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foredelweiss · 4 months

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car rides home | myg

summary: How could you have known that one day you'd wake up feeling more for Min Yoongi. Unfortunately, he can't seem to view you as anything other than a little sister.

In other words, a series of happenings as Min Yoongi drove you home.

pairing: min yoongi x reader | word count: 5.9k | genre: romance

warnings: age gap between the pairing, open ending, unreliable narrator, a lot of confusing skips, unanswered questions, dialogue heavy, Jungkook makes a random appearance.

author's note: I really tried with this fic. December was supposed to be a happy month for me, but I fell into a mental state of sadness. At first, I didn't want to share this fic because I refuse to give anything mediocre, but I also didn't want to take it with me to the next year. I worked on this story as a way to cope with my negative emotions since I was so excited to write it, but because I did it when I did, it's associated to a lot blue feelings that I don't want to come back to. As a result, the story didn't turn out the way that I hoped, and I apologize for it not being as good as I promised to deliver. After thinking about it for some time, I decided to post this because I also didn't want to leave the readers that shared my same excitement hanging.

This was inspired by the c-drama 'Hidden Love' and a little of my real life. I hope you are still able to enjoy this piece despite the circumstances. Thank you for a lovely year, and I hope to spend the next together as well. Happy new years!

One of your biggest regrets in life was not accepting your aunt’s marriage proposal to Min Yoongi when you were seven years old.

Although you weren't related to her by blood, you called Mrs. Min your aunt because your mom and she were close friends. Like many friends who become mothers, they sought to establish a similar kind of friendship between their children, so you were often at her house to play. Your aunt was an outgoing woman with a cheerful demeanour and a penchant for ludicrous ideas. They would come spontaneously and be forgotten a few days later, but a particular one would always resurface in your mind.

“How about you marry Yoongi, Y/n?” she joked.

Your face twisted in disgust, and you even stopped peeling your tangerine out of the pure ridiculousness of her suggestion. “Eww, auntie! I don’t want to marry him.”

She cackled loudly at your response. It was what one would expect from a seven-year-old, but being the middle-aged woman that she was, she continued probing out of curiosity and for entertainment. After all, the possibility of you, her closest friend’s child, becoming her daughter-in-law was quite enticing.

“Why not? Isn’t he handsome? He even takes you and Yoonji to the park whenever you guys ask,” she said, looking in her son's direction for a reaction, but, like any fourteen-year-old boy, he was too distracted with his Nintendo DS to have heard his own mother offering him away.

“He’s old, and I just don't want to," you said, shaking your head. Your pigtails swung back and forth as you vehemently denied your aunt. You didn’t remember Yoongi’s age; you only knew that it had two numbers.

At your adamance, Mrs. Min chuckled. “I was just kidding,” she said as she grabbed the tangerine that you had abandoned, carefully peeling off the rest of the skin and then handing you the fruit, which you gladly accepted and ate. “What else do you think is wrong with him? I thought you liked being with Yoongi.”

“Nothing. I like Yoongi, but I just don’t want to marry him,” you said honestly. You enjoyed playing with Yoonji, and Yoongi always happened to be there when the two of you needed someone to play a horse. Marrying him wasn’t something necessary.

Oh, if only you had accepted back then. You wouldn't have to shamelessly pine now if you had said yes.

You loved Fridays. They were the only days you got to see him.

Yoongi: I’ll be arriving soon

Instinctively, your lips effortlessly curved into a subtle smile upon seeing his name on the screen of your phone.

You: I’m already waiting for you in the lobby

After replying, you turned off your device and leaned back into the scratchy seat. Ever since you started university a couple of months ago, Yoongi drove you home every weekend. The city that you grew up in was an hour away from Seoul, and while commuting every day wasn’t a problem, you decided to rent an apartment near your campus with Jisoo, your friend from high school, instead. It was more convenient, and you got to gain some sense of independence. As shameful as it was to admit, most of the cooking and cleaning was taken care of by your mother, so you weren’t the most skilled in those aspects; living away forced you to develop them. From Monday to Friday, you stayed in the capital to study. On Saturday and Sunday, you were back at your parent’s place. Since Yoongi worked in Seoul, he offered to drive you home every time.

While you waited, you looked out of the glass doors every couple of minutes, eager to catch a glimpse of his car among the passing vehicles. You would get a little disappointed whenever you realised it wasn't him. However, after a short while, he finally pulled up to the front of your apartment complex.

You stood up and gathered your belongings, deliberately moving more slowly than one usually would to conceal your impatience.

Like the gentleman that he was, Yoongi was already out of the car, ready to take your small suitcase of used clothes—embarrassingly, laundry was not something you had mastered—and your backpack to place them in the trunk. Swiftly after handing your bags to him, you found yourself restraining from openly staring at the muscles of his arms as they flexed while he loaded them. He had to rearrange some boxes of who knows what to make space for your things, so for your own sake, you decided to get in the passenger seat first. However, it didn't take long before Yoongi finished. Fastening his seatbelt, he glanced around at his surroundings before driving off.

As always, the first ten minutes of the trip were silent, with only a pop song from a pre-made playlist of hits serving as background noise. You didn’t know what it was, but starting conversations with him was always challenging. It wasn’t because you didn’t have anything to say; in fact, you wanted to tell him a lot. You were afraid he would find it annoying. Despite knowing each other since childhood, you couldn’t discern if the two of you were close enough anymore to delve into the details of your day-to-day—it was always the generic 'how was your day? Good, and yours?' back and forth. While you both used to play together, at one point, he outgrew those childish activities, leaving Yoonji and you to your own devices. The many hours of running around the park reduced to brief, second-long greetings.

Yoongi was generally a quiet person, a man of few words, speaking only what he considered necessary. It wasn’t as if he didn’t speak to you; sometimes, you’d get a small glimpse of his life. He would tell you about the annoying clients he had or the dinner he had with his coworkers, but it was rare and sporadic. Normally, it’d be discussions of the movies and shows that were currently trending.

“How is your university treating you?” Yoongi asked, breaking the silence.

You contemplated your response, letting out a few filler ‘ums’ and ‘ems’ to buy you a few milliseconds. “It’s fine so far,” you said, wondering if you should say more. Although you were hesitant, you chose to continue. “I've been getting a lot of group assignments, but I'm not sure how I feel about them.”

"I used to get a lot of them too when I was a student. They suck sometimes, but you’ll get used to it," he said, turning the volume of the music down. It wasn't loud enough to overlap with your speaking, but Yoongi always thought your voice leaned more toward the quiet side. "Thankfully, most of the people I worked with were responsible, so I didn’t have a lot of problems."

His reply opened a dam of frustration that you didn’t know you were holding back. You proceeded to tell him about the douche who tricked you into letting him into your team—about the guy who messaged at ten o'clock at night, asking to join you and your friend for a chemistry assignment with the promise of doing his part, and shamelessly told you to write his name on the presentation page of the homework that he didn’t contribute to.

"When I asked him to send me the process, guess what? He had the audacity to pass me the work that belonged to another friend, thinking I wouldn’t know it wasn’t his!" you said with a little too much passion. The crease between your eyebrows deepened as you talked about it more. “He treated me like an idiot.”

Yoongi chuckled, amused at the situation. “What happened then?”

"I wanted to confront him, but at the same time, I didn’t want to stir up any trouble or have bad blood with anyone, so I just let it go,” you sighed. “I didn’t even tattle on him."

He hummed, thinking of his next words carefully. “Next time, you should report it to your professor. Even if he got away with it this once, the consequences will catch up to him at some point.”

"He even had the nerve to ask me if our project received a good grade. Can you believe him?"

You continued rambling about the other things that had annoyed you—the group that turned in a project without giving you a heads up, the ugly flower arrangement that you had bought as a gift, the day that your black water bottle got lost—until he dropped you off at your parents' house. Yoongi laughed and commented at certain points, and it wasn’t until much later that you realised how different today’s drive was from the usual. Although you didn’t get to hear much about him, a small part of you was happy that you two got to talk about things other than the inconsequential topics that were circulating online.

Falling for Min Yoongi was easy, but it wasn't instant. There was a time when you didn't overthink, shamelessly asking him for favours. He would comply, but not without some grumbling and complaining. He normalised the idea that people go out of their way for others. It wasn't until later that you realised this wasn't the norm for most.

Your school’s cafeteria was not built for the number of students that the institution had admitted. It was worse when the menu being served was Mrs. Jung’s, the lunch lady’s, famous chicken noodle soup.

“Let’s just eat the leftover bread from breakfast,” you said, tugging Yoonji’s arm.

The air conditioner in the cafeteria had been out of order for a couple of days, and today, the weather was unusually hot. The stench of sweat hung heavy in the air, and the thought of pushing through the crowd of sweaty bodies to reach the already long lunch line made your skin crawl.

Who would want hot soup in such a hot weather?

"But I'm really craving those noodles," Yoonji said, craning her neck as if searching for someone. “Mrs. Jung only cooks them once a month, so we have to get a bowl.”

You understood her sentiment. There was a reason the entire school was lining up for the rich-flavoured light soup. Its taste was incomparable to anything served at restaurants. Normally, you’d insist on getting a bowl too, but the heat combined with the sweaty and sticky bodies killed any craving you had.

Who would want hot soup in such a hot weather? Everyone, apparently.

“Are you trying to pull your neck off? Stop moving so much,” you said, slightly irritated, as you gave the back of her head a light slap. There were already enough people pushing and shoving.

“Are you stupid? I’m looking for Yoongi,” she retorted before dragging you through the crowd, making your nose scrunch in disgust.

For some unknown reason, twelfth-year students could skip lines, though whether it was officially allowed was unclear, and there were no apparent consequences. It was annoying and unfair to some degree, but you guessed they were allowed since it was their last year eating cafeteria food; they must savour it while they could. You weren’t too bothered by it this year because that benefit indirectly extended to you. Yoongi was in his last year, and he didn't have to wait in line, so sometimes he'd buy food for you and Yoonji.

"Are you stupid? Text him," you said, yanking Yoonji in another direction toward a table that was surprisingly and coincidentally open. You sat her down on one of the chairs before seating yourself on the opposite side. "Tell him to come to us."

Yoonji looked at you, flabbergasted. “You’re a genius.”

A few minutes later, a tray with two bowls of piping hot chicken noodle soup was placed on your table. At the edge of the table stood Yoongi, his expression bored, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

"I'm not doing this again," Yoongi declared as he set each individual bowl of soup in front of the two of you, taking care to place a spoon and a pair of chopsticks neatly beside them too. “I’m not a waiter, and you guys have hands and feet for a reason.”

Yoongi's complaint fell on deaf ears. Disregarding him, you picked up your utensils and began to eat. Twirling the noodles onto your spoon with chopsticks, you brought it to the front of your lips, taking a satisfying mouthful. Your initial enjoyment lasted mere seconds as you, with pursed lips, began to blow out quick streams of air while fanning your mouth, attempting to alleviate the unexpectedly intense heat.

Yoongi tsked with a smirk. “Serves you right,” he said before walking away.

Not long after he left, your friends Jisoo and Yoojung, their hair dishevelled and a few beads of sweat clinging to their temples, approached your table with trays in hand, wearing a triumphant yet exhausted expression.

"I think I lost an earring while we were waiting," Jisoo said, settling into the chair beside you. She touched her right earlobe, as if there were a slim chance she was mistaken or that her earring might reappear, but alas, it was empty.

Yoojung, panting slightly, took a seat beside Yoonji. “It’s so unfair that the older kids don’t have to wait,” she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “We had to fight to even earn a spot in line. ”

"How did you guys manage to buy lunch so quickly? We left the classroom before the two of you," Jisoo said as she blew on the broth to cool it.

Yoonji, without looking up, continued slurping her noodles. "Special privileges, my friends. Special privileges," she said, pointing towards Yoongi with the back of her chopsticks. “Bro’s in year twelve.”

"I asked Jin too, but he completely ignored me when I texted him," Jisoo said with a slight roll of her eyes and a small pout on her lips. She stabbed a piece of beef to emphasise her annoyance. "He's a good-for-nothing brother."

Yoonji snorted. “Yoongi is also a good-for-noth—”

Abruptly, four cartons of juice and one of strawberry milk were placed on the table. Condensation dripped from them, slightly soaking the surface. The four of you stopped your eating and stared at the figure that brought the drinks.

