the taglist, send me an ask !! feedback is highly !! appreciated, it’s the motivation i need to keep the fic going nd fun for you guys!!<33

[toutallyahoe]

Everybody Talks ~ Iwaizumi Hajime (Haikyuu) pt 2

requested by: --

a/n: holy shit— i had to break this one shot into three parts?!?

ugh, this is why i prefer wattpad and quotev bruuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh

you gremlins better enjoy this

part one | part two | part three

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"Hey sugar show me all your love?

All you're giving me is friction,"

It had been already a week and a half and his soulmate finally stopped listening to the song like it was god or something. Well, his soulmate never fully stopped as his soulmate seemed to play on it occasionally from time to time but it wasn't like earlier in the week where Hajime could barely sleep or focus on anything since the song was blasting on his ears in full volume.

Hajime was thankful that his soulmate finally regained their sanity back to not blast the song on a loop twenty-four seven like a maniac.

Still though, instead of the song "Everybody Talks" by Neon Trees on loop, it was replaced by an instrumental of the said song. Not really much of a change but hey, it was more bearable with out the singer singing the lyrics so loud Hajime was sure he'll go deaf.

And yes, Hajime knows the name of the song and the band. How can he not be though when he had been hearing this one particular song again and again for a week and a half. It seemed like his soulmate changed their taste again. More or less. It was a common occurrence as the dark haired male seemed to noticed that his soulmate enjoyed listening to music a lot.

Hajime liked to think his soulmate was perhaps an aspiring musician as the dark haired male sometimes hear some songs he never heard of, even if he searched it in online as best as he could.

"Hey sugar what you gotta say?

It started with a whisper!"

Snapping out of his thoughts. Hajime sighed again when he heard the familiar song... again. It seemed like his soulmate was listening to the song again. Actually, his soulmate had been listening for it for awhile now but had had the volume down that the dark haired male could easily tune it out. But it seemed like his soulmate was trying to have their eardrums bursting again.

"And that was when I kissed her!

And then she made my lips hurt!"

Shaking his head, Hajime reminded himself to focus. Currently, he had been asked by a teacher of his to deliver a box. Having nothing to do as Mondays he doesn't have any volleyball practice, Hajime agreed to take the box towards the light music club.

"I could hear the chit chat!

Take me to your love shack!"

The dark haired male had a bit trouble locating the club room of the light music club though. Hajime wasn't one to be interested in other extra curricular activities and other clubs as he was busy with his own club to manage. Being the vice captain of the volleyball club full of raging testosterone and hormonal boys, and having to deal with their bullshit was enough already. Hell, he even had to deal with Oikawa Tōru and that guy was the president! You could tell the stress the dark haired male had to deal with every single day.

"Mamas always gotta back track!

When everybody talks back!"

Hajime shakes his head again as he turned his attention the the box on his hands. The box wasn't that huge nor heavy. Maybe a bit heavy and the dark haired male assumed it was some music instrument or some sheets of music notes. Either way, he has to be careful since who know what was inside and how he'll be in trouble if he messed whatever is inside the box.

"Everybody talks, everybody talks,

Everybody talks, everybody talks,

Everybody talks, everybody talks back!"

Shifting his gaze from the box to the doors he was passing by. Hajime made sure to read the signs of the door to find the light music club he had to deliver the box too.

"It started with a whisper!

And that was when I kissed her!

Everybody talks, everybody talks back!"

   

It took awhile for the dark haired male the light music club room. Turns out the club room of the light music club was on the third floor, the third to the last room of the end of the building. Looking at the door of the room, it was the same as the rest of the doors of the rooms in the school. The only thing new about it was the sign on top of the door said "LIGHT MUSIC CLUB" in a very neat, bolded writing. Hajime almost passed the room for a second as everything was the same if he wasn't looking for it.

Sighing, the dark haired male noticed his soulmate was rather quite. They had been for awhile and Hajime didn't know whether to be overjoyed or not. He had noticed that his soulmate was also going silent for awhile and would normally just listen to music late at night or around the end of classes. Maybe sometimes listening in classes but mostly skipped unlike what they used to.

This really made Hajime curious on why the change of schedule his soulmate is currently doing as his soulmate was relentless and would always jam out to their song. But right now, Hajime should focusing on the task at hand. Going back to reality and cursing his soulmate— even when they are not annoying him with their music blasting in full volume inside his mind, Hajime is still getting distracted by them. Cute but also, how annoying.

Looking at the door again then at the box in his hand. Hajime breathed in and out. He did not know why but oddly enough, he felt a bit nervous. Maybe he was just stressed out? Perhaps. The dark haired male really doesn't have a single clue.

The dark haired male decided to just get this over with. Swallowing the anxiety that just appeared out of nowhere, Hajime was about to knock on the door when the familiar song came inside his mind again, but this time... more louder...?

"Hey baby won't you look my way?

I can be your new addiction."

"What the hell...?" Hajime muttered, confused and bewildered. The dark haired male swore he was hallucinating the song his soulmate was playing all the time. He had to be right or perhaps he was having auditory problems? Maybe he finally lost it with his soulmate's non-stop jamming to the song that it made him finally gone insane.

"Hey baby what you gotta say?

All you're giving me is fiction."

It took a second or two for Hajime to realized he wasn't going insane for listening on a song for almost a week and a half non-stop. No, the dark haired male realized the song wasn't only playing inside his mind, but also somewhere in front of him. And Hajime looked at the door in front of him, he knows the sound was coming inside the light music club room.

"I'm a sorry sucker and this happens all the time,

I found out that everybody talks,

Everybody talks, everybody talks—"

The dark haired male didn't know what had came over him or what had possessed him to do such a thing, but he, Iwaizumi Hajime grabbed the handle of the door and hastily opened it.

"It started with a whisper!

And that was when I kissed her!

And then she made my lips hurt!"

The room had a cozy feel to it. It was like any room of the building in size but it had its own personality than the other rooms aswell. The window were covered with thick, black colored curtains that were shut tight at the moment. The walls were painted darker shade than the other room, a color of maroon.

Inside the room were chairs and some table on the side and most important of all, many different instrument raging from percussion to stringed and woodwinds instruments. There are mic stands and even a small podium inside the room. But Hajime wasn't focused on the room though. No, he was more focused on the person inside the room.

Inside the club room of the light music club was a lone male. This was [Last name] [Name]. Hajime only knew him because the male was the president of the light music club and had classes with his chocolate brown haired best friend.

[Name] had [Hair color] hair that was rather messy and wild looking and had its tips bleached white. [Skin color] skin that maybe held some imperfections that Hajime couldn't tell from the distance the two were in but the dark haired male noticed the [Hair color] haired male was wearing the Aoba Johsai school uniform.

Well, of course he was. [Name] was a student of the school after all, but the [Hair color] haired student seemed to had his white jacket discarded and put on a chair that was inside the room along with his bag. [Name] was standing in the small podium in the center of the room, two large speakers beside him that was blasting the rifts of the bass guitar that he was playing in his hands.

[Name] was wearing white headphones over his ears and had his eyes closed as he sang onto the microphone in front of his. His eyes closed, clueless to his own surroundings and was only lost to the music he was listening and singing too.

"I could hear the chit chat!

Take me to your love shack!"

Hajime felt his heart beating so fast inside his ribcage. He swore his heart would escape as he stood on the doorway of the room, frozen and gaping like a fish out of the water as his eyes widened in shock.

"Mamas always gotta back track!

When everybody talks back!"

Was this real? This had to be a joke, right?

Holy shit. His soulmate— his fucking soulmate wasn't farther away than he had thought. His soulmate was [Last name] [Name], the president of the light music club and they were only a few steps away from each other. Not the miles and miles apart Hajime had admitted to himself a long time ago.

"Hey honey you could be my drug?

You could be my new prescription."

Was this the reason he had been hearing the song "Everybody Talks" for a week and a half now? Because his soulmate was truly an aspiring musician?

"Too much could be an overdose!

All this trash talk make me itchin'!"

It seemed like Hajime wasn't wrong about his thoughts on his soulmate enjoying music because they had a passion for it. His soulmate, [Name], was literally the president of a club dedicated to music making!

"Oh my, my,

Everybody talks, everybody talks,

Everybody talks, too much..."

As Hajime continuously stood there like a statue, the [Hair color] haired male finally noticed him when he had opened his eyes to see the dark haired male.

"It started with a whisper..." [Name] softly sang as he then stopped strumming the bass guitar on his hands and took his headphones off his ears. Instead, he let the white headphones hang loosely on his neck as he jumped of the mini podium and went towards the frozen male.

"Uh, hey?" [Name] awkwardly greeted Hajime as he stood in front of the dark haired male. "Do you need something?" The [Hair color] haired male asked as he looked at the volleyball player up and down.

[Name] knew who this was. This was the infamous ace of the males volleyball club of Aoba Johsai. The pride and joy of the school, the volleyball club was. Iwaizumi Hajime may not be popular like Oikawa Tōru (who he share homeroom with) like the rest of the other members of the club, but the dark haired ace still garnered recognition from others. He was, after all, the ace of the sport.

Now this brings the question on why the ace of the volleyball club was in his club's doorstep. Normally, no one comes into the light music club except members (who already went home as everyone Mondays are no club time for them) or close friends of the said members to watch them goof off and perform. And [Name] was pretty sure that Hajime wasn't a close friend of his members as he prided himself to actually known his fellow members in the light music club. After all, what kind a president would he be if wasn't close with his members and his members friends?

So, if it isn't any if those two, this leads to only one conclusion.

Snapping his fingers in a "hurrah" moment. The [Hair color] haired male did not paid mind on Hajime flinching a bit on the snap of his fingers as he sent the dark haired ace an apologetic grin.

"If you're here because of how loud I'm playing again, I promise I'll keep it down!" [Name] had awkwardly said as he grinned. This wasn't the first time people actually visited the club to complain how loud they were playing, or more specifically, how he was playing. [Name] was a passionate guy and it his passion also shows in his playing. And so, he sometimes gets too into his music.

"So, uhhh, don't worry!" The [Hair color] haired male chuckled but his relief was immediately washed away and was replaced with confusion when he saw the dark haired male shakes his head and avoided eye contact with him. Did he do something wrong?

"No, that's not it," Hajime had said as he awkwardly coughed and avoided looking at [Name] in his [Eye color] eyes. Why was he feeling embarrassed again? He wasn't the one getting caught singing their heart out for goodness sake! Yet, Hajime felt a bit shy which was uncharacteristic of him.

This was his soulmate though. Iwaizumi Hajime may be jumping on the gun here and was probably wrong but the inner hopeless romantic he denied that he had was desperately screaming at him that this was no coincidence.

The light music club president was singing the fucking song his soulmate was listening to and Hajime could still hear the song playing even just a tiny bit and the dark haired male could practically hear [Name]'s music on the headphones hanging lazily on his neck. And it was the same fucking song.

Clearing his throat. Hajime reminded himself to focus. He could tell [Name] about them both being soulmates after he delivered the box that he was asked to give.

"Tōrasu-sensei asked me to deliver this," Hajime had said as he finally looked at the other male and saw the [Hair color] haired male just noticed the box he was carrying. Hajime had to bite back the nerves coming back when he made brief eye contact with [Name].

Fuck, he had been waiting for this moment his whole life, so why did he feel so nervous?!?

Hajime didn't expect his soulmate to be so closer to him and be a male. Yes, the dark haired male knew the possibility of having the same sex soulmate as it wasn't a new thing really. In fact, having same sex partners are more common than what other people would think. Still, Hajime never expected this and he was having mix feelings about it.

"Oh," Hajime was dragged out of his thoughts again by [Name] with the male sporting a dumbfounded look for a second as his lips was in a "o" form. The [Hair color] haired male seemed to realized what he was here for and had flashed him a large smile. The dark haired male just noticed that [Name] actually had a few piercing in his ears and that he had really nice [Eye color] eyes that shined with energy.

"Thanks for delivering!" [Name] thanked as he carefully took the box from the dark haired male when Hajime was too busy looking at him. The [Hair color] haired male was a bit amused when he noticed Hajime blinked a couple of times when he took the box away from him. Looks like the volleyball player was lost in his thoughts.

"I had been waiting for this baby for awhile now," [Name] said as he patted the top of the box and sent Hajime a grateful smile. "So, thanks, really."

"No problem," Hajime shrugged as he nodded his head at the [Hair color] haired male. It seemed like the dark haired male was back and acting normal again. Not that [Name] would know really as he wasn't closed with the volleyball player.

"Not to be a bother but, what's inside the box?" Hajime had asked as he rubbed his hands, eying the box he just delivered. Hajime had his guesses earlier ago but he couldn't tell which of his guesses were correct really. The dark haired male noticed the male in front of him seemed to light up and beamed at him.

"Oh! It's supposed to be a surprise," [Name] had said. This caused Hajime to be more curious on what's inside the box, and [Name] seemed to actually be eager to tell as he sent Hajime a grin. "It's some stuff we'll be using in the school's festival next week!"

"Ah, is it some new instrument or something?" The volleyball player asked as he saw the light music club president chuckle while shaking his head. Hajime had to force himself to calm himself down when he saw the [Hair color] haired male sent him a wink with a cheeky grin on his lips.

"Now, I can't tell you about that!" [Name] had said with a laugh as he went to the nearest table and placed the box down. He then turned and gave Hajime another grateful smile. "It would ruin the surprise if I do."

"I see," Hajime muttered as he can't stop the small smile creeping onto his lips. "Then I'm sure it'll be a great surprise then!" Hajime said. The dark haired male didn't noticed how the [Hair color] haired male seemed to be a bit surprised with his words but he immediately grinned happily by Hajime's words.

"Oh, you bet!" [Name] said as he went back to stand in front of Hajime, holding his hand on to shake the dark haired male's hand. "Name's [Name] by the way! [Last name] [Name]!" He introduced.

"Iwaizumi Hajime," Hajime introduced himself aswell as he took the [Skin color] hand that [Name] outstretched for him to shake. A small smile on his lips as he shook hands with the light music club president.

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< prev | next >

[silverfootstepswrites]

Eden: ZERO

ZERO (here) / BLEACH / TWIST / REVERSE / DYE /  RED

Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it. - Haruki Murakami

+++

“You’re doing it wrong, you know.”

Those were the first words Madara had ever spoken to her. Arms crossed across his chest, over his half-buttoned shirt. Staring down at her with those arrogant eyes glinting bright red.

“Then show me how to do it,” she retorted. Unaware of how dangerous those words were.

A harsh wind swept through. Sakura squinted her eyes shut against the hair that blew into her face. When she opened them, the man stood just in front of her. Grinning with too-sharp teeth as he leaned over her. Those luminous eyes widened as he took in the golden light sputtering between her palms.

“What are you? 12? Don’t even know how to do basic channeling?” he asked, eyes darting back up to her face.

“8,” Sakura corrected him.

“Ah. Shit. Seriously?” His expression shifted. The furrow in his brows deepening as he squinted down at the magic twinkling and then dwindling in her hands.  Thumb on his chin, he leaned in a little closer to the sparks.

“Are you channeling through your solar plexus or your heart?” he demanded.

Sakura made a face. “My what?”

He sighed.

“Take a deep breath, through your nose. Like this.” And he demonstrated. Inhaling through his nostrils. He exhaled long and fast through his mouth. “When you breathe out, feel your abdomen move. Right here.” He touched his stomach.

Sakura watched him do it once more before she tried it herself. Breathing in deep through her nose. Exhaling through her lips.

“Now try channeling your magic through that part of your stomach you just felt,” he instructed.

Her eyes closed as she followed the steps. She gathered her breath, willing her strength into her palms as she exhaled. The golden sparks appeared again, but this time, they spilled from her palms, down her arms. They showered her clothes and the ground with bright lights before winking out of existence.

“I did it!” Sakura exclaimed. And when she lifted her chin to thank him, the man was gone.

++++

The world overflowed with magic. It clung to blades of grass and wafted off the smoke rising from chimneys. It lingered in the alleyways, mingling with the smells of food from all around the world. A melting pot of pastelitos, General Tso’s and doner kebab all in one.

Anyone who couldn’t perform magic bought it. And the more complex the magic, the more valuable it was. Simple levitation charms and giggle potions could be purchased in the same vending machines that sold soda. People walked out of salons with hair that changed color in the sunlight. Sleepy janitors on the night shift could twist a finger and let the mop work by itself as they took a quick nap. 

The city of Konoha was as old as it was busy. It wasn’t where Sakura had been born, but it was where she was now. 

She lived in one of the dorms at the Senju Institute. Many of the students there were children of non-magical parents and trained them to wield their powers. This program was, in essence, an orphanage, but no one liked to say that out loud.

There were many things to be grateful for. The Senju Institute fed her and kept a roof over her head. None of the teachers or fellow students were ever unkind to her. But a label seemed to hang over her head everywhere she went.

This girl can’t wield magic.

No matter how much she studied, how much she practiced, she couldn’t understand the lessons from the instructors. Who told her, “Follow your instincts” and “feel the energy”. Which meant absolutely nothing to her. Besides that odd encounter in the library, Sakura had never managed to properly channel magic before. And as her classmates learned to conjure light and summon orbs of water, Sakura found herself falling farther and farther behind.

Tutoring sessions with the teachers did nothing. So while Sakura struggled with the application, she threw herself into reading up on the theory. Because maybe there would be an answer in one of those big, dusty books in the library about what made her defective.

If anyone wanted to know how to do magic, Sakura could recite it without a thought. The irony was comical, in some ways. Although, Sakura didn’t find it very funny at all.

++++

“You can’t just show up whenever you want,” Tobirama griped, not for the first time, as he watched Madara peruse the shelves of the school library.

“Relax. Your brother said it was okay. Isn’t he in charge?” Madara said.

“Yeah. But I’m also in charge. And I hate you,” retorted Tobirama. Madara snorted. And then he found his eyes drifting past the shelf. Past the balustrade. Downstairs, he glimpsed a little girl sitting alone at one of the long tables. Her nose buried in a huge textbook.

“That girl,” Madara mused. And Tobirama turned to follow his gaze. He let out a heavy sigh.

“Ah. Sakura? Good kid. I feel bad for her,” he replied.

“Bad? Why?” Madara’s eyebrows rose.

Tobirama paused. He peeked over at the girl to make sure she hadn’t heard them before he leaned in a little closer.

“She seems to have the spark, but she can’t channel magic. Her pathways must be dead or blocked,” Tobirama whispered, hand covering his mouth. Madara’s mouth twisted, eyebrows rising.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

It was Tobirama’s turn to look surprised as he watched Madara cup his hands around his mouth.

“Hey! Kid!”

The girl’s head jerked up. Her eyes widened.

“You still remember this?” Madara asked. He held out his palm. Gold sparks flooded his palm, overflowing. Spilling over the railing. Down to the floor below. The girl nodded. She held up both her hands. She squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lower lip.

“Feel where your breath is. Push the magic through there,” he reminded her.

Slowly, flecks of gold gathered at the tips of her fingers.

“Exhale. Push through your stomach.”

Gold welled up in her hands. And then it began spilling endlessly, bouncing across the tile. 

Madara turned to Tobirama with a smirk. “You know, Tobirama, sometimes telling people to just feel magic doesn’t work,” he rubbed it in. But Tobirama didn’t even see the expression as he hurried down the stairs to examine the magic. Sakura looked from Tobirama, up to Madara. Her face gold as the light from her magic bathed her expression.

Madara raised his eyebrows at her as he descended the stairs. 

“Hey. Try this,” he urged. And then he closed his fingers around the sparks. They spurted between his fingers before they began to lump together. Burning red hot, thrumming with energy. When he opened his hand, a smooth black stone glistened in his palm.

Tobirama sighed. “Come on, Madara. Even senior level students struggle with transmutation.”

The girl’s forehead wrinkled. She grabbed Madara’s hand, jerking it down to eye level. She scowled at the shimmering rock.

“How do I do that?” she demanded.

“Make the sparks. Breathe,” instructed Madara, snatching the orb away.

She took a step back. Sucking in a deep breath through her nose, she summoned the golden sparks to her hands once more.

“Now. Kid. The magic is moving quickly because all the molecules are moving fast,” Madara explained. He pointed at the sparks. She stared. “They’re all vibrating. Bumping into each other. All because it’s so hot.”

“It doesn’t feel hot,” she protested.

Tobirama sighed again, shaking his head.

Madara shot him a dirty look before he looked down at Sakura again. “Well, you’re not wrong, kid. I’ll get into that stuff later. For now, just believe me. It’s hot for the magic, alright?”

The girl continued to frown, but she slowly nodded.

“Then make the magic stop moving so fast,” he explained.

She blinked a few times. Then lifted her chin to look up at him. “So... tell the magic to cool down?”

He thought for a moment. And then Madara smirked. Hand on his hip, he nodded.

“Yeah, kid.”

She stared directly into the sparks. She sucked in another breath. And then she began to close her fingers, just as Madara had. As she moved her hands, she whispered to the sparks: “Cool.... it’s time to be cool. It’s not hot anymore. It’s nice and cool. Slow…”

Tobirama’s eyes bulged as the sparks slowly darkened. The magic began to swirl together in her palms, rippling back and forth with each of her breaths. Then, slowly, it gathered into a solid shape in her cupped hands.

“Show me what you got, kid,” Madara instructed.

As the girl opened her hands, the object between her fingers slipped out. Madara’s hand flicked. It rose in the air, sparkling as it rotated. It was a crystal with a pointed tip. Purple, green, and blue swirled together in layers, gleaming as light bounced off the surface.

“Huh. Fluorite. Good quality too,” he commented. When he flexed his fingers, the crystal began to spin in the opposite direction. But when he glanced at the girl, he saw that her eyes glittered even more brightly than the crystal she had created.

“I did that?” she whispered.

“Yeah. Impressive for your first try,” Madara replied. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the crystal flying over to her. She held both her hands out. It fell into her waiting grasp.

Smug, Madara turned toward Tobirama.

“See? Kid can do magic just fine. Pretty gifted, honestly,” he rubbed it in. Relishing the way Tobirama glared at him.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tobirama ground out.

“Can you teach me from now on? You’re a good teacher,” Sakura spoke up. Still clutching the crystal she had created.

Tobirama and Madara both looked down at her. Her eyes gleamed. Rubbing his chin, Madara considered this.

“Tell you what, kid. I’ll do you one better.” Madara grinned.

“Madara, no,” Tobirama was already protesting.

“You ever had your own room before, kid?” asked Madara, hand on his hip.

It had taken some persuading. As a student of the Senju Institute, Sakura was technically in the care of the school itself. Plus, Hashirama, its headmaster, wasn’t keen on the idea of just… giving a student away. 

Madara, however, was not above playing dirty. When he began rattling off a list of all the ways both brothers owed him, Hashirama finally caved.

Madara would take custody of Sakura. He would instruct her on the fundamentals of magic. When Sakura was old enough, and had developed enough of her skills, she would resume her studies at the institute.

As Madara watched her pack up her things, he looked around the narrow room she shared with one other girl. Her roommate had some photos taped over her desk. There were a few posters on her side of the room. A picture frame sat on her nightstand. All Sakura had were her books, along with a blue vase filled with fake flowers. The books she scooped up into her arms and dropped into her suitcase. She didn’t move to take the vase.

“Ready to go?” he asked as she set the suitcase on the ground. The things inside rattled around. Half-hollow. Half-filled.

Sakura nodded.

Madara’s home sat halfway across the city from the Senju Institute. The inside of his car was old-fashioned, but it was clean. The worn leather seats gleamed. He drove with the windows down, his hair whipping back in the wind.

“So… what do you do?” she asked.

Madara pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. His lips twisted to one side.

“I dabble. Been going by ‘arcanist’ for a while now,” he replied. When Sakura continued to stare, he laughed a little, teeth glinting. “I research magic and how to put it inside things. I also come up with spells to use magic differently.”

“Do I have to call you ‘dad’?” she then asked.

Madara wrinkled his nose. He waved a hand, as if shooing the title away from him.

“Nah. I’m Madara. You can call me that. Or ‘teacher’. Whatever. Just don’t say ‘old man’,” he answered.

Madara’s home didn’t look like much from the outside. But inside, it was filled with books, spell ingredients, and whatever other clutter he had gathered over the years. Candles bobbed in the foyer. Shoes floated into a closet as soon as they were off the feet. The welcome mat shifted colors whenever someone stepped over it.

It was also much too big. 

Sakura’s jaw dropped the first time she stepped inside. She backtracked onto the front steps. Stared up at the narrow apartment. Then stepped inside again, staring at how tall the ceilings were. 

“Extension magic,” Madara chuckled as he watched her dumbfounded expression. 

The next few days were a blur of learning the house’s layout and trying to absorb all the information Madara threw at her.

“There’s no real schedule. Eat when you like. We can do your lessons in the afternoon, so you can sleep in,” he said as he poured himself a glass of wine.

“What about school?” she asked.

“I am your school. There’s nothing at those ridiculous schools that I can’t teach you better at home,” Madara scoffed.

“What about math? Or reading and writing?”

Madara heaved a sigh.

“Kid. I got it,” he assured her.

Despite his attitude, Madara was a proper teacher. He waited for her to understand before he asked her to do. Whenever she asked for him to explain again, he did so. The technicality of Madara’s casting made a lot of sense to Sakura.

“Not like that. Spread your fingers. You need to leave space for the magic to gather,” he explained as  he nudged her hands. He stood with his feet shoulders width apart. As Sakura adjusted, he pointed down at his feet. She inched her feet closer together until he nodded.

“Now. Let’s try again. Remember, you need to break the bonds and remake them,” Madara reminded her. He waited for her to nod before he took a deep, slow breath. Sakura copied him, feeling the heat gather in her fingertips.

Madara never made her feel like she had when she had stayed at the Senju Institute. Deficient. Slow. Somehow less than the others who ran around with their hands shooting sparks in every direction.

The Senju school of magic focused on drawing upon emotions and imagination. And while their magic was strong, it was also volatile and ran the risk of turning destructive.

The Uchiha family’s knowledge of magic emphasized understanding the science of magic. What created it? How could it be channeled optimally? They were the ones who had discovered that wooden wands and staves are actually a poor conductor of magic. The discovery had led to the development of new casting tools that had filled up the family’s accounts faster than the banks knew how to handle.

As Sakura spent more time with Madara, the more she realized that magic wasn’t just about the spells. It was woven into the very fabric of reality. It changed the structure of objects and bent light. All she had to do was tug on a few strings to set things into motion.

“Water and fire are kind of alike, actually,” Madara said. He held his hand out, palm up. His palm seemed to glow for a moment before a flame flickered to life just above it.

And with just a little more effort, he changed the fire into water. The droplets danced together before he crushed them in his palm.

“Why?” Sakura asked.

“It’s all about the energy of the matter. If you change the energy, you can change the state of things.”

Sakura touched her hand to her chin. “More energy is hotter,” she recalled him saying.

Madara nodded.

“But more energy can also be gas,” she went on.

Madara’s eyes crinkled a little, but he said nothing.

Sakura’s forehead wrinkled as she peered up at him. “Am I a water affinity?”

Madara nodded.

“And you’re fire?”

Madara nodded again.

“Can someone be good at both?”

Madara thought for a moment. “Your natural affinity is what you’ll be good at with little effort. It would be more challenging, but it’s possible to do both well,” he decided.

Sakura tilted her head

“What about earth?” she asked.

Madara laughed. He leaned back in his chair. “You must’ve driven those teachers crazy with all these questions.”

Sakura didn’t smile. She looked down at her feet. “They got mad when I kept asking…” she confessed.

Madara’s laugh cut off. He examined her expression. And then he ruffled her hair. “Aw, kid, don’t look like that. You can ask me as much as you like. Just as long as I’m not trying to sleep,” he assured her. And then he paused. 

“I mean... sometimes when I’m... ah whatever. Ask away, kid,” Madara concluded. Watching the dimples form in her cheeks as she gave him a shy smile in return.

++++

“Nice work today. Your basics are really coming together,” Madara commended her over dinner one day.

Sakura smiled around her bite of chicken. She was doing that more and more now.

“Next, we should take you to an appraiser. Your folks wouldn’t have brought you to Konoha if you didn’t have an affinity for dream magic,” Madara went on. He slathered a biscuit with too much butter, gesturing with his knife as he spoke.

Sakura’s smile faded a little.

“They did it once. At the Institute,” she admitted.

“And?” Madara prompted, cheeks stuffed with food. “What’s the verdict, kid?”

Konoha was famous for the art of dream magic. Unlike elemental magic, which most people could learn to use with the right training, dream magic couldn’t be learned. It was innate. Dreams, shadows, thoughts- those were all things that ran in the blood.

Someone had once thought to call those would could handle dreams dream casters. It was a silly name, but it had stuck. A low level dream caster could bottle a dream that already existed and sell it for profit. A more skilled dream caster could amend parts of a dream, or even piece one together from scratch. 

Sakura nudged a piece of broccoli on her plate.

“They never said.”

They had taken one look at the paper and sent her back to her room. The subject had never come up again.

“Those fuckers,” Madara sighed. His eyes widened. At the same time, Sakura’s head jerked up.

They stared at each other.

“Was that a bad word?” she asked.

Madara’s eyes darted to the ceiling. Then back to her. “Uh… yes. You shouldn’t say it.”

“Even though you just said it?”

“….Yeah.”

“….Okay.”

The test was simple.

Madara sent her to bed early that night. Reading the expression on her face, he mussed her hair. 

“Don’t worry, kid. It’s not hard,” he assured her. 

Despite all the questions swirling around in her head, Sakura managed to fall asleep. And as she found herself dreaming of a park on a sunny day, she spotted a familiar figure sitting on one of the benches. Madara lowered his round sunglasses with a smirk. 

“Well. Only dream casters can meet in dreams. Gotta make room for that in your lessons, I guess,” Madara mused, rubbing his chin.

When Sakura woke in the morning, she shuffled into the kitchen bleary-eyed. Madara stood flipping pancakes at the stove. Well, more accurately, he stood drinking coffee while a spatula flipped pancakes on its own. Madara turned his pointer finger in a circle. A glass flew out of the cupboard. The refrigerator door opened so a carton of orange juice would move to join the cup. 

“You ever get any training in dream magic before, kid?” Madara asked her.

Sakura shook her head as she watched the glass fill with juice. When she held both her hands out, the cup lowered down into her waiting grasp. 

“Good. Means I don’t have to undo any garbage they put into your head at that school,” Madara muttered. 

Nightmares were a common issue for dream casters. Especially in children. Who had an excess of magic with no way to use up the energy. The surplus magic seeped into their dreams. Twisting things into horrors that only a child could imagine.

Madara taught her not to fear. 

“You shape the dreams. They cannot shape you,” he told her. 

Each dream caster had a way of envisioning dreams. And a way to bend them to their will. 

Madara saw dreams as swirling black mists. When he casted, he sank into the endless field of mist, feet settling onto the soft black powder that coated the ground. He pulled the mists into shapes, sculpting them into people and objects. He could even sweep bigger sections into the skies and the ground. And when he channeled his magic, burning red for just a moment up his fingers, he filled the mist with color and texture. 

Sakura copied him, at first. 

But even as she learned, Sakura loved watching him bend her dreams. Twisting the nightmare shapes into harmless stuffed animals and pieces of furniture. He conjured ice cream out of thin air. He could even make stars appear in the sky where there had been none. It all felt so natural. And it was so easy to do it once she had seen him do it a few times. 

“Is it normal for us to have bad dreams?” she asked one night as he lit the incense in her room. The fragrance filled the air. Madara paused. And then he looked over his shoulder at her.

“In the beginning, yeah. Maybe it’s the cost of walking through everyone else’s dreams,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He lit the last stick of incense before he took a seat next to her bed. “But you’ll stop having them. Or you’ll learn how to make them good again.”

Her room was right across the hall from his. He had heard her wake up crying the first few nights in the house. So it had become part of the routine for him to check on her. He never said why. He didn’t really have to. And she didn’t thank him for it. Somehow she got the feeling that it would embarrass him.

“I wish I didn’t have bad dreams,” she muttered, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Madara smirked. “Same, kid. Good night.”

He mussed her hair before he got to his feet.

++++

“Alright. So.” Madara took a deep breath before he started.

“This is my little brother Izuna. That’s my nephew Fugaku. And those are his two kids Itachi and Sasuke. This is Obito, I think he’s a nephew. Or maybe he’s a cousin. Cousin’s cousin? Eh, whatever.”

He pointed to each face in the photograph as he rattled off the name.

“That’s too many people,” Sakura said. Cheek in his hand, Madara nodded.

“Family’s too damn big. Anyway, I’m the head, so you can be as rude or as nice as you want. No one’s gonna say shit to yo-” Madara broke off as he caught himself swearing again. Sakura scrutinized his expression.

“I’m not supposed to say that word?” she guessed.

Madara sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. “Yeah.”

“Okay.”

And then she turned her attention back to the album.

“So… they’re my family too, now?” Her voice was suddenly tiny. Not like her at all.

Madara stared at her profile.

“Yeah, kid. You’re not alone anymore,” he answered. He rested his hand on top of her head. It was heavy, but she didn’t complain or shake him off.

It wasn’t difficult to get to know the other members of the Uchiha family. They came to visit often. So much so that Madara grumbled and threatened to kick them out each time they showed their faces.

But Madara’s too-big house started to make sense. All the spare bedrooms were perfect for when someone wanted to spend the night.

Shisui liked to crash on the sofa when he fought with his family. Itachi used one of the guest rooms when he wanted to study dream magic with Madara. And Sasuke was there the most often. When he needed a quiet place. When he just needed space from his parents. Because “they care about me, but they’re…a lot.”

None of them batted an eye when Madara introduced Sakura as their cousin. Shisui took to ruffling her hair the same way he did to Sasuke. Itachi reminded her about elbows on the table and offered to help her with her homework. Sasuke was just relieved to have someone his age around now. After years of Itachi and Shisui ganging up on him for being “the baby”.

The titles for how they were related to Madara were tangled and complicated. They called him “Uncle”, and Madara called them her cousins. And that was good enough for her too.

Sakura liked it when her cousins slept in the house. The proximity made it easier for her to visit them in their dreams.

In the early years, when her magic was still a tiny little sapling, she could only visit a dream that was very nearby. And that was almost always by accident. She would stumble into a place that wasn’t hers, baffled by the weight and shapes of things.

It happened the most with Madara, since he was usually nearby. And if he was irritated by her intruding on his dreams, he never let it show in his face. 

But as time went on, she began to wield her magic with more ease. And rather than falling thoughtlessly into dreams, she could imagine the shape of the entrance to the dream world. It was a worn wooden door, painted deep purple. There were vines crawling up the edges, spreading towards the keyhole. Which made no sense, because it always opened without a key at her touch.

Madara taught her about the portal that would take her to the Uchiha family’s dreams. It was a long corridor filled with ornate doors. Each one a different color and shape. And when she hesitated, Madara tugged her hand to pull her forward.

“Your door is here too,” he had assured her.

And Sakura blinked. “Mine?”

She memorized the shapes and colors of the doors she knew. Itachi, Shisui, Sasuke, Madara’s, and finally hers. The jeweled handles turning soundlessly under her fingers.

It turned out that even dream casters in the same family envisioned dreams differently.

Shisui dreamt of space. Each of his dreams was a different planet, swirling with cosmic dust. Nightmares were filled with storm clouds. Quiet dreams were barren moons that spun on in silence. 

On the nights when he worked, sometimes Shisui let her tag along as he cast together people and places into one planet. Crushing them between his palms as they rotated faster and faster. Until light shone between his fingers. And when he pulled his hands apart, a planet or a moon spun in place. A dream that he would then pluck out of space and file away for later.

Itachi saw dreams as a vast ocean. When he casted, he plunged into a deep ocean. He settled onto the soft sand at the bottom of the sea. Corals bloomed and seaweed waved in time to the current. And he pulled the fish and all the shells together, weaving them into a beautiful dream that could lull the most anxious heart to sleep. 

It was strange being where Itachi cast his dreams. Silence. Bubbles rising with each exhale, even as she breathed without a problem.

Sasuke’s was unusual, even among his eccentric family. He dreamt of a vast warehouse of boxes and jars. Sakura trailed after him as he wandered the aisles, grabbing things off the dusty shelves. Sometimes she even carried some of the things for him, listening to him mutter and sigh as he tried to find just the right ingredient. And then Sasuke dumped all these things into the giant vat in the middle of his dream space. 

It was fitting. Given how Sasuke liked formulas and order. Sakura sat to the side, watching as he brewed up a beautiful dream, more clinical and more calculated than those of his cousin or his older brother. But beautiful nonetheless.

With all of these influences around her, it wasn’t difficult for Sakura to discover how to cast dreams her own way. She experimented with different styles until she found one that just sang in her palms. 

When she entered her room in the dream world, she imagined fragments of dreams as colors and sounds. A little like Sasuke’s, these fragments lived in glass jars that lined the walls of the room. But when she popped the cork, sound spilled out of each one. Someone’s laugh. The honk of a car horn. People singing “happy birthday” off-key. 

When these fragments swirled together into a tapestry of colors and sounds. Thrumming warm between her fingers until they gathered together into a solid shape in her hands. At first, she made them take the shapes of smooth stones. But over time, she learned to turn them into crystals instead. Just like the fluorite Madara had first taught her how to make. The stronger dreams became more jagged crystals. While the softer ones became rounded gems that sat warm and curved in her palm.

And just as she liked to visit her family in their dreams, they liked to visit her too. Itachi, in particular, loved to sit on a cushion in the corner, his chin in his hand. 

“It’s elegant.”

Sakura turned to him, her hands still squeezed together. A snippet of laughter slipped through between her fingers. 

“What?”

“The way you weave dreams. It’s elegant. Just like Uncle’s,” Itachi clarified. He held his hand out. Sakura dropped the dream into his palm. It was a rose quartz, shiny and smooth. 

++++

Part of Madara’s deal with the Senju Institute was that Sakura was required to participate in the same exams as other students. So, once a year, Madara drove her to the school. He parked his car in the lot and waited while she took the exams.

Some of the other students recognized her. They whispered, nudging each other with elbows. Some snickered as they waited for a good show as she failed to conjure anything. Like always.

Instead, she recited incantations forwards and backwards. Her hands glowed as she filled the room with a rippling aurora. She conjured balls of light and turned them into water. The muttering and smirking stopped right away.

It seemed silly now. And she could hear Madara’s voice in her head. Imagine him slouching in a chair in the corner, acting like he wasn’t paying attention even as he advised her to straighten her posture. 

Breathe deep, kid. Magic starts with the breath.

Feel the heat gather in your stomach and pull it into your hands.

Water comes from your head. Imagine it spilling down your neck and arms. That’s the magic pathway you need to use.

The sputtering instructors tried to speak with her after. But Madara leaned on his horn. Everyone rushed to the windows to cast a glimpse of Madara poking his head out the car, one hand cupped around his mouth.

“Let’s go! Takeout’s getting cold, kid!” he called.

“Coming!” Sakura yelled back out the window before she hurried down the stairs.

And as Sakura got into the car, Madara always paused to glare up at the school. “Anyone give you any trouble?”

“No. It was fine,” Sakura always answered.

“Good,” Madara grunted as he backed out of his spot.

++++

At some point, Sakura couldn’t remember when, she stopped calling Madara by his name. Maybe it was around the same time, he stopped calling her “kid” or “squirt”.

It was odd, because that seemed like something important. So she should’ve remembered it.

But maybe it was because it had happened so quietly. So naturally.

One day, she looked at Madara’s back as he stood in the middle of the massive library inside their house.

“Papa.”

“Yeah?”

He didn’t laugh. As if that was what she had always called him.

“Can we go over that transmutation spell again? I’m still kind of lost.”

“Sure,” he replied, already descending the ladder with several books floating down after him.

++++

Before either of them knew it, years had passed. Sakura enrolled in the Senju Institute as a college student. She majored in Abjuration with a minor in Divination. When she graduated with full honors, Madara had barely batted an eye.

“Didn’t expect anything less from you,” he assured her as he took them out to dinner to celebrate. They clinked wine glasses together.

Four months later, she was back for her Masters in Magical Research. She commuted from home, like she had during undergrad.

“You know, you’re always welcome back here,” the headmaster liked to mention whenever they bumped into each other. Which was a little too often for it to feel like coincidence.

“No thanks,” she replied, barely looking up from her textbook, “I like where I am.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, smiling as she pretended not to notice how the headmaster’s eyes narrowed.

“Tell that old man to go fuck himself,” Madara scoffed when she brought it up over dinner.

“Papa. Language,” she chided. She flicked her wrist. The pepper shaker glided across the table, into her hand.

“That is the right language for him,” Madara snorted.

Fourteen years had passed since she had come to live in that house. Her room still sat across the hall from Madara’s, all the way up on the top floor. In all that time, Madara had never once nagged her about staying up late at night. He didn’t complain about how she used all the hot water in the house whenever she showered. 

The closest they had ever come to fighting was when he had insisted upon hanging her diploma and her graduation portrait in the foyer. She thought it was embarrassing. Especially since Madara loved to brag about it anytime someone visited. He refused to let anyone inside until they made some sort of positive comment about the diploma. It made Sakura groan and put her head in her hands. 

“You hate it that much?” Madara had teased at first.

Lifting her head, Sakura wrinkled her nose. She couldn’t really say ‘yes’, though.

++++

“And this is where it all starts.”

++++

It was early in the morning on a Friday. 

Magic trembled in the air. Like a raindrop clinging to the underside of a gutter. Wobbling. Waiting until the moment that gravity would drag it down.

Madara rolled onto his side, his ears ringing and his ribs sore. He started when he heard someone exhale beside him. He didn’t remember bringing anyone home last night. He wondered what time it was.

“Papa. I need to borrow your scrying bones.”

He let out a sigh of relief at the sound of Sakura’s voice. Pulling the covers over his shoulders, he turned over again.

“Don’t you have your own?” he groaned. He felt persistent pokes to his lower back.

“Yours work better,” she insisted.

Madara didn’t respond. But after a long time, he heaved another sigh. He raised his pointer finger and flicked it through the air. The bottom drawer of his nightstand opened. A black velvet pouch floated up, landing in her hands.

“Thank you, Papa. I love you,” she said in a sing-song voice. She kissed the back of his head through the comforter before she pranced off. Humming as she rattled the dry bones together in the pouch.

“What’re you trying to scry anyway?” he asked, squinting as he pulled the comforter away from his face.

“I wanna know what I should wear on my date today,” Sakura yelled back from the other room.

“Oh,” Madara said. He snuggled back down in the comforter. Letting out a yawn, he closed his eyes again. Relaxing in the warmth of his blankets in the ear-

“Wait. Date?” Madara repeated, eyes snapping open again. The comforter tangled around his legs as he launched himself out of the bed. He scrambled to his feet, kicking the sheets aside as he hurried out of his room. Listening to the rattle of the scrying bones knocking together as she cast them to the ground.

“With who?” Madara asked. The door to her bedroom was wide open.

“A guy. We were in the same chem class last year,” she answered. She stared at the bones she had scattered across the rug. She nudged a couple of them with her pointer finger. Madara scowled.

“Hey. Don’t force the bones,” he reminded her.

Sakura’s lower lip jutted out.

“If you want a certain answer, you shouldn’t be consulting the bones in the first place,” he then scolded her.

Sakura pouted even harder as she turned around to stare at him. Madara flinched a little. He wasn’t proud to admit that he had succumb to those pleading eyes on several occasions.

“This is important to me, Papa. Don’t be mean,” she insisted.

Madara exhaled noisily, rubbing his hand through his hair. And then he flapped his hand at her. “Alright, alright. Keep at it,” he told her, crossing his arms across his chest. A proud smile crept across his lips as he watched the bones begin to glow a soft shade of gold.

Divination had always come easily to her.

Wisps rose from the blackened cracks in the bones. Sakura leaned in to listen to the whispers.

Eyes widening, she turned her head to look at her bed. There were a few different sets of outfits laid out on her comforter.

“Really? The red one?” she mused.

The bones hissed something else before the mist dissipated. Sakura stared down at them for a moment.

Beware of the dreams that linger, they had whispered.

“What?”

Sakura looked up to find Madara still in the doorway. He yawned as he stretched his arms over his head.

“You’ve got an eye booger, Papa,” she pointed out.

Madara rubbed his left eye.

“No. The other one.”

He rubbed the other eye.

Sakura scooped the bones up and dropped them into the silky pouch. She tied the string. Madara held his hand out. Sakura tossed the bag up into the air. It drifted to Madara, landing in his waiting palm.

“Do you have time for breakfast before your date?” he asked.

“Yeah. It’s not until tonight. Can you make pancakes?” she requested, staring up at him. Madara grumbled, scratching his stomach. Sakura pulled on the bottom of his shirt as he shuffled past her.

“Go wash your face,” he sighed as he walked out of her room. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the bag of scrying bones flying back into their spot in his room. Bleary-eyed, Madara made his way down the stairs towards the kitchen.

They had breakfast a little while later. Sakura laughed when Madara almost poured maple syrup into his coffee. Madara snorted into his food when Sakura read one of her texts out loud. Sakura snorted too as he began choking on his food. They were both in tears and wheezing by the time they had cleared their plates.

After they did the dishes, Sakura glanced down at her watch.

“I’m gonna go to the shop first. I won’t stay out late,” she promised. She gathered her hair in one hand and pulled it off her neck as she searched for her phone. Madara froze. Sakura looked back when she felt his stare.

“What?”

Madara blinked hard. And then he smiled.

“Your phone’s in your hand, kiddo,” he pointed out.

Sakura looked down. She laughed. Madara did too as he went to pour himself another cup of coffee.

++++

The Uchiha family’s dream shop sat in a quiet street not far from Madara’s house. It was close enough that she could walk, although Madara insisted that she ask him or one of her cousins for a ride at night.

It was a little cramped. And they could more than afford to move into a larger space. But there was something charming about that crooked shop. About the way they had to scoot past each other on the narrow stairs.

The sign above the door was in the shape of a paper fan. The white and red paint was peeling. Shisui and Sasuke nagged Madara about upgrading to a neon sign every once in a while, but Madara had ignored them for years. And would, undoubtedly, continue to ignore them for as long as possible. 

The store was already open when she arrived. Sakura felt a faint hum in the air as she rested her hand on the doorknob. Bells chimed as Sakura stepped into the shop. The dreams sat on the shelves that lined the walls. They glowed white for a moment when she stepped inside. Then they faded back to their natural colors. Dreams about adventures were green. The ones about love swirled pink and light purple.

These dreams had been collected from other people. Friends, acquaintances. Sometimes just strangers who slept beautifully. Sakura dove into their dreams and took a part of it home with her. Gathering the threads of the dream matter in her hands like glistening threads as she walked. As long as she was careful, when she woke, those threads were still in her hands. She could slip them into jars with a hint of enchantment to stabilize them. 

It was one of the first things Madara had taught her outside of basic magic. This was the cheapest form of dream magic. After all, dreaming someone else’s dream wasn’t perfect. Details didn’t always line up. Names and faces wouldn’t make sense. But for most people and their budgets, this was enough.

“Hey,” Shisui greeted her, leaning against the counter and the register. Sakura waved at him as she shut the door behind her. She ducked beneath the mobile of colored ribbons and bells that hung from the rafters. 

“Is it just us?” asked Sakura, pulling her scarf off. She tossed it into the air behind her. Along with her coat. An enchantment caught them and pulled them onto the coat rack in the corner. The spell even straightened out her coat so that it wouldn’t wrinkle. 

Shisui tapped a pen against the counter. He tossed it and then stretched his arms over his head. “Nah.” He interrupted himself with a big yawn. “Itachi’s upstairs with a client right now.” He blinked a few times, obviously exhausted. 

Shisui rubbed his eyes with his palms. “Sasuke’s doing something at the lab. He’ll be by later to lock up.”

“On the third floor?”

“Yep.”

Sakura craned her head to look up as she thought. 

The customers who weren’t satisfied with buying prepackaged dreams were where they made the big money. Some wanted the dreams that were tailored to their specifications. Others had nightmares that they needed a dream caster to untangle. Both services required the dream caster and the client to be asleep at the same time. The therapy rooms upstairs provided the quiet space these clients needed. 

Sakura made a note to stay extra quiet as she moved around the shop. 

Shisui watched the counter, checking on sales and appointments. Sakura kept busy organizing dreams and taking inventory of what they needed to harvest. 

This was how most days at the shop went. They swapped out roles as their clients came in for appointments. Sakura’s gentle touch with both clients and dreams made her popular with children. Women almost always requested Itachi or Sasuke. Shisui was the most popular among their older clientele. 

Madara himself didn’t come to the shop much these days. He always joked: “Why would I? When I have you kids to make all the money for me?”. They only pulled him from his research when there was something the four of them couldn’t figure out on their own. 

On the nights that Sakura stayed late, there was almost always someone who would walk her home. Or Madara would drop everything to be there once she texted him. Hand on the back of the passenger seat. Grinning with those sharp canines that she had once found a little intimidating (how silly).

“Hey kiddo. Ready to go home?” was his corny greeting each night.

That night, Madara didn’t pick her up. She still messaged him to let him know that she had left the shop, Sasuke would be closing up, and not to wait up for her.

Izuna brought jerk chicken. I’ll pack leftovers for your lunch tomorrow, Madara replied.

Sakura sent him a series of purple hearts in response.

The date went well. Gaara had sat next to her for an entire semester. They had spoken a few times. Once, he had asked for a pencil. So it had surprised her when he had asked for her number, face turning so red he looked ready to explode.

Dinner was at a tiny Turkish restaurant. They sat at one of the counters by the window, a little squished as they bit into spicy lamb and crispy falafel.

“What are you doing now that we’re out of school?” she asked. She took a slurp of soda through her straw as she looked over at him. She laughed when she saw him struggling to swallow his food to answer. She handed him a napkin.

“Eat. It’s okay,” she giggled.

Gaara blushed again as he wiped his mouth. The thin paper stuck to the oil on his fingers.

“I’m… working at city hall. For public works,” he finally managed to say.

Sakura tilted her head to one side. “I’m not really sure what public works is in charge of,” she confessed.

Something lit up in his eyes. He sat up a little straighter as he began explaining. “There are divisions within public works. But basically it’s in charge of taking care of public buildings and facilities in the city. I work for the division that oversees the parks. I go out to visit them and check that they’re safe. Sometimes I survey people to ask what they think we can do to improve things.”

Sakura smiled a little. She leaned on her hand as she listened to him. And when he had finished, he glanced over at her. Suddenly small and quiet again.

“You really like your work, huh?” she commented.

He flushed bright red, all the way to his ears. But he nodded.

“That sounds really cool. What are you working on lately?” Sakura asked.

They stayed until the manager of the restaurant apologized and said it was time to close. As they stood on the sidewalk, Sakura puffed out a breath. It was getting cold at night. Her hands in her pockets, she cast a sidelong glance at Gaara. He was looking down at his phone.

“I’ll call you a cab,” he offered.

Sakura thought it over. And then she nodded.

“Sorry. I’d give you a ride if I had a car,” he added as he pressed some icons.

Sakura snorted. “I don’t have a car either. Can’t judge.”

He chuckled too.

And then as they stood waiting, Sakura heard him shuffle his feet.

“Uh… so… can I see you again?” he asked.

Sakura rocked back on her heels. She took a deep breath of the cool air. When she looked up at him, she was smiling again. “You’re cute. You have good manners. You have a job that you’re passionate about. I don’t see why not,” she answered.

His eyes widened. Sakura burst out laughing at the look on his face.

When the black car pulled up, Gaara opened the door for her. He waited for her to get into the back seat before he closed the door. And then he hesitated, fingers resting on the handle.

“Can you text me to let me know you got home okay?” he requested.

Sakura leaned out the open window. She reached out to tap him once on the nose. “Sounds good to me. Good night,” came her reply. As she rolled up the window, his fingers slipped off the door.

Sakura listed out her address to the driver before she leaned back in her seat. She caught the driver glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

“Good date?” he asked.

“Yeah,” answered Sakura with a smile.

Even though she had told Madara not to wait up, he was sitting at the kitchen table when she got home. She tossed her coat in the air. One of Madara’s spells caught it and draped it over a hanger. Just like the one that gathered her discarded shoes and slipped them into an empty spot on the shelf. She climbed the steps, rubbing her hands through her hair.

“Hi, Papa,” she greeted him as she walked into the kitchen. He raised his eyebrows and nodded before he returned his attention to his book. Sakura scrubbed her hands clean in the sink. The smell of the fruity soap filled the room. She rubbed her hands on a kitchen towel before she took a seat next to Madara at the round table.

“How’d it go?” questioned Madara. He slipped a bookmark between the pages before he shut the cover.

“Pretty good. He seems nice,” Sakura said right away. Madara pulled his glasses down, hooking them into the front of his shirt.

“Are you going to see him again?” He tried to keep his tone casual, but Sakura wasn’t fooled. Tongue between her teeth, she grinned at him.

“Aw, Papa. Are you gonna feel lonely if I get a boyfriend again?” she teased.

Madara looked disgusted by the very idea. “No. I’m looking forward to some peace and quiet again,” he retorted. Sakura snickered. And a smile touched Madara’s lips as he got out of his seat.

“I’m going to have some coffee before bed. You want some?” he asked.

“I wanna try the one Uncle Izuna brought last time,” Sakura called after him before she slumped over the table.

The kitchen always smelled like coffee. Madara probably drank more coffee than he did regular water. It was no wonder that his sleep schedule was all sorts of messed up. Coffee in the morning. Decaf at night- even though that didn’t seem to help. The kettle let out a whistle when it was ready. Madara poured the water through the filter into her favorite cup. The white one with red flowers.

“How was the shop today?” inquired Madara when he returned. Sakura inhaled the fragrant steam.

“How was the shop today?” inquired Madara when he returned. Sakura inhaled the sweet-smelling steam.

“A little quiet. I need to get more childhood dreams. I’m starting to run low,” she mused. She reached over to pick up his book. It was old. The green cover was peeling at the edges.

“What’s this?” she wondered.

“I’m looking at tracing magic in ancient artifacts. Kind of dry,” he huffed.

“You writing a new research paper?”

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you pick a topic you like more, Papa?” wondered Sakura.

Madara rolled his eyes. “It’s a request from someone I owe a favor to,” he responded.

Sakura wrinkled her nose.

Madara sighed. “Exactly.”

They chatted for a little while longer before Sakura began to yawn. She rubbed her wrist across her eyes. “I have to head to school in the morning to pick up some materials. I’m gonna go to bed,” she announced, getting out of her chair. She gathered both their empty cups to place in the sink.

“Night,” Madara greeted her.

“Good night, Papa,” she replied. Sakura gathered her purse and her phone. She squeezed Madara’s shoulder as she walked past.

++++

As the weeks went by, Sakura found herself quite busy. Whenever she wasn’t at the shop, she was busy working on her thesis. Sometimes Naruto and Ino wheedled her into taking a break. They got cheap pizza and sat eating on the curb. Or sometimes her cousins barged in with Vietnamese food and soda, completely ignoring how Madara glared at them as they stormed inside.

“I didn’t invite you,” he scolded.

“Nice to see you too, Uncle,” Sasuke called over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs up to Sakura’s room.

Sakura met Gaara a few more times. He really was very sweet. He always seemed embarrassed whenever he caught himself talking too much about his work. But it was nice hearing someone so excited about something. They went to see a movie. Another time, they just walked in the park, getting lost among the winding paths and trees.

“I really want to focus on finishing my thesis right now. I hope you don’t feel like I’m leading you on or anything,” she had explained once.

“That’s alright. I don’t mind waiting,” Gaara replied. And then he walked into a tree branch, making Sakura burst into giggles.

November turned to December. And suddenly it started to snow all over the city. As the white flakes covered the asphalt, Sakura browsed the library inside their house. It seemed impossible that such a huge room existed in the building. Of course it was. But Madara’s magic played around with the dimensions of the room to make it happen. It was an odd combination of light and heat that Sakura still struggled to pull off after all her years of practice.

Sakura pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. The silver wire frames had once been Madara’s, which, like many of his possessions, she had claimed as her own.

“What?” she called, leaning back on the ladder to peer at him. With a flick of his finger, Madara pulled the ladder down the wall of shelves, closer to him.

“I asked have you seen Shisui?” And he punctuated the end of the sentence with a sigh.

“Yesterday. At the shop. Why?” 

“His parents say they haven’t seen him since yesterday. Can’t get in touch with him either.”

“Maybe his phone’s just dead, Papa,” Sakura suggested. She pulled another book off the shelf, leafing through it. 

Whenever he wasn’t working at the dream shop, Shisui was usually doing magical research of his own. In particular, he was interested in how the position of celestial bodies affected spells. It wasn’t unusual for him to disappear with his telescope and his spectrometer for a night or two. 

“That’s what I thought at first. But it’s been a full day and no one’s seen him,” answered Madara. He leaned against the rungs, his hands under his chin. 

In front of him was a shelf full of manuals on torture and human anatomy. Those were from some of his darker days as a younger man. His eyes flickered over to Sakura before he slowly waved his hands. The spines sparkled before they blurred. The letters of the titles swirled around, rearranging themselves into different words. Then he shot Sakura another look.

She was still looking through the shelf higher up. She hadn’t noticed anything.

“Either way, his parents are worried. Keep an eye out for him,” Madara insisted.

Sakura considered this. “Have you asked Itachi? He always knows what Shisui’s up to.”

Madara shook his head. “Says he has no idea either.”

There was a pause. Sakura pushed her glasses up again, lips twisting to one side. She pointed to a few books, which slid out of place from the shelves. They hovered in the air around her. 

“I’ll ask my friends and see if they’ve seen him around,” she finally agreed. Madara smiled up at her.

“Great.”

That same night, only much later, Sakura’s shadow fell across the threshold of Madara’s room. She knocked on the open door. Which was a little silly, given that he could see her. But it was an old habit. 

“Papa?”

“Hm?”

“I’ve got a headache again.”

Madara pulled his glasses off. Sighing, he put the glasses, along with his pen in the book to mark his place.

“It’s because you overdo it,” he scolded, even as he reached his hand out for her.

Pressing his fingertips to her temples, Madara channeled energy through the thin skin.

“Take a deep breath.”

He pulled the magic, which had twisted and bunched up in all the wrong ways.

“Inhale.”

He tugged. The threads of energy shattered. Like a jar of marbles overturned. The little shining pieces scattering in every direction. Gold fluttered from her temples, fluttering off in little glittering pieces.

Sakura’s eyes opened in time to catch the list glimmers of magic dissolving into the air.

“Am I channeling wrong? I keep getting them a lot lately,” she wondered. Rubbing the heel of her hand against her temple.

“No. It’s a common issue, actually. When you walk dreams, the residue magic follows you. It’s just buildup. Regular clarification like this is all you need,” Madara assured her. Sakura frowned a little harder.

“Have they found Shisui yet?”

Madara leaned his elbow on his headboard. He heaved a sigh. “Not yet.”

“It’s not like him to just run off. I hope he’s alright,” Sakura mused, frowning too. Sakura looked up when she felt Madara pat her knee. 

“Things’ll be fine. They always are,” he said. 

Sakura searched his eyes for a moment. And then a smile pulled at her mouth. She nodded, sighing. “You’re right.”

++++ 

A week later, and Shisui was still missing. Along with Itachi, who had never missed a day of work before.

“Still no word?” asked Ino.

“Nope. Nothing,” Sakura replied. 

“Have they called the police?” Naruto wondered, leaning his elbow on the front counter of the dream shop. 

“Yeah. They even went to his apartment. Nothing. Passport’s still there. None of his stuff is missing. It’s just... poof,” Sakura listed, shaking her head a little. 

It really wasn’t like her cousins to disappear without a word. The police claimed that they were searching, but both Sakura and Madara agreed that it obviously wasn’t enough. 

“I’m sorry, Sakura. That sucks,” Naruto said. Leaning against her, he put his arm around her shoulder. Ino took Sakura’s hand and patted it a few times. 

“Thanks,” was all she could think to say as her friends did their best to comfort her. 

And while Sakura really was grateful, she felt worse for Sasuke. He hadn’t slept in days as he took to the streets in search of his older brother. She tried to go with him whenever she had time. And she called him on the nights she couldn’t, just to ask how things had gone.

Sakura even considered planting a dream in Sasuke’s room. Just to force him to get some rest. But she knew he wouldn’t like that. And he was so sharp that he might even spot it before it had a chance to take hold of him. 

“You doing okay?” Ino questioned.

Sakura blinked. She smiled. “More than everyone else, I think. I’m trying to be positive.”

Naruto’s forehead wrinkled. “Aw, Sakura, I love you and your big heart,” he sighed, squeezing her a little tighter. Ino wrapped her arms around Sakura’s other side. 

“Things will work out,” Ino reassured her. 

++++

That night, Sakura walked into her house to silence. It was New Year’s Eve. She had promised to be home early so they could watch the countdown together.

“Papa? You didn’t pick up so I just walked home,” she called as she stepped out of her boots. She leaned a hand against the wall for balance. Paused. Waited for Madara’s voice drifting down the stairs to her.

Nothing.

“Papa?” she tried again. 

Something about the quiet made her uneasy. She walked up the stairs, looking for a glimpse of silvery wings. There was usually a spirit around that she could talk to. But even the usual hum of magic that buzzed around the kitchen had gone silent. 

The back of her neck itched. Sakura scratched at it as she wandered through the house. Nothing in the living room. Or in the laundry room. 

She climbed the stairs. Madara’s study was empty. So was the second floor bathroom, where she sometimes found him sitting with a cup of coffee and chatting with the water spirits. 

The third floor was silent too. But something about the air felt off as she climbed the last steps. And there was an odd smell. Metal. Metal and something that made her head begin to pound.

The floorboards creaked under her feet. She peered into her room first. Her bed was still unmade. One of her drawers sat open with her laptop resting on top. The string lights that framed her window winked at her. Everything was just as she had left it that morning. 

Part of her must have known what she would find. She found herself dragging her feet. Blinking too much as she forced herself to cross the hall. To knock on the door that was ajar. Pretending that the huge pool of dark red wasn’t spreading across the white wood.

She could hear herself screaming. She couldn’t make herself stop. Tears filling and blurring her vision. She screamed and screamed until she could feel her ears ringing with the sound. 

++++

“Hey! Sakura!”

Her eyes flew open. She could see a dark shape hovering over her. She flinched away until she recognized the glasses hanging from the front of his shirt. 

“It’s just a bad dream,” Madara said. He snapped his fingers. An orb of soft light flickered into existence. Just enough for her to see that this was her bedroom. She could also make out his look of exhaustion as he sat on the edge of her bed. 

“You okay?” 

Sakura shook her head. She sniffed. Rubbed her face. Her palms came away wet with tears. Madara clicked his tongue. She felt him lean over her to pluck a couple tissues from the box on her nightstand. He pushed them into her hands. She sat there staring at them. 

“You haven’t had a nightmare like that in a while. Must’ve shook you up pretty bad,” he sighed. And then his hand landed on top of her head. He patted her hair a few times. Still a little clumsy, even after all these years. 

Sakura didn’t say anything. She stared down at her hands. 

Madara patted her head again before he asked, “Wanna talk about it?”

Sakura shook her head again. 

He sighed. “Okay. Let me go make some pancakes. It’s almost time to get up anyway,” he decided. He squeezed her shoulder before he got up. She could hear his bare feet shuffling against the floor as he walked. And then thumped their way down the steps. 

Sakura sat in a daze for another minute. It took her a few tries to get her mind to focus on anything. She blew her nose, wadded the tissues up into a ball, and threw them in the trash. Out of habit, she disconnected her phone from the charger and lifted the screen up to eye level. 

Friday, Nov 3.

A notification popped up on the screen to remind her that she had a date tonight.

Sakura dropped her phone. It bounced once on the mattress. She cast another wary look around her bedroom. And then she was scrambling off her bed, stumbling into Madara’s room. She yanked the bottom drawer open. Underneath a worn journal sat his bag of scrying bones. Sakura poured them out onto the rug right there. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” Madara’s voice came from the doorway. 

Sakura tried to push her tangled hair out of her face. She gave a hiss of frustration before she yanked it into a bunch on the side of her head and held it in place. She took a long breath before she could gather her frazzled thoughts enough to channel magic into the dry bones. 

The black fissures in the bones began to glow. Voices hissed out through the brittle marrow. 

Beware of the dreams that linger, they whispered again. 

Sakura squeezed her eyes shut. She channeled a little more magic. 

The whispers chanted the phrase over and over again: Beware of the dreams that linger.

And as the voices began to fade, they left her with one more warning.

Do not give your heart away.

“You know, you could’ve just asked to borrow them.”

Sakura’s head whipped around. Madara stood there, arms folded over his chest. He tilted his head a little as he looked her over. 

“Go wash your face,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the bathroom. 

Sakura turned back to the bones. They sat limp and cold on the rug. She scratched the back of her neck, heaving a sigh. 

“Okay,” she answered before she scooped the bones up into her hand and dumped them back in the pouch.

++++

“And this is where it all starts again.”

[milstrim]

There is Good in the Dark

Chapter 2---Ever Had an Itch?

AO3 Link

Peter shifted nervously, eyes glancing around in suspicion as he pulled his hood tighter over his head and adjusted the bag looped over his shoulder. His hair had been on end all day, leaving him horribly tired and weary as he'd scoped out a few SHIELD buildings. Tony had said that he'd be doing the same for Squadron Tower, and the teenager had believed him, but he'd seen the billboards while he'd been swinging around the city.

'Elusive Supervillain Iron Man Strikes Against the Squadron Supreme in Manhattan!'

Because of course he'd gone after the Squadron. Peter wasn't sure if the fight had been intentional or not, but it still irked him that the older villain hadn't invited him. He could have helped! He was a great fighter--and didn't Tony trust him?

Peter shook himself, crinkling the plastic bag clutched in his hand nervously as he glanced around once more before slipping down the steps of a boarded off subway station. The stairway quickly faded to dusty darkness that would've stumped anyone else but the teenager peered through easily, icy blue eyes glowing in the shadows.

Every footstep was an echo as the teenager stepped over to a dusty, broken down subway train. Only the front of the train and half a carriage were visible from the tunnel. Windows were broken and paint sprayed in illustrative colors that had worn down from the years in the dark. The door to the head of the train was hinged open into its dark, cramped world.

Peter stepped through, grabbing the lever and pulling it down. When he let go it snapped back up, the base of it glowing blue. Peter stabilized himself, shifting on his feet, as the ground underneath him lit up in a bright blue circle. It twisted with a click, shifting and circling down until the train had disappeared and the teenager stood in a cylindrical high tech elevator. It was the color of bleached bones.

The teenager stepped out of the elevator the moment the doors slid open, finally allowing for his hood to fall off in the safety of his home. Well, more of a secret lair, but it was home to Peter nonetheless. For years with his dad.

"Play it again," echoed a voice only his enhanced ears could hear.

Speaking of.

He tiptoed through the halls of his and Tony's underground mansion, searching for where the man was. There was a lot to search. Most of the home shared the same bone white walls and floors, and he always had to screw up his eyes after a few hours at the brightness of it. Arc reactor blue lights lined the shiny pillars and doorways rather than traditional light placement. All in all the place was eerie, not at all homie, but it was still home.

Following the uneven heartbeat of his dad and the muttered muses of discontentment, Peter finally came across the room Tony was in. He stood in front of a wall of holograms, arms crossed and back straight. His leg tapped like it always did when he didn't understand something.

"Again," Tony ordered, unaware of the kid padding up behind him. Peter glanced at the screen disinterestedly before stopping and staring at the figures displayed on it, his eyes narrowing in confusion. It was all of the world's most wanted, save for him and Tony of course, but--weird. Peter didn't really have words to describe them. Stupidly bright, maybe? Clearly, Tony was having the same problem. "Ever had an itch you just can't scratch?"

"I cannot itch, sir, but watching you refuse to sleep is a close second," Friday responded humorously. Peter smiled, but refrained from laughing, placing a finger to his lips and glancing at the ceiling. Thankfully, the AI didn't say anything.