“Who’s a what?” Yoongi said, flicking Yoonji’s forehead.

"Why did you buy so many drinks?" Yoonji asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity and a hint of scepticism. “You look stupid.”

"Are your friends not worthy of quenching their thirst or what?" he said, giving your forehead a flick. Although his voice remained monotonous, it was thickly laced with sarcasm.

You shot him a look, your eyes narrowing in indignation. “I didn’t say anything?”

"You didn't defend my honour," he said casually, a nonchalant shrug accompanying his words while he handed out each of the juice boxes. Yoongi didn’t care much for the things you kids were saying, but he found it entertaining to mess with you guys. “Seventh graders shouldn’t be insulting their elders.”

"I want the strawberry milk," you said, just as he handed you the apple-flavoured drink.

"Too bad, it’s mine," he said as he tore the plastic covering off the straw and poked it through the thin aluminium covering. Just as you thought he was going to drink it, he switched the strawberry milk for your apple juice. "Just kidding," he said and chuckled at your somewhat disappointed expression, his gummy smile on display. He ruffled your hair before playfully tapping your nose with his index finger.

Suddenly, butterflies invaded your stomach. The feeling was foreign, but it wasn’t unwelcome.

“Are we swapping? I prefer apples over grapes,” Yoojung said.

“Catch,” Yoongi said, tossing the juice carton that he had just exchanged with you towards the girl, who skillfully caught it. Just as she was about to pass him hers, Yoongi dismissed himself. “Keep it for yourself for later. I have to get going now. Later, kiddos.”

Today’s trip was another one filled with complaints, but the disgruntled voice expressing them wasn’t yours; it belonged to Yoongi. An intern messed up, and he had to do work that wouldn’t have been necessary if it wasn’t for his coworker’s mistake. To your disappointment, he didn’t provide many details, but he did answer all the questions you asked.

"The intern kept explaining himself, but with every word he uttered, it only worsened his situation," Yoongi said, stopping to honk with a hint of aggravation at the small Kia Picanto that almost bumped into the front of his car while trying to cut in. "Who gave that guy his licence? Didn’t even use his turn signals," he muttered under his breath.

"What happened after that?" you asked, subtly shifting your posture upright as if you were the person being reprimanded, even though his road rage wasn't directed at you. "I'm guessing the files weren't that important if an intern was handling them. Did you guys manage to restore them?"

Rhythmically tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, he rested his head against the hand pressed against the window and contemplated how, in detail, he should answer you. “Those files were important, but I suppose I didn't convey that well enough. The intern usually follows directions quite well, so I'm certain he wouldn't have made the mistake if he fully understood how important they were.”

"Maybe he just sucked at his job," you said, chuckling lightly. Yoongi always gave people the benefit of the doubt; you figured this situation might be one of those instances.

Yoongi glanced at you, a small smile playing on his lips. "Well, he certainly isn’t the best at organising, it seems," he replied, his tone a mix of annoyance and amusement. "But honestly, everyone has their off days. It just so happened that today was his, and I had to pay the price for it."

"I get it. Just a joke," you said, leaning back and relaxing into the seat. As the traffic eased, Yoongi accelerated, seamlessly switching lanes. The sun began its descent, casting a warm glow, and your eyelids grew heavier. "I still remember how furious Jisoo was when I misplaced the contract for our apartment," you hummed, allowing a quiet yawn to slip through.

“You’re learning about the world of adults now,” he said with a chuckle. “There’s still a lot that you have yet to experience.”

A small grin remained on his face after saying that. He couldn’t wait for you to discover all the things that life had to offer. He wanted to see the kind of expressions you would make after experiencing the pizazz of living in the big city—the excitement of going out at night with your friends and the madness of calculating the bills with your roommate.

“Stop talking as if you’re an old man,” you said with a playful roll of your eyes.

You’re learning about the world of adults now.

Those words sounded bittersweet. You had finally entered his world, but he still seemed slightly out of reach. In his eyes, you were still a child who didn’t know their way around. It frustrated you, but you were also glad. You weren’t adult enough to be with him, yet not quite adult enough for him to be with you. A small, insecure side of you believed that if you knew a little more, he wouldn’t be walking the rough roads that he had already once passed to patiently guide you. Although, a big part knew that wouldn’t be true. Yoongi was always going to help you.

“I’m finally learning about the world of adults,” you said under your breath.

With the hand that wasn’t on the wheel, he gave your cheek a poke with his index finger. He seemed to like poking your face a lot. “Don’t sound so disheartened, silly. You’ll get used to it eventually.”

As time progressed, conversation flowed more easily. While a tinge of hesitance still lingered, you came to understand that the quiet between the two of you wasn't one of indifference but rather of tranquillity.

Today was different from the other Fridays. Instead of picking you up after work, Yoongi came for you early in the morning.

You were still sleeping when you received his phone call. While the air conditioner blasted cold air, you remained snug and warm beneath your weighted blanket. The sun’s rays shone through your sheer curtains, yet you remained inside your dreams until a ringing pulled you out.

At first, you ignored it. Your body could tell that this hour wasn’t the one to wake up at. Out of reflex, you felt around your bed to silence the incessant sound of what you thought was your alarm. However, after a few too many seconds of patting around, you forced your eyes open, desperately searching for the source of the persistent noise.

Displayed on the device was a caller screen with Yoongi’s name displayed as the ID. As you squinted at the bright screen, the realization hit you like a jolt of electricity. Yoongi, calling at this time? Feeling more awake, you swiped to answer with nervousness and a hint of curiosity.

“Hello?” you said, voice raspy and dry from morning dehydration.

"Hey, sorry to wake you up so early," Yoongi's voice echoed through the phone's speaker. "Today's my mom's birthday. We're heading back earlier. Can you be ready in, say, twenty minutes?"

Your eyebrows furrowed, and a yawn escaped as you fumbled for coherence. "Why didn't you give me a heads up?" you mumbled, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "Twenty minutes won't cut it. You’ll just have to wait."

By the time Yoongi arrived at your apartment, he had to wait patiently as you finished applying your makeup. He sat into one of the two spare chairs in your room, quietly scrolling through his phone while waiting. The minutes passed in comfortable silence, occasionally interrupted by the gentle tapping of a brush against a palette when you removed the excess product, until Yoongi asked about breakfast.

"I already ate before coming over, but you didn't, so where do you want to eat?" he asked, turning his attention to you as you delicately tapped your cheeks with your stained ring finger.

Moving aside the liquid blush, you picked up the powder blush. "No, it's fine. I lost my card and don't have any cash on me," you said, your tone nonchalant as you continued with your makeup routine. The soft strokes of the brush seamlessly blended the powder onto your skin, creating a subtle rosy hue. “My plan was to grab a bite at the university and drop by the bank to get everything sorted before you came over, but I'll handle that another day.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “Who said that you were paying?”

Your heart skipped a beat, and an involuntary smile played on your lips at his words. You gently tapped your brush over your cheeks, pretending that the smile was merely a result of applying blush. “Can we go to Hope’s Coffee?”

"I don’t see why not," Yoongi said, his tone casual and easygoing, a nonchalant shrug accompanying his agreement.

With a plan in motion, it took you a couple more minutes to get ready before the two of you headed out. Though you attempted to be as quick as possible, you had previously warned Yoongi that he might have to wait, so there was no sense of urgency.

Arriving at the coffee shop, you sought out a table while he headed to the counter to place the order. After ordering, Yoongi walked to the table that you had chosen and sat on the seat in front of you. He placed the receipt on the wooden surface and took out his cell phone to scroll through while waiting for your drinks and food to be made.

The two of you sat there in silence, accompanied by the noise of blenders churning and spoons clinking in the background. Out of boredom, you grabbed the receipt and attempted to fold an aeroplane to the best of your ability. Once you were done, you threw it in Yoongi’s direction, trying to get it to fly. With your mediocre origami skills, the paper aircraft didn’t even last two seconds in the air before flipping over.

He looked at you, and you shrugged, a lopsided smile awkwardly sitting on your face, as if you didn’t mean to direct it his way. You’d never say it out loud, but the stunt you pulled was a childish attempt to get his attention.

Yoongi couldn't help but chuckle at your antics, and he playfully shook his head. "Nice try," he commented, his gaze softening with a hint of amusement. He picked up the paper aeroplane that landed on the ground and began to unfold it before reconstructing After he was done, he threw it in your direction. Instead of flipping over, it landed perfectly on the table in your direction.

Before you could say anything, the food arrived.

You ended up keeping the small aeroplane instead of throwing it away.

"Y/n, you're acting like a clown right now. Just text him," Jungkook said, his judgmental gaze following your figure as you moved around the kitchen like a madman, searching for various utensils and gathering different ingredients. He was pretty sure that you didn’t know how to use or prepare half of them. "You don’t actually have to cook one of the recipes he sent you for that."

Yoongi would spontaneously share videos of various recipes for you to try. He knew of your tragic relationship with the kitchen and thought sending you recipes could be a solution. Not only did he send the links, but he also wrote small notes with instructions on how to modify the dishes that contained foods you didn’t like, along with a list of alternatives.

"I'm not doing this just to message him. I’m trying to improve my skills, and the mixed noodles from the video looked good,” you said in defence as you clumsily peeled a garlic clove. Its skin clung tightly, and you unintentionally kept stabbing its flesh with your nails while attempting to remove it. A low, frustrated groan slipped from your lips when the vegetable slipped from your fingers, your head tilting upwards; your determination was gradually transforming into frustration. You gave Jungkook a dejected look, a pout formed on your face, silently pleading for his assistance—the reason he was invited in the first place. After all, he was a surprisingly good chef.

Jungkook was one of the first friends you made in university. The two of you were paired for a project in a class, and the rest was history. Aside from Jisoo, he was one of the people closest to you out in the big city.

Jungkook responded with an impassive, deadpan stare before letting out a sigh. He wasn’t about to swallow the excuse you served him, but watching you struggle with such an essential life skill—peeling a garlic, no less—made him want to hiss in pain and sympathise with you. The image of your burnt takeout beef and broccoli leftovers from a few days ago flashed in his mind, prompting him to wonder how you had managed to char food even with a microwave. Not to mention, the fact that you cut the rind off your fruits with a potato peeler left him even more baffled.

"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes. He stood up from the plush cushions of the bar stool—the high-pitched screech of the metal legs against the floor echoed through the room—and headed over to the sink to wash his hands. Despite the flak he was giving you, the subtle smile that accompanied his cheeky attitude indicated Jungkook wasn’t actually annoyed. "Move over."

Following his instructions, you moved to the side and made space for him. “Yes, chef!” you saluted, a wide grin spreading across your face.

“Watch and learn,” Jungkook instructed. Picking up the garlic you dropped with one hand and grabbing a kitchen knife with the other, he placed it on the plastic cutting board. Using the flat side of the knife, he gently crushed the garlic, intensifying its aroma. “If you aren’t using the clove as a whole, it doesn’t matter if you smash it slightly. It makes the prepping faster and easier.”

“Oh, I see,” you said, your eyes widening in understanding.

"Here, try mincing it into smaller pieces," he suggested, giving a quick demo before passing you the sharp utensil. "Loosen up a bit. Swish your forearms front and up, so it glides smoothly.”

The rest of the process continued in the same manner.

Jungkook would demonstrate, and you would attempt to replicate his actions to the best of your abilities. In between steps, you had to control your urge to cut his tongue out as he relentlessly complained about your lack of skills.

"That's not how you use a pepper grinder," Jungkook exclaimed, his bambi eyes wide with shock. “Why are you shaking it?”

You looked down at the pepper grinder in your hand, realising you had been vigorously shaking it as if it were a salt shaker. "Oh, I thought... you know, shaking it would make the pepper come out."

Jungkook couldn’t help but blow raspberries. “She’s not stupid, she’s not stupid,” he chanted before taking the grinder from your hand and demonstrating the proper technique. In that moment, the urge to rip his head off surged within you.

Alas, Jungkook was the only person who would put up with you until the end of the plate, so you held in your frustration.

You: I levelled up as a chef You: [image] Yoongi: Looks delicious

Jungkook cringed at the giddy swinging of your legs for the rest of the meal.