"Keep the attitude up and I'll give you an itch," Tony warned playfully. "Slow the recording down and play--"

"ATTACK!!!" Peter screeched, shooting up from behind Tony and grabbing him in a mock chokehold. The man froze with a rather unvillainous yelp, practically jumping as he shook the kid off and swung around, a gloved hand shooting out. The teenager grinned as Tony went from tense to practically drooping with relief.

"Kid."

"Hey, Dad. How was the Squadron?"

"Peter, please. I have a heart condition."

He stepped forward, shouldering the older man playfully. "I'm not the one who attacked Earth's defenders today."

"I didn't plan on it."

"Didn't really look that way."

"Well, I didn't," Tony protested. He glanced down at the plastic in Peter's hand. "What's with the bag?"

"Oh." Peter glanced down, lifting it higher. "Dinner! I got Japanese. From a place across from the newest SHIELD hideout."

"Did anyone see you?"

"Nope."

"Great."

Tony ruffled his hair, and Peter ducked away with a displeased grin, dashing towards the table that held Tony's headpiece in the middle of reconstruction, clearly having been damaged during his fight today. The boy set the food down, taking out the cartons of fried rice and the sushi. Tony grabbed his own box, picking up a pair of chopsticks and twirling them around elegantly.

"How'd you pay for this?"

Peter stuffed a piece of sushi in his mouth with his fingers. Tony scrunched his nose up at him in playful disgust. "I took your card."

"No stealing?"

"From a local business? We're villains, not bastards."

Tony laughed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you act like one. Don't eat sushi with your hands,  you absolute animal."

"I can't figure the chopsticks out! They're too complicated."

"Oh, so you can build a bomb to escape SHIELD when you're ten but you can't eat sushi right?"

"That about sums it up, yeah," Peter quipped, taking a sip from a Gatorade he'd grabbed from a bodega. Tony rolled his eyes humorously. "So what's with the video? Is the Captain joining the US military or something?"

"He does look it," Tony agreed. "But not as far as I know. You know that red stone Mr. Sorcerer-From-Another-Universe has?"

"Uh, yeah? We've been trying to get it for months, Dad. I know what it is."

"Just checking." Peter stuck his tongue out at Tony, who blew a raspberry in response. "Anyway, I hit that thing earlier. It did this."

His adoptive father nodded his head toward the screen. The footage backed up and allowed Peter to watch the recording from the suit as Tony's repulsor blast hit Beck's glowing palm, the red waves that split the sky bursting from it, and the changes that fizzled between the waves. Peter squinted at the screen as the video came to a close.

"What do you think it means?" Peter asked, turning towards the man, who had focused in on the video once more, his face deceptively calculating.

"That's the itch," he pointed out, staring at the screen for another moment. "Quiz Time." Peter groaned, stuffing another piece of sushi in his mouth rebelliously. "Relax your teenage angst, kid, it's not bad. Hulk?"

"Radiation experiment gone wrong," he said immediately as if reading off a flashcard. "An attempt on what made the Captain, well, the Captain, by Bruce Banner. Dr. Banner's gone now that the Hulk's overtaken him. He's not smart, less wanted for villainy and more the destruction he causes and what he can provide militaries. Danger level: High."

"Black Widow."

"Superspy gone rogue. SHIELD tried to contain her but she killed every agent sent her way. No known motives but can take down countries overnight. Danger level: High."

"The Falcon."

"Deranged war hero. Was sent on an unknown suicide mission with his friend, he survived and the friend didn't. Motives are mostly against US military missions--good for him--and warmongering politicians. Danger level: Medium."

"Thor."

"A badass."

Tony gave him a look. "Try again."

Peter sighed. "A Norse God thrown out from his home with a super cool hammer. No known motives, likes to start shit. Danger level: Super-mega-ultra high."

His dad rolled his eyes with a crooked smile. "Hawkeye."

"A circus runaway. SHIELD attempted to recruit him but he betrayed them. Targets SHIELD, gangs, and wherever he can get a quick buck. Danger level: Meh."

"And the Captain."

"The creation of Howard Stark and Dr. Abraham Erskine. He was meant to be the Allies' savior, but he defected to Hydra. He ended up frozen in ice for like a million years before being thawed out by SHIELD and breaking away from Hydra. There's only been three confirmed sightings of him over five years. No known motives. Danger level: High."

"Good job, you passed. Barely."

"Barely!?"

Tony raised an eyebrow at him, waving a finger accusingly. "Stop fanboying over Thor. He could kill you in an instant."

"Pshh. I could take him."

"No you couldn't."

"Or I could just woo him into being my new dad. It worked with you."

Tony gasped, placing a hand over his arc reactor. "You little--" He cut himself off, fake offended. "You're a little shit, I hope you know that."

"I know, Dad," Peter laughed, bumping into him gently. Tony rolled his eyes, graciously pulling the teenager into a half-hug. "So, what are we gonna do about Fashion's Most Wanted?"

"I've got a theory. And a plan."

"Really. A whole plan?"

"Ehhh, 12% of a plan."

Peter huffed, "Fun. When do we start?"

    A dark figure was crouched, held tight against a building. A deep black and red shield was clenched on their arm, its shine the only thing visible in the night. Steve Rogers was a professional of stealth, accustomed to the ebony and arctic of the night.

Footsteps echoed in the emptiness of the building, and Steve tensed by the doorway where he was flattened against the dark bricks, his shield at the ready. A shadow in the night, he stood completely still until a figure stepped innocently through the door. Quick as a rattlesnake and silent as a mouse, he struck.

The man toppled. Steve caught him before he thudded to the ground, dragging him across the dirty cement and slipping the SHIELD agent behind a dumpster. He didn't bother to tie him up. Steve knew he'd be quick enough.

The Captain shifted through the doorway, every footstep light, and into the dusty light. As best he could, the soldier stuck to the shadows, thankful for the way the lights dimmed and flickered. The SHIELD building was old, but its information invaluable. The thought of what he might find spurred him forward to where the hallway was even brighter.

People were in that hallway. Two. They talked importantly, voices low, towards Steve. He ducked behind the doorway and out of the yellow light that shone from the hall, drawing his shield off of his forearm with a metallic sheen. He took a step forward, his maroon boot interrupting the golden light and the women's conversation.

They froze, looking up at him in terror before drawing guns from their hips. They didn't catch more than a glimpse of him before he'd thrown the shield. It bounced off the floor and zoomed around the ceiling. The dark red and black took the light with it as it shrouded the hallway in darkness. It returned to Steve seamlessly.

"We know you're there," came a voice. "Show yourself."

Silent, he threw the shield again. There were two thuds against the ground.

Steve dashed through the hall. And he brawled through the building.

Every hallway was the same. Agents, unaware and caught by surprise, left in the darkness and alone as he took the cameras out with his shield as well. Bodies dropped, gunshots flew, and in every room Steve was left unscathed. His reputation--the myth, a whisper, unknown--was well earned.

In barely six minutes, every floor had been cleared. Almost every floor.

The Captain slipped into the hallway of the last floor, leaving the dark and chalky stairway behind. The hallway itself was almost as dark as the stairwell, save for the light that trickled from underneath a closed door. He stalked closer, footsteps light and shield outstretched threateningly. He stopped outside the door and waited, listening to the murmured voices.

"...what was with that energy surge in New York?"

"Nobody knows. News cameras were wiped, all they showed was Iron Man wreaking havoc."

"Smart. A controlled narrative. Then again, that's all the world is now," snipped a voice. Steve furrowed his brows, searching for where he recognized it, but nothing was found. "Any news on the kid?"

"He's been at the fake SHIELD bases in New York, but the illusion's only been up for a few weeks. All things considered, he's been pretty tame. No burglaries or break-ins like the other 'villains.'"

"He knows?"

"We broke free," the woman responded as an answer. Her voice was familiar too.

"We weren't on Earth when it happened," the man argued.

"But the illusion still doesn't affect us while we're here."

"Well, at the very least, whatever happened effects him less than the others."

Steve's thoughts were racing, confused and trying to keep up with uncontextualized conversation. Illusion? Not on Earth? And what kid? Most strangely, his heart gave a painful tug at the mention of Iron Man, and he didn't know why. It almost hurt. Scratch that, it did hurt.

The super soldier shook his head, breaking free of the thoughts. His eyes flashed icy blue. He just had to get what he'd come here for and leave... What had he come here for? He furrowed his brows. There'd been a reason, he remembered he'd cared a lot about it, but now that he was here--the Captain was strangely lost.

He took a step back, hesitated, and then barreled through the door.

The metal hinges crunched underneath his force, creaking and groaning loudly but unable to cover the sound of guns clicking to action. He raised his shield to his face, crouching behind it for a moment as gunfire rained, clinking off of the metal harmlessly. There was a panicked yell of, "Fall back, Fury!!"

Steve threw his shield in the direction of the yell, diving behind a pile of crates at the familiar motion of the vibranium jumping from his forearm. It bounced with a schwing! knocking down the woman and zipping back to him. It sliced into a crate just above him, and he plucked it off of the splintered wood.

A gun cocked. Steve dared a glance around the crates.

The man was tall, dark, and intimidating. The way he held himself told Steve all he needed to know about what he could do, forcing him to duck behind the crates again in caution. He readjusted his shield with two thoughts: This man is dangerous, and, This man is familiar.

He didn't appreciate either of them.

"Steve?" the man dared, his voice hard. "If that's you I swear to God when we get out of this I'm taking that shiny shield of yours."

Steve hesitated. "You know me?"

"Yeah. You know me?"

His eyes flashed blue. His voice turned robotic. "You're Nick Fury, head of SHIELD. Tyrant do-gooder."

"Sure. I'll take it. Do you know who you are?"

The blue in his eyes dimmed to its natural darker color, warm instead of icy. Confusion, but not quite realization. "The Captain. And I'm here for something, so if you don't mind--"

"I mind," Fury interrupted. "What are you doing in Ireland, Rogers?"

"A mission."

"On what?"

"None of your concern," he answered shortly. He wished he knew.

"See, I think--"

Steve didn't think anymore. He swung out an arm and his shield flew off. There were gunshots, slowing the shield off of its course as Fury dived. The soldier jumped, gripping the shield as it bounced back, landing atop Fury. He buried a heavy foot on the man's leg, holding his shield out, ready for the fire of Fury's gun pointed upward.

Fury licked his lips. His words serious, his tone daring. "Are you gonna kill me, Rogers?"

The Captain stared down, his eyes narrowed. Killing Fury would be logical. SHIELD was his enemy. SHIELD was the enemy. All the missions, all the years spent fighting and tracking--the Director of SHIELD was the endgame... Wasn't he?

Fury took his silence as an answer.

"If you are, I'd hold off for a minute." The man nodded towards his left. Steve glanced.

There was a screen, portraying Iron Man, a bright explosion behind him. The video shifted, waves of red and blurred figures hidden from clear view. He squinted. Another tug, confused and--

Lonely.

"We're counting on you, Rogers."

"You shouldn't."

Against everything he'd ever known, Steve stepped off the man, lowering his SHIELD. Fury opened his mouth to say something, but whatever it was, he didn't stick around to find out. The only traces that Steve had ever been there was an open window on the seventh floor and the two high-level SHIELD personnel he'd left alive for some reason still unknown to him.

    A duffel bag thumped against the floor next to a cheap hotel bed. The springs of the mattress creaked as Steve sat down on it, running a hand through his tussled, damp hair and clicking on the news on the fizzled old television. The shower had been refreshing, but not relaxing. There were still so many questions left unanswered, leaving the man more exhausted than he'd ever been. His whole body ached with confusion and that haunting feeling of loneliness that had tugged when Iron Man had been mentioned.

The feeling had died down some since he'd escaped from the SHIELD base a few hours ago, but it had yet to be smothered, and despite how much it hurt, Steve was grateful.

He didn't know how long exactly, but everything had felt murky for a while. Distracting. Foggy clouds of muddled memories and feelings and motivations. Why had he gone to that SHIELD base? Why did he go to any SHIELD base? Why did he let Nick Fury go? Why did he avoid his home in favor of destroying people and places he didn't know?

There were answers, but they weren't the ones that he wanted.

He went to SHIELD bases because they were the enemy, Hydra had taught him that. And he didn't go back to Brooklyn because the entirety of the United States was prepped to kill him. But why?

Why be loyal to Hydra? Why hurt others who didn't deserve it in the slightest?

His head told him everything Hydra had ever told him, his life had ever told him, about loyalty and values and justice--but his gut said different.

"...another warrant and surge of military power has been shifted to deal with the threat of Iron Man," commented a news reporter, catching the soldier's attention. Steve looked up from where his face had been pressed into his clamped hands to stare at the television. The pang that had been fading gave another strong tug as a picture of Tony Stark was flashed on screen. "This comes just after the villain's most recent attack on the city of New York and the world's mightiest heroes, the Squadron Supreme."

Steve almost laughed. The public worship of the Squadron Supreme never failed to amuse and baffle him. Their name was particularly dreadful.

"Mysterio, also known as Quentin Beck, Earth's resident sorcerer from another realm, assured the public in a call with the White House earlier today, that in response they will take more whale methods to assure this detrimental threat is taken care of. Here is a clip of that call."

The screen changed. In the middle was black, ready for the transcript of the call, while on either side of the screen sat the dignified faces of the president and the sorcerer.

"As the head of the Squadron Supreme," the president started. "What are your plans to fix this blight on our peaceful American ideal?"

"Certainly the team is still conferring, as we don't operate on just one view, but the general consensus is to get to Stark before he can start attacking anywhere or anywhere else."

"Will that work?"

"It will," Beck assured. "My team is the best there is, and Stark is barely anything. We've been holding back, trying to exercise some tolerance and take him in so that he may face the justice of your great world, but I believe we've reached the point where his danger is too great and there can no longer be any doubt on taking him out." Steve's eyes narrowed in anger. He paused, confused at the defensive response, before shaking his head and tuning back in. "This goes for a lot of other terrorists that have been so graciously tolerated."

The president let out a shocked yet dismissive huff. "You can't possibly expect to take down all of the Most Wanted."

"Within the week, I can promise you that, Mr. President. Starting with Iron Man and all the way to even the Captain."

There was a noise as the president moved to say something, but the last of the clip was cut off, returning to the news anchors. Steve muted the television, staring at the wall above the crackling box. His brows furrowed. He just-- he didn't understand.

The TV flashed, catching his attention. Steve glanced back down, his heart skipped a beat at the image on screen. It was Iron Man and Spider-Man. It was a photo of the two, clearly taken while they had been attacking something or other. Stark's mask was off, showing off his shiny blue eyes and dazzlingly sharp smile. Spider-Man's mask was on, but the man's posture told him everything he needed to know. He was excited, and he was safe, even with guns pointed at him.

Stark and Spider-Man were a family, and, looking at them on screen, a little bit of his lost feeling was taken away.

Steve glanced down at his bag and then back at the television. Quick footed, he grabbed it and left without another word, searching for the first flight to New York.

// Ch 1 // Ch 3 // Ch 4 // Ch 5 // Ch 6 // Ch 7 // Ch 8 //

[kookie-doughs]

Y/N L/N AND THE HALFBLOODS

Percy Jackson X Reader

-Y/N L/N met Percy Jackson and everything was now ruined.

CHAPTER 18: High-Key Want A Three-Headed Dog

We stood in the shadows of Valencia Boulevard, looking up at gold letters etched in black marble: DOA RECORDING STUDIOS.

Underneath, stenciled on the glass doors: NO SOLICITORS. NO LOITERING. NO LIVING.

It was almost midnight, but the lobby was brightly lit and full of people. Behind the security desk sat a tough-looking guard with sunglasses and an earpiece.

I turned to my friends. "Okay. You remember the plan."

"The plan," Grover gulped. "Yeah. I love the plan."

Annabeth said, "What happens if the plan doesn't work?"

"Don't think negative." Percy said.

"Right," she said. "We're entering the Land of the Dead, and I shouldn't think negative."

Percy took the pearls out of his pocket, the three milky spheres the Nereid had given us in Santa Monica. They didn't seem like much of a backup in case something went wrong. I had mine mixed up in there in case mine was rigged, Percy insisted upon it.

Annabeth put her hand on Percy's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Percy. You're right, we'll make it. It'll be fine."

She gave Grover a nudge.

"Oh, right!" he chimed in. "We got this far. We'll find the master bolt and save your mom. No problem."

"Don't worry Percy. We'll do this."

He looked at us, and smiled.

He slipped the pearls back in his pocket. "Let's whup some Underworld butt."

We walked inside the DOA lobby.

Muzak played softly on hidden speakers. The carpet and walls were steel gray. Pencil cactuses grew in the corners like skeleton hands. The furniture was black leather, and every seat was taken. There were people sitting on couches, people standing up, people staring out the windows or waiting for the elevator. Nobody moved, or talked, or did much of anything. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see them all just fine, but if I focused on any one of them in particular, they started looking... transparent. I could see right through their bodies.

The security guard's desk was a raised podium, so we had to look up at him.

He was tall and elegant, with chocolate-colored skin and bleached-blond hair shaved military style. He wore tortoiseshell shades and a silk Italian suit that matched his hair. A black rose was pinned to his lapel under a silver name tag.

Percy read the name tag, then looked at him in bewilderment. "Your name is Chiron?"

He leaned across the desk. I couldn't see anything in his glasses except my own reflection, but his smile was sweet and cold, like a pythons, right before it eats you.

"What a precious young lad." He had a strange accent—British, maybe, but also as if he had learned English as a second language. "Tell me, mate, do I look like a centaur?"

"N-no."

"Sir," he added smoothly.

"Sir," Percy said.

He pinched the name tag and ran his finger under the letters. "Can you read this, mate? It says C-H-A-R-O-N. Say it with me: CARE-ON."

"Charon."

"Amazing! Now: Mr. Charon."

"Mr. Charon," I said.

"Well done." He sat back. "I hate being confused with that old horse-man. And now, how may I help you little dead ones?"

Percy looked at me for support.

"We want to go the Underworld," I said.

Charon's mouth twitched. "Well, that's refreshing."

"It is?" I asked.

"Straightforward and honest. No screaming. No 'There must be a mistake, Mr. Charon.'" He looked us over. "How did you die, then?"

I nudged Grover.

"Oh," he said. "Um... drowned... in the bathtub."

"All four of you?" Charon asked. We nodded. I could see Annabeth wanted to face palm.

"Big bathtub." Charon looked mildly impressed. "I don't suppose you have coins for passage. Normally, with adults, you see, I could charge your American Express, or add the ferry price to your last cable bill. But with children... alas, you never die prepared. Suppose you'll have to take a seat for a few centuries."

"Oh, but we have coins." Annabeth set three golden drachmas on the counter, part of the stash we'd found in Crusty's office desk.

"Well, now..." Charon moistened his lips. "Real drachmas. Real golden drachmas. I haven't seen these in..."

His fingers hovered greedily over the coins.

We were so close.

Then Charon looked at Percy. That cold stare behind his glasses seemed to bore a hole through his chest. "Here now," he said. "You couldn't read my name correctly. Are you dyslexic, lad?"

"No," Percy said. "I'm dead."

Charon leaned forward and took a sniff. "You're not dead. I should've known. You're a godling."

"We have to get to the Underworld," Annabeth insisted.

Charon made a growling sound deep in his throat.

Immediately, all the people in the waiting room got up and started pacing, agitated, lighting cigarettes, running hands through their hair, or checking their wristwatches.

"Leave while you can," Charon told us. "I'll just take these and forget I saw you."

He started to go for the coins, but I snatched them back.

"No service, no tip." I said staring at him.

Charon growled again—a deep, blood-chilling sound. The spirits of the dead started pounding on the elevator doors.

"It's a shame, too," I sighed. "We had more to offer."

I held up the entire bag from Crusty's stash. I took out a fistful of drachmas and let the coins spill through my fingers.

Charon's growl changed into something more like a lion's purr. "Do you think I can be bought, godling? Eh... just out of curiosity, how much have you got there?"

"A lot," I said. "I bet Hades doesn't pay you well enough for such hard work."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it. How would you like to babysit these spirits all day? Always 'Please don't let me be dead' or 'Please let me across for free.' I haven't had a pay raise in three thousand years. Do you imagine suits like this come cheap?"

"You deserve better," I agreed. "A little appreciation. Respect. Good pay."

With each word, I stacked another gold coin on the counter.

Charon glanced down at his silk Italian jacket, as if imagining himself in something even better. "I must say, lad, you're making some sense now. Just a little."

I stacked another few coins. "I could mention a pay raise while I'm talking to Hades."

He sighed. "The boat's almost full, anyway. I might as well add you three and be off."

He stood, scooped up our money, and said, "Come along."

We pushed through the crowd of waiting spirits, who started grabbing at our clothes like the wind, their voices whispering things I couldn't make out. Charon shoved them out of the way, grumbling, "Freeloaders."

He escorted us into the elevator, which was already crowded with souls of the dead, each one holding a green boarding pass. Charon grabbed two spirits who were trying to get on with us and pushed them back into the lobby.

"Right. Now, no one get any ideas while I'm gone," he announced to the waiting room. "And if anyone moves the dial off my easy-listening station again, I'll make sure you're here for another thousand years. Understand?"

He shut the doors. He put a key card into a slot in the elevator panel and we started to descend.

"What happens to the spirits waiting in the lobby?" Annabeth asked.

"Nothing," Charon said.

"For how long?"

"Forever, or until I'm feeling generous."

"Oh," she said. "That's... fair."

Charon raised an eyebrow. "Whoever said death was fair, young miss? Wait until it's your turn. You'll die soon enough, where you're going."

"We'll get out alive," Percy said.

"Ha."

I could feel we weren't going down anymore, but forward. The air turned misty. Spirits around me started changing shape. Their modern clothes flickered, turning into gray hooded robes. The floor of the elevator began swaying.

Charon's creamy Italian suit had been replaced by a long black robe. His tortoiseshell glasses were gone. Where his eyes should've been were empty sockets—like Ares's eyes, except Charon's were totally dark, full of night and death and despair.

He saw me looking, and said, "Well?"

"Nothing," I said. "I never knew you could look cool dead."

I thought he was grinning, but that wasn't it. The flesh of his face was becoming transparent, letting me see straight through to his skull.

The floor kept swaying.

Grover said, "I think I'm getting seasick."

When I blinked again, the elevator wasn't an elevator anymore. We were standing in a wooden barge. Charon was poling us across a dark, oily river, swirling with bones, dead fish, and other, stranger things—plastic dolls, crushed carnations, soggy diplomas with gilt edges.

"The River Styx," Annabeth murmured. "It's so..."

"Polluted," Charon said. "For thousands of years, you humans have been throwing in everything as you come across—hopes, dreams, wishes that never came true. Irresponsible waste management, if you ask me."

Mist curled off the filthy water. Above us, almost lost in the gloom, was a ceiling of stalactites. Ahead, the far shore glimmered with greenish light, the color of poison.

Panic closed up my throat. What was I doing here? These people around me... they were dead.

Percy grabbed hold of my hand. Annabeth took my other free one. I knew she wanted reassurance that somebody else was alive on this boat.

I could hear Percy muttering a prayer, though I wasn't quite sure who I was praying to. Down here, only one god mattered, and he was the one we had come to confront.

The shoreline of the Underworld came into view. Craggy rocks and black volcanic sand stretched inland about a hundred yards to the base of a high stone wall, which marched off in either direction as far as we could see. A sound came from somewhere nearby in the green gloom, echoing off the stones—the howl of a large animal.

"Old Three-Face is hungry," Charon said. His smile turned skeletal in the greenish light. "Bad luck for you, godlings."

The bottom of our boat slid onto the black sand. The dead began to disembark. A woman holding a little girl's hand. An old man and an old woman hobbling along arm in arm. A boy no older than I was, shuffling silently along in his gray robe.

Charon said, "I'd wish you luck, mate, but there isn't any down here. Mind you, don't forget to mention my pay raise."

He counted our golden coins into his pouch, then took up his pole. He warbled something that sounded like a Barry Manilow song as he ferried the empty barge back across the river.

We followed the spirits up a well-worn path.

I'm not sure what I was expecting—Pearly Gates, or a big black portcullis, or something. But the entrance to the Underworld looked like a cross between airport security and the Jersey Turnpike.

There were three separate entrances under one huge black archway that said YOU ARE NOW ENTERING EREBUS. Each entrance had a pass-through metal detector with security cameras mounted on top. Beyond this were tollbooths manned by black-robed ghouls like Charon.

The howling of the hungry animal was really loud now, but I couldn't see where it was coming from. The three-headed dog, Cerberus, who was supposed to guard Hades's door, was nowhere to be seen.

The dead queued up in the three lines, two marked ATTENDANT ON DUTY, and one marked EZ DEATH. The EZ DEATH line was moving right along. The other two were crawling.

"What do you figure?" Percy asked Annabeth.

"The fast line must go straight to the Asphodel Fields," she said. "No contest. They don't want to risk judgment from the court, because it might go against them."

"There's a court for dead people?"

"Yeah. Three judges. They switch around who sits on the bench. King Minos, Thomas Jefferson, Shakespeare—people like that. Sometimes they look at a life and decide that person needs a special reward—the Fields of Elysium. Sometimes they decide on punishment. But most people, well, they just lived. Nothing special, good or bad. So they go to the Asphodel Fields."

"And do what?"

Grover said, "Imagine standing in a wheat field in Kansas. Forever."

"Harsh," Percy said.

"Not as harsh as that," Grover muttered. "Look."

A couple of black-robbed ghouls had pulled aside one spirit and were frisking him at the security desk. The face of the dead man looked vaguely familiar.

"He's that preacher who made the news, remember?" Grover asked.

"Oh, yeah." Percy said. "We'd seen him on TV a couple of times at the Yancy Academy dorm. He was this annoying televangelist from upstate New York who'd raised millions of dollars for orphanages and then got caught spending the money on stuff for his mansion, like gold-plated toilet seats, and an indoor putt-putt golf course. He'd died in a police chase when his "Lamborghini for the Lord" went off a cliff."

"Humans." I said rolling my eyes, "What're they doing to him?"

"Special punishment from Hades," Grover guessed. "The really bad people get his personal attention as soon as they arrive. The Fur—the Kindly Ones will set up an eternal torture for him."

The thought of the Furies made me shudder. I realized I was in their home territory now. Old Mrs. Dodds and Mrs . Rudolph would be licking her lips with anticipation.

"But if he's a preacher," Percy said, "and he believes in a different hell... ."

Grover shrugged. "Who says he's seeing this place the way we're seeing it? Humans see what they want to see. You're very stubborn—er, persistent, that way."

We got closer to the gates. The howling was so loud now it shook the ground at my feet, about fifty feet in front of us, standing just where the path split into three lanes was an enormous shadowy monster.

My jaw hung open. All I could think to say was, "He's a Rottweiler."

I'd always imagined Cerberus as a big black mastiff. But he was obviously a purebred Rottweiler, except of course that he was twice the size of a woolly mammoth, and had three heads.

"I thought he would've been a mastiff."

"Same..."

The dead walked right up to him—no fear at all. The ATTENDANT ON DUTY lines parted on either side of him. The EZ DEATH spirits walked right between his front paws and under his belly, which they could do without even crouching.

"I'm starting to see him better," Percy muttered. "Why is that?"

"I think ..." Annabeth moistened her lips. "I'm afraid it's because we're getting closer to being dead."

The dog's middle head craned toward us. It sniffed the air and growled.

"It can smell the living," I said.

"But that's okay," Grover said, trembling next to Percy. "Because we have a plan."

"Right," Annabeth said. I'd never heard her voice sound quite so small. "A plan."

We moved toward the monster.

The middle head snarled at us, then barked so loud my eyeballs rattled.

"Can you understand it?" I asked Grover.

"Oh yeah," he said. "I can understand it."

"What's it saying?"

"I don't think humans have a four-letter word that translates, exactly."

Percy took the big stick out of his backpack—a bedpost we'd broken off Crusty's Safari Deluxe floor model. He held it up, and tried to channel happy dog thoughts toward Cerberus—Alpo commercials, cute little puppies, fire hydrants.

"Hey, Big Fella," He called up. "I bet they don't play with you much."

"GROWWWLLLL!"

"Good boy," he said weakly.

Percy waved the stick. The dog's middle head followed the movement. The other two heads trained their eyes on Percy, completely ignoring the spirits. Percy had Cerberus's undivided attention. I wasn't sure that was a good thing.

"Fetch!" I threw the stick into the gloom, a good solid throw. I heard it go ker-sploosh in the River Styx.

Cerberus glared at me, unimpressed. His eyes were baleful and cold.

So much for the plan.

Cerberus was now making a new kind of growl, deeper down in his three throats.

"Um," Grover said. "Percy?"

"Yeah?"

"I just thought you'd want to know."

"Yeah?"

"Cerberus? He's saying we've got ten seconds to pray to the god of our choice. After that... well... he's hungry."

"Wait!" Annabeth said. She started rifling through her pack.

"Five seconds," Grover said. "Do we run now?"

Annabeth produced a red rubber ball the size of a grapefruit. It was labeled WATERLAND, DENVER, CO. Before I could stop her, she raised the ball and marched straight up to Cerberus.

She shouted, "See the ball? You want the ball, Cerberus? Sit!"

Cerberus looked as stunned as we were.

All three of his heads cocked sideways. Six nostrils dilated.

"Sit!" Annabeth called again.

I don't know why but petting this gigantic three headed dog would have made my bucket list complete. I walked up to Annabeth with Percy and Grover panicking behind.

"I want to pet him. Cerberus sit!"

"Sit!" Annabeth yelled.

Cerberus licked his three sets of lips, shifted on his haunches, and sat, immediately crushing a dozen spirits who'd been passing underneath him in the EZ DEATH line. The spirits made muffled hisses as they dissipated, like the air let out of tires.

I said, "Good boy!"

Annabeth threw Cerberus the ball.

He caught it in his middle mouth. It was barely big enough for him to chew, and the other heads started snapping at the middle, trying to get the new toy.

"Drop it.'" I ordered.

Cerberus's heads stopped fighting and looked at me. The ball was wedged between two of his teeth like a tiny piece of gum. He made a loud, scary whimper, then dropped the ball, now slimy and bitten nearly in half, at Annabeth's feet.

"Good boy." She picked up the ball, ignoring the monster spit all over it.

She turned toward the two. "Go now. EZ DEATH line—it's faster."

Percy said, "But—"

"Now.'" She ordered, in the same tone she was using on the dog.

"You should go too. I wouldn't mind."

"How are you sure he'll follow you?" Annabeth laughed.

"I had a dog you know. Real sweetheart. Pretty sure he'll be as cute."

Grover and Percy inched forward warily.

Cerberus started to growl.

"Stay!" Annabeth ordered the monster. "If you want the ball, stay!"

Cerberus whimpered, but he stayed where he was.

"What about you guys?" Percy asked us as we passed her.

Annabeth looked at me and nodded. "Y/N wants to pet him," she muttered. "I think she can handle him."

Grover, Annabeth and Percy walked between the Cerberus's legs.

I was tempted to make Cerberus sit to be honest.

When made it through. I said, "Good dog!"

I held up the tattered red ball. The ball was tattered and this is going to be the last trick.

"Cerberus, could you get closer to me?" I called hesitantly. All three heads leaned down.

Oh gods... Oh gods... I'm going to pet him... I reluctantly touched his head. His head leaned to my touch. "Good boy." I cooed petting each his head. He whimpered on my touch.  "Okay boy." I leaned my head against his middle one.

I threw the ball. The good boy's left mouth immediately snatched it up, only to be attacked by the middle head, while the right head moaned in protest.

While the monster was distracted, I walked under its belly and joined us at the metal detector.

"Bucket list solved." Annabeth and I fist bumped.

"How did you do that?" Percy looked at Annabeth and I, amazed.

"Obedience school," Annabeth said breathlessly, "When I was little, at my dad's house, we had a Doberman... ."

"I had D/N you knew that." I was surprised to see there were tears in her eyes. "I promise I'll play again!"

"Never mind that," Grover said, tugging at Percy's shirt. "Come on!"

We were about to bolt through the EZ DEATH line when Cerberus moaned pitifully from all three mouths. Annabeth and I stopped.

We turned to face the cutie which had done a one-eighty to look at us.

Cerberus panted expectantly, the tiny red ball in pieces in a puddle of drool at its feet.

"Good boy," Annabeth said, but her voice sounded melancholy and uncertain.

The monster's heads turned sideways, as if worried.

"I'll bring you another ball soon," Annabeth promised faintly. "Would you like that?"

The monster whimpered. I didn't need to speak dog to know Cerberus was still waiting for the ball.

"Good dog. I'll come visit you soon. I promise we'll come back." I turned to the others. "Let's go."

Grover and Percy pushed through the metal detector, which immediately screamed and set off flashing red lights. "Unauthorized possessions! Magic detected!"

Cerberus started to bark.

We burst through the EZ DEATH gate, which started even more alarms blaring, and raced into the Underworld.

A few minutes later, we were hiding, out of breath, in the rotten trunk of an immense black tree as security ghouls scuttled past, yelling for backup from the Furies.

Grover murmured, "Well, Percy, what have we learned today?"

"That three-headed dogs prefer red rubber balls over sticks?"

"No," Grover told me. "We've learned that your plans really, really bite!"

I wasn't sure about that. I thought maybe Annabeth and I had both had the right idea. Even here in the Underworld, everybody—even monsters—needed a little attention once in a while.

I thought about that as we waited for the ghouls to pass. I pulled Annabeth closer as she wipe a tear from her cheek as we listened to the mournful keening of Cerberus in the distance,.

"We'll come back..."

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Taglist?

@gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @the-natureofme @booknerd-3000 @katara720 @ynfics

[the-navistar-carol]

Intervention

Good God help me I’m back on my Garmari again. AGAIN. Class salt, but not Alya, Alix is neutral (so minor Alix salt?). Chloé redemption, but it’s not mentioned. Also, members of the new team at the end are PV Félix and his Gucci Gang

~~~

Marinette never thought she’d thank Chloé Bourgeois, of all people, for her boyfriend.

Backtrack.

A year and a half ago, their end-of-year class trip was the best one they had had or ever would. Funding, from Chloé’s father, went to a weeklong trip to San Francisco. They toured Alcatraz, the different neighborhoods, the Ghirardelli factory, and walked the Golden Gate Bridge.

None of those events even came close to the Teen Titans’ tower in San Francisco Bay. They didn’t go inside, obviously, but almost every day, in their allotted free time, she found herself at a harborside café, sketching the tower and designs that came to her from it and its team.

It was those quiet times that, incidentally, got her into contact with the team shapeshifter, Beast Boy.

Marinette had been sitting on a dock for a change, doodling idly as her legs swung from a bench — she was still too short for her feet to touch the ground at fifteen. Tikki dozed in her purse, stuffed full of chocolate.

As the sun began to make its way toward the horizon, she got up and placed the sketchbook in her backpack. Then, like the sun, she began to head home.

That journey would quickly be delayed. A man, hood up and all in dark clothes, snatched her purse and took off like a shot.

Tikki!

The Parisian girl sprinted after him, shouting for help. If she had been transformed, perhaps she would have taken him down faster.

But perhaps it was for the better. A green blur shot out of an alley and knocked into the would-be thief with a forceful missile kick, quickly apprehending the man. Marinette skidded to a halt to avoid running him over, and was caught in a pair of dark brown eyes.

Oh, hello there.

He grinned toothily, and held up her clutch purse. “Does this happen to be yours?”

“Oui!” Marinette’s hands flew to her mouth, and she couldn’t help but flush in embarrassment. “Oh! I am sorry, yes, it is.” Despite years of learning English, she couldn’t help but stammer with her accent.

The green boy fished out a pair of cuffs and locked them around the thief’s wrists, and kept a hold on them with his left hand as he held out his right. “I’m Beast Boy. Nice to meet you, though it would’ve been better under different circumstances.”

She shook his hand, and couldn’t help a sheepish smile. “Well, um, if you would like to try again,” Marinette suggested, already flushing, “I will be close to Hyde Street Pier, on the waterfront, close to three o’clock tomorrow.”

His grin only widened. “Can’t wait!” Beast Boy hauled the man to his feet, and glanced back at her. “Oh, hey, by the way — what’s your name?”

“I’m Marinette!”

“See you tomorrow, Marinette!”

That fateful encounter sparked a close friendship, which blossomed into an even closer relationship.

Marinette was grateful that the stars had aligned that day. She wouldn’t be where she was in life without him, if she was being completely honest.

She and Gar were open about their identities to each other, and when he came over on his bimonthly visit via Zeta tubes, they spent their days inside cuddling, watching movies, and playing video games.

The only thing that irked both of them was the fact that their relationship was one-hundred-percent secret from the press, as neither wanted that publicity.

Ergo, they couldn’t be seen in public together.

Therefore, they couldn’t go on dates, no matter how much they wanted to.

At least they had reached a compromise. Until Hawkmoth was defeated, on her own terms, they couldn’t be seen together. Even if her own terms, which would take more time, involved no outside help.

When Lila Rossi entered Françoise Dupont for the first time, Marinette didn’t have to be Ladybug to see through her lies. She claimed extravagant tales of meeting American superheroes on her mother’s travels — of the Teen Titans in New York City, of the Batfamily in Gotham, and of some group she had completely made up — the Gems of Justice, of all names.

Yeah, no. She didn’t have to be a superheroine to spot the bullcrap a mile away.

She tried to keep the whole situation quiet, though, she really did. Marinette didn’t want to burden Gar with class drama. After all, she was well aware that they only had so much time together.

But just like how she had tried to keep being Ladybug from him, that plan fell through in a matter of hours.

He held her when she sniffled over Lila’s threat, and let her slump back into him as she described how her classmates (sans Alya, bless her heart) were riveted by this Italian liar nobody who somehow held their attention.

She held onto the hope that they would all see reason, sometime.

That hope shattered when Alya moved away. Her parents wanted out from the living nightmare of Akumatown, as all four of their daughters had been akumatized at least once apiece.

Marinette sobbed, for the first time alone in the city of love.

It was midnight when she called him on her first night without her bestie, bawling into the phone line.

It was twenty minutes past when he showed up on her balcony, and she almost tackled them both over the railing. She let her emotions pour out onto his shoulder and he held her tight; and when she ran out of tears to cry, he held her until she fell asleep in her bed.

In the morning, he let her sleep in a little bit, and made her pancakes (with green food coloring, of course, because how else would he?). She cried again upon seeing the food, but there were thankful tears mixed among the sad ones.

Marinette left her house with her head held high.

Without her rock Alya at her side, Lila’s digs and jibes became worse. She took the mental hits, took the comments. Snide words turned into sneering faces turned into trips in the hallways, turned into destroyed work.

She resigned from the class presidency, choking down tears.

How could she have let it get this bad?

She should have stood up to it, so it could have stopped before it all began!

Oh, Alya…

Trips in the hallways turned to shoving at the steps, turned into stolen things.

Garfield, in the Titan Tower, had had a slow week. He’d only gone to visit Marinette a few days ago, but when Raven flicked his shoulder and told him he was moping, he headed off to the tubes to pay his girlfriend a surprise visit.

He emerged in Paris and immediately morphed into a bird, flying high above the city. He didn’t want the attention that came with his ability, not today.

As her school wasn’t out yet, Gar soared around Paris, taking in the sights. No matter how many times he came to the city, the views still left him amazed.

And Marinette with him, when they could go to those places, would leave him breathless.

As the hour wound closer, he headed over to Collège François Dupont, and took a perch on one of the flagpoles, content to wait for the time being.

The bell rang to let the classes out, and he shifted on his seat, eager to catch a glimpse of his girlfriend.

There!

She was one of the first out, and he readied his wings to swoop down to her and sweep Marinette off her feet. He was almost in flight when he stopped dead, dread washing over him like a tidal wave.

A tall Asian boy with an undercut and bleached hair hurried after her, his sneakered feet hitting the cement with a self-righteous purpose.

And a pack was following him.

Her classmates — a pale girl with long black hair, a dark-skinned boy with close-cropped hair, a short blonde girl, a tall blonde boy, and more — were in close pursuit.

And behind them strode a brunette, her wedged heels clicking with her own purpose. Green eyes watched all as her lips curled into a deadly, sickly smirk.

All attention was on Marinette, who hurried to go home, shoulders hunched.

He had left her alone like this.

“Hey!” the Asian boy called, and a robot whizzed in front of his girlfriend, bringing her up short.

She froze, and slowly turned to face him. Marinette was dwarfed by his massive frame, and she was terrified of what might happen next.

His hands came to rest on his hips, and he cocked his head in a leer. “Don’t think you’ve gotten away with what you’ve done.”

“Huh?” Her tone was shrill, it was panicked. “Kim, I didn’t do anything!”

An ugly frown twisted his face. “Then maybe you’ll remember!”

Faster than she could react, his hand raised and descended.

But Garfield reacted faster.

In a blink, he took off like a shot and dove down at the Asian boy, then shifted back to human form midair to launch himself at the boy feet-first like a missile. His boots hit the boy in the back of the neck, and man, was he satisfied to see him fall.

“G- Beast Boy?!” Marinette’s panicked whisper told him she was only a hair away from a complete breakdown.

The classmates hurriedly backpedaled, clearing a ring for him in the crowd that was quickly forming.

Gar hauled the boy — Kim — up by his hoodie collar. Despite his scrawny figure, he was lean, and packed a punch.

“I don’t like bullies,” he hissed as his eyes narrowed to slits. Kim quaked in his grasp, catching a good look at his fangs. “And if I catch you even looking at her wrong, you’ll wish you had never met her.”

Someone in the crowd was foolish enough to step forward and speak up. It was the dark-skinned boy with glasses, and his robot had flown back to be at his side. “My calculations prove that there is a ninety-percent chance that Marinette is the one at fault.”

He felt his girlfriend shrink beside him. It was tempting to shift into a tiger and intimidate the lot of them.

But instead his lips twitched into a smile, instead he grinned. The hook in his mouth had never been so cold.

“Then I suggest you check your calculations, buddy boy.” The class flinched back from his tone alone — it flashed knives, razor-sharp and ready to cut.

“All of you better watch your backs, ‘cause I’ll be waiting for an opening.” His voice spilled from his throat in an angry growl. If he had been a tiger, his tail would have lashed.

“I’m giving you one warning. Scram.”

The class took off and scattered, one of them even darting into the street.

Gar didn’t spare them a second glance before turning back to Marinette and hugging her tight. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of her perfume. “I should be there for you, not an ocean away.”

Her arms snaked around his sides and clutched him tight. Her entire body was shaking like a leaf, so he gently rubbed her back.

“Hey, hey. Marinette, let’s get back to your room, okay?” Any trace of the snarl he had bared at her classmates was gone; his voice was gentle now, it was soothing.

She sniffled, and hiccuped once as she tried to get her breathing under control. “Okay.” Her voice was quiet, subdued. There was no trace of the sassy girl he had met who loved life fiercely with all her heart.

Anger built inside him but he dispelled it, thanking Raven for forcing him to learn meditation.

After he picked up her bag, Gar wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “It’s not that far. You can make it.”

Another subdued “okay” was all the response he got.

He led her across the street, ignoring the looks passers-by threw him and even the phone cameras.

Once she was inside the bakery, a shocked gasp let him know Sabine Cheng had seen them. She rushed out from behind the counter to hug her daughter tight, then led the two of them to their living room upstairs.

After he had set down her bag and the three of them were seated on the couch, Sabine with her arm around Marinette and Garfield holding her hand, his girlfriend finally broke down, sobbing into her mother’s shoulder.

“Do you want me to make tea?” he offered, knowing Sabine didn’t want to leave her daughter’s side.

The older woman nodded. “Please. Peony.”

He gave Marinette’s hand a squeeze and got up, finding the kettle and mugs easily. While he waited for the water to heat up, he sat back down next to her.

Sabine looked to him, gray eyes piercing. “What happened, Garfield?”

He told her everything. How he had watched her come out of the school and saw Kim go straight for Marinette on an offense she hadn’t committed.

“It’s Lila,” his girlfriend muttered, her voice muffled by her mother’s shirt. “She’s influenced them all except Alix.”

That didn’t help matters.

“But Alix didn’t defend you,” Gar told her gently. “They all, one way or another, abandoned you.”

Marinette hiccuped, finally looking up at him. A bolt of pain shot through his heart at the face looking him in the eyes — red-rimmed eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and a running nose.

“They abandoned me,” she repeated, her voice hollow. “I have nobody.”

“You’ve got me,” Garfield reminded her, taking her hands and squeezing them tight. “You’ve got two parents who love you more than anything in the world. And, if I called them now, you have the Teen Titans. All of them would stand for you. Every last one of them.”

The kettle whistled, and he got up to steep the tea. He heard Sabine murmur to her daughter in Cantonese, things he didn’t understand but knew the intent. He returned to the couch with three mugs balanced carefully on a tray, and set it down on the table.

“Mrs. Cheng, I don’t know if you’ve considered it, but have you thought of moving schools?”

She nodded, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I have. And I think that it would be best.”

Marinette didn’t even flinch, just numbly nodded. His heart broke to see her so lifeless, and he pulled her into a tight hug. He almost had to blink back tears of his own, and rested his chin on the top of her head.

“Let me help with this, Mrs. Cheng. Please.”

Sabine nodded. “I will. How long are you going to stay in Paris?”

“As long as I’m needed.”

And he did. He stayed.

Garfield was the one to march into Françoise Dupont to deliver the paperwork to Damocles, his chin up and shoulders back. Even if he was at average height — and shorter than a good half of the school — they cleared a path for him, the school yard silent enough to drop a pin.

He didn’t spare them a parting glance.

Gar was the one to walk her to her new school, where she was mobbed by Kagami, Luka, and Chloé. They thanked him, each thank-you heartfelt, and he grinned, knowing his girlfriend was in good hands.

He was there for her first week, and went back to the Tower knowing she had friends to support her there.

And when Hawkmoth was finally defeated months later, with a new team and a new Chat Noir, he pulled Marinette into a searing kiss as the rain began to wash Paris clean.

[bitchfitch]

Death crept through the lavish halls of a rich man's home. Old cracked paint flaked beside sun faded tapestries and over well worn wood floors. The raged leather soles of of his boots softly thumping along with the creaking of old wood that accompanied his every step. He found the room easily, following the sound of a fading cough and short not quite gasping breaths that failed to draw enough air. 

He ducked through the door and the dying man greeted him with age hazed eyes and a broad grin.

"Copper!" his exclamation carried joy even if his lungs couldn't support more than a creaking whisper, "Bastard, it's so good to see you again," he stopped to catch his breath, his eyes closing as he did so,

"And you as well," Copper returned the smile as he sat in the chair beside the bed, "But to be honest I'm a touch surprised, both that you can see anything through those cataracts, and that you would... Appreciate my presence," 

The rich man chuckled, "Not many people have hair that color, even fewer are as tall as you. I may not be able to see much, but I can still see that,"

"I suppose you're right," Copper huffs with a hand going to his dark red mess of a mane "Still, you must remember the terms of our deal and what my presence means for you now?"

"I do," he nods, "I'm going to die tonight, going to see Min again," 

"Min?"

"My wife," he smiles as he speaks of her even as his words become more labored, "That quill you gave me, I wrote a letter to the girl I had fallen in love with when we were young. I didn't know she couldn't read, so she had to get someone else to read it to her, but when she'd heard what I wrote she came all the way into the valley to slap me and call me an idiot," he laughs, "Told me we should've eloped when we were both still fresh, before she'd found another man to call her own,

I'd not even thought that she'd have gone on like that. It made sense, she could have, and did, do so much better than me. But luck of lucks saw that husband of hers dead not long after. I felt bad for being so happy, but I couldn't stop smiling when she and I married,

That quill- You, gave me the happiest life I could have imagined. I'm glad to pay my end of the deal now, because it means I get to see her again,"

"It's a rare treat to find someone with no regrets, thank you for your story," Copper smiles softly, genuine and warm,

"Oh, I've got regrets," the rich man say "Many, but I don't care to dwell on them, not now... or... Well, one, there's one,"

"Hmm?"

"Min and I, we had a fight right before... She was so mad at me last time I saw her. Do you think she still is?"

"I don't know, but you will have plenty of time to make it up to her soon,"

"Yeah, yeah that's true... It's close now is it?"

"Moments if I had to guess," Copper shrugs, "The clot in your lung is migrating and will soon block off blood flow to the area completely. After that happens you won't be able to get enough air and will... fall asleep, then you will suffocate over a few minutes. It won't be the most pleasant of deaths, but it won't hurt badly," he simplified things greatly, not caring for the slight inaccuracies so long as they helped keep the rich man calm and peaceful in these final moments.

"Any final requests?" Copper cocks his head,

"I think... yeah, I think I want to be alone for this. Thank you," 

"Of course. Rest well then, and may your sleep bring great growth" Copper stood from his seat, the blessing leaving him without thought as the rich man closed his eyes a smile still tugging on his old, withered face.

The door to the rich man's room shut with a light thud as Copper drifted down the halls, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. He rarely visited the dying, usually he only came to the deceased caught between their death's and their afterlives to guide them across, and this was why. He knew where the clot was, it would only take a moment and a little bit of concentration to break it up enough that the rich man's body would be able to handle it on it's own. Sure, doing so would probably only buy him a few more bed bound days, a week maybe, but healers can rarely be trusted to leave the sick and dying to the whims of nature and he was no different. 

He wandered through the empty halls decorated with treasures that, do to a single deal made half a century ago, would soon be his, and found his way into a shrine room. Shelves upon shelves of precious jewls and metals, fine fabrics and sculptures filled the room. Though the alter beneath the stained glass window held only sea glass and shells that glittered from around a poorly made tapestry that depicted a stormy ocean.

The threads were too loose in some places too tight in others and there were places where it was clear the weaver ran out of one color and had attempted to dye more only for it to come out just wrong enough to be noticed. It was clearly made by inexperienced hands and now stood displayed still in it's loom in the place of honor on this shrine. Pride in its existence radiated from it and that made it stunning despite it's flaws. 

Distantly, he felt the rich man die, quietly and peacefully.

One of Copper's aspects would guide him across and later while Copper slept he'd dream of the conversation that aspect and the rich man would have, and he would dream of the conversations his other, near innumerable, aspects would have, and have had, and have been having with every other human who has crossed into his domain since he last slept. Then he would wake, and forget almost everything said during those conversations as they meld together into a messy but beautiful tapestry. All the threads visible and traceable in their places but ultimately he saw it not for the individuals, but the grander thing they made together.

He picked at the stones and shells scattered on one of the shelves, his dulled claws scraping against the rough surface. He should probably go find someone to deal with the body...

The soft creaking protest of a floor board that no longer fit in it's place being tread on called from behind him. Copper turned, curious to who or what would be intruding on this moment, but he was left slack jawed with a greeting trapped behind his lips as he saw the man.

Surrounded by gold and silver and precious gems that glittered in the low moonlight that flowed through the windows, this man outshone them all. He was tall for a human, coming up to just below Copper's collar bones, with broad, strong looking shoulders. His sharp features highlighted by the silver light caressing his warm tan skin and haloed by that same light echoing through the broken strands of bleach blonde hair that fell from his neat bun to frame his narrow face.

Light agitation turned to wonder and awesrrucked silence as Copper struggled for a second to find words, but once again those words died when he met the man's eyes, they were probably a deep brown but the low light turned them onyx. His gaze was sturdy, not cold or calculating, not bored. Determined but practiced.

The strange, beutiful, human man wore the expression of a butcher or a slaughterer, he did not draw perverse pleasure or joy from what came next. He was so obviously merely doing a job as he moved faster than Copper's confusion addled mind could react to that that alone struck more fear into Copper's core than if the man were hissing and snapping with rage.

The ice hot cut of an iron blade dug past the flesh between his ribs and into his chest even as he recoiled. On pure instinct he growled an awful rumbling sound that made the butcher- the hunter, flinch as Copper managed to stumble away, nearly falling to one knee as his own lung struggled to inflate. He could feel his magic burning along the wound as it tried, and failed to pull it closed. His hand going to his bloodied side in a vain attempt of staunching the flow. 

The hunter advanced, cautious and silent, his blade, slicked with Copper's own viscous black blood, raised as he followed the retreating god.

Copper hissed as his back collided with a shelf, cornered he pulled his attentions together just enough to attempt to teleport away, only to feel his magic jolt painfully within him as it failed completely.

The hunter advanced, already readying another swing.

In that moment Copper forced himself to focus on the warm summer night air, on the flickering candles and the heat of the hunter's body, most seals could be overpowered, he just needs to rush it hard enough. 

Heat leaves the room, the hunter stumbles with a pained gasp as the heat leaves him too. Copper doesn't see if the hunter falls because the seal gives as he uses all of that stolen energy to burst against it.

He drops to his knees on the cold stone floor of the cave he calls home. His blood singing through magic seared veins, his hands shaking as he braces one against the floor below him as his world swims, both from blood loss and the disorientation that always came with pushing his power that hard,

He struggles with his wound, gasping with effort as his magic finally starts working again. The wound tieing itself closed beneath his palm, a thick black scar forming as he comes down from the mountain top high of fearing for his life for the very first time since before the advent of this universe.

Copper slumps against the water-carved wall of his home, his head falling back against it with a deep buzz running beneath his skin, and he Laughs, deep and hearty and Alive in a way he has not felt in centuries.

[plunnies-n-shit]

sweet dreams, timaeus

bleach -- grimmichi -- Singularity Ichigo AU

(WARNING: BODY HORROR)

At any given moment, there are a thousand different versions of Ichigo trying to cram themselves into his skin. 

The timeline where his mother never died. Another, where his powers never presented. In another, his Hollow consumes him, but in another, Ryuken steals him from Isshin's harsh kindness and shapes him into uryu's orange-haired brother. Ichigo struggles to keep the timelines straight on the best of days-- on the days when they bleed a little too close, he can't remember if Yuzu's eyes are supposed to be green or brown or gold, if Karin should have brown-black hair like isshin or gold-orange hair like mom or blue-black hair like ryuken. 

But in every timeline, he meets Grimmjow.

And in every timeline, he falls in love.

He doesn't even know where the scars are supposed to be. Shoulder to hip where Byakuya cut him down-- does it go left to right or right to left? The thousand scars from Senbonzakura shift by the day-hour-minute. Where Aizen cut him open? Some days it's just a scar, somedays its the debilitating pain of having a chip of your spinal cord missing, and sometimes, just for a second, Ichigo can't breathe for the blood bubbling in his lungs and throat, the agonizing pain of being torn in half, a wound not even he can recover from.

Ichigo refuses to look into a mirror in his spirit form, because he knows he looks... wrong. Hair too bright or too dark or sometimes the wrong color entirely. His skin is pale by his hollow self or too dark from growing up a Shiba proper, always training in the bright sun of seireitei instead of inside Tatsuki's dojo, or Isshin's off-the-cuff "training". His eyes are brown-amber-gold-blue so dark it's almost black. 

(His teeth are fangs when he passes his tongue over them, then flat again a moment later. Nails claws when he doesn't pay close enough attention.)

In this timeline, Grimmjow doesn't draw his sword during their first fight. Ichigo struggles to remember that. There are too many timelines where he tastes Pantera's sharp edge, or where Grimmjow's fists turn to claws. In this timeline, Grimmjow is almost. Gentle. And it's better, it's worse, there's no mark to remember Grimmjow by when Grimmjow is gone, there's no mark to have to remember exactly where it goes.

Ichigo hates himself, the way he falls in love with an afterimage. He falls in love with the Grimmjow who put his teeth to Ichigo's throat and took a single, glorious bite before Rukia recovered enough to push him back. He falls in love with the Grimmjow that comes to his window the night after the fight like a tragic hero from a Shakespearian play. He falls in love with the Grimmjow that defects early, that refuses to help kidnap Orihime, who curls his hand around Zangetsu and demands another fight, and another, because the only way they know how to show they love each other is by trying to draw blood.

Ichigo falls in love with a man who doesn't exist, except he's right here, sword drawn and one arm missing, and Ichigo is full of memories that could never have happened in this timeline and he's in love.

(Until Ichigo tries to explain what's happening to him, Grimmjow just assumes that Ichigo is more Hollow and less evolved than everyone lets on. Grimmjow's seen it before. Hell, he's been through that stage of evolution, a hundred consciousnesses roiling under your skin as you try to keep your head above water. Ichigo's doing really well. Grimmjow only offers to take a bite out of him out of curtesy, he's offered it to all of his fraccion, a way to stop the pain, even if it means it's a hundred years before you're strong enough to evolve again. And when Ichigo refuses with that weird half-laugh-half-sob that seems to be reserved for Grimmjow and Grimmjow alone, Grimmjow doesn't take it personally. He's a King, after all. His queen is already proving to be strong.

Grimmjow can't wait until Ichigo settles into his own skin, stronger.)

[dropsofletters]

golden age of youth

title: golden age of youth pairing: lee hoseok/reader genre: racer!au/rivals to lovers!au summary: everyone can recognize the racer with the big smile and sparkling eyes—the hero of formula one, lee hoseok. in the lineal passage of time, another racer appears with adrenaline pumping through her veins and a sharp mouth to put everyone in their places. talent exudes from the two, as well as attraction, but to love there must be something more than an adrenaline rush. type: angst/fluff/romance/humor/suggestive word count: 21,586 disclaimer: this is part of my august special called ‘the anti-love club’. each story can be read individually, however, you’d be getting a little bit more of backstory along with some easter eggs if you read each of them, as well as helping me with support. the masterlist can be found here.

People start coming to life when they are in a state of danger, running, with beads of sweat pooling at the skin of their nape and on their forehead, when their clothes feel too heavy on their bodies and the saliva on their mouths accumulate, excessive as they ask for more, for safety primarily. This is a game that she knows how to play—for she is the one that brings herself to dangerous races. If she knows something, it is stepping on a pedal with all the force she has on her body, controlling the wheel of racing cars and common cars alike, feeling the wind on her face when she need adrenaline the most. It just so happens that when she is there, shaking on top of a seat, smiling behind a helmet, is when she is at the most control of her life. 

She has never liked the color beige—it’s dull, it means an ‘in-between’, it’s the color an older couple wear before going to sleep on the same bed, the color of coffee early in the morning, an awakening of sorts that she has never brought herself to enjoy. It’s the reason why she liked the color of her lips to be burgundy, just like the blood on her veins and arteries, matching her clothing and contrasting with her black or white cars, always polished, needily repaired by her own hands. She needs to race, she had said when she was merely nineteen, going against any odds of going to college, of living a normal and comfortable life. A sport, she claims it is, but it is more than that…

It’s a way of living. An irresponsible, entertaining, worrisome and somewhat addictive way of living, existing, breathing, enjoying.

Fast had not been the perfect way to describe her rise to the Formula One infamous racing, much less was it smooth. To her odds, she had the fact that she was a woman—not the daughter of some racer, not a spoiled brat with parents rich enough to insert her into the list of racers, but just another lover of cars that prided too much on the leather of the seats of her old car and spent too much time with a machine to ever be able to describe it in minutes. Had it not been for the woman by her side, someone who completely understood the struggles of being part of something that is usually (and mistakenly) connected to men, she would have not been there. 

Meeting Heejung was easy. With her body mostly hidden by the overalls of her mechanic shop and her love for changing cars into something different from their beginnings, it was bound for them to happen to meet. Heejung needed more clients, desired for someone to sport her brand one day...and she happened to crash her old Corolla in one of the many times she had gone out illegaly to race. Heejung did not utter a word, bleached hair seeking for life in that bun that she usually wore it in, the strands normally coated in oil, face filled with all the emotions in the world. At the time, Heejung had been almost a guardian angel—she took care of her when she was just beginning, getting noticed by more racers that had brought her to legal events instead, and whenever the adrenaline of rushing through life went too crazy on her head, she soothed out every bit of her ‘ride or die’ attitude.

No, she had not been a guardian angel for her. Heejung is her guardian angel, even now when she has finally reached a good spot in her career, enough to be able to be considered half a name in this industry. This is just the preparations of the main event, of the big Formula One race that everyone has been hyping up since last year, an introductory point for all the racers and a joy for brands that wanted to be sported by the figured of teenagers and adults alike. Her chest swelled with a feeling that made her feel full, taking in the air of pure contamination, smoke, nodding her head along to the sound of some rap song that is definitely looking to be the new sound of the summer. She felt like she belonged in there, with racers equal to her wearing uniforms with brand-names, though hers barely had any, showcasing the first smile of the night because who the fuck cares that she just got there in a Corolla, while everyone else had arrived  in their sport cars?

Heejung releases a laugh behind her, quite girly for the way one would expect her to be, and she gripped the sides of her uniform to bring her closer to her front. Her back collided against Heejung’s chest, earning a soft huff from her. “Look at all these people. I can’t believe you actually made it to the point you can compete with our heroes.”

She lifts her nose at that, almost like a Queen would, looking ahead of her at the majority of the men there, some even women, all equally looking for the price of pride, money and most importantly, recognition. Fame was also needed in the world of adrenaline. “They are not our heroes anymore, Heejung. We have gone through this.” This kind of friendship comes from four years of being around each other. Indeed, a worker of Heejung’s mechanic shop is now a racer, the word of their small street and the reason why there are some posts about her shared in social media. A nobody, that is what she is, and yet, she feels like seeking for more. “They are our enemies now. We are looking for the grand prize—no, we are getting it.”

“Not with that attitude.” Heejung puckers up her mouth, pulling away from her friend and crossing her arms over her chest. “You need to be appealing to the public. Girly, flirty. You want to have a fan-base of horny men looking to spend their money on you. That’s how we rise on this business.”

The flickering lights of the paparazzi taking pictures of the people ahead of her, crowds and crowds piling up, had her moving forward in order to find someone who could recognize her. After all, she wants some appearances, even an interview, something that could get her name out there and make her savor the dream that she has fought so hard for. “I don’t do that kind of shit,” She mumbles, placing her hands inside her pockets as she walks. “I want to be respected, not lusted at.”

“Who said you can’t have both?” Heejung prompts, pushing her finger up in the air albeit with an idea. “Don’t think I’m telling you that you don’t have any talent. Quite the contrary. You’ll kick the ass of most people here, but if you have something to your advantage...why not take it?”

“Because you have said so yourself,” She points out, turning her head to the side to look at her friend. She scrunches up her nose, lowering her voice to match Heejung’s tone. “You attract the wrong kind of men. You don’t need a man to fuck you for one night. You need a man to fuck you with a ring on your finger that promises a forever. Some shit like that.”

“I said that once,” Heejung retorts, placing one hand over her heart. “And I did not mean for it to be so vulgar, but since that’s the only way you understand...”

“Heejung, I don’t need the attention of the male population to rise.” She argues, though this is just one of their conversations. One of those profound ones they used to have when they were having their morning coffee and Heejung would sigh in delight about her relationship with a fellow worker, Leo. Too in love, enough to make anyone puke, it was no wonder they had waited ten years in a relationship in order to get married. Quite cute if she was honest, just not her style. “Right now, if I happen to end up getting a guy, it’s because I want us to enjoy our time now. I don’t need a future.”

“What will you do once you’re old and wrinkly and alone?” Heejung questions, pushing through a group of people until they saw the booth of the magazine they were looking for. The biggest, yet most honest, magazine in the sports industry at the moment, of high interest for sponsors and for those who looked for respect as racers. 

Her eyes almost seemed to be filled with stars and if she looked at herself, she swears she’d see a glint in them. Lips are pulled into a smirk, because she has rehearsed a big chunk of her life for this. She knows how to tuck her hair to the side and speak with authority, like she owns the place, as if her foot is heavy enough to run over the world itself. “I’ll get a Volkswagen and drive me the hell around town. That’s what I’m going to do. Enjoy my life.”

“You know what? Fair enough.” Heejung huffs, fixing her bun once again and leaving a few strands out, making her angled face look much softer with her thick lips pushed upwards. “I’ll stop having the friend talk and now I’m going to be your manager. I have various roles in your life.”

“I can already feel the rant—”

“Not only I am your manager and your friend, I’m also your mechanic. Your mom. Your nurse. Your sibling. Your brasswork assitant. I do everything for you. Publicist, too.” She huffs out before turning to look at her racer friend, taking her by the shoulders and releasing some pressure on the tense muscles. “There is a guy there, right, but we need to approach him as quickly as possible. He’s a journalist, the newest one—”

She quirks an eyebrow at that, trying to tease her friend. “How would you know that?”

“Leo knows him, remember? He went to college. I thought you knew he’s a journalist, either way—” Heejung closes her eyes tightly, as if scolding herself for talking too much before opening them once again. “His name is Matt. Well, Matt for short. He interviews just about anyone because he’s younger, much less important, and he releases some good articles online, including Instagram links. So we’re looking for him, I think he’s free right now.” Lacing her arms with Heejung’s, she feels her weight being dragged to get her to walk quicker. Heejung must be exercising more than her...or maybe she should just actually go for a walk instead of driving everywhere. “He’s the one seated there,” Heejung whispers once inside the publicity tent, pointing with her chin at one of the seats near the stage, the one that the most well-known racers used. 

Actually, Matt is quite the unexpected sight. She expects some man with baggy pants and a Ferrari t-shirt, but instead she is welcomed by a lanky, tall man with glasses. Not weak looking at all, his brown gaze behind his glasses and his dull chocolate-hair just created contrast to him, wearing a sweater even when the amount of people there were enough to create body-heat for a million people. His camera hung around his neck and he seemed to be taking a breather, if his looking around is anything to go by, a notepad resting on his lap experly.

And yes, those are khakis. She definitely can see them now. She shouldn’t be afraid of someone like him, yet something about him exuded professionalism. Maybe, Heejung is right. Maybe, she should have tried to be a better actress instead of binging videos of the racers she looks up to, because a flutter of her eyelids and a much cleaner mouth could work to her favor here. Damn it for having the mouth of an angry ninety-year-old woman and for using too many profanities in her speech, because Heejung is suddenly walking her towards the man and she is starting to feel a tad bit nervous.

Which is strange, for someone who never gets nervous about anything—dates, due-dates and even racing through the smallest of streets in the highest of speeds—, she surely feels like her food must return from its trip at any given minute and end up on this man’s khakis.

“Hi, are you Matt?” Heejung asks softly, extending her hand for the man to take and he lifts his gaze from his notepad, finally seeing a bit of his smile on his delicate features.

“Yes. May I know who you are? I wasn’t actually waiting for anyone—” Matt speaks, voice filled with the seriousness that she had expected, that monotone voice that reminded her that this was a serious situation. What she said or didn’t could be recorded and used against her at any given moment.

“I’m Leo’s wife! He told me he had spoken to you so you could interview my client.” Heejung speaks with a smile on her face, wrapping her arm around her shoulder and shaking her slightly, like a mother who is proudly showing off that her daughter can race...and shouldn’t be proud of it. “She’s in the line-up for the race and pretty new, so a head start would work in our favor so much.”

Matt stands up at that, grasping the camera in between his fingers as recognition filled his face. “Ah yes, Leo,” Heejung seems to be delighted at the sound of her man’s name. Huh, so maybe love does work for some people and she just happens to be one of those who it had not worked for. “I remember him quite fondly. We used to hang out a lot in the printing room...since he worked there, you know, he’d sneak in some papers and wouldn’t ask me for more money.” 

Well, that sounds exactly like the Leo who could spend his entire night in the shop if it meant pleasing every client, even if the car has no chance of being brought to life. “That’s delightful.”

Matt looks at her, at her silent, statue-like stance and she wonders why she hasn’t spoken, hasn’t used that confidence of hers to introduce herself, so she does. Or tries to, her hands are a bit clammy—though, if asked, she’d blame it on the weather—and her voice shakes when she says her name out loud. “I’m a huge fan of your magazine...and your work is amazing, too. Only have gotten a few glimpses, though, but I’m fucking glad I did.” Heejung nudges her side and had she looked at her, she knew she would widen her eyes because obscenities in a sentence aren’t pretty and because she hasn’t actually read anything from him.

Or if she has...she doesn’t know.

Oh God, what if he asks what her favorite article of his is?

Though, Matt’s smile reaches his eyes, taking his pen out of the pocket of his dark blue sweater, clicking it and writing her name down on the small notebook. “Haven’t gotten that in a while. As a writer in a magazine, you barely get any recognition.”

“It happens.” She whispers, lifting her head when Matt looks at her and giving him a tight smile. Tight and fake smile, because she is far too casual for these types of things. She can’t come up with a story, taken out of her ass, about how her racing abilities came from some bonding experience when she was a child or because she had to find a way to escape from her reality. The truth is...she did it because she felt like it, because her desire to be on edge surpassed any rational thought. She had taken a car, pressed on the pedal too hard and liked it. Then, her own thrive was what led her to be there.

“So—”

“Matt!” The boisterous voice of a man, albeit shorter than Matt himself and visibly older, more pompous, had interrupted the guy’s speech before he could start interviewing her and his posture straightened when the loud man came over to hug him, gripping him for a few minutes and lifting him up his feet just in time to hear more masculine, definitely smoother laughter. The source of the voice catches her attention, making her look just to catch a glimpse of exactly who should have not been there at that time. “Wonho is here for the interview. What are you doing there losing time?! My guy finished an interview early to give you your article.”

“O-Oh—” Matt utters, unhooking himself from the hug and sending an apologetic glance at the two women in front of him. “Better not make him wait, then.”

Wonho greets him with a handshake, looking at her from the corner of his eyes and sending a charming smile her way, along with Heejung’s. This is the dream client for someone like Heejung, definitely a people pleaser. “No, don’t worry. Do your thing, I’ll wait.”

Matt shakes his head, perhaps tranced from the thick muscles and the soft scent that belonged to Wonho, but she doesn’t forget the way he easily dismisses her existence and Heejung’s with a quick: “They can wait! Let’s just start your interview.”

The rockstar of cars, the biggest, the loveliest Formula One racer, the same one that had every racer shaking on their feet, winner of last year, owned by magazines and brands. Oh, she knows his name—even past his artistic one, he calls himself Wonho when on his zone, on his own stage, but when he is out of racing, he is Lee Hoseok. With ashy black hair that often hides under his helmet, once off falling down his smooth forehead, giving life to his dark and understanding eyes, smile worth a trillion more than hers will ever. The muscles are definitely a plus, surely, enough to catch her gaze when he turns around and moves along Matt and his manager. 

Nice ass, she thinks, still belonging to the enemy, so that deems it not worthy of her interest.

Someone like him doesn’t have to wait, not when he makes everyone swoon with the red color of the tip of his big ears whenever he is feeling a bit shy. Not when his voice is charming, dragging on certain syllables, using the ‘s’ at his favor to make it sound more profound. Charming, that he is, exactly what she lacks and maybe, that is what this Formula One race is looking for.

They want someone to stand in the cover of magazines holding their brand. They want someone who appeals to a bigger audience.

Or wanted, now they’ll want her talent. No matter how against the rules she is in the world of publicism.

“You know what, I don’t need to wait. Much less do I need to be disrespected like this.” She mumbles, tightening the zipper of her uniform and bringing it up to her neck, licking the inside of her cheek as she moves towards the set of cars, the real racing cars, where in about twenty minutes they’ll make some demonstration for people to feel more hyped for the main event. In a week, and yet making her feel high on adrenaline.

Heejung is following behind her, sneakers dragging against the concrete and pushing through the groups of people. “W-Wait. No, we’ll have to wait. Yes or yes.”

“I’ll teach Matt that I’m better than that Wonho guy.” She releases into the air, turning around just in time to catch Heejung in her arms when their chests collided together.

“Don’t—Don’t be making enemies already!”

“He’s not my enemy, per se, I’ll change the term.” She says. “He’s my rival. I accept he’s a fine piece of ass and that he’s an excellent racer but—” She cuts herself off, catching her helmet as Leo throws it her way, also one of her team. “I either win or I win. There’s no in-between.”

At first, the sentiment is too fast for her to catch it. Twenty minutes later, she is seated inside her small racing car, waiting for that one signal that starts it all. A noise and then, she simply steps on the pedal, wishing for everyone ahead of her to simply leave her alone. It starts at her feet, as if electricity is brought from any shake of the device, going up her calves and her legs, releasing all sort of tension from them and bringing a sense of purpose to her gut. She finally feels like she is complete, a smile behind her mask when she turns on a corner, when she hears the engine roar to life, as animalistic as it can get. She can’t think, she doesn’t have enough time to, looking at the quickened faces that she can’t make out, but mostly at the road ahead of her. Gray, a color that she loves, very welcomed behind her fiery eyes, feisty when she stops hearing the noise of other cars from up close. That must mean she is first or has finished as last.

Someone is by her side, then appearing in front of her in his own racing car. Black uniform, broad shoulders and those bunch of sponsor names written on the fabric, enough to have his life secured in his rich lifestyle. She knows who this man is, the one trying to pass by her, the same one that makes it insufferable to look to her right when all the cameras are flashing to take a picture of him. The God of racing, Lee Hoseok.

Wonho.

She needs to beat him.

She steps harder on the pedal, as if she could, feeling the sole of her feet shoot an ache up her calf, moving her steering wheel until she is by his side. She plays around a bit with the pedal, wanting the car to be nosy as it passes by him again, this time around not caring so much about the beauty of her turns but simply wanting to get to the end line. She does, apparently, but not in enough time to beat Hoseok’s car, who simply passes by her in a millisecond, as if he had caught up on her technique.

He probably did, he is definitely not stupid. He uses that smile of his, sweet and deliciously charming, to his favor.

Anger has her throwing her helmet on the floor once she gets out of the car. A tantrum, yes, but hidden by the way she places her hands on her hips and breathes in deeply. Anyone that looked at her, at the fucking second place that she is right now, would think she is just tired and for the sake of Heejung not giving her an earful, she better act like she is, but when she looks at Hoseok, he is already looking at her. Chuckling slightly, his shoulders shake when he lifts his hand up to greet his crowd. People cheer for him, watch as he nears her and extends his hand for her to take. Over the noise, she can make out the sound of his dulcet voice when he says:

“I don’t know what I was expecting from you, but you’re way better than anyone could have ever imagined. Good job.” Oh, of course he had to be nice. He just had to. Something about him had to be topped by his outgoing personality, like he’ll always make you feel like you belong, smooth with the way he speaks. For a moment, she feels like falling for it, and she half does, but the bigger part of herself is the one that makes her hand go forward, grasp him with such force that even a gym-rat like him stumbles forward, bumping her shoulder with his to make a statement when she speaks, loud and clear, enough to reach the ears of whoever is around them. Press or not.

“Just wait until I win over you on the night of the race. I’ll do a better job then.” Hoseok’s eyebrows lift at that, holding his helmet to his side, pressed to his waist when he sees a smile appear on her face. The contact of his hand had been so soft, almost tender in comparison of her rough hands from so much working, but she couldn’t think twice about his charms.

Only that she did. Something about winning against him was...thrilling. No one could stop her if she got the Lee Hoseok, the one and only, to give her a second glance. His smile doesn’t falter, instead he continues the conversation.

“I can’t wait.” Hoseok announces, biting his bottom lip and looking to the sides, chuckling a bit to himself.

“Don’t laugh so much. You’ll be begging me to hang out with you once that night is over.” She can hear the shouts of Heejung inside her brain, like she is telling her that this is going to be bad press but who is she kidding? This is what she wants...and possibly, what those gossip-thirsty people want.

“Huh, even if you don’t win, I might.” Those words she did not expect, almost making her smile falter but it only presses harder, the light behind her eyes changing as if they were alone in that people-packed world. His eyes connect with her, the depths of them showing a saint but reading a hidden...sin, almost like he is an angel with dark wings. 

Maybe he is, but she’ll make sure to figure it out.

“Got you interested?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.” He answers, before putting his helmet on again. “Next time around, though, just some advice.” His sweetened tone held a smile, she could feel it, much more when he takes her hand again and lets his thumb rub the back of it, more delicate than she could ever be. Perhaps, they are actually polar opposites, connected by the idea of proving which one is better. They want to rule over the other, acting upon attraction, tethering into playful banter. “Don’t throw a tantrum. It’s a cute look, not a good one.”

And with that, he leaves. His manager is talking to him as he speaks, once again pleasing the paparazzi that are asking for him, asking for more and more of Lee Hoseok and she stands there, ignored, no one compared to the master of racing. When she turns, however, Heejung is already making grabby-hands at her neck, fingers curling against each other and showing what seems to be frustration.

Uh-oh.

...Maybe flirting in front of hundreds of people was actually not a good idea.

But when has she ever had one of those?

🚗

With her back pressed to the mechanic’s creeper, knees bent and one of her hands holding a flashlight up to the bottom of the car whilst the other is working diligently, she realizes that she never really follows the rules. If ever. While everyone in the mechanic shop is wearing their overalls perfectly, zipped up, coated in oil and black tints plastered all over the fabric, she has the long sleeves of her overalls wrapped around her waist, her white tank top silently asking for mercy thanks to all the dirt that has now accumulated over her chest. Not that she can bring herself to care, much less when she is on her fourth cup of coffee of the morning, excited to get her car to start working after dying on her while in her way back to her house. 

Someone must have noticed the lack of coffee, because Leo starts the coffee machine right after asking his wife: “Babe, did you finish this coffee? I left it full just an hour ago.”

Okay, so maybe the grand night of the Formula One race was getting closer and her need of coffee comes from the fact that she hasn’t slept very well. Or at all. The ache behind her eyelids is painful when she tries to concentrate on the little, smallest pieces of the car, almost like a surgeon who is looking for that exact mistake that has been bothering the entire body. Someone had noticed the reason as to why there is no more coffee in the shop, though. “I didn’t finish it, but I know who did.” The thud of Heejung’s foot against her calf makes her let out a breath in surprise, a smile appearing on her face soon after. “Say sorry to Leo, you big child.”

“I’m sorry, Leo!” She utters from under the car, unable to contain the giggles that bubble up from her chest. This is what happiness is about, feeling the crispy sun entering from the open gates of the shop, hearing the coffee brewing as quickly as it can, smelling like old cars and leather seats. This is not a world of Maserati’s and rains of money, but it will be one day. She’s hopeful, loyal, waiting for the time she can finally glow to her fullest potential. If she doesn’t sleep before this race, however, she won’t even be able to win.

“Don’t scold her so much.” Leo adds in that sweetened tone of his and she can imagine the sweet-looking man with the rounded cheeks nudging his wife’s side. “She’s under a lot of pressure.”

“You know more than anyone that I love her with my entire heart,” And she is certain Heejung really does such thing. No one wakes up at midnight to help their friend out pushing her car back home. No one becomes a manager of their best friend who is far too stubborn for her own good. No one would have done that, for her or for anyone like her, driving through a dead-end street for the sake of their friendship. “...But she does this even if she is not about to race for Formula One.”

“Stop talking about me as if I’m not in the room.” She says, somewhat scared that they’d realize just how nervous she is. Shaken to the core, not because of her abilities, she trusts those, but because there is someone better than her already...Lee Hoseok, who in the little publicity stunt had sat her back down on her place, as if she was insignificant and while she knows he did it simply to tease her, one of his tactics coming from the electricity between them, she still feels somewhat...thoughtful.

Enraged, but the kind of enraged that has her smiling when she realizes that—huh, Lee Hoseok is the type of man to have the sweetest smile in the world, yet be endlessly honest.

For a moment, she gets tranced in her own car. This old thing that she had bought with money that should have gone for her rent, but back then she didn’t know any better. It just screamed for her to own it, mostly because it reminded her of one of the first few magazines she had peeked at when her interest in cars and racing grew. It’s from the nineties, surely, it looks like it belongs to that era, but some classics never really get ancient. Nonetheless, nowadays it was difficult to keep it up its feet. With the money she has earned from precious races, though still not as big as what she’d earn does she win the race that’ll take place in three days, she has been able to make it look somewhat decent. Still, the engine is a headache and underneath, it looks as if it had been hit a thousand times before she bought it.

Probably true, but the most gorgeous of things are filled with memories of hardships.

The moment grows larger, longer, keeping her under the car more than necessary, only getting out when she needs to try out the car to no avail. At some point, her back is aching so badly that it cracks when she gets on the creeper again, the smell of coffee long gone, Leo now on his third car of the day and Heejung must be somewhere, but she can’t bring herself to look for her right now. When she bites down on her bottom lip, doing a few arrangements that will take her to the exact position her car should be in, she hears the sound of thick, dense boots kicking against the concrete of their shop, whoever this is stood by the side of her car, leaving him with a view of the black, stylish boots said man wore for the afternoon. Whoever this is has a tough walk, strong muscles and—

“Uh, good afternoon. May I have your help? My car just died on me right now, the engine is not even roaring and I had to push it all the way here.” That voice, angelic but with an edge, not pompous although he is a man of wealth, somewhat humble as well. The delicate lisp that gives out that this is Lee Hoseok. The...rival that is now in her quarter, in her zone, asking for help from no other than her own team. 

She’d roll out from underneath the car, but she is hiding. Seeing him would mean that she’d up saying something competitive, yet stupidly romantic and flirty because there is something about him that she wants to have, own even for the slightest of seconds. Luckily for her, the man doesn’t seem to be paying attention to her, instead listening to the sound of Heejung’s voice. 

“Ah, yes. We’ll gladly help you. Is your car out there? I’m free right now.” Heejung is political. She knows how to speak and how to do it, unlike her. She can imagine the smile on her face and from the distance, she hears Leo stopping with whatever job he was doing.

“Yeah, it’s parked out there. Sorry, I couldn’t bring it here, I had to push it for too long...” Even he apologizes, sweetening her mouth and leaving it in the back of her tongue. This is the kind of person Lee Hoseok is...and it’s so thrilling to see that someone of his caliber either is perfect at being fake or is incredibly nice. Soon after, he gives a small chuckle, resting his arm against her precious car when he speaks out her name along with Heejung’s. “Wait, you’re her manager, right? I read about the two of you in the line-up. I didn’t think you’d own a mechanic shop.”

“Uh, I, yes—She’s—” Heejung is trying to look for words, because in her immense intelligent, publicitary head, she probably thinks Hoseok is holding a grudge against her. He may, actually.

“And that’s another guy from her team. I saw him with her that same night we raced.” Hoseok points out, now moving his legs slightly as he trails his gaze across the room. She sees his feet moving now, keeping her legs out of underneath the car, peeking like a monster under a kid’s bed. “So...that leaves us to believe the one person under the car must be your client, I suppose.”

Dang it. He’s not as stupid as one would have imagined he is, granted the prince-like title he holds in the racing industry. She clears her throat, placing the flashlight down on her abdomen before looking up at the car, as if it was the sky and she was looking for answers there. “Is there anything I can do for you, Wonho?”

“Not really,” He says, the car shaking slightly when he rests his weight over the hood of it and if he dares bend it the slightest, she’ll have to use the power of her friend also being her legal representation. Heejung is just the biggest chunk of her life in what consists of individuals. “But it’s pretty funny. You’re hiding from me now, when you were about to eat me alive in the race.”

One thing that she does not do is hide. Even under the helmets, the layers of clothing she uses for racing, even from the cameras...she never hides. There is nothing she should be embarrassed of, prideful of her work as prideful can get, so to say that is a bang to her chest, an immediate response that has her moving her legs forward, bending her knees to bring the creeper out from underneath, face finally getting a fresh gush of air to stop her heated cheeks and to dry the glint of sweat that rests upon her arms and chest. “I’m not hiding. Never have I ever consider hiding from you.”

Hoseok smiles, laughs when he straightens his back to look at her, inspecting her flustered face that doesn’t come from him or his malicious comments, all dressed in angel clothing, but from the heat. “I know, I’m just teasing.” He sweetly conquers, pointing at her while exchanging a glance with Heejung. “Can’t she fix my car? She looks like she knows what she is doing.”

She stands up then, thanks to the hand he extends for her to take, his soft touch still a contrast of how she thought he’d be. It takes her three steps to be inside her car, turning the key in the ignition and watching it come to life when a smile appears on her face. “I don’t look like I know what I am doing. I really do know what to do with cars.” She rests her forearms on the steering wheel, speaking loudly when she quirk an eyebrow at Hoseok. “Why? Haven’t fixed one in your life?”

She hears Heejung shouting her name as a scolding, but Hoseok simply kneels the slightest, looking at her from the open windows. He tilts his head to the side. “I used to. I don’t think I do anyone, I just get them fixed.”

“Just accept you want me to waste time on your car instead of spending it practicing for the race.” She tuts him, only to watch the smirk fall from his face, lips parting along the same time his eyebrows lift in surprise.

“I would never do that.” He truthfully says, interlocking his fingers in front of him, cladded in rings that she has taken a glimpse of. He doesn’t make it easy, the soft tone of his voice that reaches the deps of her ribs, moves them out of their place with each quickened breath she takes to calm herself down. For someone who protects, shelters herself from the world with an attitude of stubbornness and recklessness, he seems to have some power over her. Sensitivity exists within her soul whenever he is around, calming it down, giving it a dose of whatever his eyes give out. It is a complete different ordeal than the pumping of her heart when he challenges her. “I just want to see how you do, that’s all. No second intentions. I could even pay ahead. I don’t have cash with me right now, but I have my card...what do you want me to buy you?”

She unlocks the doors of her car, nodding along to his words. “Alright, buy me a Lamborghini Veneno.” The item is worth millions, the reason why Hoseok’s shoulders shake in the wheeze he lets out, looking at her with surprise in his expression.

“No, be serious!”

“I’m serious.” She says, leaning forward until their faces are just centimeters away. “Buy me my Lamborghini and I’ll fix your car.”

Hoseok takes his wallet out, waving it in front of her face with a gentle smile on his sweet features. He knows what he is doing, he has to, and she finds herself smiling as well when the air around them is too thick for the two of them to breathe together. The oxygen is lacking, her eyes inspecting his features, from his plush lips to the length of his dark eyelashes, the piercings that rest on his earlobes and shine against the sunlight romantically. “What about coffee and pastries? You get to drive me there and practice. I also pay you while I see what you’re all about in a real car.”

She steals a glance at Heejung, the kind of face that is telling her not to do it, because she knows exactly what her intentions are. This is the kind of people she always seek for, the ones that give her adrenaline, pump her up with the chase of finding someone, the game of connecting with another person before the fire dulls down. Heejung’s face is framed by her messy hair, shaking her head at her but she ignores it, pointing at the passenger seat with her thumb as she instructs Hoseok: “Get in the passenger seat if you want to know what a real racer looks like.”

“Why? Am I look at myself in the mirror?” Hoseok asks, not giving her time to answer as he walks in front of her car, enough for her to detail the black tee and the matching, tight pants with roaming eyes before he is seated by her side, putting his seatbelt on at the same time as her.

“Buckle up. You’ll need it.”

She notices at that moment, when she steps on the pedal with expertise and excellence, that Hoseok looks at life differently. He feels everything in a different manner, showcased by the way his hands grip to his sides, a shriek leaving his lips just in time for a smile to reach his cheeks. She takes that much in from a glance at him, rounding around his car and getting out of the street that leads to the mechanic shop, leaving a cloud of dust and smoke behind them. Her car is back to its normality, how she knows it, making her hum in delight when the radio turns up with the usual station that accompanies her late night adventures and someone as grand as Hoseok, as delightful in the racing industry, seems surprised when she goes about the streets as if she doesn’t care. She doesn’t, actually, she’ll stop when she feels like the police would catch her.

“Your foot is heavy, oh my God!” Hoseok comments, chuckles leaving his broad chest when she takes one glance over at him, slowing down when she reaches farther from the mechanic shop, more people coming into view, less known than her usual neighbors. 

“I came to this life just to play. That’s all.” She answers, her voice more audible now that she has slowed down, smoothly gliding her hands against the steering wheel until her elbow is resting on the opened window, fist pressed to her cheek, looking ahead. “So, I get to pick the coffee place?”

“Whatever you want,” When she gives him a side-eye, she catches him staring, a big smile on his face when he does. “Yeah, wherever you want.”

A few streets ahead, her favorite coffee shop sells the most delicious of pastries and from the bitter taste that was left from her lunch, she’ll need something sweet. Something quite like Lee Hoseok in this eventful afternoon. “Even hell? Because man, I can really take you there—”

“You’re not a demon.” He answers, leaning back on his seat when he breaks his gaze away from her. “You’re more angelic than you think you are.”

“Oh yes, of course, something about almost making you fall in front of everyone in a race and saying more curse words in a sentence than any other person could just speaks angelic.” She sarcastically prompts, straightening her back and chuckling. “I’m not even a demon. I could be Satan herself.”

“Satan is a man.”

“Who told you that?” She asks, stopping the car right in front of the coffee shop before smiling. “I’m very much a woman.”

Hoseok is amused, she sees it in the way he gets out of the car as quickly as she does, following after her with laughter bubbling from his chest. “What is it with you and this image you have going on? Are you really this reckless or are you doing it to be interesting?”

“I don’t know, Wonho, Hoseok...Formula One loser, is it interesting to you?” She asks, standing right in front of the door of her favorite coffee place to see that it is closed. A pout wants to overtake her lips, though she simply points at the sign that reads they are closed for today thanks to technical difficulties. 

“Very.” He says, his shoulder pressing to hers when he looks around the street, hands hidden in his pockets before he points with his chin towards a bakery. “That looks like a good place for pastries. I owe you the coffee, but hey, at least I got you to go out to a place with me without having you threaten me.”

She smiles, walking right by his side towards the bakery, one that is just next to another one, the separation in between them clear when the colors are completely different, one more exquisite and expensive looking, the other more humbled and beige-colored. “If you’re wondering, though, it’s really not an act. I’m this kind of person every day and every night.”

Hoseok makes the decision to open the door to the beige-colored bakery, earning a pointed look from the delivery man on the black bakery, who immediately stands up when he hears the sound of laughter coming from one of the workers in the bakery. She hears a name, Kihyun, but she doesn’t pay much attention to their conversation as she gets further inside the place.

“...Also, if you really wanted to go out with me, you could’ve just asked.” She answers, shrugging her shoulders when Hoseok asks:

“Would you have said no?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you figure it out?”

In that small bakery, eating bites of the sweetest of meals, she learns that Hoseok’s image is somewhat fabricated, made to be the cocky and powerful racer that everyone admires. Beneath that, there is a softer soul, someone whose love for racing goes deeper than any magazine could ever showcase. She wasn’t wrong when she said they were polar opposites.

🚗

Her sponsor is quite the brand.

...It’s good for her, at least, somewhat productive.

Energy buzzes through her; it comes in sharp movements of her legs, in the jumping of her feet, in the way she goes from one corner to the other of the booth in which her team stays in. Leo, Heejung and a few other of her friends. The reason as to why she is so electrified, as if thunder had gone through her body, penetrating on every cell, is perpetually written on her uniform, the only sponsor she has. An energy drink company, good enough to have her pupils dilated as she waits for the race to start, a few pictures sent her way and in most pictures, anyone can probably notice the sweat that pools on her forehead and the frenzied look on her face.

Nervousness is not a good look. It doesn’t belong to her, either, she is not the type to get extremely nervous—but the race is finally upon her, the taste of the Formula One title lingering on the back of her tongue, only heightening her ambition when she sees the amount of racers there. In her little rendezvous of hatred with Hoseok, she had completely forgotten that there are other racers there; equally as hardworking, as good, as rich or ambitious as she wants to be. This led to drinking ehr first energy drink early in the morning, almost like breakfast, downing it in one go and now, at this hour of the afternoon, she has already had too many energy drink to even count.

She grips Heejung’s forearm, resting one foot on the floor at a time in her small jumping-dance, ridiculous to anyone who would be looking at her. She feels like she is back to when she was a child and couldn’t go to the bathroom herself. “Jung, I really need to pee. Like, so bad.”

Heejung’s face grows stoic, almost too serious, tugging at her sleeve to get her attention once again. This time, her manager and best friend turns to look at her with a sigh. “Then, just go to the bathroom!”

“But what if the race starts soon?” She worries, the whine in her tone something that she is not accustomed to. The acoustics of the place bring her on the edge, apparently, listening to too many voices, music that is too loud, making her feel out of place, compared to how excited she is most of the time—ready to take over the world. “Heejung!”

“You should have thought about that when you were drinking another can of energy drinks—” She replies before patting the racer’s shoulder. “Just go, it won’t take you more than two minutes and you still have time. Go.”

“Are you sure?”

“...You can always pee your pants inside your car, either way. Don’t go, it’s fine with me.” Heejung sarcastically adds, watching as she pats her best friend’s shoulder quickly to get some of the tension off her body, adrenaline rushing too quickly through her veins.

“Don’t be an asshole. I’m going to pee. Wait for me here, okay? Scream my name if the race starts.”

“Or I could just call you.”

“Great idea, that too!”

Unusual must not be the adjective she was looking for when she heard a knock on the door of the bathroom, open for anyone to enter. By that time, she is washing her hands, splashing some of the leftover water on her face and patting her cheeks quickly, albeit a bit harshly, to get any kind of anxiousness out of her system. The person outside knocks the door again, something that has her screaming out a ‘it’s open!’ into the thin air. No one listens, or they don’t understand her, making her huff as she pats her hands on the backside of her uniform, walking towards the door and opening it with her elbows—hygiene first, she tells herself—but once she is about to come face to face with the annoying woman at the door, she realizes it is not a woman at all.

You see, this is very much a man.

Someone she knows, not like the back of her hand, but at moments like these she wishes she did.

His image is pristine. He’s the sweet man of the Formula One; the person who makes everyone feel special, after all, with some titles under his name and some questionable friends, but beyond anything, people consider him sacred. A sanctified sin, she’d call him, much more in the way he looks currently. His dark hair falls upon his forehead, thin eyebrows covered and his eyes darker than ever. There seems to be a hint of makeup on his skin, his lips are rosier than ever, calling out for dignification the moment he calls out her name with a smile on his face.

Not to talk about the way her eyes dart towards his body, elegance as is with the way his uniform has a the zipper a bit low, giving a glimpse his chest, his workout routine noticeable in everything about him. The star of the night, however, is the grin he gives her when he dumbly adds: “I’m so happy you’re here.”

“Well, I’m a contestant. Of course I’m here.” She points out, catching the way his cheeks light up under the bright lights of the place they are in. “Are your nerves getting the best of you? Because I could grab one of the lollipops inside the girl’s bathroom and give it to you.” She looks up and down at him, biting down her bottom lip after shrugging her shoulders. “There’s no shame if that’s why you were knocking.”

Hoseok, now in his Wonho persona, covers his embarrassment with a chuckle. “I’m not nervous.”

“I am.” She confesses. “...But either way, that must be the twenty energy drinks I just had.” She teases, laughing at her own joke before sighing, resting her hands inside the pockets of her uniform. “Can I help you out with anything?”

He crosses his arms over his chest and she invites herself not to look down. It’d be weak of her to show that she is affected by him, much more when they are minutes away from knowing who the winner of this little internal fight they’ve had is. “Actually, I was looking for you because I may have gotten you an interview with the biggest racing magazine in the industry.”

“Huh?” She says, pointing in between them before scoffing. “You—Me? Wait? Interview? No one wants to interview me.”

Protection is the best policy. The thought of not being wanted in a world that she has tried her hardest to be part of is heartbreaking; sometimes, she finds herself wondering if she’ll ever make it. Wanting to is one thing, actually doing it is another. In this case, Hoseok leans against the nearest wall, looking at her with a faint grin on his face. “At first, they only wanted me there but I said I would not give them an interview if they didn’t give you a chance.”

She slaps her hands against her thighs, falling thanks to gravity. This is something new—Hoseok is just the type of man to adore attention, or so she had thought. He couldn’t possibly do something like this...right? “No way you did or said that. There’s no way.”

“But I did.” Hoseok finishes, his face softening when he lets out a sigh. “Even if I come up last tonight, I’ll still get interviews and sponsorships. Your career is still starting, I don’t want you feeling discouraged just because of the lack of attention from the public.”

She raises her eyebrows at that, battling the stone in her soul, finding out if she can still keep up that confident persona of hers when in reality, Hoseok has simply given a one-in-a-time opportunity. Heejung would be thrilled, until she heard that it was from Hoseok. Something about him was rather gravitational, both good and bad, like she wanted to be closer but she knew it was impossible for them to ever become one. Why? Just a sixth sense. 

“Mhm, I see.” She hums, getting closer to him and looking up at his eyes, which are now glistening when the air in between them is shared. Hoseok may be adrenaline at its finest, the feeling of sneaking in at night behind her family and feeling alive again. He reminds her of the tests in which she cheated in and the thrill of getting caught made her feel powerful. Fearless, some called her, obsessed with feeling alive to the point she’d do anything to have her heart palpitating more than it should. If she can get that from Hoseok, why not use it to her favor? “Thank you.” Though, she speaks from the heart, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and breathing in the scent of him.

Hoseok’s fingers delve into her waist, until they land on the curve of her spine. Even her bones are fidgety, caused by the energy on her system or the thankfulness for him. For a nice soul to exist in such a place. “A-Ah, you’re welcome.” He composes himself quickly. As if the poer of her is not enough to trance him. His fingers trail up her back when she pulls away, grasping the edges of her hair before they are off her ambience. “You better get going. I sent them to your booth and I think they must be waiting for you. The race starts in twenty minutes.”

“Okay, noted.” She replies, giving a few steps forward before turning around, walking backwards whilst speaking to him. “You know, at this rate, you’re really going to end up getting in my good list, Wonho.”

“Can’t end up where I already am.” He sneakily adds, clever beyond what anyone would have imagined before he waves his hand in the air. “See you after the race.”

“Let’s see who is winner by then.”

The interview is, apparently, what she needed to feel better. A camera pointed to her face, a microphone in front of her lips and questions that take her into consideration as a possible winner for the race, just like anyone else. This is a dream beyond fame, of strength instead, of being able to live a fun life without the reigns of responsibility. Sometimes, she wonders if she’ll have to grow out of this mindset—the fear of getting older is not as strong as losing her eternal youth, the essence of her. This is what she has always dreamed of; she confirms.

It’s more of a reality when Leo and Heejung are no longer in sight, when her thighs are pressed to the smaller car in which she is in, helmet secured in place, hands holding onto the steering wheel. She wishes she could have a mirror at that moment, because Hoseok is parked not too far away, testing his engine, letting it roar. She looks over her shoulder, seeing a slit of his eyes behind the helmet, though by the way they crinkle he is smiling. 

She has never quite been this affected by anyone, like she needs to win in order to gain some attention. From the public. From the magazines, the TV shows, the man that everyone adores.

It’s no longer about dethroning him. It’s a state of graceful competition, igniting a fire of attraction, of wanting to push his buttons to get a reaction.

When the race stars, she realizes this is all she has known. When she was a teenager and she would take her friend’s car out for a ride, not caring that the wind blew too hard on her hair or that she couldn’t see properly with the speed she was going in. When she fell in love too quickly, too hard, like she needs to feel alive for once, feel like she has the reigns of starting a fire and dulling it at the same time. Stepping on the engine is necessary, it’s the only way she prove that she is more than just a forgettable woman in the background. The stakes are clear—money, wealth, fame, all of those combine into something stronger. Shades of greed, it’s red—it has never belonged to passion, either way—, everything she sees is suddenly blurring into wanting more and more and more.

It’s dangerous to never get enough or have enough. She breathes more calmly the more she races, when she sees cars stepping behind her, when everything is about sensing where she is located. For a moment, she can’t help but smile. Those who criticized her would never realize that this, on itself, is a form of art. Racing includes the music of life—an engine, the cheering of the crowd; that makes her a performer. Racing also partakes in speed, precise enough to save her own life, the glide of her hands on the steering wheel leaving an imprint on the concrete. That makes her an artist.

At some point, it’s not about winning anymore. It’s about getting noticed in this unstoppable moment of life, so when she sees the endline, she blurs everyone that is around her. She has raced for the world to see, for TV programs to take her into consideration, for the first time she gets to be clapped at instead of called out for her irresponsibility. Her feet steps harder on the pedal, braving it all when she reaches the endline. Once her car comes to a halt, smoke trailing behind it, she gets out, taking off her helmet and inspecting everyone to be over Hoseok. 

The Lee Hoseok, Formula One sweetheart, the man whose eyes are now on her when people rush towards her instead.

“And the Formula One welcomes a new winner…!” Someone announces in the background, in a microphone to be exact and when she feels herself being lifted into the air by her team, she parts her lips and lets out a squeal, hands pressing into her chest to revive herself.

It strangely feels like being born again, like she spoke into existence that she’d be someone of importance. It was either this or social death. The fight was worth going through, because for the first time in her life: she had an actual title.

Formula One winner. Not a disgrace of society that wants to destroy everything at her reach.

Heejung is the one to coach her through it; from the interviews to the actual presentation to the press. Most of the time, she clings into Heejung’s hand, trying not to speak atrocities and ruin her moment, but Hoseok is not too far away. Either way, winning or not, Hoseok had done excellently and money was still going to his bank account, leaving most people bitter at his loss—or almost winning, like some would call it. When questions are thrown his way, she turns to look at him, seated in the same stage as her, talking effortlessly and elegantly. He looks unbothered, throwing a few glances her way, parting his legs until his thighs are in contact with hers.