"You shouldn't use your phone while driving," you said as you glanced at the device in his hands. The road was slow because of the traffic, so it was relatively safe for a quick check. However, you still didn’t like it

He hummed, placing his cellphone back on the mount sitting on the dashboard. "What did you say?" he asked, missing your previous words.

“It makes me nervous when you use your phone while driving,” you said, your voice tinged with concern.

“I only use it to read messages from work quickly, but you’ll do it someday too,” he said, lifting one of his hands from the wheel and reaching it out to poke your nose. He didn’t succeed because you grabbed his hand with your own. It was soft and warm. You wanted to hold it better and hold it for a little longer, but your unspoken thoughts would be too obvious if you did. If you did, he would be able to feel the weight of the heart that you were holding in your palms. He would come to understand how willing you were to gift it to him.

He didn’t need to know how heavy it was, so you did the logical thing. Your brows furrowed and your lips pouted in faux annoyance. You swatted his hands away from your face as if you didn't want it to be held by him. At your retaliation, he tried to poke your nose again. With a grin, he tried and tried again until your grumpy expression morphed into a smile and eventually into a fit of giggles.

“You’ll eventually do it too. I told myself that I wouldn’t, but look at me now,” he said again as he refocused on the road. The pace of the cars was picking up, so he had to give all of his attention to the road ahead. As entertained as he was, he couldn't afford an accident, especially not when you were with him.

“I wouldn’t. Unlike you, I’m responsible,” you said with a giant smile still plastered all over your face. You were grateful his eyes weren’t on you at the moment. Otherwise, it would be very embarrassing to explain the reason you were grinning from ear to ear like an idiot.

He rolled his eyes at your retort. “Is that a bet?” he asked before pausing for a quick second. “Will we even remember that we made this bet? How old are you? Nineteen right?” he said more to himself than to you.

“Yeah, I’m nineteen,” you said barely above a whisper. Your cheeks began to hurt a little. You could feel your facial muscles relax back into their resting state as sadness crept in, knowing the direction this conversation would take. “But still, I’ll remember the bet. I have a good memory…”

“We’ll see about that,” he said, clueless to your inner turmoil.

The car ride continued in a comfortable silence. At least, you pretended it did. You wondered if you would ever stop seeming like a child to him. His life won’t pause to wait until you magically become his age, but even if it did, it wouldn’t matter if his perspective of you remained that of his little sister’s younger friend. Those kinds of thoughts plagued your mind, and you almost got away with keeping them under wraps. However, your mind must have been louder than you had hoped.

“What's with the long face?" Yoongi asked, leaning against the car window. He had noticed how your mood had drastically dropped after your last conversation. Yoongi didn't know what was worrying you, but he recognized the signs of nervousness when he saw them from his own experience. The skin around your fingers was slightly bloody from your incessant picking, a bad habit you indulged in whenever you were overthinking. Your lips were also tinted red from your habit of biting them every now and then. “I should be the sad one. You don’t pay for my gas, and now you’re running away without even saying goodbye.”

If it were anyone else, you might have cringed, but it was Min Yoongi. His mushy lines always came with sincere intentions, and his cool nonchalant way of inquiring about your troubles gave you the choice to either brush him off or confide in him; you could pick either comfortably. He was always ready to ask what was wrong, yet never making a big deal out of it unless you did.

“Think of it like an investment,” you said, choosing to play along with his sarcasm. With a small smile, you even tilted your head slightly, as if the addition of such a small gesture could bribe his agreement. “I’ll become a successful professional and earn a lot of money.”

“What will that do for me? I can only see a loss here.”

You couldn't quite pinpoint what prompted your next declaration. Perhaps it was the moon, appearing unusually round and radiant tonight, casting its enchanting glow. Or maybe it was the gentle breeze that tousled his hair, somehow enhancing Yoongi’s appearance. It could even be his relaxed posture, patiently awaiting your response. Whatever it was, you gently laid your feelings bare.

“I’ll treat you well. I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.”

So, please wait for me. Don’t find someone else because I will reach you soon – these unspoken words were selfish, but greed was a part of human nature, you guess.

The corners of Yoongi's eyes crinkled, and his gummy smile graced the world as he lightly chuckled. “Sure, let’s say that you will. I’ll wait until that moment comes.”

#bts #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts suga #min yoongi #yoongi x reader #yoongi fic #bts yoongi #yoongi angst #yoongi fluff #yoongi x you

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urcursebreaker · 24 days

Text

burning body waiting. (ellie williams x fem!reader)

read chapters one, two, and three here.

warnings: 18+ content, canon-typical violence, gore, angst, graphic smut, scissoring, fingering, use of marijuana. | word count: 11.7k.

chapter 4: match in the dark

❝ the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it. ❞ — richard siken.

. . .

The stories always say that love is something you fall into.

For you, it's always been a bludgeoning, throttling force, bone-shattering and breath-robbing; sudden and violent and jarring.

So why does this feel not like a punch to the gut but a slow and tortuous ailment of your health? An intrusion of sickness and vein-pulsing agony?

Instead of pummeling you with a lethal blow, your feelings for Ellie crept and slunk through your bones, a terminal parasite, malignant and festering inside. Until it was a sure thing. A cancer. Until your veins were blackened with heady need. Until there was a dark, frothing plague teeming from your heart, hammering to a consistent tune.

Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

Or maybe you don't love her.

Maybe it's some third sinister thing. Living in the cracks of cruelty that stretch between friend and lover.

Last night, after baring witness to Ellie's breakdown, the sound of her wailing, heaving sobs followed you into a tenuous sleep.

You dreamt of a young girl, a smattering of freckles garnishing her sun-kissed face and arms, familiar, mossy blue eyes brimming with unshed tears. She clutched a watch in her fist, it's face splintered, cracks like lightening fracturing across the broken surface. She lurched it into the rapid waters of the river she stood before, her eyebrows pinched in earnest, chest heaving.

"Why are you so sad?" You had asked the girl, your voice a whisper in the wind, not fully belonging to you.

The girl only released a long, heavy breath and pivoted away, marching down an unmanicured path of ferns and overgrowth. She grew taller and leaner as she strode away, until the figure that dissipated through the line of trees was one you have slept beside.

And now you are woken up in that damn 7/11 to that same girl firmly shaking you.

Except now she's older— and a new scar marred her lip. A new slit cleaved her brow. And a new, harsh edge of ferocity contoured her face— still so young, in a world that would never allow her to be.

She had to shake you a few times before you came to, snapping awake in a bleated panic, lurching up. She was huddled over you, a finger to her lips, a solemn alarm flaring in her pale eyes. The overhead vines careening from the high rafters billowed gently with the breeze; the serenity of it deceiving to what prowled the weeds.

"To the left," she mouths meticulously, and you nod, carefully slipping out of your sleeping bag, heart drumming ceaselessly.

She unsheathes her switchblade and slinks away, her eyes trained on the glassless wall as she stations behind a counter, distractedly gesturing for you to follow.

You slowly retrieve your shotgun from the littered floor and pocket a shiv you crafted the night prior, shooting brisk glances over your shoulder as you inch to Ellie's side. A faint whistle rises from the swaying grass.

Fuck. More Seraphites.

They must be tracking you, if they're spreading this far into Seattle. They tend to lurk on the outskirts, basing along the edges of the city so they can terminate anyone who attempts to get inside.

You never heard of them abandoning posts before. Killing over a dozen of them must have earned you their vengeance.

Ellie must have a similar thought, for when you reach her side, she whispers, "I should have gone to their base and killed every last one of them." Her face was grim and hard with fury, jaw barred, as she glared over the counter in the general direction of the whistle.

You follow her gaze and your muscles tense. The piercing afternoon sun glints off the metal tip of an arrow— aimed directly at you.

"Get down!" You shout jitterly, just as the potent snap of the bows tension unleashing splits through the silence of the day. You shove Ellie down and duck over her right as it spears loudly through the chipping wall behind you, where her head had been precarious seconds before.

She looks up at you with wide eyes, her knuckles gleaming white against the shine of her blade. Her momentary shock morphs into a scowl that manifests on her face.

She shrugs her shotgun off her shoulder and aims it for the weeds— blasting through the first outline of a human that she sees without a second thought. Thickets of seared, chunky blood burst through the air, followed by a series of sharp, undulating whistles. Your ears ring boisterously from the gunshot.

You sense movement to your right and crawl past Ellie— who clips another Seraphite, her body rocking with the force of the shot— to investigate. Fortunately, your backs are covered by two withstanding, cavernless walls, leaving only the hole to the right and the sizeable gap overhead.

Ellie seems to have the other wall covered.

You use a rusting shelf as a barricade, crouching, shiv in hand, the blade biting through the cloth you wound around the bottom. You turn it over in your hands, tongue prodding your lip, casting furtive looks above you every couple seconds to ensure nobody inflicted an unexpected aerial attack.

Arrows rain down, piercing the walls, clattering off the concrete. Gunshots boom thunderously, reverberating through the vacant city, paired with the guttural screams of those they met. You chance a peek at Ellie to find her completely unscathed, propped on one knee, squinting through the thick scope of her rifle. She must've swiftly exchanged weapons while you were looking away; always efficient.

You swivel back around and feel the tiny hairs on the nape of your neck raise at the shaved head poking through the whirling canary, only about ten feet away. You hold your breath and flush your back with the shelf, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

He slithers into the room, bow drawn, frame veiled by a cloak seeped with rain water. Brutal, discomfiting burn scars eclipse half of his face, as if he were lowered, sideways, into a pit of roaring flames.

Back at the Front, everyone always refers to the Seraphite's as Scars. It's starting to make sense why; you had never seen one this close before.

He puckers his lips to whistle, and you deign that as your opportunity, before he summons another Scar. You spring out from behind the shelf and drill your blade through the side of his neck, tearing through tendons. "Gotcha!" you breathe sardonically.

His large body crumples in your arms. You lower him to the floor with a dull, sappy thud, blood instantly pooling across the concrete, lapping at the tips of your boots.

An insistent whistle echoes closely from the weeds he emerged from, and you mutter a curse, hoisting up your gun and loading it with bloodied fingers. You're about to shoot the nearing figure when a brutish man descends from the crater in the ceiling— landing on top of you.

"Fuck!" Your scream of raw surprise rips through your throat as you plummet under his weight, your arm twisted unnaturally and agonizingly beneath his body.

He yanks you back by your hair, peeling your body off the ground with ease, and you wrestle with his unyielding grip, grunting as you squirm and peer at him over your shoulder. His eyes are crazed, a deep, rigid scar splitting his cheek, fatal determination overtaking his face.

You think fast, hastily fumbling for the blade in his companions sputtering throat, writhing under his formidable hold, your breathing sparse as he crushes you. "Feel Her love," the man growls in an accented drawl, his pick-axe reered back, poised to strike.

You successfully dislodge your blade just in time.

You arch your arm back as forcefully as you can from the obstructive angle, nicking him in the chest— just enough for him to stagger back and graze his digits over the superficial wound— and for you to crawl out from underneath him.

You only make it up to your knees before the handle of his pick-axe is caging your throat, crushing your windpipes, a hoarse whine wheezing from your lips. He hauls you back, and you flail for the bar compressing your neck, feet aimlessly lashing and kicking the floor. "El—"

Dots swim and flood your vision. Your flickering pulse rattles droningly in your skull. You can't breathe. You're dying. You're going to die. You're going to—

"Don't you fucking touch her!" Ellie bellows.

Suddenly, the pick-axe falls from your throat, clattering with a resounding echo to the floor, and you drop right along with it. Through the haze of your disjointed vision you see the previous keeper of your fate— Ellie's switchblade protruding from his head, before he slams lifelessly to the floor.

You rake in breaths hungrily, the sudden, painful burst of oxygen blazing like fire through your lungs. You claw listlessly at your throat, as if that will stop the blistering burn, or vanquish the coppery tang of blood rendering your tongue.

Ellie then shoots his already deceased body twice— his immobile carcass lurching, jolting with the swift bullets— and doesn't spare the dead Scar a second glance before shooting the one approaching in the weeds with masterful precision.

He thumps to the ground with a muffled groan of anguish, and his departure is followed by a wave of dense, apprehensive silence.

Ellie lingers in that taut, defensive stance for a moment, her shoulders tense, face lined with concentration as she sweeps her gaze over the sprawling field. Eyes skittering over the towering buildings in a speedy examination.

And then her eyes fall to you, alarm leeching the color from her sharp face. She quickly lowers her gun and bunches her stiff shoulders. "Are you alright?" She demands brusquely.

You nod skittishly, chest heaving with your rapid, hungry breaths. "Fine," you croak out, voice hoarse and gravelly, scraping out of your raw throat.

She nods absently, slinging her gun over her shoulder and bending down to fist the knife puncturing the man's head. She gives it a forceful, ruthless tug, his upper body heaving off the blood-blemished ground. A harrowing crimson cascades down his skull, glistening over her fingers. She yanks it out of him with a second, ardent jerk, and he slumps onto the floor, his own gore splattering repellently through the air. She surveys the blood and bits of cartilage on her blade before calmly wiping it off on her pants.

You scarcely register the disturbing scene of the Seraphite's you downed together.

Ellie's callousness must be wearing off on you. The dark pond of sudsy blood gathering around your feet ignites only a faint ripple of disgust in you; and a hint of knee-buckling relief, that you had someone so unapologetically cutthroat at your defense.

She offers you a steady hand and you take it. She hauls you to your feet, and you waver, your grip unabashed and bruise inciting. "Are you okay?" You ask attentively, a tremor underlying your tinny voice as you eye her top to bottom.

On the exterior, she's untouched by harm, and the relief that floods you is instantaneous.

"I am if you are," she says with a dim smile, surveying you for injury in turn. "We should get the fuck out of here, though. You sure you're good?"

"I'm fine," you offer a meek, hopefully reassuring smile back, unhanding her. You clear your throat and discard your broken, useless shiv on the floor, your breathing evening out. "Lead the way, my noble Knight," you tease with a shaky grin.

She rolls her eyes with affection and mimics a flourishing bow. "Yes, my Queen," she snorts, before pivoting away, heedlessly overstepping the dead body of your attacker and trudging for the opening she'd been guarding, her backpack already slung over her shoulder.

Your scratchy, cackling laugh scorches your throat, but you stifle the dizzying pain, her responding laugh, breathy and chittering, making the hurt worth it.

It was the sweetest thing you have ever heard. So light and natural and opposing to the violence she had wielded mere minutes ago to protect you.

As you trail after her, trusting her direction without question, you think you'd let her be as mean to you as she needed to be if you could hear her laugh like that again.

Which may be the scariest thing of all.

• • •

ELLIE

Her resolve was dissipating through her fingers. Now particles, everything she fought for was reduced to inconceivable dust, streaking through the wind, escaping her clutches.

She had destroyed versions of herself, tapered off past selves, trimmed and manufactured herself into this precarious thing that she was now.

A shell, filled by a need to take back all that had been stolen; a vessel for her grief and anger. She felt like she lived and breathed the horror that clung to her insides, fermented and congealed, taloned rage clawing it's way out of her with every step she took closer and closer to reclaiming the vengeance she was owed; the debt that was due.

But now the calamity in her mind has quieted. Her pain felt distant and hushed; it watched and whispered. She was never truly liberated from it. Only when she's with you does she feel that boulder lift, that bone-crushing mass of misery eased off her soul. But it's hearty weight lingers phantomly, etching itself into her bones.

She glances at you through the waning firelight, your thoughtful expression dim in the flickering amber glow. Your eyebrows are skewered, lips pursed, eyes indulgently roving over the pages of the tattered book splayed across your lap.

She had no idea how you found the room to store useless objects. From your brothers stuffed childhood bear, a chunky, faded hot-pink cassette player, to a couple weathered, worm-eaten books, you seemed to carry only your indulgences.

When she was fourteen, her backpack was similar. It overflowed with graphic novels and worthless trinkets. Joel had everything they needed, carrying double his weight in supplies. Despite everything she'd seen, despite everything he did, he gave her a simple life. One she could not envision herself pursuing ever again, without him there to urge her on.

She wonders if your brother was that guiding light for you, too, a match in the dark, as Joel had been for her.

She looks at you, and she wonders if you have ever truly been alone.

You perform with a buoyancy and easiness she cannot replicate. Either you have never known suffering at all, a portrait of innocence under a brush of death; or you knew it too well, with an intimacy that left you unblinking and acclimated to its sharp edges. When it tried to cut through you, it's relentless knifing was fruitless, it's slashes meeting metal, sliding off the shine of your armor.

Do you even know it's there? That even though you are not brutal and unforgiving— as she herself had become— remaining steady and balanced under the ruthless beat of the worlds bitter drum was a shield in itself?

She both admires and envies your ability to let it all roll off your back as it's hurled at you.

"What?" You drawl at her notably indiscreet examination, amusement seeping into your tone like liquid gold, eyes unstraying from the pages— though she can see, even from the distance that separates you, that your eyes are bright and swimming with it.

For months now, she has locked her feelings down, imprisoned them behind walls of adamant, impenetrable steel. Had deliberately tailored a mask that would keep them from slipping through.

And then there's you. Feeling unabashedly and unapologetically and, unknowingly letting her know she can do it, too. That you see the wounds that gauge her soul and do not flinch at the sight of blood. That you see the hurt that shines in her eyes and do not pity the tortured girl, but embrace the wrath of the killer that torture had birthed.

Being understood was once something she ached for. But now that someone is starting to understand her, to see through the defenses she constructed, she is afraid. She is terrified of being seen, of being known.

Almost as much as she fears being alone.

She is facing that fear day by day, and it is just as fucking scary as she anticipated.

She was cripplingly alone, and she felt the aftershocks of it belting through her. She's a lost, untethered soul, searching for its other end, though the thread had severed and all that remained was remnants of fragmented, disjointed memories, and rippling regrets that would never be ironed out.

She has nothing to return to; no home, no person. Instead, she keeps coming back to that hollowness inside, where the grief is stored, and fed to the flames of rage that blaze there. It is the only consistency she knows now. Even you are not a promised thing. Not when you had a brother somewhere out there waiting for you.

And not when she had a list of lives to end.

You are not enough to mend the gaping hole inside of her; you will never match the shape of that gauge. No one will. No one can replace the things he taught her, gave her.

But at least now... when she lays her head to rest, there's a beaming voice, illuminating the shadow-shrouded void of her mind. Beckoning her toward the light.

And it's yours.

She fights the darkness. Wrestles out of its restraints— the guilt and sorrow that anchors her down— and runs to that voice, desperate for the sun.

But the darkness always seems to win in the end.

"Ellie?"

Your soft, tentative voice lulls her out of her clouded thoughts, and she averts her gaze from the fire to look at you. She blinks the dark specks away and discerns your earnest face. Your attention is honed in on her now, the book dog-eared and closed in your lap, head tilted inquisitively. "Where'd you go?" You ask quietly, your voice a whisper under the crackling embers.

She feels her head shaking before she even forms a response. "Nothing. Nowhere," she insists, blinking rapidly, stroking a spectral scar on her forehead. "I'm just tired. How's your book?" She urges casually, craning her head back and resting it on the tree stump of the sprawling oak behind her, studying you.

A big, unadulterated grin contorts your face. Your cheeks dimple, smiling teeth luminous in the firelight. Her heart skips a beat at the mirth glimmering in your eyes. "So good. It's my favorite. I've read it six times," you chuckle at the look of disbelief that slips through the cracks of her facade and continue, "My mom used to read it to my brother and I a lot when we were kids."

She nods, plucking the grime out of her fingernails, swiping her tongue over her teeth. She glances down at her hand to conceal the warmth rising to her cheeks at the sight of your infectious smile. There is no other way to describe it; it is debilitating, impossible not to mirror.

"What's it about?" She murmurs, ducking her head, her emerging smile evident in her tone. She hopes the shadows eclipse her face from your view.

"Oh, it's just a collection of fables," you sigh contently, wistfully, reclining back, clutching the fraying book endearingly to your chest. You sway your knees back and forth, feet planted to the ground, peering up at the star-speckled sky before tilting your head to face her. "Do you like to read at all?"

Ellie yawns gingerly, extending her legs out in front of her, staring down at her muddy, threadbare Converse. "I used to read comics. There was this series I collected... Savage Starlight?" She winces as she pronounces the humiliating name.

Your responding gasp is so sudden, an animal audibly skitters through the weeds. You lurch up in astonishment, wisps of staticky hair fanning around your shocked face. "Wait, really? My brother loved those!"

Ellie laughs, and you visibly loosen at the sound. She pretends not to notice. Just as she pretends not to feel the warmth budding and blooming in her chest, a sprout of something gentle taking root in her heart.

"Yes," she huffs out, rewarding you a vague smile. You were the only thing that made her feel like she could smile anymore. "I read them all. Probably more than 6 times, actually. So. I got you beat."

"Pfft," you bat a hand of dismissal, rolling your eyes playfully, laying back down— resting your head on a smooth, upturned rock, leisurely prying your book back open. "Does looking at pictures even count as reading?"

"Comics have words!" Ellie protests defensively, straightening.

Your boisterous laugh echoes through the dense forestry, booming out of you, as you drop the book and cradle your stomach, rolling over with the force of your guttural laughter. "You are so easy to rile up!" You cackle tearily, wiping your eyes.

Ellie snickers. "You're an ass," she chides, laughter bubbling in her chest, threatening to escape her sealed lips. She threads her fingers through her unruly hair, sweeping the russet strands out of her face. You jeeringly stick your tongue out at her, and she flips you off, earning her another one of your exuberant laughs.

"Read your book," she scolds with a raspy chuckle of her own, pointing at the now discarded fables. She rummages through her backpack, the sound of your stifled giggling following her as she fishes out her journal.

She waits a couple minutes, until you're helplessly engrossed with your novel, your brows once again pinched in concentration, before thumbing through her journal, flipping to that tarnished, browning page. Her eyes flicker over the names she memorized distastefully, that familiar anger burning bright.

Abby

Nora

Owen

Mel

Jordan

Manny

Whitney

She absently ghosts her fingers over that taunting, four-lettered name. Abby. Her throat swells with grief, searing-hot anger boiling in her stomach. The condemning red marks slashing through the names of those she already killed grant her only momentary satisfaction. It's not enough to quell the hatred the unmarked name at the top sparks within.

Nora she killed weeks ago. She let the spores smother her lungs, debilitate her of breath, ring her dry of any vitality and will to resist her tragic fate. Then she took a pipe to her head. Over and over. Just as Abby had done to Joel. Just as she would do to her.

Then she killed Nick, and Jordan, after the Wolves tailed and captured her. They beat and chained her to a counter, as if a pair of copper-rusted handcuffs would restrain her— would save them from her blinding wrath. The scar she brandished him with was rigid and pink and poorly stitched, dismantling his otherwise smooth cheek. She told him that stopping her from extracting her revenge would be futile.

Then she broke free and stabbed him persistently, with ferocious, vehement arches of her arm, until his blood had coated her face in fine beadlets and puddled in heaps that sapped her feet to the floor.

And, most recently, she killed Whitney. At the hospital, where she took you to bed and tasted every glorious inch of you, high with adrenaline, pulsating with want.

She told you she took out a few infected.

But it was only Whitney there, alone, guarding the sewage system, swaying to the boisterous music that reverberated through the concrete-walled boiler room. She slit her throat and kicked her into the murky, sludgy water. Then shot her twice just to insure that she did not inexplicably survive.

After the night you shared, a part of her was horrified of you unveiling the deplorable, merciless acts she committed. She did not know if she could face you. She slaughtered a person in cold blood and touched you with the stained hands that did it.

She left, just in case you found that bleeding body floating in the basement, and turned terrified, accusatory eyes on her. She did not know if she could bear your disdain. Or worse— you being disgusted by the harrowing life she has dedicated herself to.

Because she could not change.

She has a purpose, now.

To take everything from those fuckers. Leave them with nothing as they did her.

She's going to take and take and take. The life of Abby's friends, crushed and squandered beneath her foot. The solid foundation of security they built, ripped apart at the seams, until walls topple and plans expire— until all the Wolves are scurrying through the wastelands, tails tucked, howling for mercy.

She abandoned the safe, armed walls of Jackson for this mission. Nothing could jeopardize it; not even her captivation with you.

Fortunately, you never found Whitney's body.

She should've been relieved. But when she stumbled upon you again, in that blossoming valley, there was spite there, and for a completely different reason. One she never considered; that you were truly scathed by her abandonment. She thought you would be better off without her; better rid of the sucking parasite leeching the good out of you with each moment she spent in your presence.