Winning recognition and money on the long run is one thing. There are things she wants in this life that are not worth money.

Hoseok, for example, is one of those desired adrenaline rushes she gets.

When the interview is over and she is about to go over to the parking lot to leave for a celebration with her team, she feels someone tugging at her arm, soon after her neck is caged under someone’s arm, strong, comfortable, quite cushion-y. The touch is foreign, making her look up to see Hoseok’s face, who chuckles at her reaction when he lets her go. 

“Great game,” He starts. “Learn this date like the palm of your hand. You’ll want to remember the day you became a star.”

She laughs at that, nodding her head at his words. “First day of actually feeling like what I do is worth something.”

Hoseok’s eyes soften at that, his face turning to the side when flashes are felt around them. Someone must be taking pictures of the best two racers of the night. “You’ll be big, I can feel it. That arrogance you claim to have is only towards me, so I am guessing you’re just trying to tease me.” He says, observational of how she had been with everyone else. 

“...You’re my biggest rival here, after all.”

“You mean to say: was?”

“You still are. I’ll see you next season”

He hums. “Why not see each other sooner?” The question is spoken into the air, his dark eyes looking into hers. Is brown the shade of wrong or right? Is a man with a smile like that, like he’ll take her breath away with a simple swoop of his lips against hers, troublesome or not? She can’t bring herself to care, much less when she nears him, placing a hand over his arm and dragging it down until it cages his in a faint hold, letting go as she speaks.

“What are you prompting?” She questions, watching the tips of Hoseok’s ears turning red.

“A race...but with dinner before that, and possibly no race at all.” He makes himself crack up, earning a laugh from her own as she nods her head.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re just scared I’ll win again.”

“I’ve won against you once already.” He prompts, something that has her shrugging.

“Guess we’ll have to figure out with another race...with dinner before that, though.” She says, not noticing that Hoseok’s team is nearby, howling at the words in between them, exchanged playfully.

“Wonho has got a crush!”

“Get it, Hoseok!”

Hoseok extends his hand, almost business-like. “So, a race...not a date?”

She grasps his hand, shaking it with a smile on her face. “A race, not a date.” She conquers, placing her hands behind her back and moving backwards, once again. Why can’t she just turn her back to him. “You already have my number. Give me the details, okay?”

...Because this is definitely a race, not a date.

🚗

“I’ll be leaving early today, okay?”

Heejung, still face-deep in the hood of a car, questions the sound of her voice. “Huh? Why’s that? You always stay at night. It’s not like you like going home early, either way.”

Reaching for the zipper of her overalls, she lets the fabric pool at her feet as it slides down her body, showcasing a much more casual, less mechanic fit. A blouse, some jeans, nothing necessarily fancy. “Who said I’m going home?” She asks Heejung, more like tutting her, something that has the older woman sighing.

“Where are you going?” Heejung asks, pushing her bleached hair away from her shoulders before smacking her hand against the hood of that car. That dent must be driving her crazy. 

“Out on a date.”

Deafening silence, that’s to be expected. Heejung is not a dictator in their friendship, but her years of living has led her to be much like a mother-figure. When she plays with the edge of her hair, almost like a kid would, she realizes that Heejung is just doing that—taking care of her. The woman in question turns around, letting out an exasperated sigh when she actually studies her expression, knowing everything about her with a simple stare.

The thing is: she is not complicated. A risk-taker? Absolutely, a hundred percent, but not difficult to understand. She doesn’t have a routine, but she’s predictable. She’ll do what makes her feel the best that day; she’ll drive herself around, perhaps look for new people to meet, study some more of the science of cars to get herself as much information as possible. Heejung knows this, knows that she seeks for thrill in fear of ever becoming forgettable enough to just find her life to be the same. Each and every single day.

It’s strange, how she battles fear with more fear by living off adrenaline.

“Oh no, baby, I know that look. You’re going out on a date with Wonho, aren’t you?”

“It’s not a matter of who I go out on a date with, Heejung. You’ve said it yourself, I need to get away from always seeking danger and take part of more normal life experiences—”

Heejung sighs at that, fixing her hair as she rests her weight against the dented hood. “No, I know you. You’re doing this, unconsciously, thinking about how hot it would be with your competition in the industry. About how everything is fun and explosive and passionate. You want to have fun, you don’t want to date.” Those words sting at the back of her head, like a punch that has been delivered and it is even worse that it comes from her everything. Heejung is such a necessary part of her life that had she been gone, she wouldn’t know where to stand.

With bitterness settling on her tongue, she speaks out. “What is love about, then? Is it about being boring? Sitting around and not finding anything interesting on the other person other than just finding someone to be there with you? There should be emotion in everything we do.” And maybe her passion is the reason of her love life. She can’t handle routines, the boringness of someone that stops caring, stops loving as hard. The start should not be better than the end, ever.

“...That’s the thing, you have fun in obsessive ways. Not now, at least, but I fear for your safety.” Heejung admits, crossing her arms over her chest to keep her poise. “I’m older than you—”

“That doesn’t give you the right to treat me like a child. I may be messy sometimes, but I know what I’m doing.” This is the part of her that always brings her to be more reckless. People treat her as if enjoying life is her way of being irresponsible, as if she could never make a serious decision, guided by stronger beings than her. She hasn’t had it easy and she has been able to get through it, what is there to prove after that?

“Listen, you’re in your rise to fame now. People are noticing you for your racing,” Heejung, always poised, says in his normal voice. She never curses, never does anything to make it seem as if she is not perfect in every way. That is what has always calmed her down, but she still did not treat Heejung differently if she made a mistake. That is what she is looking for...and sadly, she’d never get. “And you have the celebrity personality. I fear that once you have enough money, you’re going to get addicted to feeling. Celebrities are problematic because they need attention; they need to smoke more than anyone, drink more than anyone, have more sex than any normal human being—”

“You know me, I wouldn’t do that.”

“But I still feel like you shouldn’t go out on a date with Hoseok.” She reasons, though her voice lifts at that. “You’re two fires trying to get together, that just creates a bigger fire and once you dull, there is no way you’re staying. I don’t want you to have your heart broken, because I know you when you get too over excited.” Heejung gets closer to her, blinking rapidly at her friend. “I just know you’ll end up disappointed.”

She looks over to the side, trying not to stare forward. Heejung would want to reason with her and this is just her reality—she wants to go out on a date with Hoseok. Wanted, she desires to feel like; to have someone that understands her. Not a man that asks her to slow down, not a man that shakes her head at her give-it-all-or-lose-it-all personality. Hoseok looked at her, heard her speak with such faux confidence in order to push herself out there, with competition lingering in her tongue, and he still felt attracted to her. He didn’t want to dull her, if anything, he wanted to brighten her up.

“Heejung, I just want to fucking live my life.” Her voice has softened, looking into her friend’s eyes as she reaches forward to push at her arm, almost hesitantly, trying to lighten up the mood. “When I’m older, I want to say I lived. I’m not saying Hoseok is a forever, what I’m saying is that he is who I want right now. For sex or for love, I have to judge that for my own.”

“I just want you to settle down for once.” Heejung whispers. “You’ll end up hurt.”

“You can scold me if that happens,” She says, feeling her phone vibrating inside her pocket and getting it out to see a text from Hoseok. He’s outside, waiting for her. “But for now, Jung, I’m an adult. I don’t need the parenting.”

The glide of her car keys being tossed towards Heejung’s extended hands has the older woman sighing, nodding her head along to her words in a way to showcase her support. More like hidden disappointment, the one that shows she’ll be waiting there whatever happens. “Text me when it’s over, alright?”

Once outside, the dark night engulfs her when it matches the sight of Hoseok’s car, perfectly parked in front of her workplace. It’s a Lamborghini, not to be expected from him to have something cheap or slow, and she doesn’t blame him for it. Her hands trail over the car, smiling at the beaming surface before opening the door. Hoseok lifts his gaze from his phone, then, widening his eyes at the sight of her before he gives one of those infamous smile.

How does Heejung expect her ignore Lee Hoseok? Not the angel of races, but the person himself. She wants to get to know the reason as to why someone like her could bring such brightness out of him. An asshole, that she is; not a heartbreaker per say, just viewing life differently, to test it and enjoy it. Maybe, Heejung is right; people like them are meant to create bigger fires to be turned to dust by someone else, but for now, Hoseok is the person that makes her feel like there is not a burning feeling with fire.

It’s warm. People forget that fire was once looked for thanks to the lack of warmth.

“Hi,” She says, putting the seat belt over her body and studying him. Not his body, but the way he stares at her with a smile on his face, blinking once before letting out a soft sigh.

“You’re gorgeous tonight.” He says before stopping himself, blowing out a raspberry out of frustration. “Not tonight only, though, you are always extremely pretty and funny—”

“I’ll take that as a compliment because I damn right do not look quite as good as you look. Much less with my work clothes.” She compliments, pressing one hand to Hoseok’s shoulder. “So, where are you taking me?”

“...We said dinner.” He continues, all radiance when he starts the car. “For tonight, we’re not two racers in a car but we’re normal people. I’ll drive safely, take you out to dinner and try not to choke on my food from how absolutely beautiful you are.”

“Hoseok, that’s corny, come on.” She pushes, earning laughter from his part.

“Expect more of that through the night.”

“Lucky me,” She rolls her eyes, though a smile plants itself on her face. The growth of being around him, supposedly. “I’ll have a comedy sketch done with the amount of corny lines.”

“I’m ready for it.”

It’s not that the date is perfect, that the place is as inherently expensive as she expected it to be with Lee Hoseok, as rich as he is, it’s the fact that it isn’t. The wine isn’t tastier than any other one that she has, the music isn’t fancier or more on the classic side, the people aren’t socialites with tight dress and huge bank accounts. It’s not the food that is served in fresh plates with smoke coming out of them to indicate how hot they are and it’s not the taste, though magnificent, of the meal she is having along with Hoseok. It’s the man that makes it so memorable, the conversation that never stops, the way she has her head thrown back with laughter the more he tries to joke around. Something connects, like dots in space, like the moles on his face. 

Hoseok talks about his tastes; what music he likes, how he listens to it, how he’ll never get used to travelling but how much he loves it. How he’d prefer a bathrobe over any kind of pajamas and how working out, for him, is more than just looking good but feeling good. This makes her feel at ease—someone else enjoys life for what it is, freedom. Someone else can laugh freely with her, can make her feel like she is not judged, and that person is no other than Lee Hoseok.

Flirting is a necessity with him, in the way she looks at him and how sometimes she catches herself sighing out loud at the mere sound of his voice, not for its tone but for what he says. He is not the typical celebrity, much less is he obsessed with being first place. He has surprised her quite thoroughly. Her hand sometimes dances along to his skin when he feeds her something, or when he holds it over the table and these are the particular things that have her heart racing.

Sometime when his fries are long gone, Hoseok licks his grease-coated lips and sighs. “Why did you decide to become a racer? Like, where did it all start?”

She toys with her fries as she dips them on tomato sauce, puckering up her lips and letting out a short chuckle. “It’s funny because it happened when I was around sixteen. My friend had a car, her grandma’s old car, and she was wanted to go out on a date but she didn’t know shit about driving...so I took her there, I learned then and there.” She smiles at the imagery, the young days of enjoying trying something new and perhaps sucking at it, but having fun along the way. “...But then I hung around other people, and more problematic people at that and that’s when I started to race. They used me to test cars and whatnot, because I was just the youngest of the group and wasn’t as important.” Hoseok raises his eyebrows at that, clearly hurt by the way she spoke.

“They should have never done that.”

“I didn’t know better, I just wanted to have fun. At the time, I guess I trusted them enough to know I wouldn’t die...but who knows? I could’ve.” She finishes, finally plopping the fry inside her mouth before speaking with her mouth full. “What about you?”

“I learned how to drive when I was thirteen,” He says, biting down on his bottom lip when he recalls the memory. “Well, kind of, I asked my mom to let me drive her to grocery store and after so much begging, she let me...but, I didn’t do it again until I got older and she wanted me to drive her everywhere. I became a chauffeur, then tried out for legal racing matches because I...needed the money.” Well, in reality she had always expected Hoseok to be more like her. She did it because she wanted to, but with the way his voice lowers, grows tinier in comparison, maybe that wasn’t the case. “I got denied from college, I couldn’t afford going and my job was a mess since I was a waiter so...I raced, got my ass kicked a hundred times, tried again. After some years, I finally made enough money to never worry about going back to that state again.”

Her hand reaches forward, the smile now off her face when she says: “You’ve been an inspiration for many, Hoseok.” 

“Wonho has.”

“You’re Wonho, though.” She tells him, reassuringly, looking over at him before sighing through her nose. “Kids and teenagers alike think you are so cool. They see you and they see confidence and racers fear you, they know you’re talented and great with publicity—I feared you, in some way.” Though, by the way he looks at her, the lights of the restaurant casting over his face, she can sense his mood being lifted up.

“You weren’t scared of me,” He says. “You crushed me from the day we met.”

“I like to assert dominance, yes.” She tilts her head to the side, pondering the options of the first time they met. “But it’s because you were so great at everything, I was triggered. Great at everything and the greatest looking man I’ve seen in a while. I was offended.”

Hoseok chuckles at that, reaching forward until he is wiping some of the tomato sauce on her lip with a napkin. “I was terrified. I thought my working out routine was good until you almost made me fall with a handshake.”

“Oh come on, I wasn’t that rough.”

“You were.”

Looking up, albeit a bit innocently or feigning to be, she speaks in a softer tone. “Sorry. I may have been a bit tough, but you liked me like that.”

“I definitely did.” Hoseok says, lifting his glass of wine up in the air. “For the woman I knew was going to win against me from the moment I met her.”

“Pfft,” She scoffs, lifting her glass as well and clinking it against his. “You’re saying that just because.”

“...Let me just compliment you.”

“I’d—Okay, yes, you knew I was going to win.”

With the chemistry building inside of them, the faint drinks leaving her with a buzzing feeling by the time she is back in his car and being driven home, she thinks that at the least of possibilities, he is going to kiss all the dizziness away, tipsy feelings gone when his rosy lips rest upon hers and part at the same time, in a rhythm, like he wants to take her breath away and take her out again. One of his hands rest on the steering wheel, the other playing with the edge of her fingers, like he is speaking and doing it without thought, and she can’t bring herself to say anything.

Not when he is complimenting the date, talking about how much he enjoyed it—enjoyed her. Coming closer is the answer, finally engulfing his palm in her warmth when she leans forward to whisper her goodbyes and instead of receiving a kiss as a gift, all she gets is the drunken truth of a whispered goodbye and a smile. He doesn’t try anything more than a pat on the head and that is enough to have her squinting.

Getting out of the car, she even turns around in case he is rushing behind her to give her a kiss but then, she realizes he is waiting for her to get inside.

...He is being respectful, though his obvious attraction is clear even to her, he is being nice.

He’s waiting, for her, for a kiss, for the perfect time to leave. He’s patient, he’s the slow-burn everyone talks about.

She looks ahead once again, letting some oxygen in before releasing it. Strangely enough, all frustration is washed from her body to be replaced with acceptance. Time will bloom what needs to grow at its own time.

🚗

Contrary to what one would believe coming from her, subsidiary bad girl in what the general term means, she enjoys the tranquil night she gets to spend with Hoseok a few weeks later. Was it a week? Because it felt like a longer time had passed by. In the comfort of their hushed conversations, seated on her couch as they watched those movies that he claims are too good to dismiss—action-based, he really likes those, but with a lingering meaning of loyalty and friendship in the back of it all, she finds enjoyment.

Hoseok, even when he cooked for her with all the might in the world, wanting nothing more than for her to try his instant noodles and to watch how fast he is at chopping, is the color red. He’s fast, passionate, enough to take her breath away when she leans on the counter and watches him work, hears him speak about this movie that he wants to watch with her—Kingsman, he claims she’d like it and she is not one to sit down and watch movies when she could be out and about doing something, but for him, she’d do it.

Because Hoseok can bring feelings even in the most mundane of actions. He can speak with such interest that it clings to her soul, leads her closer and closer until she wishes he could finally act upon their attraction, their devilish need to just kiss each other until they burned. It couldn’t be that he is not interested, she guesses, but the green body of insecurity bites at the back of her brain. She is used to men that take the first step on the very first moment, not to the beauty of him as he takes the time to feed her, to have her tasting what he is cooking beforehand so it is just the right amount of spice for her. 

Liking him is all about going forward, not caring that there are no brakes to step on. She wants fast, she wants breathtaking, she wants Lee Hoseok to make her feel like life is slow when in reality she is just an explosion waiting to be ignited.

“I’m not boring you with movies, am I?” He asks after they ate, barely getting through half the movie he was talking about before they had decided to clean up. A lot of mess was caused thanks to the popcorn, the snacks and the food. His elbow rests against the counter, red shirt cladding to his body, matching the rosiness of his pout. 

“No,” She confesses, laughing as she splashes water over the plate she is washing. It’s so filled with soy sauce and spices that she is not sure how she’ll get it off. “Strangely enough, I have enjoyed something that I never do. I rarely sit down and use my TV, but with you...it’s fun.”

“I’m glad.” Hoseok says, making her turn to look at him when she feels his gaze inspecting her facial features. She is not exactly the most gorgeous of people tonight, for Hoseok had crashed too suddenly, leaving her more casual than elegant or ready to seduce him. However, his brown eyes concentrate on the color of her eyes, on the depth of her nose, the curve of it, the shine on the bridge, the curve of her lips and even to her jaw before looking back up once again. “If you’re wondering, I’m having an excellent time.”

“...Huh.” She whispers, licking her lips and swallowing thickly when she feels the dangerous side of Hoseok upon her, the one that Heejung advices her to get away from. The trapping point of him that has her in his arms in no time, could she do such thing without feeling a bit insecure, the moment in which she wonders if Hoseok is as innocent as he makes himself to be or he simply wants to prolong the moment, increase the tension, make her nals cling to her skin in hopes of breathing properly. No one has ever had this power over her. “Well, that’s good news...”

Hoseok gets closer to her, like a repetition of events, lips parting and eyes falling a bit, his eyelids fluttering when he leans forward and has her thinking that a kiss will land upon her lips, finally changing their red and beige to the whole rainbow. Instead, the wet kiss is placed upon her chin, making her open her eyes and frown when she realizes that Hoseok had not intended to give her a kiss—

Instead, he childishly kissed her chin.

Is this a new type of affection she has not known about?

Hoseok’s cheeks flush at that, clearing his throat when he pulls away and laughs about something he is thinking before straightening his back. “I’ll—Uh, I’ll serve us some soda while you finish there.”

She inspects his back as he moves towards her refrigerator, releasing a sigh when she says: “You’re so strange, Lee Hoseok.”

“Did you say something?”

“Nothing.”

Her nerves are in endless synapse when she is seated by his side again, legs sprawled over his lap, his hands caressing her calves and making sure she feels comfortable. The air conditioner is suddenly not enough to calm down the heat that exists around her, in tneed of being closer and closer, catching a few glimpses of the expression of Hoseok’s face, barely illuminated by the television device. He’s calm, she can tell, but he’s deep in his thoughts, much like herself, only making comments ever so briefly, something about the silence being absolutely shattering.

The movement of her legs must have caught his attention, turning to his side when he notices her trying to get out of the fluffy blanket that covered her body. “I’m suffocating here.” She adds in a funny tone, perhaps to break through the tension, and it seems to do the trick. Hoseok takes the edge of the blanket in between his fingers, trying to pull at it and get it off her body.

“Sorry, I think I wrapped you up too tightly.” Hoseok says, reminiscent of earlier that night when he had insisted on wrapping her up nicely, almost tucking her by his side. The touch of his hands around her shoulders has her breathing out a laugh.

“You wanted to turn me into a burrito.”

“I like those.” He comments, raising his eyebrows teasingly before she hits his chest. At that moment, time stops and the movie talks in the background, some action scene that would have caught his attention had his body not been immensely close to hers, her hand caressing just above his heart, ready to cage it in a tight grip and pull it away. His eyes do that thing that he is used to, studying from up close, ready to flirt but not voicing it out. 

“Don’t do that,” She whispers, though her voice gives away that she is sarcastically adding the comment. “Looking at me like that...do you like what you see that much?” She tries to play, though her voice is tiny when Hoseok learns forward.

“Wasn’t it obvious?” He asks in between a laugh. “I’ve been flirting with you since the moment I met you.”

“I noticed.”

“Then...”

Hoseok gets even closer, burning with the need to kiss her when she closes her eyes tightly. The knotted thread of the story seems to be here, the moment in which she finally gets what she wanted from the beginning—to feel the romance in him. Nonetheless, the air is electrifying, too much to bear when the tip of his fingers caress over her shoulder, wraps around her ribcage and tries to place a kiss on her lips, only for them to turn mistakenly and bump noses.

“Ow!” She hisses, opening her eyes and getting to see Hoseok holding his nose, rolling his eyes at the destiny of it all.

“For fuck’s sake—”

The sentence is cut short when she takes him by the back of his neck, knowing that when things weren’t done correctly, she has to take matters in her own hands. The right answer is to press her lips to his, so quickly that she hears his breath halter, only letting go a few seconds later when he relaxes that hand on her ribcage, the other creating patterns on her nape. Hoseok tastes sweet, beyond the food they had, he tastes like victory, like another dream that she has made true. The way he kisses her, fast-paced and yet so precise, shows experience, thoughtful, a natural in movement when his lips part and he takes no time to deepen the kiss, to reach her heart, to grasp her soul. For the first time, she realizes that much like herself, Hoseok can have the upperhand of his decisions, as well. 

Her legs, half on the couch and half on his lap, end up resting around his waist, trying to bring him closer to her and taste more of him. His breath ghosts over her lips, making her breathe harshly to catch her energy back. Demonic, he seems like, in the way he simply can take everything away from her and then give it back with a smile.

“Sorry for all the failed attempts.” Hoseok apologizes, having her laughing when she leans back on the couch, bringing him down with her and trailing her hands down his shoulders, grasping the muscles at his arms, wanting to be caged in the twisted world of falling for him. Soon after, she seeks for his heart, his chest, expands her hands and looks up at him through her eyelashes.

“It took you long enough to land a kiss.”

“Huh, it must’ve been life telling you that anyone would love to kiss me.”

“I never doubted that,” She replies, letting out a sigh when she traces his collarbones with her fingertips. “But, for now, I’m the only one kissing you.”

“Then, do it.” He says, biting down on his lip. “You never hesitate, why now?”

Falling for him is a challenge, not because it is difficult but because he invites her in with playful banter in between, like they want to see who will be able to fall in too deep the fastest. It’s fun, much more when his lips reconnect with hers. Not only fire, like Heejung claims for them to be, but water, air, earth and so much more. It’s second-nature to kiss him, it’s all she wants to do for that night.

🚗

“...So, basically, you have to twist this piece here. Not too harshly, though, you can break it.”

Hoseok chuckles at her words. “Tell that to the muscly man? How original.”

“I’m just instructing you. You were the one that told me you wanted me to teach you how to repair cars.”

“It was an excuse to get your attention.”

“How original.”

To have Hoseok there, in the place in which she feels the most like herself, is just another reminder of how close it feels to have him in her heart. Fearful, strangely enough she is not, but she clings to this moment like she is afraid she’ll lose it. Hoseok has earned such a spot in her tongue that she can’t start a sentence without thinking of him, she can’t wake up without the need to feel his lips, even like an addiction, far more like appreciation. Her phone is never dull anymore, much less is she lonely when Heejung, Leo and the rest of the workers are gone to their houses and she stays behind.

She had never realized how unaccompanied she felt, why she always seeked for more and more adventures to have, in order to gain attention or perhaps, keep someone in there taking care of her. Not that she needs it, she just wants to be able to have someone by her side. Heejung is her friend, but Hoseok willingly stays with her—he talks about her existence like it is beauty sent by the heavens itself, as if there will never be a woman as brave, as valient, as intelligent...when she has always been the exact opposite for someone else. He says it so truthfully, looks at her with such sensitivity, that one would think he feels the same again.

Someone once told her to wait for her twenties, the golden age of youth. The moment in which nothing matters other than feeling alive, and you can do it with people judging you...but it will never matter enough. She feels as though no one had truly looked at her and thought she’d be more than just a die-hard; but Hoseok does. In that smile that he always has plastered, in the feeling of his arm around her waist, in the way he listens and listens and never judges...that is when she realizes she may be falling for him.

Part of her thinks that her golden age must consist of medals, awards, gold, money—it should never have to deal with love, but it’s difficult when Hoseok dizzies her, moves fast enough in his own methodical way that she can only stare in adoration as he takes her spot in front of the car and does exactly as she had instructed. Plenty of times had she liked someone, in a moment or for longer, never had she felt so strongly, so desperately. It’s no wonder she ends up wrapping her arms around his waist, hips pressed to his snugly, lips searching for the curve of his neck before planting a kiss there.

Hoseok doesn’t budge, still doing as he was told, when he finally talks again: “Uh...love, I have a question.” That nickname, so incredibly cheesy for her in the past, is now the only way she can ever imagine being called by him, a few weeks after their first kiss. 

Trailing her hands over his abdomen, soothingly and teasingly, she hums. “I may have an answer. Unless it’s educational stuff, I don’t have an answer for most of those.”

Joy fills him with his laughter, captivating when he shakes his head. “I was wondering if you imagined yourself repairing cars as a job for the entirety of your life. Is this what you want to do now that you’re a racer? Like, a legit one?”

There is no judgement in his tone, but what he says has her thinking. Repairing cars has always been a passion of hers and the conclusive feeling of getting it done is exhilarating. That doesn’t mean...she would have to get a paycheck out of it forever. “...Well, most things don’t last forever either way.” She wants to say ‘nothing lasts forever’ but why is it so difficult to voice it out now? “As long as I am able to help my team with money, I would leave. If not, I’d stay.”

“You’re so caring.” Hoseok says, pulling away from the car and closing the hood with a loud thud. She continues to cling to his waist, hands sprawled over his skin, when he tumbles over to the backseat of the car. “I don’t blame you. You have your family here—Heejung cares about you as if you were her little sister.”

“That’s because I am,” She replies, aware that Heejung wouldn’t be her happiest had she known that Hoseok would be here. This fear she has of her falling in love with Hoseok is palpable through every advice that is thrown her way. 

“Aren’t you letting go of me?”

“You’re expecting me to let go of a man like this?” She asks, hearing his loud laughter when he turns around and presses his back to the car, hands trailing up and down her extended arms. Something about the warmth of him reminds her of the start of a car—once she begins, she never stops, she likes the drive, enjoys it, prolongs it… “So sweet. I literally have never met a man like you.”

“Thank you.” His eyes look down at her lips, pressing a short kiss there before sighing. “Aren’t we going to try the car?”

She raises her eyebrows at that, reaching for the handle of the car and pushing his weight forward before jutting her chin towards the backseat. “We can try the car, why not?”

The expression he gives is of absolute surprise, the tips of his ears reddening when laughter can’t help but be released. Something about Hoseok is lively, not innocent, simply adoring of the life that surrounds him and when the moments of enchantment come over to him, he wants them to exist forever. “Huh, I wonder how we’re trying the car out.”

“We’ll make sure it’s comfortable.” She teases back, taking his face in between her hands and pressing an elongated, delicate kiss, one that has her releasing a breath when she pulls away from him. “If you want, of course.”

Hoseok lifts his body from the ground, standing on his tiptoes and looking around before letting his weight fall on the cushions of the backseat. “No one is going to come here?”

“Nope.” She replies, settling her body over his and pressing a short kiss to his lips. Something about him makes her feel even more alive than usual, as if life has never been this pretty in the past. “...Do you want to?”

His hands expand on her hips, nodding his head. “I’m not sure how your customer would react if they knew—”

“They won’t know.”

“...And that’s the fun.” Hoseok says, leaning back on the seat and letting her chest collide against his, his legs dangling outside of the vehicle before letting his lips drag from hers to her jaw, nipping at the skin softly, the contact of his soft flesh against her cheeks, her jaw and her neck bringing a smile to her face. “More of a reason to want to make you my girlfriend.”

Her hands trail over his shoulders, humming in delight at the sound of his voice, her heart palpitating faster than ever now that she recognizes those words. Seriousness, commitment, things that she would have never considered in the past but now have her chuckling against all the odds. There is only one year like this one, she’ll only be able to live this moment once...and why not enjoy it to its fullest potential?

The type to go all out, she interlocks her fingers with his before nodding. “Well, make me your girlfriend, then.”

Hoseok pulls away at that, eyes twinkling when he asks: “You want to?”

“Yes...” She whispers, feeling Hoseok turn her around until her back collided against the seat, hearing his hiss when he hits his head on the roof, the atmosphere switching from deep to absolute lightweight when she cackles at his antics. “And even more for that. I like me some fun in my life.”

“Alright, alright, don’t make fun of your new boyfriend like that.” Hoseok conquers, making her smile when she looks up at him.

This age of youth doesn’t sound so bad when he is there to accompany her.

🚗

The history of secrecy is simple, easy, created by two people, four matching eyes, two eloquent minds that think outing a briefly created relationship to the world of racing seems like an unprofessional move. The argument is secure—a month of a relationship may seem like the blooming period of the honeymoon phase, the reason why there is a smile always on her face and why there may be a waltz to her step, but from this point on, Hoseok is Wonho and she is the up-and-coming racer that everyone is seemingly talking about. Attending the same event at the same time is more of a reason to pretend they don’t know each other.

Well, more like pretending like this rivalry they had is still palpable and it has not obviously translated into romantic and sexual tension, now in the form of a relationship.

So far, so good, she tells herself as she brings her bottle of soda up to her lips—a soda brand is now her sponsor, there is something about drinks that gravitate heavily towards her team. Heejung is prideful, at least, the frown that had been given to her when she admitted to her relationship with Hoseok now changed into more of a smile. Her career is going good, not skyrocketing, but definitely not staying behind, sporting better uniforms, earning more money than she ever has, leaving all headaches behind and basking into the moment. She wants to enjoy it to utter perfection.

Not to say that it has ever been easy, much less when she realizes just how quickly she has to turn into a normal public figure. Be gone the honesty that characterizes her, now exchanged for the smile on her face as she gives that fake, athlete voice that showcases her as confident and overly spectacular in ever sense. All that leaves her mouth are brand names, the more well-known the better, the higher the price the more interesting. It is something that she doesn’t get used to, but someone else definitely has done the same thing and excelled at it.

Her fingers scratch the back of her head, pressing her face to Leo’s shoulder when she lets out a raged sigh. “I’m so tired. The flashes of the cameras are ruining my vision. I feel like I can’t see from one eye,” She confesses, though she is not one to bask on what bothers her, if the sun is too hot, she’ll only learn how to get used to it. 

“Heejung, can’t we give her a break?”

“We cou—”

“No, I’m fine. I was just saying.” She finishes, lifting her face and jutting her chin out in pride before moving her head over her shoulder. “I only get an opportunity to get my dream coming true, so I’ll do my best at it.” The older woman puckers her lips up at that, staring down at her notebook before sighing deeply.

“Are you sure?” She asks, but before the racer could come up with an answer, she interrupts her. This is not a life that she is used to—behind a steering wheel, she is more at ease, controlling her own life, but the reigns of the press are taken by the masses, by the criticism, where being so much as a woman in an industry like the one she is in is already a downside, wrongly judged, stereotyped, definitely old-school and distasteful. “Listen, I love you, you know this already...but I need you to tell me when this gets to be too much.”

She walks forward, not knowing exactly where to go in this big event, where the food is too expensive to ever be worth eating and all she can do is think about sitting down in the comfort of her home and having the biggest slice of cake to celebrate another paycheck for this sponsorship. “It’s never too much for me.”

Heejung tugs at her arm, bringing her back with a serious expression on her face. “Clearly. You know I don’t like that mindset.” Though, she still moves her towards somewhere, perhaps looking for another interviewer in such a place. “I’m going to tell your little boyfriend to take care of you more often.”

“He takes care of me,  Heejung.” She adds with an eye-roll, aware of Heejung’s hatred towards the man. “You just expect me to date a carbon copy of Leo.”

“You’d be lucky.” Heejung prompts, only to click her pen against her notebook quickly. “We don’t have an interview scheduled, but I heard we’d find Mr. Hong around here—”

Her attention diverted towards the group of people in front of her, all belonging to the team of the grand Wonho. She gives a tight lipped smile to Hoseok’s manager, to which she gets no other than a nod before she has to gravitate towards looking for him. Her gaze falls on his height, his stance, how he seems to be so fitted to be in front of a camera. It loves him, just like how she can’t get him out of her brain, wanting nothing more than to wrap her arms around his waist and seek for the comfort of him, the warmth he radiates from within. 

Instead, she has to stay back, only being called when one of the reporters call for her name, making her widen her eyes as she looks between the cameras and her manager. Heejung whispers in her ear: “That’s Mr. Hong’s program. Go over there.”

“But—”

“Remember, keep the rivalry in between the two.”

No more is told until she confidently struts forward, not wanting to be seen like one to back down from anything. Once by Hoseok’s side, the cameras flash once again, the one recording pointed at the duo as a microphone gets closer to her lips. Her name is called and she can’t help but smile, this is exactly what she has dreamed about the entirety of her life. “...We were impressed by your performance in this season of the Formula One. Anything new planned?”

She leans towards the microphone, looking up at the camera with a smile on her face. “What is there not to be planned? Man, I’m going to be everywhere. You will not get to see the end of me.”

The interviewer, Mr. Hong apparently, now pushes the microphone towards Hoseok, tensing the atmosphere around them when he asks: “Wonho, we’ve seen you grow up in this field and you were beaten by a newbie in the industry. Do you think it’s safe to say you’ve been won over by a woman because of lack of preparation or because, for the first time, a woman is sufficient enough to be a racer?”

A woman, such a powerful title and yet dismissed as nothing in this athletic world. Hoseok’s lips part, looking over at her with absolute remorse, like he can’t hear those words without feeling bad for her. Though, she is not one that needs protection, instead speaking loudly, though the microphone barely captures her voice. “What the fuck does that question even mean?”