"Hey, Ellie?"

She snaps the journal closed briskly, sucking in a sharp breath. She thought you had fallen asleep; you had not shifted or spoken for an impressive duration of time. Especially for you.

"Yeah," she responds groggily, scratching her head, slipping the journal back into her bag, the list temporarily forgotten. She glances up to find you gone.

She staggers straight to her feet, calling your name, her tone dripping with apprehension. "Where are you?"

"Shh," you instruct quaintly from the shadows, whispering meticulously, "Over here."

She peers through the darkness encompassing the camp you'd assembled together, trailing your voice, conveyed through the cloying, nectary wind. The warming spring breeze fetters her hair.

She deciphers your figure in the tall, swaying canary, your stature hunched and diligent. "Come here," you whisper urgently, loudly, beckoning her over fervently. She reaches for her gun but freezes when you make a noise of disapproval.

Instead, she follows your voice, curiosity and concern weighing the scale in equal measure. "What is it?" She rasps quietly, cresting your side. Your eyes are trained intently on a small, shapeless shadow, lithely prowling the weeds.

"Come here, kitty," you drawl sweetly, clucking your tongue, drumming your thigh. The small creature pauses its strides, slowly lowering itself to the ground, giving an impassive lick of its paws.

"It's a cat," you mutter to Ellie, as if she had not already gathered that.

She refrains from rolling her eyes. "I can see that. Why were you even over here to begin with?"

You pointedly disregard her, taking a heedful step forward, crouching to be level with your new feline friend. "Come here, sweet thing. Come on. It's okay," you lull in a reassuring tone, patting the ground insistently. The cat only stares at you.

You sigh, arms draped defeatedly over your knees, frowning. "Okay. Never mind. Go back, please, I think you're scaring it."

"What?" Ellie snaps, and the cat startles, bracing it's paws in the dirt, back arched. "No way. Animals love me."

"Kay, well, it was coming to me before you came over here, stepping on every single branch you could find." You argue flippantly, shooting her a glare.

"It's your fault, you're the one who called me over here, dick!" Ellie defends airily, waving her hands.

You clap a hand over your mouth to conceal your automatic chuckle. Your rumbling shoulders and escaping snorts give you away. "Okay, okay, fine," you chortle breathily, shaking your head. "God, that look on your face never gets old."

She groans out a husky laugh, falling back a few paces, propping a mocking, insulted hand over her heart. "You are evil."

You flash her a sinister, lippy smile, mischief twinkling in your eyes, before averting your focus back to the cat, who had inched closer while you argued.

"Yes, that's it. Come here, baby," you click your tongue in a series of encouraging noises, and the cat— ears perked, nose sniveling— prances over to you, as if you waved a heaping bag of treats.

You tenderly, dubiously scoop the cat into your arms. Though acutely tense, it allows you to hold it, claws hesitantly retracting from your sleeve, piercing green eyes slitted and alert. "She's hurt," you inform, scratching it's matted, furry back. You slowly ascend to your feet and nod back toward the camp, following Ellie as she begins to trudge back. "I saw her limp by and followed her over here. Do you have some more gauze?"

"For the cat?" Ellie drawls incredulously, shooting you a look over her shoulder, stepping over a cluster of unearthed roots.

"Uh, yes? She's small, it won't take much." You assert, hiking the cat up as it starts to thrash and mewl anxiously. "Please?"

She wanted to tell you no, but she found that it was impossible to form the word— especially when you were gazing at her with sheer hope, head tilted pleadingly. "Fine."

"Woohoo!" You exclaim triumphantly to the cat, softly stroking between its luminous eyes with your thumb, easing its trepidation. It whimpers, pink nose prodding your jaw, pawing at the latticed hem of your tank top. "She said thanks, El-Bell!"

"How do you know it's a she?" Ellie asks as you enter the fire-illuminated clearing, the light casting ominous, flickering shadows over the deep, towering pine trees.

You shrug, hoisting the cat by its underarms, promptly spinning it around and baring its tattered, grimy belly to Ellie. "Yeah. You were right. Girl." She concedes with a grimace.

Ellie resumes her original position as you perch cross-legged across from her, planting the knotted cat in your lap. She's coated in a sweep of sleek, midnight black fur, so sumptuous it reflects the moon's sapphire glow. Her green eyes are unnaturally bright against her dark coat, penetrating through Ellie as she unpacks her gauze.

"I'm getting it," she mumbles to it warily, and it pivots away from her with unnecessary drama, curling it's tail.

"Don't be rude," you reprimand the cat, who ignores your scolding and persistently licks her splintered paw.

"Here you go," Ellie says, tossing you the gauze and medical tape. "You better hope your little friend doesn't get hurt again. I don't have enough supplies to fix her boo-boos."

She swears the cat fucking glares at her, before curiously, reluctantly sniffing at the gauze.

You must have seen it, too, for you giggle smugly. "What was that about animals loving you?"

"Shut up," Ellie grumbles, leaning back, hiking her knees to her chest. Exhaustion weighs heavy on her eyelids. She surveys you, bleary-eyed, as you scoop the cat into your arms and gingerly pry the wound, a pained shriek tearing from it's tiny body.

"Shh, it's okay," you comfort genially, petting her back as you fumble with the gauze, lightly encasing her wounded paw. "See? Almost done, already."

The cat relaxes in your gentle grasp, allowing you to seal the bandage around her paw. Ellie herself is nearly lulled to sleep by the pacification in your tone— the soft, honeyed melody of consolation rolling off your tongue.

"All done," you state quietly, pressing a forbearing kiss to her nicked ear, delicately peeling her out of your lap and placing her on the ground. "Be free, little one."

The cat lingers, staring at you nearly contemplatively. She blinks slowly, languidly, before swiveling away and skittering through the craning grass, disappearing through the trees.

You watch her go with a bleak, placid smile, the wind whipping your hair. Then you turn to Ellie. "You sleep, I'll keep watch."

She opens her mouth to refute, but you slice her a cutting, silencing look. "You're actively falling asleep as we speak. I'm good. You rest. I want to read some more, anyway," you insist blithely, dusting off your pants and walking back to your previous spot.

Ellie merely mumbles a response, her head already drooping. She falls into a brisk, fitful slumber, so tenuous that the snap of a twig could send her lurching. For once, she does not dream. Visions of terror did not cleave her conscious or beat her breathless. She saw only the flicker of light through her eyelids, and the quiet fragility of her own mind.

Until a faint meow has her bursting out of her slouch, eyes darting frantically around the clearing.

The black cat has her uninjured paw primly resting on Ellie's thigh, peering up at her expectantly with eery, incandescent eyes. Upon her attention, she nimbly removes her paw and demandingly rubs her head against her leg instead, another tinny meow ringing out of her.

"She's back. And I think she wants to lay with you," you explain humorously over the pages of your book— now nearly finished.

"Oh?" She replies in bewilderment, as the cat spins and pads her feet a couple of times before nestling into her side, resting her head on her dark paws.

"Can I come lay with you?" You murmur sleepily, casting fleeting, cautious looks at her as you stow your book away. As if already bracing for the sting of her rejection.

Ellie's heart throbs perniciously in her throat; she swallows in trepidation, sweat gathering on her palms. "Yeah. Yeah, of course," she forces out, wiping them on her jeans, straightening. Even after viewing your body after dark and eating your pussy, you make her nervous as fuck.

Even more so now that she knows how good you taste. And how perfect you are. Now she's burdened the knowledge that she cradles something precious in her hands, and she could unintentionally destroy it.

"I added some wood to the fire," you announce wearily, words punctuated by tiny, bursting yawns, as you adjust your oversized corduroy jacket around your shoulders and clamber over to her, a sheepish smile transforming your fatigue-dulled face.

"Come here," Ellie finds herself muttering, mimicking your exhaustion, spreading her legs and gesturing to the grass-cushioned ground beneath her. The cat still pressed into her, undeterred by her shifting.

You crawl delicately into the space between her legs, smiling through the yawn splitting your face, drawing a yawn out of Ellie, too. "Want me to keep watch again? You need to sleep some more," you say, reclining back against her chest and comfortably situating yourself, humming richly in unsuppressed delight.

Ellie wraps her arms around your shoulders, steering you back into her embrace, resting her chin on your mussed head. The affection should not come so naturally; she should not instinctively reach for you. It's not good.

Not fucking good at all.

"No," she whispers navally into your ear, eyeing the blazing fire through the tendrils of your unbound hair, that gleam with the dwindling light. "You sleep. You didn't sleep at all last night."

You tense fragmentarily in her grasp, muscles tightening under her arms. You hesitate, before craning your head back to face her, eyes searching. "You didn't either..." you whisper heedfully, lifting a hand and resting it on her forearm, stroking soothingly.

She had suspected you heard her cries last night. Instead of the confirmation making her feel ashamed, she felt... free. You saw the depths of her despair turn inside out and you did not cower at the hideous, wretched pain she unleashed.

"I never do," she replies baldly, swaying you gently, mouth hovering near the crest of your ear. Your thumbs tenderly caress the scars garnishing her arm, your eyes fluttering blissfully, your body sinking into her warmth. "Just sleep."

The lack of resistance proves just how desperately you needed it. You are whisked into a precipitated, fragile sleep, your breathing light and measured, your frame tucked up and slumped into her chest.

Her mind wanders only briefly to the violence lurking in its dark crevices, as she watches dense tendrils of smoke arise from the tamed fire, whirling and cascading toward the abrasive, glistening night sky, polluting her view of the stars.

She fantasizes of a smoldering house; a massive fire roaring from its pits, erupting in rippling flames that smolder the caving ceiling and dissolve the weak floorboards. She imagines the sear of blistering skin and the melting screams of anguish, of those who had incinerated her heart. She envisions all the relics and archives of her past being licked up by the fire and consumed by the glaring, ravenous heat.

Then she glances down at you, your blank, unconscious face illuminated by the flickering, dim orange glow. Something inside her softens, and she knows, grievously, that she has become malleable and pliant under your molding hands.

She stares at the slumbering, unbothered cat before returning her gaze back to you.

All of her hatred seems an afterthought to what she had right in front of her.

• • •

YOU

Blood pools on the fractured pavement. Firefly laps at it ravenously, her whiskers tinged crimson. "That's disgusting," you scowl disapprovingly, snatching her off the ground. She hisses in protest, clawing aimlessly at your sleeve, eyes crazed with hunger. You tap her bloodied nose reproachfully. "Bad."

She nips at your finger and you relent with a hearty sigh, placing her back on the ground. She skitters behind the rotting carcass of a clicker, it's head blown off in odious, blossoming cordyceps, pulsating dimly in a puddle of venomous blood. It's the first of hundreds.

You lift your head and examine the carnage that laid, revoltingly and obscenely, before your squinting eyes. Dozens upon dozens of butchered infected— cleaved into indistinguishable bits, sputtering blood, gushing decayed organs and crumpled flesh— piled in the lush street.

"What the fuck happened here?" Ellie drawls with a surprising amount of disgust, eyebrows furrowed as she ascended from her crouch, kneading a clump of clotted blood between her fingers.

You gulp down the thick lump of trepidation bulging in your throat, fretfully shaking the tremor out of your hands. "Don't know. It's gnarly, though," you respond, fighting the wobble out of your tone.

Truthfully, you recognize this distinctive gore.

After your parents tore each other to bits, Zander adopted a newfound disdain for infected. Before, he humanized the restless, ungovernable creatures— sympathized with their fucked up fate, to be killed and morphed into a monster.

But after the accident, he hated them. He found impressively disturbing ways to terminate them. Eventually he founded a signature method; to slice them into pieces as your parents had done, unbidden and under the influence of the infections debilitating madness.

This was him. You know, in the deepest caverns of your soul where your joint grief was stored, that this was his doing.

Not to mention the ragged Z carved into the blistered, yellowing flesh of one of the dead runners. You kick it's gnarled, unseemly body over to hide the exhibiting brand from Ellie, curling your lip with rehearsed repulsion. "Gross," you whisper, though internally, relief swarms your nerves, cacooning your apprehension in a warm blanket.

He is alive.

And the mark signifies that he is leaving signs for you to find.

"I'm just mad they beat me to it," Ellie complains under her breath, glowering at the expanse of cadavers cloaking the broken road. She tips your chin up, extracting your lingering gaze from the reeking bodies. "You good?"

You brush her off with a forced, invigorated smile. "Yep!" you chirp, nodding robustly, side-stepping a clicker. "At least we don't have to deal with all of them. Whoever did it, we should thank. Saved us some ammo," you craft your words meticulously as not to unearth your burrowed truth.

Ellie studies you a moment before dropping her hand. "True," she eventually yields, eyes wandering to Firefly, who was attacking a cord of muscle that protruded from the gaping stomach of a dead clicker, gnawing at the tough tissue. "Get your batshit cat. We're losing daylight."

"She's a perfectly normal cat," you retort, though your rebuttal is contradicted by the face you make. You grimace as she swats at a springing cordycep, growling ferociously. "Firefly! Stop that!" You shout, snapping your fingers.

Her ears twitch, head lurching up, green eyes wide. She is deathly still. You snap again, and she darts after Ellie skittishly, following her lead.

You chance another look at the wreckage, toying with the gold wedding band dangling from your throat. It was your mother's. Zander wore your fathers matching one around his neck. You usually kept yours stowed in the pits of your backpack, but you needed that touch of home.

Ellie had lifted your hair and gently latched it around you without questions asked, a hint of understanding in her eyes. You were grateful for her silence in that moment. Usually it unnerved you when she didn't speak. But in that moment it felt like a gift as opposed to a punishment.

"Where are we heading?" You question plainly, tucking the wedding band under your shirt, the memories a wild, unleashed zoo animal, tranquilized and thrown back into its enclosure. The ring is damp with your incessant, sweaty fidgeting.

"There's a place up ahead I like to go. Thought we could rest there for the night," she replies vaguely, glancing furtively at you, then the cat, her lip curling. "I still can't believe you named that thing Firefly."

"It's a cute name," you grumble back, sweeping your sweat-glistening hair off your neck and fanning the hot skin. "You could've come up with something too, you know."

This morning, you had awoken in Ellie's arms, jovial and recharged. For the first time in months, you had an uninterrupted, rejuvenating sleep, one that added a spring to your step and an effortlessness to your trekking. The cat was curled snugly in your lap, her affectionate purrs vibrating against your legs.

Ellie was stiff-necked and ill-tempered for the better half of the day, massaging the tension out of her shoulders and grumbling her responses.

"What should we name her?" You had asked, sprawled on your back, hefting the cat into the air as if she were a wailing baby in desperate need of motion and entertainment.

"Dramatic?" Ellie had quipped dully, and you rolled your eyes skyward.

"What about... oh!" You jerked upright in excitement, still cradling the cat in your arms. "Firefly."

An indecipherable emotion passed over her, tension lining the contours of her face. A hint of contempt glimmered in her eyes, and it felt like she was glaring down her nose at you, judging you like God weigh's pupils of sin, even as she sat at your eye-level. "Don't tell me you believe in that Firefly bullshit, too?"

Her reaction both intrigued and befuddled you. You possessed minimal knowledge on the Fireflies beyond the basics— that they were a reformed militia group that was majorly massacred by a man, who resulted in the death of Abby's father— and that she recruited a few friends to go after said man.

And someone was hunting them down for his murder. You had lost Nora and Jordan to the spiteful hands of his avenger; which is the only bright side to being excluded and shunned from Abby's circle— you were not involved in the man's murder, meaning you will not be involved in whatever vengeance they earned themselves.

Every now and then, back at the base, they get a few former Fireflie's filing in to join the Wolve's. Isaac— the focal overseer and governor of the WLF— was wary of stragglers that claimed past allegiances to the Fireflies, but welcomed them anyway, if they guaranteed to defend the base and protect his established citizens, as you and Zander pledged to do.

"No. Not at all. All of those stupid groups are bullshit," you agreed ardently, shaking your head in aversion, stroking Firefly's tummy. "I meant the actual insect, fireflie's. I just think they are so pretty at night. And I swear I could see the moon reflecting off her. Just seemed fitting."

Ellie had paused the sharpening of her blade. She analyzed you in the dewy, clouded sunlight, combating the interest off her face. But it flashed too late for her to conceal; her eyes lit up. "What other groups do you know about?" She asked carefully.

You shrugged, feigning indifference. "Like the Seraphites," you hummed, finger-combing Firefly's shiny black coat. "And I've seen another group around here. But I think they were just travelers."

Ellie said nothing, resuming her survey of her switchblade. She polished it with a tattered cloth and studied it, and that was that, the subject abandoned.

Now, Ellie snorts, peeling back a looming, overgrown branch to allow you passage. "Nah. That's your cat." She says as you saunter by, even as the cat pads after her, nose tipped to the air, breathing in the sent of damp soil, heady rot and the faint, sweet traces of a budding spring.

You trudge along the rocky, uneven path, bricks and shattered molasses-brown beer bottles specking the dirt, holding hope tight to your chest.

After stumbling upon Zander's mess, all the worry you harbored for your brother had ebbed away. He's alive. You hope the others are, too.

Even if you are not amicable with a large number of his group, a couple of them treated you fairly. Whitney was the closest thing to a friend you had there; she always tracked you down in the mess hall and shared her lunch. She even alternated her watch-shifts with Manny to join you on yours when she could, and shared her access card to the armory to practice shooting with you.

When you had first arrived, you scarcely knew how to use anything beyond a hand-gun. She trained you on a variety of firearms when your free time corresponded; you owe the new capabilities that kept you alive on this expedition to Whitney. She was the only one who never made you feel bad about it. She simply demonstrated for you without comment or judgement.

You hope whoever was sent to retrieve you— if anyone at all— was safe. Though, considering that Isaac didn't even send out a search party for Owen when he went missing, you doubt that he would gamble the life of his prized soldiers just to find a meaningless girl who was bullied and deluded out of his faction.

Clearly it did not stop Zander from looking for you, if the mutilated bodies of those infected were any indication. It could not be a coincidence. You know it was him. You just know it.

A strange part of you just hopes he doesn't find you yet. You have an intuitive, twisting suspicion churning in your gut, that this tenuous thing between you and Ellie will snap if anyone, or anything disrupts it.

You have a feeling that in finding him, you'll lose her. And you don't know what that means. You don't know where you're supposed to go from here; but you know that you can't just let her go.

With that, you saunter up to Ellie and flash her a winning, mindless smile, slithering your hand snugly into her back pocket. She tugs you flush into her side with a finger curled in your belt loop, and you stumble into her with a stunned laugh, Firelfy at your heels. You wish things could stay this easy.

You look at her and find strength beyond what had been forced upon you— a strength to fight for a better future.

• • •

Tangled, warm white Christmas lights dimly illuminate the abandoned teen-girls bedroom. Peeling posters are plastered to the walls, fraying with age and weathered by earth's course battering. A threadbare beanbag chair collected dust in the corner, the once vibrant purple now grimy and muted with time. Cobwebs edge the corners of the room in a luminous sprawl, their thick tendrils sparkling under the light.

You could see why Ellie found comfort in this place.

A black rack of CD's lined the desk, where the residue of ripped and prodded band stickers marred the refined oak. A thick coating of dust blanketed the surface. Your eyes flicker from the impressive album collection to the hot-pink poster board taped haphazardly to the closet with leopard print duct tape. Emboldened words scrawled in bright marker and glitter gel pens jut out in bubbled letters— MAISIE'S SUMMER BUCKET LIST 2003!

You avert your attention back to the desk, and the stack of mussed, tattered sketchbooks. The black covers are stained with charcoal and splotches of solidified paint, pages scattered. You rummage through one idly, thumbing through the doodles that range from gleaming sunrises to descriptive depictions of infected in a variety of stages, flowers blooming from their skulls instead of cordyceps.

You hum, grazing your pinkie over the elaborate drawings. "Have you seen these? They're..." you trail off in bewilderment when you glance up at what had captured Ellie's attention.

The dead body of a fallen solider.

Ripped camo dangled in tattered strips from the skeletal frame slumped against the unhinged door. It's jaw was missing, baring decaying teeth. Flies rattled in its hollow skull and buzzed busily about its frame. Ellie crouches and examines the chain enveloping it's neck. "They were a firefly," she informs you bleakly from over her shoulder, smoothing a thumb over the raised design etched into the pendant.

She rips it off it's neck sharply, and an involuntary screech bursts out of you when the head rolls off the body with a sickening crunch, thudding to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust. Ellie watched it fall with disinterest, holding the necklace up to you. "We should put it on your cat," she says, glaring pointedly at Firefly, who nestled herself into the bean bag and chewed on something dead she scoured, tail waving lethargically.

"Go ahead. I'd wait until she's done eating, though, or else she might maul you."

She releases a long-suffering sigh but ascends from her crouch, jingling the pendant tauntingly in your face, eyebrows raised. You laugh as she pursues Firefly with rightful caution. Her deliberate movements do not stop the cat from freezing and glowering at her, dark fur elevating.

"It's okay," Ellie drawls with no conviction. "Relax, dude."

Firefly makes to dart away, but Ellie swiftly wrestles her into her arms, holding her firm, as she hisses and screams in protest, squirming. "Come here, little devil," she grunts out harshly, sloppily clipping the pendant around her neck. Firefly swats violently, nicking her with a razor-sharp claw.

Ellie relinquishes her grip and Firefly wastes no time scrambling away, scurrying under the half-dilapidated bed. Her brilliant green eyes flare with menace from the shadows, narrowed at her.

"The shit I do for you," Ellie clicks her tongue and brandishes the furious scratch that superficially sliced her arm.

You ignore the jest. "Should we get rid of... of..." you stutter, gesturing at the body apprehensively, shifting from foot to foot. "That?"

Ellie nods, and you follow her to where it's rotting. She carelessly scoops up the skull and chucks it out of the gaping hole in the wall, before bracing her hands on the remnants of its body, leveling you with a look. You scramble to aid her, mustering a confirming nod back.

With joint effort, you shove it over the edge of the building. You peer over the jutted lip of the bedroom; numerous stories stretched between you and the pavement. Mist gathers in a dense, ominous cloud, shielding your view of the ground below. The bones clatter and deconstruct until they're engulfed by the haze. You were so far up, you couldn't hear them break against the earth.

You glance at Ellie to find her already observing you.

"What?"

She simply shrugs and rises, dusting the loitering essence of death off her hands, changing the topic with a fluidity that came with her consistent avoidance. "We can either try to fix that bed or sleep on the floor. Take your pick."

"I don't think Firefly would appreciate it if we took away her hiding spot," you quip, and it was settled.

The day was not yet done, but you set up camp regardless. Both of you maneuver in a pleasant silence as you unbundle your sleeping bags and roll them over the stained, carpeted floor. Ellie positions hers a whopping ten feet away from yours, the distance nearly offensive. "What are you doing?" You ask in disbelief, pausing your bed-making to gawk at her, open-mouthed.

"What?" She snaps in alarm, glancing around, looking for tangible evidence of her misdeed.

You point at her bed roll incredulously. "Why are you so far from me?"

She tenses and flicks her gaze away, her bag sliding off her shoulder and to the floor with a hefty thud. "I didn't want to assume you'd want to sleep by me."

You blink fervently. "Ellie."

She watches uncertainly as you punctuate her name and drag her sleeping bag next to yours, until they're close to overlapping. "You literally had your tongue inside of me. Stop being weird all of a sudden."

She visibly reddens, a vicious blush blotching her cheeks. You open your mouth to continue, adrenaline coursing through your veins, when she charges at you and cups a silencing hand over your mouth, a pained smirk tugging at her lips. "Just stop!" She hisses, her lips a wobbling line as she resists a grin of her own.

You chuckle and stumble back, licking her palm. She blanches and releases you, wiping her spit-damp hand on her jeans, her sudden movement sending you plummeting to the floor. You drag her down with you, your breathy laughs mingling as you collapse in a tangle of limbs onto the sea of slippery blankets.

You both burst into another fit of laughter when Firefly growls at all the commotion. She pads out into the foyer, swaying her tail with sass.

"Do you ever shut up?" Ellie mutters lowly, laughter clinging onto every lulled syllable, as she props herself on an elbow and gazes down at you, running a finger over your bottom lip.

You smile, and she traces the shape of it.