 Mr. Hong pays her no mind, instead, settled on getting an interview with Hoseok. The man sends an apologetic gaze her way and she knows Hoseok will find a way out of this. “I don’t think...It has nothing to do with her being a woman. She’s just great. We—Uh, in this industry racers have to learn that we are not endless. Sometimes, someone will win over us.”

“Doesn’t seem like there is much of a rivalry in between you two like the headlines said? Have you gotten over the comparison in between the two? Have you settled on any thoughts about her?”

She doesn’t know why those questions sting, why she suddenly wants to take the microphone and curse at everyone. They want her for the drama, for being Hoseok’s little rival, for the laughs when she gets made fun of. She raises her eyebrows, staring at the side of Hoseok’s face waiting for him to say something. He blinks quickly before a small smile appears on his face. “Uh...I think I can accept someone’s hard work and passion past whatever my thoughts are about that racer.”

“But she’s known as your arch-enemy—”

Taking the microphone in between her hands and tugging it away, she finally speaks into it to defend herself, making sure that she is making herself loud and clear. “You want entertainment? Watch the motherfucking races. I don’t need to be treated like this,” She extends her hand, pointing at the interviewer. “Yes, I am a woman. Yes, I won against Wonho. Is that your problem? Did you bet on Wonho and that’s why you’re so pissy about it? I don’t give two shits about your show, you don’t get to talk that way to me or anyone.” She replies, making sure to throw the microphone at the man’s chest before turning around, hands shaking and legs moving far too quickly as she gets out of there as soon as possible. Heejung follows right behind her, calling her name out loudly.

The patter of the rain over her uniform, her body, is enough to have her freezing when Heejung trails after her best friend. “...Honey, listen to me. Hey, come here!”

She turns around, taking Heejung by the hands and looking into her eyes. “What are you going to tell me, huh?! That I needed to be more feminine, less vulgar, more smiley? I am tired of the interviews. I don’t want to be a product if that means having to be judged by everything I do—!”

“You’ve always been judged, you know this.” Heejung tries to reason with her but she shakes her head, biting down on her bottom lip as she feels it quiver.

She always has, for being irresponsible, for taking things too lightly. “Yes, but I thought I could be myself here. I thought I’d finally be able to stop hearing the fucking scolding about how I need to change. What is there to change?”

Heejung’s fingers grasp at her arm when she is trying to leave. “We’ll figure it out. We just need to talk to them. We have to show them you’re the good one of this story—”

“No,” She says, tugging her arm away from her friend’s hold. She goes over to her car, feeling her phone vibrate inside her pocket and she reaches for it once she is inside, though she keeps the door open to talk to Heejung. “I don’t want to go back there. I’m—” She looks down at her phone, watching Hoseok’s name as he texts her again and again.

“Wait for me.”

“Love, let’s talk.”

“I’m so sorry they treated you like that.”

“I’m staying here.” She finishes after reading the text messages, leaning back on her seat and watching Heejung get dripped by the water outside. “Hoseok wants to talk to me.”

“As he should,” Heejung breathes out, patting her hand against the roof of her car. “I’ll try to fix your career out there, alright?”

“Good luck.” She adds with an eye-roll, hands fiddling with the edge of the door and closing it when Heejung runs inside, welcomed by her husband with an umbrella already opened for her.

That is the type of love Heejung has always wanted for her; trustful, honest, crafted by time. She is not sure if she deserves it, for she has never taken anyone seriously—not until Hoseok, whose life could never connect to hers, everyone would dismiss him as weak and she would be seen ike a tick trying to get the blood of her opponent. She leans back on her seat, arms crossed over her chest as she feels her head fuming with anger. Everything burns, even when it is cold, even the radio has her angry when she pushes the button to turn it off.

In the matter of seconds, the figure of Hoseok rushing under the rain towards her car is enough for her to open the door, wait for him and see him slip inside. His hair is clinging to his forehead, black strands as dark as his eyes when he stares at her.

“I’m sorry.” The promise shouldn’t be quite as infuriating, but she nods her head, dismissing it as if it was nothing that he had said. “Hey, I mean it, I am really sorry. I should have said something else but I have never been asked questions like that—”

She leans her head on her hand, letting out an enraged sigh. “It’s okay, I didn’t expect it either.” She grumbles, biting on the inside of her cheek before slapping her hand against the steering wheel softly. “I’m just tired of being seen as less than you. As if I’m worse. We shouldn’t be compared.”

Hoseok hums at that, running his hands through his hair and pushing it back. “Yeah, that’s right, because we should be equals. We are both talented.”

Something overtakes her, blinking rapidly and engaging her jaw in a tight hold when she turns to look at him. “Is that it? You also don’t think I could be better than you sometimes? That’s why you didn’t say anything?”

Hoseok’s plush lips moisten themselves, newfound anger found on his features when he speaks up. “I didn’t say that, come on. We are a couple, we should be treated as the same—”

“But it sounds like you still can’t accept the fact that I can win, as well.” Her voice grows larger in tone, staring at him in disbelief when Hoseok lets out a scoff.

“Don’t scream at me, first off, you know I don’t like it when people argue like that—”

“I am not screaming at you!”

He raises his eyebrows, biting down on his bottom lip. Something inside of him is suddenly hurt, as if blood could pour out of his body at any time.  “You know, it damn right sounds like you don’t ever want me to win a race again if you’re competing. I also have people working for me and a career to maintain, shouldn’t  we just support each other and not mix our relationship with our job?”

“Oh my God, Hoseok, I’ve won against you once. You’ve won like a hundred times—”

“I know and I’m proud of you but—”

“No, you just want more money. You already have enough, why are you so pressed about me winning against you?”

He tugs his hair in between his hands, a reminder that Heejung had told her that two fires could only grow stronger together before everything dulled out for them. “I am not saying you can’t win against me. I’m just saying that it was wrong for them to treat you like that and that you are working hard. I also will do my best, you can’t expect me not to want to race anymore because you’re now in my picture.”

She lets out an enraged breath, loud enough to push the oyxgen out of her lungs as she starts the car. “I don’t want to argue with you anymore.”

“Okay.” Hoseok says, opening the door of the car and getting out. The action makes her soul ache, so he’d choose staying instead of going with her. “I’ll let you wind up and then, we’ll talk. Text me when you get home—”

“Of fucking course, you’re going to pick going back there.” She whispers, perhaps a bit tranced on what to do. She knows part of her is wrong, but she can’t bring herself to stop talking, in self-defense mode even against someone who cares deeply about her.

“Let’s just stop arguing.” Hoseok breathes out, not closing the door yet and for that with the opportunity to reach for her lips and give her a kiss. Something inside her tells her to pull away, moving her head to the side until his lips land on her cheek, the warmth of his breath against her skin when he sighs is enough for her to feel his disappointment. “Go home safely.”

“What a thing to tell a racer.” She whispers, guilt punching her in the gut when she watches the look of sadness on his face. Hoseok gets out of the car then, closing the door and walking away from the car as if it is meaningless.

It is not, but it feels like it is.

Even through this, she continues to love him, sends him that text and decides to ease through this fight. Maybe, they’ll get to get over it.

🚗

In the span of three months, everything can change.

She’d never realized how tiny her home was until she got a bigger one. How little she got paid until she got a bigger paycheck. She had never thought twice about how easy it was to feel alive when she did racing for fun, than in comparison to now, where everything is about competing. Three months and she has won races, lost them, gotten in, gotten out, and all that has remained the same has to be Lee Hoseok. Her boyfriend, fire that has become water, the waves clashing against each other, calming her down and bringing her to a state of endless relaxation.

Not to say it’s perfect...but the arguments that could ensue die down pretty quickly. Everything does with them. The passion is no longer living for the lifespan of hours, the kisses are softer now in comparison to how strong they used to be...it has changed, like it normally does with relationships, when the honeymoon phase starts to wear off and the love remains, exists, but it isn’t quite as palpable in the air.

Sometimes, she wonders if it is the fact that they are constantly asked about each other in public, from this supposed rivalry they have, that has desensitized their relationship. It has made them dull, wore them off, they have heard enough about the other to get tired, because it feels as though they come in pairs and not the best kind. People want them to be in a constant battle; they want to have a boxing match in a racing environment, she has heard enough about him and he has heard enough about her and while they know the truth, it is also difficult.

Because there is the terrible monster that is envy in the back of her head. Not of him, but of what she wishes they could be. A normal couple, they will never be, and if the news came out there that they are dating—everyone would want to tear them apart.

They’d call them a publicity stunt.

They’d call them liars.

Why is the world so difficult sometimes?

Putting her card down, she is reminded that she is playing poker with Heejung, seated in the mechanic shop she used to work at, now too busy to work there full time. The rough concrete digs in her skin through the fabric of her leggings, watching Heejung raise her eyebrows at the card before releasing a sigh. “Well, you’re playing even worse than usual...and you’re here instead of at Hoseok’s...what’s the matter?”

The matter is that it feels like she is not wanted, not loved, and it’s so stupid because the two of them do their best to show their appreciation for the other. It feels as though she is constantly competing, wanting to be better, stronger, wanting to win, win, win. The thirst for it has led her to change, the spark of mischief long gone for something...dull. She feels like she despises racing by now. “I’ve been ignoring his calls.”

“And why’s that?” Heejung asks, seated on Leo’s lap and being the epitome of happiness. They must have had their boring days...their nights in which they didn’t want to look at each other...and they got through it.

Could she get through this?

“I don’t know,” She says, dropping the cards to her lap and rubbing her hands against her aching eyes. Everything feels to be a thousand times more stressing than it was at the beginning. On any other night, she would have said how much she loved him—because she does, with every bit of herself, and being bored of someone who you love is not the right way to go. “I’m...All we seem to talk about is racing, and you know how I’ve been feeling about that lately.”

Leo, for the first time in his life, stops siding with her as he wraps his arms around his wife’s waist. “Maybe, because that’s all you have in common with him: racing.”

No.

That’s not—

Is it?

All that has connected them was racing and while she had always wanted to have someone who understood her because they lived the same lifestyle, it had never crossed her mind that it’d be this hard. They are in the same world, being constantly compared, constantly thrown against each other in ironies in order to get them to rival. Those words must have gotten to her and while she loves him...more like she has ever loved anyone, it must come from a place in which she connects with him, merely because she feels as though she needs to love him. He’s all she ever wanted: caring, sweet, with the right amount of spice, the perfect amount of passion, given and he gives back as much as he wants.

“That’s not it.” She tries to say, though her phone is once again vibrating and she stares ahead, trying not to look at Hoseok’s name. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s not that you don’t have to have anything in common with your partner,” Leo says. “It’s that you have to have dreams together in order to build a committed relationship. You’re in the same field and constantly plotted against each other, you don’t get to get back from work and sit down with him and tell him all that happened, because you guys always know.”

“But you two work together.”

“We lived very different lives.” Heejung adds in between a laugh, turning back to look at her husband with a smile. “But on the long run, we wanted to have something together. We know we have lives outside of our romance, though. We created something together, we had the same dream.”

“...I don’t get it.” She tries to push, picking up her phone and watching as the call suddenly dissipates into the thin air. He had hung up.

“All I’m saying is that you should’ve thought about what you wanted from him before dating him.” Leo conquers, making her push her lips up in distaste.

What had she wanted?

She had wanted to win against him.

She had wanted to try the fire inside of him.

...Was a relationship ever in their plans or had they gotten too excited?

She shakes her head, standing up from the floor and dusting her leggings with her hands. She pushes Hoseok’s contact on her phone, pressing the device to her ear and waiting for him to pick up. “Well, thanks for the advice, but...I don’t know, I feel like we can make it work. We’re just...We need some...We need to breathe sometimes, that’s all.”

“Whatever you say.”

When he picks up her call, confused as to why she wouldn’t pick up, she feels bad. She feels like a villain, then again, constant in her life but now even more prominent. This is the fairytale that she had always wanted, the dream she never had, the fire she wanted to be burnt by, the passion that she always needed...why does it feel so dull? Why does it feel like the two of them are only prolonging it because they have so much love and respect for each other that they need to stay together? She doesn’t know, she simply gets inside her car and asks Hoseok to meet up with her.

Enough it is for him to welcome her with a kiss, for his arms to wrap around her, for them to try for another night to connect...even when sometimes, it feels like everything is rushed.

A second with him must be better than her youth without him.

🚗

It is a sight to remember. The light of sunshine casting down white curtains, passing through elegantly, washing his body in its illuminence, only leaving his shadow for her. One would never think of that as metaphorical, but it is. With her eyes half opened, one of them closed, jaw aching from tightening it when she is asleep, she realizes she is in her room. Sometimes, she forgets how much she had changed from the moment she met him—that man that she adores, the shadow that only shows he has put his shirt on, looking ahead to the city even at such an early moment of the morning.

He’s not one to be up early usually, much less when he is staying in, but something must have been inside his head. She remembers briefly that he had called her name and maybe, that is why she had woken up. Her limbs extend, spine rotating over itself, straightening her back and her legs, waiting for him to say something else, notice that she has finally woken up. 

He calls her once again and she groans, pressing her cheek to the pillow before releasing a few words at him, albeit sleepily:

“Yes, Hoseok, I’m here.” Sometimes, she’d say the same things when he had nightmares or when he was talking and he would ask if she’s listening. It’s mundane, the way she speaks, like how they had become. All because of the media, that press that had united them at first and now completely pulled them away.

His voice breaks, god, it hurts her head just to remember the sound of his voice when he says: “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” He voices out, cradling his own body with his hands as he speaks in a softer tone again. “I—I feel like I am boring you, and you’re boring me, too...”

He spoke it into existence, just exactly what she had been thinking, and she sighs, pushing the covers off her body and looking up at the ceiling. Losing him, her biggest fear, she doesn’t know what she will feel now that she sees him everywhere if he is no longer hers. “Well, I see where you’re coming from.” She whispers. “Why are you bored?”

“It doesn’t feel the same.” Hoseok says and she stands up, trying to reach for him but stopping herself, instead fixing her shirt and her sweatpants, the ones that had moved over her body in her sleep. “You’re always compared to me, I’m always pushed to hate you. I feel like it has strained our relationship...”

“It has.” She admits, her voice bitter when she closes her eyes tightly. “Hoseok, you’re not a boring guy. It’s—I think we just rushed through it.” Though, she can hear Heejung’s voice in her head telling her that she had told her so, but she would never regret dating him, the only man that could ever understand her fully, perhaps too much. “We were...so excited. We should have been more honest, taken more time, maybe we could have had a better foundation for our relationship.”

Finally, Hoseok turns around, sparing her a look that she would never forget. God, they look drained, devastated, as if they had given their all but it wasn’t enough. Had they never been compatible to start with? Two people that loved each other but could never be together. Four months of trying and trying… “I’m so sorry. This is my fault—”

“It isn’t.”

“It is—”

“Hoseok, we both did it. We both agreed to this.” She tries to reassure him, reaching over to him and patting her hand against his arm. She wanted to hug him, but they are on the verge of breaking up...she shouldn’t prolong this. Some stories are meant to be as short-lived as its beginning. “It’s—We didn’t know better. That happens.”

“...So...” Hoseok trails his voice, extending his hand and giving it to her. “Breaking up?”

“Breaking up.” She finishes, biting on her lip before she lets go of his hand. This was the first touch they had and their last.

When seeing him go, she realizes that her youth will probably not be as golden as it was with him, that it will be difficult to get back that spark that she used to have—that edge, though not angry, incredibly mischievous, really to enjoy life, to take over it.

From now on, she wants to enjoy everything one day at a time.

From now on, she’ll try to be more than just Wonho’s rival. The reason as to why they had broken up.

[ellewritesathing]

(Un)Requited  -  I.L. III

Summary: Isaac Lahey had gone through many twists and turns in his life, but none of them compared to the whiplash he got when you asked him to tutor you. With a few weeks until the end of the semester and the big dance coming up, he’s hoping to figure out a way to ask you to go with him before it’s too late.

Masterlist Prev. | Part 3

Word-count: 3.1k+

A/N: i really need to work on updating this fic but i’ve finally figured out more or less what to do with this story line so hopefully my updates will be a bit more regular!!

Whenever Isaac thought he was getting better at functioning around you, you always found a way to prove him wrong. 

It had been a week since you developed the Get The Girl game plan, and he’d been spending a lot of time with you ever since. Isaac had left notes and corrections on your algebra homework that made you smile, figured out the kind of jokes that made you laugh, and had gone to your house a few times to study together (and only once had any actual studying been done). Magnus still hated him, but he was slowly but surely winning over Max and the rest of your family. 

You even sat in the stands whenever he had lacrosse practice and committed his schedule to memory - when Isaac knew full-well that you knew nothing about lacrosse. 

Things were looking up. At this rate, Isaac might actually have the courage to ask you out and have the tiniest, most microscopic chance of you saying yes. 

And then the weekend came and you took him to the mall to buy some new clothes and get a haircut. 

It was nothing too serious - Isaac had even said something that made you laugh over lunch - but now he was sitting in the salon chair and you were running your hands through his hair while the two of you waited for the hairdresser. 

Isaac knew it was an absent-minded gesture while you thought of what to do with him, but he couldn’t help the way it made him feel. He was surprised you couldn’t hear how his heart beat out of his chest every time you started combing through a new section, almost as surprised that you hadn’t noticed that he wasn’t paying attention to a word you said. 

“So what do you think?” you asked, dropping your hands on the top of Isaac’s shoulders (sadly). The touch still made him malfunction, but it was easier now that your hands were still and your eyes were focused on his in the mirror.

“I, uh- I think that sounds like a good idea,” Isaac said, trying to look like he’d been listening. He’d meant to, honestly, but it was literally impossible for him to focus around you.

Two social steps forward and about a billion back.

“Really? I thought you’d hate bleaching it,” you said. 

Isaac’s heart nearly exploded. “Bleach?” 

“And a mohawk.” 

“Oh, you’re messing with me for zoning out,” Isaac said. Though he would have been perfectly content to have a bleach blonde mohawk if it made you happy, he pretended to be cooler than he actually was by nodding at your reflection in the mirror. “I see how it is.” 

“It was too good an opportunity to pass up,” you laughed, lifting your hands back to his hair. “What I was thinking is a little shorter on the sides but keeping the top as it is. It would break my heart if we cut off your curls.” 

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” Isaac said, too softly to be a part of his cool guy routine. Your teasing smile faded into something a bit more genuine. “Sounds good. For real this time.”

Before you had the chance to answer, the hairstylist came over and started occupying your time. As happy as it made Isaac to hear you laughing and talking with them, an ugly pang of jealousy shot through him. 

Derek had explained to Isaac when he turned that sometimes he’d feel emotions that weren’t necessarily his own. Those emotions were why anchors were so important, because otherwise Isaac would drift in a sea of emotions and they’d eventually consume him. At the time, Derek was talking about anger, but Isaac knew this had to be a part of it, too. 

Isaac just wanted you to be happy, he didn’t care who it was with or if it had anything to do with him. 

He spent the better part of the appointment trying to convince himself that he wasn’t a jealous bastard that didn’t deserve the time of day, and by the time his blowdry was done, he was back to his normal semi-functional self. 

You beamed at his hair as he stood up and ruffled it slightly, only to be laughed at by the hairstylist. Isaac couldn’t hear very well over his heart beating so loudly and with his ears recovering from the force of the hairdryer, but he could have sworn the hairstylist said something about you two being a cute couple on your way out. 

Isaac didn’t have time to dwell on the comment, though, because soon enough you were dragging him into stores he’d never been to and picking out things for him to try on. 

It was awkward at first. Isaac had lost the ability to talk to you as well as the ability to make a decision. The result was a clumsy collection of clothing and a very awkward moment before Isaac closed the changing room door with you on the other side. 

After a brief pep talk, Isaac started trying on the clothes. They weren’t bad, they just weren’t what he would normally wear. He hadn’t exactly made it easy to shop for him what with his inability to speak but he still couldn’t help feeling out of place in the stuff you’d picked out. 

When he came out, you were sitting on a bench, leaning your head against the wall and scrolling through something on your phone. You brightened up when you saw him and his heart melted, but he shook his head and placed the clothes on the return counter. 

“You didn’t like any of it?” you asked as you got to your feet. 

Isaac shook his head and sighed. “Nah, it’s not that it’s just … I haven’t really worn anything that wasn’t Camden’s first.” He blinked a few times. Where did that come from? There was no way you wouldn’t realize he was a loser now. 

“Oh,” you said quietly, dropping your gaze to your shoes. “I should have-” You looked back up at Isaac and gave him a smile. “You wanna get out of here?”

“Yeah, I’d go anywhere with you,” Isaac said before he could stop himself. He made a mental note to ask Erica to slap some sense into him when he got home.

Instead of groaning and calling him cheesy, you laughed and looped your arm around his. “Come on. I’ll buy you some ice cream on our way out.” 

The ice cream had sent shivers up your spine so, somewhere between the store and parking lot, Isaac had given you his jacket. You wore it as you drove him home, and Isaac couldn’t help but think how much better it looked on you than it did on him. 

Isaac tried to think of an excuse to not get out of the car once it was parked outside the loft, but he came up empty. He was about to thank you for the ride and the attempted shopping trip when you started talking. 

“It’s Erica, isn’t it?” you asked, staring through the windshield at where Erica was harassing Derek at the entrance to the building. She was having the time of her life and Derek looked ready to drink. 

Isaac let out a laugh. He wondered if she wanted money or if she was just having fun giving Derek a migraine. “Yeah, that’s her.” 

You bit your lip as you stared out the windshield. After a moment, you turned to look at Isaac with a somewhat indecipherable look on your face. “I think she’ll say yes.” 

“Wait, what?” Isaac asked. He had no idea what you thought Erica would say yes to, or how you got there from asking for her name. 

“Yeah, I don’t think you needed to cut your hair or change anything to get her attention,” you said, still not making any sense. “When you ask her to the dance, I think she’ll say yes.” Isaac tried very hard not to frown at you, but it probably wasn’t working because you kept talking before he could say anything. “You’re a really great guy, Isaac. If she doesn’t see that then she’s crazy.” 

“Right,” Isaac said slowly. It was the only thing he could think of to say. He had no idea how to untangle the mess he’d gotten himself into or how to explain to you that he and Erica were the farthest thing from romantic prospects. “Thanks.” 

“Yeah, of course,” you said with a smile. “I’ll see you after practice on Monday?” 

“Yeah, sure. See you.”

Isaac got out of the car, feeling dazed and confused, and waved at you as you disappeared down the street. How had he gone from feeling like he had a shot with you this morning to asking Erica to the dance? 

---

“No way,” Erica said, not looking up from the nail she was painting. 

She’d refused to stop painting them, even though the smell of the open bottle made everyone in the loft feel nauseous. Today, she’d picked out a metallic shade called Black and Blue - no doubt because anyone who got close enough to see the color would be left black and blue. 

Isaac attempted to come closer but stopped when Erica slid the bottle closer to him. “Come on, I never ask you to do anything!” 

“Oh, please. You ask me to do crap for you all the time.”

“Name one other time.” 

“Two hours ago you asked to copy my English homework because, and I quote ‘it’s a Crime and Punishment that I have to read this,’” Erica said. She looked up at him with a sly smile. “And you say you’re not witty.” 

It didn’t take a genius to see that Erica had won that angle of the argument, so Isaac changed tactics. “What if I cover for you next Thursday so you can go to that concert Derek said you’d only go to once he was dead?” 

Erica hummed and looked back down at her nails. She touched up her left ring finger before looking back up at Isaac, knowing that he’d use that time to think up several other options to offer her when she said no. “Is it really that important to you that this girl knows I’d never in a million years date you?” 

“Not how I’d phrase it, but yeah,” Isaac said. He slid into the seat across from Erica and carefully placed the lid over the bottle. 

Erica looked at him for a hard moment and then sighed. “Fine. Then I’ll find a reason to talk to her and tell her you’re not my type.” 

Isaac leaned over the table and kissed her cheek before racing out of the room to ensure he didn’t end up black and blue. “You’re the best, Erica. Have fun at the concert!” 

“Concert?” Derek asked, catching Isaac’s arm as he ran past him. 

“Definitely not,” Isaac said with a grin. He leaned in and kissed Derek’s cheek for good measure. The poor man was so off-guard that Isaac shook out of his grip without using any supernatural influences. 

---

Isaac had come up with a plan. It wasn’t a very good one, but it was the only one he had. He’d go to practice and try to be the best player on the field to impress you, and then when you guys were sitting on the bleachers and he went through his homework, he’d explain this whole scheme to you. Hopefully, the speech he’d prepared would be eloquent and he wouldn’t just throw up words all over you, but that was a risk he had to take. 

The ‘being the best player’ part kind of failed because, aside from all his issues, Isaac was very distracted by a chemo-signal in the air: nervousness. It was everywhere, but particularly near the bench and bleachers. 

He tried to put the first failure aside as he showered and changed into a shirt he thought you’d like. Instead, he went over his speech once more in his head to make sure it sounded halfway decent. 

Hey, so I know this is really weird but I need to come clean: I’ve had a crush on you ever since our brothers first dumped us on each other when we were kids. I’ve never wanted to ask Erica to the dance; I’ve only ever wanted to go with you but I never thought I had a chance with you so I lied. It was stupid, but I can’t change that now and I guess what I’m trying to say is … will you go to the dance with me?

Isaac groaned and hit his head against his locker. The speech was awful, but if he didn’t tell you the truth then he was pretty sure he was going to combust. 

He was still trying to psych himself up to talk to you when he walked back over to the bleachers and heard you laughing. Then he picked the chemo-signal up again. You were nervous. 

And you were talking to Stiles Stilinski. 

That ugly feeling of jealousy shot through him again, and Isaac worked to convince himself he was overreacting as he made his way over. 

“Hey, guys,” Isaac said evenly. He smiled at you and shot Stiles a very deliberate look. “What’s up?”

“Stiles was just telling me this story about one of your away games. Did you really fall off the bleachers right before the match and sprain your ankle?” you asked, mouth pulled up in an amused smile. It wasn’t malicious but it felt different than the one you usually gave him. 

“Uh, yeah. I guess I did,” Isaac said stiffly. “Back in freshman year. Did Stiles tell you about the time he drove his Jeep through the other team’s equipment and forced us to forfeit?” 

You whipped your head around to laugh at Stiles. Again, not maliciously. Just different. This time it was more like you and Stiles had a secret that Isaac didn’t know about. “No way, seriously?”

“Seriously. But in my defense, Scott was distracting me,” Stiles said, not sounding very defensive. He had a surprisingly easy smile on his face that made Isaac want to punch him. “But, uh, speaking of Scott, I should probably get going before he starts asking strangers for rides and becomes a seven o’clock special.” 

You laughed again and gave him a matching easy smile. “Can’t have that, can we?” 

“Definitely not,” Stiles said. His eyes flicked over to Isaac for a second before turning his attention back to you. “So I’ll see you on Friday?”

“Yeah, looking forward to it,” you said. Stiles started heading down the bleachers and you let out a small sigh before gathering up your stuff. He looked at you over his shoulder and you waved at him. 

It was amazing how such small movements made Isaac feel sick to his stomach; a smile here, a laugh there, and now a wave. 

Isaac adjusted his backpack and tried not to look as jealous as he felt. “So what’s on Friday?” 

“Oh, uh-” You pushed a piece of hair behind your ear and shrugged. There was a strange kind of nervousness rolling off you. “Stiles asked if I wanted to go to the dance with him so I suggested we do a trial run before then.” 

“Like a date?” 

“Yeah, like a date,” you said. Your expression was funny; it looked like you were trying to figure something out how Isaac felt about it, but Isaac didn’t know why his feelings would matter. “What do you think of that?” 

Isaac thought that everything made sense now. You’d never been interested in sports, and yet you came to every one of his lacrosse games and had the entire practice schedule memorized. Like an idiot, Isaac had thought all your questions meant you had taken an interest in him. 

Clearly, he wasn’t that far off. You still weren’t interested in lacrosse, you were just interested in Stiles. 

The same Stiles who hated him, made fun of him, and kept him from joining Scott’s pack for the longest time. Everything Isaac did, Stiles found a way to do better - despite being mind-numbingly human.

Stiles had a particular charm that Isaac couldn’t stand but everyone else seemed to love. He was witty, and kind, and some might say he was even good looking. And Isaac thought, most of all, that after going out with a guy like Stiles, there was no way you would ever want to go out with him.

“I think that’s great,” Isaac said with a tight smile. His heart was beating out of his chest and if you were like him, you would have known he was lying. 

But you were human - you didn’t know. 

Still, you frowned. Either Isaac said something wrong or you felt conflicted about something. The frown was only there for a second before you replaced it with a smile only slightly different to the one you usually wore, closer to the nervous one you’d given him when you asked him to tutor you. “You do?” 

“Yeah,” Isaac lied again. If there was one thing his time with you had made Isaac realize, it was that having a place in your life - even a place as a friend with unrequited feelings - was better than no place at all, and he wasn’t going to screw that all up by telling you how he felt. He took a deep breath. “But, uh, do you mind if we talk about this some other time? Derek texted when I was in the locker room and he needs my help with something at the loft.” 

You blinked a few times, trying to piece together the quick change in pace. “Oh, uh, do you want me to drive you?” 

Your pained expression almost made Isaac spill his guts right there. He couldn’t risk spending any more time with you. “No, he’s coming to pick me up.” 

“Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow?” you asked, eyebrows knitting together as you looked at him, despite the smile on your face. 

“Yeah, sure. Not like those problems are going to solve themselves, right?” Isaac asked. He did his best to give you a reassuring smile. 

Your smile faltered for a second, but then it was back on your face and covering up any other thoughts. “Right.” 

Isaac left pretty quickly after that, with one thought clear in his mind: Out of everyone in the entire school to go out with, why did you have to pick Stiles Fucking Stilinski?

Tagged: @lettherebelovex​  @britty443​  @ietts  @magnus-the-fabulous-entp-bane​

[birdskullz]

24hr Laundry

about 4k words • short story • scifi / horror

to celebrate the first day of camp nanowrimo AND receiving my first rejection letter ever, i'm gonna share the story that got rejected!! even so, i'm proud of myself just for finishing something, so enjoy, and happy camp everybody!!

If you've ever walked into a twenty-four-hour laundromat, you've walked into them all. They might not share the same layout or use the same model of machines, and the colors will differ from place to place, but the experience is consistent. Almost dependable. You can count on the sounds of laundry going and fluorescent lights buzzing, the smells of detergent and fabric softener. You know what to expect, and you take some comfort in that when you go to wash your intimates in front of strangers.

However, there's an air of impermanence to a laundromat, especially if it’s located in a strip mall. Despite standing open while countless businesses spawn and die around it, there's a lingering threat that the laundromat might not be there the next time you need it.

Mallory Fisher was no stranger to laundromats. As a junior in college, she had the process cleaning her clothes down to a science. The tiny laundry rooms on campus demanded that she be as quick and efficient as possible; they also demanded that students pay outrageous prices, nearly ten dollars to wash and dry one load. None of the other students seemed to flinch at the expense. It wasn't their own money they were spending. But Mallory just couldn't afford it anymore.

She decided to try out Mr. Scrubs' 24hr Laundry, a medium-sized facility in a strip mall about a five minute drive away from her dorm building. Wedged between a pizza parlor and a jewelry store, it seemed nice enough. The prices advertised in the window seemed even nicer, with wash and dry only costing about a buck fifty each. Mallory silently congratulated herself as she walked through the propped-open door. She'd beat the system. What a deal.

When she crossed the threshold, she was hit with a wave of déjà vu. She glanced around the place, and it felt like her eyes had looked at the same things in the same order once before: the vending machine by the front window, then up the row of dryers, then to the box TV mounted on the back wall. There was the older man sitting under it, reading the paper with his legs crossed just so. The weight of the clothes basket on her hip felt so familiar, so right. A strange prickle began to crawl up the back of her neck.

Mallory shook it off, knowing that she'd never set foot in Mr. Scrubs' before. She'd read somewhere that déjà vu was just the brain catching up with the eyes, nothing special about it. She could only remember it happening maybe twice before now, and each time it had been more of an inconvenience rather than anything to worry about.

The girl studied the place as she walked in further. It looked like it hadn't been renovated since the late eighties, but it wasn't the cute kind of retro that was trendy at the moment. The floors were a checkered pattern and grubby, the kind where the white tiles always looked dirty and the black ones had faded to gray. The machines seemed too big. The aisles between them seemed too cramped. Old neon signs buzzed in the front windows at a different note than the fluorescent lights overhead, which added a faint dissonance to the air.

Mallory noticed she could feel the discrepancy between the notes resonating in the base of her skull. She also couldn't tell if it was too bright or not bright enough; either way, seeing felt like a chore. Hopefully, she wouldn't be there long. Otherwise she might get a headache.

There didn't seem to be an attendant working since they didn't offer a dry cleaning service. There were only four other people there, which Mallory was glad for. The fewer people who had to witness her in her worn-out leggings and holey sweater, the better. She quietly headed for a washer in the back left corner and opened the round door. She bent over her laundry basket and started loading in her clothes.

"I wouldn't use that one, dearie," a wavering voice said, "It's broken."

Mallory turned and saw an older woman standing at one of the plasticky blue tables. She was working through a mountain of clothes in the rolling cart next to her, folding what looked like enough laundry for a small army. The woman wasn't looking at her, instead rather enraptured with her tedious work, so Mallory wasn't sure who she was talking to at first. Still, she surveyed her washer. It didn't seem like there was anything wrong with it, not that she was an expert on cleaning machines. But then, she spotted a piece of paper face down on the floor by her feet. She knelt and turned it over.

The page read "Out of Order" in messy, scribbled lettering.

Mallory stood and sheepishly tried to reattach the sign to the washer door. The tape was too old and thin, and frankly covered in too much dirt, grime and lint to work anymore. So instead, she pulled out the shirts she had already thrown in and tucked the paper into the door as she closed it. Then she opened the next washer down and began loading her clothes again.

"Thank you. You saved me the embarrassment," she said over her shoulder, even though her cheeks burned.

"It's no trouble. I can't remember the last time that washer worked, but Larry refuses to get it replaced," the woman replied.