"Do you want me to?" You whisper humorously, and her thumb joins her finger in its exploration of the curves of your face, stroking your cheek with an unlikely tenderness that had the power to undo you.

"Never," she mumbles back, applying a chaste, shapeless kiss to the corner of your mouth. It's not enough. She deigns to pull away but you sling an arm over the back of her neck and hold her in place, lips seeking hers with repressed fervor.

She groans into your mouth, the decadent sound rumbling through you, alighting a glimmering need within. You increase the speed and intensity of the kiss— her noises an invitation for more— and propel yourself up with a hand plastered unsteadily to the floor, combing your fingers through her hair with the other.

Her hand rests on your throat, the pressure existent but not imposing, as she guides you into a languorous dance with your tongues. You buck your hips up to sate the craving for pressure and she slips a hand down to your waist, guiding you up and into her.

"I want you for real this time," she blurts breathlessly, words blasting into your tingling, swollen lips. Her eyes are teeming with earnest, pupils so dilated with lechery, they reflect you, doe-eyed and wanting. "No interruptions. I don't fucking care what it is... I'm not going to stop." She utters the words with quivering determination, fumbling with the button of your jeans.

You desperately nod your assent, arching up to assist her in removing your jeans. She brushes fluttery kisses to your exposed midriff where your tank top had ridden up, hurriedly tugging your jeans down, until they pooled at your ankles. She shucks them over your cowboy boots and hurls them to the side.

Your heart hammers with anticipation, core throbbing at the sight of her absolutely unraveled with yearning. Ever since that night in the hospital, you've wanted more. Needed more. You were just as fucked up by your need for her. It consumed you, ate you from the inside out, until all that was left was a thirst that could not be quenched without her hands on you.

"Fuck me, Ellie," you demand hoarsely, winding your hands up her thighs and shakily unbuttoning her jeans as she looms over you. She arches back and unabashedly shreds off her shirt as you hike down her jeans, unveiling small, supple breasts and hard, tantalizing nipples.

You kiss up her pelvis, across her toned, bruised abdomen and to her sternum, licking a slow stripe over one of her nipples and swirling it on your way up, eyes trained on hers lasciviously. You nip and suckle at a spot on her neck and she cranes her head back, hiccuping a sharp cry. She pants and lulls her head as you kiss and nibble the bared column of her throat, her hands roaming up the front of your body, palming your tits through your shirt.

She lifts herself off of you momentarily to kick off her jeans over her Converse, discarding them quickly, before she's back on top of you.

She's framed by the dying daylight penetrating the gaping hole behind her, her eyes flickering over you hungrily. She glides her hands under the hem of your tank top and yanks it over your head, tousling your hair, rejected with all the other articles of scattered clothing.

She pries your legs apart forcefully, and you squeak, as she pulls you closer to her. "How do you want it?" She croons gravelly, voice rich with heady desire, eyes honed in on your face with predatory focus. As if she could take every hint of pleasure you show and have it for herself. She straddles your pelvis and slowly, faintly swipes her pussy over yours, your clit throbbing at the contact. "Like this?"

She cradles your leg in her arm and drags her pussy across yours again, this time with more force. You bite your lip to suppress a whimper at the delicious sensation. "Or do you want me to really fuck you?" She thrusts against you hard for emphasis and you choke back a stunned moan, jerking.

"Yes," you breathe carnally, hair fanning around your head, mouth agape— all subtly gone with the wind that billowed through the room and cooled your slick skin.

"Yes, what? Use your words," she demands, hand encasing your throat, rocking into you with that same jarring force, another moan escaping you.

"Fuck me," you pant, nearly drooling, the husk of her words a fuel to the kindling that was her pussy moving against yours, "Please just fuck me. I need you, Ellie."

She smirks haughtily, wicked satisfaction gleaming in her blue eyes. "That's my girl," she praises knowingly, leaning down until her mouth brushes your panties. She sinks her teeth into them and tears them straight off your body, her hand never abandoning its anchoring hold on your throat. The movement was so effortless you could feel yourself dripping, the duality of this woman stupefying you.

How she could go from awkward at your flirting, to claiming your body as if it were a land she possessed and ruled in the matter of minutes.

You whimper unintelligible nonsense, unable to form coherent words to convey your debilitating need. Wanting her feels as natural and essential as breathing. Explaining it is nowhere near as simple.

She removes herself from you just to slide her own panties off, repositioning herself between your legs, holding your leg to her chest. She offers no warning before she grinds her bare, wet pussy into yours, the skin on skin making tingles of pleasure erupt through your core.

It was nearly too much.

You emit a shuddering moan and arch your back as she returns her calloused hand to your throat and slams into you, rolling her hips, your clits rubbing and chafing. "That's it. Fuck," she hisses out, her tattooed arm stark against your thigh as she hoists it to her, using it to drive into you with fierce precision, your pussy's slapping together stickily.

"Oh my fucking god," you mewl dumbly, tits bouncing, as she angles her hips and relentlessly drives her pelvis into yours, her breaths clipped and high-pitched. You undulate your hips and grind up into her, meeting the ferocity of her thrusts, your juices coinciding and glistening on your thighs. "Ellie."

"Fuck, yeah," she pants blissfully, peering down at you. "You feel so good."

She leans over you, slapping a hand next to your head, folding your leg up to your chest, the position allowing for better movement. She grinds into you from the new angle, your clits gliding and throbbing, and you feel yourself ascending higher and higher, toward that peak you nearly met the other night, at the hospital.

She fucks you nearly senseless, your frame wracking with her thrusts. She burrows her face into the crook of your neck, hot breath ghosting your skin, tiny grunts departing her lips. She grazes her teeth over the flesh and you shudder, her hand that was planted to the floor snaking up and finding yours, interlocking your fingers.

"I'm gonna cum," you whimper into her mussed hair, writhing beneath her, choppily grinding up, your muscles tight. You use the hand that's not intertwined with hers to fist her hair and reer her head back, until your faces are level, gazes locked. Both of you are heavy-lidded and pupil-blown, her eyes brimming with that same pleasure that was mounting in you.

"Cum with me," she orders breathily, your noses compressing, and on demand your body convulses and a blinding white light shreds through your vision, an uncontrolled moan belting out of you as she continues to fuck you through your orgasm.

"Fuck," she groans without restraint as your pussy's squelch, a cry leaving her as she reaches her own peak, her eyebrows furrowed, a dimple surfacing between her brow. She breathes into your open mouth, and you claim it as your own, granting her fleeting kisses through the aftermath.

Not a single thought filters through your head. Nothing beyond her drenched pussy, resting dormant upon your slick thigh, and her lips eloping with yours. You don't even know where to begin when it comes to processing the unprecedented feeling that roared throughout your body, or the swelling off your heart.

Neither of you say a word, your harsh, heavy breathing mingled and protruding the silence. Ellie peels herself off of you, her legs shaking as she thuds to the sleeping bag adjacent to you, her damp forehead pressed into your bare shoulder. She peppers a few kisses over it before falling back, expelling a deep, contented sigh.

You angle your head to face her, a dazed grin splitting your face. "What. The. Fuck. You've been holding out on me," you muse dreamily, playfully swatting at her.

She snickers huskily, scratching her head, propping it on an elbow. Her bare chest glistens and heaves with her labored breaths, as she reaches under the broken bed and slips out a shoebox. She dumps the contents out on her abdomen— a packet of finely minced weed, rolling sheets, a mini box of matches and one pre-rolled joint. "You smoke?"

"I have. Don't do it much though," you admit with a sheepish chuckle, watching her. She licks the length of the joint to insure its sealed before slipping it between her lips and lighting a match, bringing it to the tip. She waves out the tiny flame once smoke billows from the end, taking a measured, steady drawl.

She closes her eyes briefly at the sensation before passing it to you. Her lips quirk as you survey it dubiously before holding it hesitantly to your mouth, sucking in. Her smirk morphs into a resounding laugh when you sputter out a choppy haze of smoke, a profound burn blistering your lungs.

"That shits gross," you cough gutturally, passing it back, batting the swirling smoke out of the air. "You keep that stuff here?"

"No," she responds, smirking, inhaling another graceful heap of smoke. Exhaling slowly. You watch her watch the tendrils churn through the otherwise still air. "It was here when I found this place. Whoever lived here before was stashing it," she glances to the summer bucket list, "Maisie was a stone-er." She chides, flicking the ashes off and taking another hit.

She is noticeably put at ease. Her muscles are relaxed, and her smiles form innately and without dictation. As if all her worries have been laid to rest, now that she got to feel you.

It had the opposite affect on you.

The dark, possessive thoughts that have been circulating your mind like vultures preying on rotting roadkill did not flea at the taste of her.

All it did was amplify your morbid longing.

You snuggle into her embrace and rest your head against her drumming sternum, entangling your sweat-glowing legs together, fusing your bodies. She holds the joint to your lips and you take a drag, careful not to invoke another coughing fit, and she takes one after you, blowing precise, opaque O's with the smoke. She gently runs her fingertips up and down the length of your arm, clutching you to her.

"Can we do it again?" You blurt, angling your head up to face her, and she pauses her stroking. She says nothing as her hand winds down your arm, coasts over your hip, and creeps between your legs.

You suck in a breath when two fingers collect the wetness pooling at your entrance and drag your slick to your clit, rubbing delicately, the feather-light application of pressure evoking a whimper out of you. You squirm and rock into her hand, and she chuckles on a weed-laced breath, "Mm. You want me to fuck you again?"

You nod frantically as she works your pussy with her fingers. She sits up suddenly, taking you with her, until your spread in her lap. She holds the joint between her lips as she uses one hand to palm your breast and the other to expertly thumb your clit, smoke coiling from her nostrils. "Needy fucking girl," her approving groan is muffled by the joint, as she inches her fingers down your wet folds, teasing your entrance. "You want my fingers again?"

"Please," you whine, as reeking smoke tickles your earlobe and wafts into your face, the hand that wasn't easing fingers into your cunt slithering down to keep one of your legs spread, curling around your thigh, kneading and caressing, the joint between her massaging fingers.

You reach back to feather your fingers through her hair, riding her hand, breathy gasps escaping your lips. "Mhm. Good girl," she praises gravelly into your ear, curling her digits inside of you, stroking that sweet spot.

You tug helplessly on her hair and crash your head back onto her shoulder, arching desperately as she makes you cum for the second time, this time drenching her rough fingers.

She doesn't stop there. She maneuvers you out of her lap and sprawls you onto the bed roll, your legs spread, pussy gleaming and sated before her devouring eyes. She braces your thighs in her arms, takes a hit, and exhales onto your clenching pussy, the faint gust stimulating your throbbing clit. You moan and attempt to inch away, but she pins you down and eats you stupid, until her chin is dribbling with your juices, her sardonic smile highlighted by the cum glistening on her lips.

After she was done, she unburried herself from your legs and licked the juices off her lips, eyeing you sensually. She acted as if she were about to go right back down, when Firefly began scratching at the door insistently, meowing manically. Both of you redressed, hefting your tops and underwear back on.

You let the cat in and enveloped yourself in the near-translucent, cotton sheets, observing her as she tiptoes in, sniffing the air. She follows the scent to the crumpled joint on the floor, nosing it curiously. Ellie clicks her tongue in reprimand and tosses it over the side of the building before she tries to eat it. The last thing you needed was a high cat.

After discarding the joint, Ellie plops down on the hazardous edge, swinging her legs. She looks at you from over her bruised shoulder. "Come on," she urges, patting the space next to her.

You oblige, the sheet trailing you as you wander over to her. She takes your hand as you gingerly lower yourself beside her, effortfully prying your gaze from the dizzying height.

The mist had cleared with the days dissipating humidity, revealing the enchanting sweep of ocean that spread before you, dark waves emphasizing the curve of the earth. The sun gleams amber like a glass of whiskey caught in the light, painting the clouds a mass of colors, descending toward the seam of sky and sea.

You avert your attention back to Ellie. Her eyes are sealed, brown lashes fluttering with the breeze, tawny hair cascading with the salt-tinged wind. Her freckles are emphasized by the golden, showering glow, gilding her features. You sit on your hands to keep yourself from tracing them.

Firefly inches over, perching next to you, her green eyes mirroring the setting sun. You close your eyes and drop your head onto Ellie's shoulder, wrapping the sheet around her.

There's a prolonged beat.