"…Larry?"

"Yes, Mr. Scrubs himself. Mr. Cheap suits him better if you asked me."

Mallory gave a light laugh at that. She closed the washer hatch, turned and leaned her back against it. She thought the woman was a little aloof at first, but now she seemed genuine. She liked the way the red bandanna covering her limp gray hair brought out the apples of her cheeks. Her casualness put the girl at ease, encouraging her shoulders to loosen. She hadn't realized they'd gotten so tight. Plus, it seemed like she was being let in on some hot gossip that she couldn't get anywhere else. She wanted to keep the conversation going.

"Have you been coming here long, Mrs…?" Mallory trailed off, waiting for her matronly acquaintance to fill in the blank.

"Doyle. But please, call me Claudia," the woman said. That was nice, but despite not being a child anymore, Mallory would rather die than call this woman by her first name. Mrs. Doyle would be just fine. "And yes, for a good ten years or so. What about you, dearie? I've never seen you in here before."

"I'm Mallory. And I've been using the college laundry rooms up till now. I just couldn't take the prices."

"Ah, that's where they get you. Tuition just isn't enough, is it?"

"Tell me about it," Mallory said with another laugh.

The two continued on talking as the younger woman put in her detergent and the older kept folding. Topics ranged from Mallory's major (marine biology) to Mrs. Doyle's grandchildren (five in total). There were stories shared and helpful tips passed from one woman to another. The conversation was so refreshing and easy and warm that Mallory got lost in it, and she jumped when her washer chimed, signaling the end of the cycle. She kept talking with Mrs. Doyle over her shoulder as she began switching her load over to the dryer.

"Mallory, hon, don't you separate your clothes?" Mrs. Doyle asked her.

"Oh, I guess I don't. I mean, throwing everything in one load and washing it on cold hasn't done me wrong yet. Saves money too."

"Well, how about that. I suppose you could teach this oldie a few things, couldn't you?" Mrs. Doyle had finished her folding. She took out several bottles of laundry adjacent items— detergent, fabric softener, bleach, dryer balls— from the bottom of her basket to make room for the clothes. Mallory offered to help bring them out to the woman's car, but Mrs. Doyle assured her that she could manage just fine.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Mallory," she said when she had everything together, "Maybe I'll see you again sometime.”

"Most likely! This place is nice," Mallory replied warmly.

Mrs. Doyle turned to go, and Mallory turned toward the bench seating under the TV. The seats were open now, the old man having left a bit ago, and the small table held a thick layer of magazines. She selected the trashiest one she could find, sat down, and buried her nose in it. She had about forty-five minutes to kill and she was sure she could blow through at least half the stack.

"And dearie?"

"Yes?" The young woman looked up.

"Don't stay too long. I know this laundromat doesn't close, but some places just aren't meant to be open much later than this."

Mrs. Doyle gave her a long, serious look. Her cheery demeanor was gone, replaced with a sternness that felt like it was reserved for naughty children. Mallory was confused. She had walked in around six-thirty, which meant it couldn't be much later than seven o'clock. Of course, the nights were getting longer and the sun was starting to set, but she was sure she'd be out of here and back in her dorm room long before nine. It was sweet of the old woman to worry though.

"Sure, Mrs. Doyle. I'll leave as soon as this load is done."

That seemed to satisfy her new acquaintance, and with a stiff nod, the older woman again turned to go. Mallory looked back down at her magazine, but as she did, something caught her eye. A bottle of Clorox bleach sat abandoned in the rolling cart.

"Oh, wait, you forgot your—" Mallory began as she got up to grab the bottle. But when she looked, Mrs. Doyle was gone.

"...bleach.”

In fact, she found that everyone else had left too. She hadn't noticed anyone else leave, save for the old man. She’d been too caught up in talking. It was strange seeing the laundromat empty. It seemed larger now that she had it all to herself, and the electricity hummed louder without the presence of people to mask it.

She felt weird just standing there, holding a bottle of bleach out for no one to take. Even though there was no one to see her, she felt stupid. Better to leave it in the cart, she told herself. Mrs. Doyle would be back for it. As Mallory started back toward her seat, she felt like the déjà vu was coming over her again, that prickle coming back with such a vengeance that it felt more like a shiver. But instead of the uncanny sense she’d already done this, it felt more like she was between something. She didn't know what she was between, but she knew she was neither here nor there. Just between, and she didn't know which side to return to.

Mallory’s legs felt unsteady, and her fingers found the hem of her sweater, wringing and twisting as she came to a stop in front of the coffee table. She would have kept messing with it until it was threadbare, but she got a hold of herself. Mrs. Doyle had just left, and there wasn’t any reason to freak out. Being alone made it feel like she’d overstayed her welcome, that was all. Even so, the girl craned her neck to look for a clock that would tell her she was overreacting. But there wasn't one anywhere. The only indication that any time had passed was the darkness in the parking lot that the streetlights did nothing to keep away.

She paced the length of the laundromat to look out into the lot. Had it been that dark a minute ago? She was desperate to know the time. Her phone was in her car because she didn't have any pockets in her leggings. God, why couldn't women's fashion be functional too? Mallory knew she should go and get it, but staring out into the empty expanse of asphalt, unnaturally yellowed by the streetlights, made her think of all the things that could be out tonight. A man in a dark hood, a formless monster watching from the shadows, a crack in the ground waiting to swallow her up.

Impulsively, she kicked the door stopper away. The door swung closed too fast, no mechanism to keep it from slamming. Bang! It was so heavy that the store-front windows wobbled on impact. She doubted the glass would save her from anything trying to get inside, but she stole back a little sense of security, a little normalcy from it.

When she turned, Mallory noticed that her dryer was not the only appliance running anymore. She stared at the "out of order" washing machine, watching it shudder as it ran. When had it started? It wasn’t running a second ago, was it? She eyed the rest of the space warily, wondering who could have started a load without her seeing them. Mallory inched forward to peer into the clear door that served as a porthole view into the washer drum.

There weren't any clothes inside.

Water began to seep out of the door then, soap frothing around the rim like the machine had a bad case of rabies. Mallory began to back away slowly, both out of fear and to avoid getting her shoes wet. Embarrassment started to make her cheeks flush again. She felt like a kid again, a kid left home alone who made too big of a mess, with no hope of cleaning it up herself before her parents got home. If she could have afforded to buy new clothes, she might’ve bolted right then and there, the majority of her wardrobe yet to be dried be damned.

Her heart sank. She knew she couldn't do that.

With a stubborn determination born out of her tight budget, Mallory paused to take a breath and clear her head. She was an adult, she could handle a little water. It wasn't her fault the washer was leaking, and it would be unfair of Larry to blame her for it. He wasn't even here, nor did he hold any sort of authority over her. It wasn't like she was an employee. It wasn't like she was responsible for any of this. But despite telling herself that, she still aggressively searched for a mop or even some rags, just anything to soak up the water and erase the evidence of anything going wrong under her watch.

There, behind the counter where an attendant was supposed to sit: a mop with a cheap plastic handle. It sat in a yellow rolling bucket, leaning into the corner. Mallory warily eyed the misbehaving washer, half convinced that it might explode as soon as she let it out of her sight. Then she dashed around the counter.

Just as she got the mop in her hands, the fluorescents gave up the ghost and the laundromat went dark. Layers of sound began stripping away— first the hum of the lights, then the buzz of the vending machine and whatever else had been running in the background. Mallory cautiously stepped out from behind the counter. At least the neon signs in the windows were still on, reading "Open 24hrs" and "Self-Service" in bright red and blue. Their light reflected off the chrome of the appliances, mixed with the shifting texture of the TV's muted, staticky glow.

The washer thumped loudly, like an unbalanced load was being tossed around inside. As she edged closer, the mop raised defensively, even that stilled. Mallory passed the trusty dryer holding her clothes, doing it's job in the face of adversity like a good little machine. She reached out and patted the top of it in a silent thanks, keeping her eyes trained on the broken washer.

She stopped short when it’s hatch swung open.

The Out of Order sign rocked back and forth in the air, falling into the puddle below.

A thick tentacle burst from the circular void within the machine. It was nothing more than a blur, lunging straight for her. On impulse, she batted the thing away with the mop and sent it hurtling toward the wall, which it smacked against wetly. A dark gooey liquid splattered across the peeling wallpaper, like bug guts against a windshield. The limb then recoiled, yanking itself away and arching up into an 'S' shape, mimicking a cobra ready to strike. Mallory ran for the other end of the laundromat before it got the chance.

Something slimy got a hold of her ankle, tangling around it like seaweed in the ocean. She stopped, looked down. Another squishy tentacle curled around it, cold and wet and sticky. Before she had time to pry it away, the gray limb ripped her feet out from under her. In the next second her hip connected with the floor, a loud thump audible beneath the clatter of the mop. Hot pain sprouted while cold water soaked her side through. She didn't have time to care. The creature started to drag her body through the puddle, reeling her in like she was the catch of the day.

The girl's hands scrabbled uselessly along the checkered tiles. She needed a hand hold, a purchase, anything to stop the living winch from dragging her into its machine-washable lair. She risked a glance back toward it, and noticed a mouth had come out of the shadows of the washer drum. Three circular rings of horrid yellowed fangs snarled from inside, like a garbage disposal made of flesh. It sounded like a garbage disposal too, deep growls and horrible gurgling filling the girl’s ears. More tentacles poked out of the machine, wriggling in a way that discouraged the idea of bones. Mallory had come across many invertebrates in her studies, but all of them had been dead in a lab tray. Was this karma? Panic shot through her chest and she flailed her arms more desperately. Her hand managed to catch on something, closing around it in a death grip, only to discover she had a hold of one of the rolling carts.

But it was the rolling cart with Mrs. Doyle's bottle of Clorox.

Somehow, Mallory's luck hadn't run out. Two of the cart's wheels were twisted the wrong way, which put up enough resistance to slow the monster's relentless pull. She managed to get an arm over the lip of the cart's basket and reached for the Clorox bottle with the other. It was close enough to touch, but just out of reach of grabbing. Her fingernails skittered over the smooth white plastic, useless.

The creature jerked her and the cart backward, sending the bottle spinning. The handle of it bumped into the palm of her hand. Mallory let out a strangled noise of triumphant disbelief.

Another jerk, another foot closer to the load of laundry from hell. As a kid, this was just the sort of thing she would have been terrified of, but she was an adult now. She could handle this. She'd worked her ass off to pay her own way through college, played the capitalists' game and nearly won, and she wasn't about to die here and waste it. She tossed a defiant glare toward the gaping tunnel of teeth and then let go of the cart.

The thing sensed the slack immediately and heaved her up into the air so fast that she almost hit the paper tile ceiling. She dangled there for a moment, upside down, feeling like an animal caught in a snare. The tentacle began to reel her in again, slow and methodical. The mouth began to drool, the blue saliva oozing over the teeth and to the floor. Mallory thought the spit looked way too much like her dollar store detergent to be funny.

As it pulled her in, she twisted herself so she could brace her feet against the machine's chrome finish. For a heart stopping second her wet sneakers slipped against the smooth metal and she almost lost her footing. She'd have to make this quick. She struggled to unscrew the child-proof cap on the bleach. At her resistance, more tentacles began throwing themselves around her middle. The maw smacked impatiently, the webby membrane functioning as lips throwing mucus everywhere. The girl gagged when the smell of its breath wafted towards her face: the pungency of dirty water and mildew.

Finally the cap came away with a hard yank. The monster yanked at her too, making the bleach slosh in the bottom of the bottle. Mallory wasted no time in dumping as much of it down the thing’s throat as she could. It wasn't easy— as soon as the Clorox met the creature's gullet, it screeched horribly and started jostling her around. Its grip loosened and she hit the floor with a splash. For a moment she lay there, stunned, watching the mob of tentacles pulse, writhe, and flail above her. It was disgusting, like watching night-crawlers squirm in the bucket before being used as bait.

Spurred on by adrenaline, Mallory scrambled up and grabbed the washer door. She slammed it as hard as she could, but it bounced back into her waiting hand. It was just like any other time she hadn't closed one hard enough, save for the wet squelch and pained, keening squeal that followed. Again she threw the door, and again it came back to her. The clutch of tentacles slapped at everything they could reach, trying in vain to recapture their prey. She smacked one away that came too close to her face.

One more hard slam, and the tentacles wilted in defeat. They began retreating, hastily slithering back into the washer drum. As soon as the monster had folded in on itself enough, Mallory shut the door and threw her weight against it to keep it that way. Her feet slipped in the water. The machine shook and rumbled as the thing writhed within, bumping against her cheek painfully.

Gradually, like the end of a normal spin cycle, the machine quieted down. Mallory refused to let go at first, sure that the creature was just playing dead. When she worked up the nerve to back away, her posture was stiff and tense in case it lunged for her again. The air conditioning kicked back on then and she shivered, her wet clothes making her chilly. They clung to her and she felt like she’d been dipped head to toe in a vat of detergent. Mallory huffed angrily. She was sure she'd never get the monster's mucus out of her clothes, and the irony of it wasn’t lost on her. All this just to wash her clothes at a cheaper rate? How annoying.

She stood there for another moment, just breathing. In and out.

The odd sensation she’d been feeling, the uneasiness in her mind, was gone. She wasn’t between anything any more, and she could only hope she was back where she came from. But where had she been? What was that? Did that really just happen? How the hell did that monster-octopus-kraken-thing get into a washing machine in a land-locked state?!

A loud ding came from Mallory's left and she jumped away, crashing into the dryer next to her. She stared at the glowing green light just a few feet away. When she realized what it was, she sunk to the floor in relief, not caring about the puddle in the slightest.

Her laundry was finished. Her clothes were clean.

[ggukdollsxe]

𝙂𝘼𝙈𝙀 𝙊𝙑𝙀𝙍; 𝙅.𝙅𝙆 21+ (𝙢) AMBW

ᴳᴬᴹᴱ ᴼⱽᴱᴿ; ᴶ.ᴶᴷ

ᴳᴱᴺᴿᴱ; ᴴᵃʳᵈᶜᵒʳᵉ!ˢᵐᵘᵗ ⁽⁺ ᶠˡᵘᶠᶠ⁾

ᵂᴬᴿᴺᴵᴺᴳˢ; ᴰᵒᵐ! ᴶᵘⁿᵍᵏᵒᵒᵏ/ˢᵘᵇ!ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ/ᵘⁿᵖʳᵒᵗᵉᶜᵗᵉᵈ ˢᵉˣ ⁽ᵈᵒⁿ'ᵗ ᵇᵉ ˢᶦˡˡʸ ʷʳᵃᵖ ʸᵒᵘʳ wᶦˡˡʸ⁾/ ᵒʳᵃˡ. ⁽ᴹ. ᴿᵉᶜᵉᶦᵛᶦⁿᵍ⁾/ ᵒᵛᵉʳˢᵗᶦᵐᵘˡᵃᵗᶦᵒⁿ/ ˢʷᵉᵃʳᶦⁿᵍ/ ᴵᵐᵖᵃᶜᵗ ᵖˡᵃʸ/ ᵒʳᵍᵃˢᵐ ᵈᵉⁿᶦᵃˡˢ.public

ˢʸᴺᴼᴾˢᴵˢ; ʸᵒᵘʳ ᵇᵒʸᶠʳᶦᵉⁿᵈ ᵒᶠ ᵐᵃⁿʸ ʸᵉᵃʳˢ ʰᵃˢ ᵗᵃᵏᵉⁿ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵒᶠ ᵃ ˡᶦᵏᶦⁿᵍ ᵗᵒʷᵃʳᵈˢ ʰᶦˢ ᵛᶦᵈᵉᵒ ᵍᵃᵐᵉˢ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ʸᵒᵘ. ᴮᵉᶦⁿᵍ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ʸᵒᵘ ʷᵃⁿᵗᵉᵈ ʰᶦˢ ᵃᵗᵗᵉⁿᵗᶦᵒⁿ ᵐᵒʳᵉ ᵗʰᵃⁿ ᵃⁿʸᵗʰᶦⁿᵍ. ᴬⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᵏⁿᵉʷ ʲᵘˢᵗ ʰᵒʷ ᵗᵒ ᵍᵉᵗ ᶦᵗ . . .

You loved your boyfriend. Truly you really did. Though there come times where you just can't stand him.  After being together for two years you can't help but notice his annoying habits. Like smacking when he eats or screaming loudly into his headset as he plays games with his best friends.

The most annoying one was the video games. You don't know why. But something about the technological world of video games has stolen all attention off you from your boyfriend. Because all he seemed to ever do is play games day and night. Never being considerate towards your feelings.

Especially when his habit left you up in the middle of the night on your days before you had to work. Resulting you to be in a very moody mess at work and being snappy at co-workers.

Everything seemed to evolve around games to your boyfriend as he had nothing better to do but play. Even when you wanted to cuddle and relax he'd be playing the game rather than paying attention to you. You had told him and confronted him about his habit.

The only time he was considerate and stopped playing games was then. Though then he started attending PC cafés and returning late at home during the nights. Which the both of you had fought over how he spent his money and time doing nothing.

Today you had enough of his foolishness. Today was the grand anniversary since the both of you met. You initially met through a dating app and through that app you made a connection. You were surprised he matched his picture when you first met. It was love at first sight.

And he was more of a boyfriend then. Now he just seems to never want to be around you anymore. You got up that morning and took a shower and then got dressed to soon leave for an appointment. You had wanted to go and get new hair style and buy a new outfit tonight. Once outside you walk down to the nearest bus station and you feel a sudden wave of nervousness.

You were so nervous about the possibility of what could happen tonight. It seemed that whenever you had your anniversary he strained away from his games and he actually paid attention to you. Plus he was more romantic during times like these. You think you need to be glamorous tonight since Jungkook probably had something spectacular planned. Last year he took you to a fancy dinner and you both had sex for the first time together. Let's just say he's amazing in bed.

To you that was the most magical night ever especially since you lost your virginity to him and he was so romantic and gentle with you. Kissing like there was no tomorrow making you feel good all around your body. You hum in delight at the thought of seeing that side of Jungkook.

Once the bus arrived you hopped on and took a seat.  You were being messaged by your friend nonstop since she had wanted to give her opinion on the outfit you get at the mall. You first stop being the hairdresser. You get off the bus once you arrive.

Stepping inside the hairdresser r&b silently played as women of all colors sat around either waiting or getting their hair done. Most of them were too distracted by the tv watching The View. Or  others conversing about their men.  When you step in you wave hi and all the women wave at you.

You take a seat nearest the entrance and place your bag in front of you. "Ooh. Your nails look so cute!" A much younger girl sat next to you says as she pulls at your hands to get a good look. "Where'd you get them done at?" She asked and you answered her telling her about the nail place downtown.

You were then left to yourself instead of watching and conversing with anyone. You are on your phone. Waiting for a message from Jungkook hopefully messaging you a happy anniversary or something. You check the time and see it would roughly be the time he would wake up.  

You assume he was probably sleeping since he had come home late last night from playing games again. You didn't expect him to wake up soon. As you wait for your turn to get your hair done one of the ladies talks about her man. "I'm honestly getting my hair done because my man doesn't bother noticing me. He's very distant . .." she trailed off and another went, "mine too. I however found out he cheated me so I dumped his ass," she said a few women laugh.

She then went on to explain how he would come up with excuses where he would be going and saying stuff like he was hanging out with friends. Though she wasn't the only one dealing with a cheating man about half of them had. Some were planning to be extra with exposing their asses. Like showing up when they are in the act.

"What about you?" A girl asked you suddenly and you didn't know what to say. Some of them had faithful men who were giving them attention and others were unfaithful. How do you describe yours? Deadbeat? A man-child. Game addict who doesn't want anything to do with you sometimes.

"Mine, he's great ..." you trailed off and she says, " . . . But." You felt embarrassed feeling like a total loser in this case. It was honestly embarrassing to even discuss with your friends. "My boyfriend is a few years younger than me and he's a little childish," you say the girls then 'oh' in unison.

"Man-child, Girl that couldn't be me," one had said and another laughed and joined. "I honestly wouldn't date a guy like that." All the girls agreed and spoke how they would go mad with a guy like that. You couldn't help but feel to agree a little. You don't know how'd you put up with him yourself.

You honestly hope he'd be different after tonight maybe even talk with him seriously about the issue. Or you might have to break up especially when you were the only one being productive in this relationship. Soon enough you get your hair started and tell your stylist the style you want which was a simple bob cut with bleached frontal highlights .

It may take maybe a few hours till you finally get your hair finished and done. You paid two-hundred for it and got on another bus to go to the mall. When you arrive at the mall you hit up a few stores one of them being Victoria Secret. Since you had wanted to buy a new bra set especially for tonight.

Entering the store you head over to the size you needed and grab out the bra you check once or twice to see if the number and letter were correct. You decide to buy a navy blue lace underwear set that you knew would go well against your rich dark skin. You were walking around the mall some more. Checking out clothing stores for a certain dress you thought about wearing.

You want something sexy yet classy. Something you knew would gain your boyfriend's attention. Make him flustered and want to kiss you all over. Possibly even tear it off you. Your imagination filled you as you thought of Jungkook getting so worked up when he saw you in a dress so sexy he couldn't control himself.

You stumble upon the perfect dress when inside a boutique. It was a backless black mini dress with a neckline halter. You thought it was perfect especially since Jungkook would love seeing you in something like that. Especially when it gave easier access to your back which he loved marking you with love bites and watching you gasp out a moan.

You bought it and headed home when you arrived back to your place. Jungkook wasn't home. You thought this was very lucky as you had spent the past few hours working on your makeup and showering.  You got yourself dolled up and dressed to pristine. It was five when you had finished getting yourself together.  You were then starting to wonder what came of your boyfriend since he hasn't been here for a while.

Jungkook definitely didn't have work today and PC cafés were closed on weekends.  You sighed and texted your boyfriend to see where he was. He messaged back instantly saying he had gone shopping and wouldn't be back till later.  You knew he was lying. Though you gave the benefit of the doubt hoping he'd at least remember your anniversary.

That's when time passes and it's eight o' clock your reservations to the restaurant would have been claimed by now. You were sitting on your couch miserable. Mostly because you didn't think he'd remember.  You cursed under your breath and began taking off the bracelet around your arm that Jungkook bought you when you first started dating.

Also taking off the earrings and other accessories.  You didn't think he'd forget. You wonder where he was playing games at. You got up from the couch and grabbed your phone from the kitchen aisle. You text one of his close friends Taehyung.

TAEHYUNG

hey.

Y/N, something wrong you never text me?

Yeah, is Jungkook with you?

No, but he's at the pc café.

PC café aren't they closed today?

He convinced the owner to let him be there.  

Does he even know what today is?

What is it?

Our Anniversary.

Oh shit!

I'll go meet him thanks for telling me.

No Problem.

You felt your heart break into two having learned your boyfriend would much rather play games than to care about your anniversary.  You get up from your couch as your lips quiver and you blink back tears. Trying to calm yourself. This having been the last straw you wanted to break up at this point.

You grabbed your phone and bag and headed out to the PC café. Once having arrived you spot your boyfriend outside the window seeing him sat in a desk chair as his hands tapped furiously at the keyboard and his face was full of concentration. "Dick..."you muttered under your lips.

You pull open the door having a bell alert that you were entering. Though not even that gained his attention. You walk down the aisle of computers and make your way towards him. You stop in front of him and he just gives you a small glance. "Hey, Y/N," he said as he tried to kill whatever was on his screen.

"Hey, that's all you can say." You crossed your arms and stared at him with disgust. "Yoongi, what the hell shoot the guy!" He yells into his headphones. He was on call with his friends while he played. "Jungkook do you even know what today is?" You asked, though, your boyfriend continued to ignore you again by yelling at another person.

You tried speaking to him and he just didn't listen. You had the temptation to just leave. Though you remained where you were. "Fuck you Namjoon!" He cursed as he pressed hard against the arrow keys of the keyboard.  

You look at the screen and then at your boyfriend. An idea came to mind and with that idea a smirk formed on your face. You thought since he had ruined your night why not ruin his. You put down your purse and phone. You got down on your knees. Jungkook notices a bit though his eyes went back to his screen immediately.  "Y/N why don't you go home? I'll meet you in a few." He said

You had other ideas. You crawled up under the desk so you wouldn't be in view of the large window that anyone walking by wouldn't see what you were doing. "Y/N what are you doing?" He asked you don't speak to him, instead you poke your head out and run your hands down his clothed thigh. He jolts a bit under your touch.

"Y/N!" He whispers, shouts and you see he was a little surprised by your action. That he was slowly starting to notice you. You unzipped his pants and pulled out his length from his boxers. Forcing his pants down a little so you could have full access. He lets out a gasp and a small moan. Which immediately bit his lip to contain it. He tried using his hands to stop you but he stopped to continue playing since bothering you only was making him lose.

"Y/N, stop."he said and you don't listen. You lick a small strip against the tip and his body began to shiver as he gasped again. You gave little licks around the head and kisses against the shaft. He was biting back moans and you looked up seeing this pissed off expression on his face and he glanced down at you.  You smirk at him as you swirl your tongue around his tip. His face comforts while having a sharp intake of air.

"Stop," was all he could say. You shake your head and you put the tip of it into your mouth. His lips part as he eyes wince as you pull yourself off the tip and kiss it again. He then moans a little too loud which he excused as a stomachache to his friends.

He pants as he's playing the game. Once you started placing your lips further around his shaft and wrapping your hands around the base of his cock. He croaks and he then cursed under his breath. "Y/N!"

You move your mouth and in an up and down motion. As Saliva coaxed his shaft. Jungkook squirmed underneath you as small whimpers escaped his lips. "Please . . . Y/N," he begged his face flushed as his eyes tried to focus on his game. You sucked on his cock some more even grazing your teeth against the sensitive skin. Making Jungkook yelp in response.

Soon enough his hands are off the keyboard and he lets out a grunt. "I got killed!" He said his eyes glued down onto you. And he looked pissed, you pulled back and stared up at your boyfriend a smirk on your face. "What's going on, why would you do that?" He asked, speaking quietly as he was still on call with his friends.

You don't respond, you just stare at him. He is looking at you for an answer and seeing as he was going to get any he pulled you up from out underneath your spot. And he forced you on his lap. He took off his headphones and pressed mute on the guys or so he thought. He stared up at you, his arms wrapped around your hips. His hard erection was between your warmth and his eyes full of lust and need.

"Why are dresses like this?" He asked, noticing the get up you were wearing. "Did you do your hair too?" You sighed and hit him against his chest. He grunts and response and give you a 'what the fuck' look.  "You dumbass I can't believe you forgot!" You raise your voice gaining back all the anger you were feeling before arriving here.

You slip off his lap and stand up for yourself and lean against the monitor. "All you ever do is play dumb games when you should be thinking about me," you say and Jungkook puts back in his member inside his pants as he stares back at you confused. "What are you going on about?"

"I'm the only one who puts effort into this relationship. But I'm sick and tired of you Jungkook!" You yell and he furrows his brows. "What's up?" He tried reaching for your hand but you swat it away. "You forgot our anniversary dipshit!"

Soon enough Jungkook's confused expression changes and he's now looking at you guilty and surprised. "Shit." Was all he could reply with. He ran his hands through his black locks as his gaze dropped to the ground. "How did I forget?" He asked himself and you don't hesitate you point to the monitor behind.

"Since day one you've been obsessed with this game and cared less about me. I tried working it out, but Jungkook I think we need to—" he stands up abruptly and he shakes his head profusely. "No,no,no don't say that. Please don't," his voice quivering as he stared at you with hurt and tried to cup your face but you brush it off.

"Break up, let's break up. Seeing as you don't love me anymore," you voice chokes once having said that. Jungkook looks at you surprised once you do say it. "I don't love you anymore? Y/N I'm crazy about you," he said and you look around and then back at him. "Then why are you here and not with me?" You asked

He didn't  respond back and you scoffed, "right, because you're so in love with me," you were sarcastic and angry. You glance at him and he just doesn't say anything.  You couldn't believe this. Having wasted so many years and this guy had nothing to say.

You pulled yourself together and grabbed your phone and purse. You were about to head out but Jungkook latched his hand onto your wrist. "Y/N," he said hurt in his tone. He looked up and his eyes met yours. And you saw how hurt he was and how tear stained his cheeks were becoming.  "Please don't go." He says in a whisper.

You felt yourself waver and you tried to stand your ground and you pulled off his grasp. And he only latched onto you more by pulling you by your waist. His lips soon connected with yours. You were hesitant and didn't kiss back as his lips meshed with yours passionately and with need.

You held your eyes open as he fluttered close. Your eyes followed the trail of tears falling down his face. You reach towards his face and rub the wetness off his cheeks. His eyes fluttered open and you bore at each other as his lips were still connected with yours.

To say that Jungkook wasn't a great boyfriend would have been a lie. Sure he was a game obsessed one. Though he had his moments. Especially when you were sad he knew just how to comfort you with cuddles and sweet kisses as whispered sweet nothings against them.

Plus he was funny, always joking around when you tried to be serious. And he was sweet. Super shy and had an amazing laugh. You found yourself being overwhelmed before you knew it you kissed him back much harder and you pulled him in close. He's taken aback by your response though he doesn't mind.

His lips move passionately with yours and he pulls closer to him to the point your bodies are together. His hips rub against yours and you let out a moan . "I wanna make love to you." Was all that he said. You didn't quite understand though seeing the way he was looking at you. You knew he was turned on by the sight of your dress. "Let's go home then," you say with a smile on your face though he shakes his head. "Right here."

"Right here?" You questioned and he nods in response. "I wanna do it now. I wanna bend you over this table and have you begging for me." You smirk at the kinky aura of your boyfriend.  "You sure, there's a big window over there and I'm sure people could see us," you said.

"Let them see.." before you could rebuttal he picks you up and sits you on the desk  of the monitor. He began kissing your lips again this time hungrier and more needy.  He cups your face as he does so.  You moan in the kiss feeling a slight bliss of emotions.

You didn't expect tonight to be this way. Especially with your boyfriend who seemed more dominant than usual. His hands gripped at your hips as he rubs himself against you. Making you gasp once having felt his erection against your thigh.

He smirks and stops kissing to whisper into your ear. "You're so intoxicating... I can't help myself." It sent a shiver down your spine. As he grinds up against you more. You let mewl which you bit your lip from having let out. He chuckles darkly and begins kissing your ears.

Biting against the lobe enough to make you moan out again. "You sound so cute moaning like that," he says as you squirm underneath and he puts his lips to jaw then all the way to your collarbone. He sucks gently against your soft skin making you whimper.

His hands followed down your body as he worked your neck with love bites. His hands trailed your body till they stopped at your thigh. He stops kissing you and pulls back to look at you again. "Fuck."

His hand inched closer to your area making you feel tingly and excited. "You look so good tonight." He said a growl escaping his lips soon after. "Let's skip the foreplay I want you to ride my fingers," he said

He pulled up your dress up to your navel and he pulled down your underwear. His long fingers slither down to your opening. He begins rubbing at the lips. You gasp out for air and lean your head back. "Are you already this wet? We'd barely done anything," he chuckled lightly as he forced a finger inside of you, making you jolt up and you cried out,  "not so much!"

He sees that you were a little nervous and slowly enters the finger fully inside you. He waited a bit for you to adjust to him. You gasp and pant while trying to catch your breath. You glance over to the window and don't see anyone in sight. "Jungkook I—"

He had suddenly added in another finger making you shake under him. You whine and he smirks. "Baby, you know you don't call me that when we have sex," he said a smug grin on his face.  You cursed under your breath. "Fuck you, Sir."

He then adds in another you lean forward crashing your head into his body as another cry escaped your lips.  "Fuck!" He chuckles at you being so sensitive. He then starts to move his fingers in and out of you. You were having trouble to stop your body from quivering at the sweet movements. Jungkook had you wrap your arms around him as you sank your head in his neck and let out moans.

"You're tight," he comments, seeing as your wall was clenching around his fingers as he pushed further into your cervix. His thumb rubs the small of your clit making you moan more as squelches and sounds came more out of you. More pressure building up inside with how stimulating he was making you feel.

"I don't think we will need a condom with how wet you are," he says while laughing. "Jungkook, I can't take it—" you pant out and he rubs your clit more making your legs shake and your stomach flutter.  "I'm gonna cum!" You moan out and you soon feel yourself release your hips buck forward and you cry out loud as Jungkook still moves inside you as you ride your orgasm.

When you have settled down he pulls down his pants and boxers. "Turn around and bend over," he said you were jelly-legged and could barely get up to move. You jump down from the desk and slowly turn yourself and bend down in front of him. That's when his large set of hands slapped hard against you making your release a whimper.

He slapped you again on your ass and you moan another time. He then teases your cunt with his tip. As he massaged it against your lips and clit. He slapped  you again and you buck forward. "Sir, please I can't wait anymore!" You say aloud.

Jungkook smirks and pushed himself inside though he struggled as gasps and moans escaped his lips. You were so tight around him that he felt like he could explode any minute of being inside you. "Shit, baby.." he bit his lip hard and fully put himself in.

Once he was fully in and began thrusting into you. With a rhythmic and slow motion. You were moaning as he was pushing up against your walls making you clench even more. You felt like coming again especially with him now inside.  "Jungkook I'm gonna cum—"

He smacks your ass again and leans down close to your ear.  "You can't not yet , we just started." His pace slowly increased as you went along and the more built up you became from your stomach. Your boyfriend was moaning like there was no tomorrow, much louder than yours. You couldn't help but feel a little more turned on.  The sound of his skin slapping against yours and the feeling of his body pressed against you. As his lips kiss your back. It was just sweet bliss at that moment.

He slammed hard against you practically hitting your g-spot at this point making you  quiver in this state. "Jungkook! I can't—" Another hard thrust sent your body forward. Your boyfriend kissed the nape of your neck as he fucked you. His moans filling your ears.  "Not yet baby. You deserve a punishment especially after making me lose the game," he said

His hips bounced against yours and you were already going to explode with the amount of pressure that was building up inside you.  "Please!" You cry and Jungkook grips your hips, he begins to buckle above you as he stops moaning for a moment and gasps. "Fuck—I—I'm gonna cum," he thrust into you some more panting hard into your ear this time.

"Jungkook!"

"Y/N! come with me baby," he pants and you are finally given permission to cum. Your back arch as your legs shook and your stomach stirred up. You whine as your orgasm escapes you. Jungkook soon pulls out of you and cums onto you his moans filling your ears. As you soon settled to whimpers. The both of you were panting as you came down from your highs.

And Jungkook pulled you from being bent over he helped put back on your underwear and slid down the dress. He also sat you down in the chair. You were tired from having done all that and he could tell. His hands roamed your face as he leaned down and kissed your lips. You kiss back tiredly and with less effort.

"Babe, I'm tired," you say and he nods kissing you more. "I'll take you home. Let me just turn off the game and get going," he turns his back to you and then to his monitor and that when his jaw drops and lets out a gasp.  "Shit . . . Shit." He cursed and you peered at him. "What's wrong?" You asked

He pulled up the headset he had and spoke, "the microphone was on." He puts it on and hears laughter coming from the other side. "Shit we've been caught," Laughed Jimin

"Dude, I think I might be bisexual," Taehyung said laughing as well and more snarky comments came from his friends he hung up the call and exited the game. His face became bright red when he turned to face you. "Baby they heard us!" He whines as he goes over to you with a pout on his face.

"Jungkook, I'm sure that less worse. When we're being watched," you say and point over to the band of people who had shocked expressions on their faces. "Fuck," was all he could say.