And then she tilts her head and rests it on yours, hand gripping your thigh proprietarily. You don't even hesitate. You slide your hand over hers and stroke the bruises blossoming on her knuckles, smiling to yourself.

taglist: @elliesexual @jottedinklings @a-little-bit-of-everybody … let me know if you want to be tagged for updates

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garbinge · 8 months

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You, Me, and Italy

Michael Berzatto x F!Reader From these August Prompts: Italy Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: All my fics are 18+, angsty, mentions of suicide, death, grief, loss, broken heart, drug use, addiction, being high, someone close to ODing, uncomfortable, sad, mentions of sexual situations, it's based on canon mentions of suicide and death and grieving, but a little more in depth. So just be weary of any triggers one might have in reference to these things.

A/N: This is not apart of my Richie Jerimovich multichap. This is heavy. I try and steer clear of fics like this because of my own triggers and trauma around drug abuse and addiction but this just was an idea sitting in my head probably because of all that trauma. The Bear Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @quixscentsposts @dadbodfanatic-x @adorable-punk-superheroes @lodeddiperrodrick @isalver @captainweasleybarnes @musicwithteeth @fancyvoidtragedy @shinebright2000 @knight4xmas

The kitchen was always your favorite place to be when you couldn’t sleep. Something about the ability to hear every single noise in a space where usually you’d be lucky to hear the person next to you speak at a normal tone.

You had come in through the back, placed your stuff down in the locker that had your name written on a green piece of tape, your insanely patterned bandana was snug around your head just above your forehead, something you always wore when cooking. Now, the sounds of the water running as you washed her hands filled your ears and was followed by the clunks of pulling the knives out, the blade tinging as you set it free from its case. Now slicing, the quick quippy sounds of the thin slices of all the items you needed to prep. Basil, onions, garlic, fig, and parmesan cheese. All the ingredients you picked up from the grocery story that was still open this late. The chopping and the sizzling filled your ears in a similar way that music would fill someone else’s. It kept you grounded, kept you calm, kept you in the moment.

“Late night snack?” A voice interrupted that tranquility but surprisingly, there was no reaction from your side. You kept steady as your hand tossed the garlic and basil in the olive oil, other hand equipped with a spoon ready to add in the parmesan ricotta mixture.

“You’re lucky I don’t scare easily.” Your voice was steady as you focused on the pan in front of you.

Mikey looked down and laughed before he made his way from the office over to his best chef and best friend. He leaned against the prep area, hands crossed as you had your back to him.

“You should toast the breadcrumbs.” Mikey said as he took in what you were doing.

Immediately, your head turned to look over your shoulder and shot the man a look. “I’m a one-woman show here, Mikey. I’m getting to it.”

“You know, I can help you out.” He had crossed his leg over the other now as he waited for a response. “Only if you want to.” His arms were now uncrossed as he raised them in a surrender.

Your head tilted, the only invitation he needed to start helping out.

“I’m making arancini, fig and garlic arancini.” You specified.

“Rice balls. You’re making rice balls.” Mikey teased. “What inspired the fig?” He asked as he toasted the bread crumbs at the stove next to you.

“Remember when we went to that bar the other night?” You looked up at him, despite being a few feet down from you, he still towered over you in height. “While you and Richie were off doing God knows what, I ordered shit from the bar. They had this fig, arugula, and goat cheese pizza.”

“Jesus Christ, what fuckin’ bar were we at?” Mikey laughed at the fanciness of how it all sounded.

“That place, Porta. I’d say it was more hipster than fancy.”

“God, I don’t even remember.” Mikey laughed before placing his attention back on you and continuing the conversation. “So the pizza was good?”

“It was, and I just kept thinking what would go well with fig and landed at a rice ball.”

“Arancini.” Mikey corrected you with the biggest grin growing on his face.

A laugh left your mouth as you took the sauce off the heat, wanting it to cool down slightly before pouring it into the egg mixture that was already placed in the fridge.

The silence fell over the both of you and you both continued to move around the kitchen. Mikey stood with the bowl of rice in his hands, resting it on the prep counter as you stood over and poured in the egg mixture. Mikey was whisking it around rapidly, that way the eggs didn’t scramble. The smell coming from the bowl was filled with savory scents of garlic and sweet touches of fig reduction.

“You good, buddy?” Mikey was looking at you as he stirred everything around. It wasn’t so much in reference to your current state, which was focused as you concentrated on pouring the egg mixture in, but more in reference to why you were here late.

Buddy. Such a Mikey term. The two of you knew each other for years, meeting when you were smoking in the back of the restaurant you used to work out. To put it in simple terms, he poached you. He had just grabbed a bite at said restaurant, with his brother Carmy, a detail you found out later since Mikey came alone to the alley in the back where you had been taking a break. He asked if you had made the slow braised beef and proceeded to tell you about his restaurant. You never walked back into that restaurant again and started at The Beef the next day.

As time passed, things got close with Mikey. The two of you just fed off each other, you vibed effortlessly and one day that led to more. You spent a majority of the night locked in the office making a bed out of the table, the floor, the bookshelf, anything that had an inch of a flat surface, Mikey took you. That however, never amounted to more. It was always just sex. There was no label on what the two of you had, no real dates, no holding hands, just stolen moments around the restaurant, late nights in the kitchen, nights out at bars, and overnights spent at each others places. But that never made anything awkward because despite their being no label, everyone knew there was something between you two. It was impossible to miss. The way you two got along, the way you spent every waking moment together, whether you were at the restaurant or not. But what the real dead giveaway was, you two moved in the kitchen like you had perfected a choreographed dance, every, single, time. There was never any missteps, any arguing, no bumping into each other, you just glided by each other, calling out kitchen terms and directions. It was a sight to be seen, everyone thought so. Including the family. Sugar and Carmy were impressed when you came by for the first time maybe a month into starting at The Beef. Richie had already seen how the two of you worked together but both Berzatto siblings were shocked by it.

“Hey, you good?” Mikey repeated himself and bent down a little to look into your eyes.

“Yea, sorry.” You shook your head from your thoughts.

“I don’t buy it.” Mikey pressed you again for more information. “What’s with late night rice balls?”

“You ever feel stuck?” There was no point in trying to hide what you were feeling from Mikey.

“Uh, just every day of my life.” You let out a breath through your nose in a sort of chuckle. “I just, wish I could get out of here.” The frustration was littered in your voice.

“Where would you go?” He set the bowl down now that everything was stirred, and he turned to face you.

“Anywhere.” You turned too so you were facing him.

“So let’s go.” His voice raised, like what he said and meant didn’t need planning, didn’t need money, he spoke it outloud like it was the easiest thing to achieve.

“Yea, where?” You were about to start naming off places around here in Chicago as a joke but he was quick to answer you.

“Italy.”

You frowned but a smile was growing on your face. “Italy?” You questioned.

“Yea, let’s go to Italy, we’ll eat all the rice balls in the fuckin’ country, we’ll learn how to make ‘em like a true Italian. We’ll eat our way around Rome, Sicily, Naples, it’ll be great, just me and you and Italy.” He was so energetic in how he spoke, his hands were in the air, his voice was echoing off the kitchen walls.

“You, me, and Italy?” You questioned him as your head nodded in agreement.

“You, me, and Italy.” Mikey nodded with the biggest smile on his face.

____

Time might’ve passed and a lot of things might’ve changed, but sometimes stayed exactly the same. You were pushing through the back door of The Beef, bag and kitchen tools in hand as the clock ticked past 1AM.

“Mikey?” You called out, expecting to see him appear in the kitchen. You called out again and heard nothing. It was odd, but also maybe not. He had been distant lately, you picked up on that when most nights he didn’t come back to your place. You knew things had been tough for him, he was having money issues and as a result moved back in with his mother, he was stressed. Every time you did get the chance to see him, he wasn’t fully there, sometimes you’d taste alcohol on his breath, others you could tell his mind was caught in a thought or 20.

Moving to the lockers, you saw the door open just slightly and the lamp on illuminating a ton of paperwork. You saw his hand resting on the table and slowly peaked in.

Now, you had your suspicions, they were probably more than suspicions, you knew. You knew Mikey was hooked on something. But you didn’t want to accept it. But there it was, slapping you right in the face. It had been functional, he had been functional, which is what made it easy for you to question, for you to say nothing. After tonight, you’d regret it, you’d regret staying silent, not giving in to your suspicions, voicing them out loud.

You took in the sight of him, he was so out of it, you could see his glazed over eyes even from the distance you were at. The giveaway as if everything else wasn’t so obvious was the pills scattered all over the paperwork in front of him.

“Mikey.” The urgency hit you just as much as the the scene of him. You were next to him in seconds, shaking him awake.

The smile that filled his face as he stared at you, the smile that warmed your heart, the smile that melted you, the smile of your best fucking friend was breaking you.

“What–what’re you doin’ here?”

“How much did you take, Mikey?” You moved forward to the table to search for a bottle, a pill count, see how many were on the table, but Mikey’s hands began to grab your arms.

“No, no, no, no, no. Stop, you’re ruining the fun.” Mikey complained, his voice was slurred.

You pulled back immediately, uncomfortable and unsure what to do. Your heart was beating fast and before your tears could even start falling, Mikey started yelling. “You’re ruining the fun!!” It was a repetition of what he had said before and all it did was secure your feet frozen to the ground. “That’s all anyone ever does anymore. Ruin the fucking fun.” He spun in the swivel chair like a child and when it stopped spinning he looked at the bookshelf and began speaking again, but this time more at a whisper.

“Even my own fuckin girl. I can’t have anything.”

You snuck out the door, searching for your phone in your pocket. The irony that in your hastiness, you spent more time looking for it than if you searched for it with purpose and patience.

As you picked your phone up to your ear, your hand was shaking. “C’mon, pick up, pick up.” You mumbled, taking your other hand to pick at your lip.

“It’s 1 in the fuckin’ morning, I’m neck deep in shit diapers, if this is you and Mikey asking me to go out, I’m blocking your number for eternity.” Richie seemed stressed in a completely different way.

“Richie, it’s Mikey, he uh, I don’t know, there’s pills, he’s awake–sort of?, he’s angry, I don’t know how much he took but he, he uh, I just need help, I need you down here, can you get down here, please?” The shakiness in your voice was the dam holding back your tears.

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes. Keep him up.”

With that Richie hung up and you were moving back into the office, you squatted down and turned the chair so he was facing you. “Mikey, babe?” You tried to keep your voice soft. His red, glossy eyes met yours as he plopped his head down to look at you.

“My girl.” A little bit of hope filled his face, he reached his hand up to cup your face. The impulse to pull away was strong but you stayed there, you stayed there with him and let him speak to you.

“You’re so pretty, you know that? So pretty. And you’re so talented, you can throw down, you know that? Best fuckin slow braised beef I’ve ever fuckin’ had.”

The amount of compliments he was giving you, it should’ve had you elated, floating, with butterflies but instead it was making you sick–uneasy. And you just had to sit there and let him say it, over and over again. You were counting in your head, hoping that once you got to the 10th 60th second count, that Richie would be here.

“Hey hey hey, you listening to me?” Mikey moved slightly to look at you, even in his fogged state he could tell your mind was elsewhere.

“Mhm.” You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes as you stared into his eyes.

“You, me, and Italy, baby. You, me, and Italy.” The second time he said it, it was in a whisper like he was desperate for it to be true. Like if he said it low enough the world would grant him the wish. That’s when you really saw him, saw what was happening in his brain. Alongside that hopeful look was one of peace and happiness. The absolute gut wrenching emotion you felt in your heart when you realized it. How being high set Mikey free, set him free from his demons, in some weird twisted way this was the closest you’ve seen Mikey to his usual self.

Before your heart could break anymore, you heard Richie’s voice behind you and he was slipping into your spot and picking Mikey up.

______

“You know I remember this one time, we went over to Mikey’s place, the one on Courtyard, me, Carm, and Richie, and it was Sunday, Braciole night. We walk in, Mikey’s got the game playing so loud in the background, we start prepping, cooking. I remember he told me not to put raisins in the braciole even though that’s how mom did it. And he just, he had this smile on for those first 30 minutes, like he had something planned, like he was in on the joke. But the thing is none of us knew what the joke was. And then, the door opened, we were all confused at who it was and then, this woman appeared. Mikey introduced her to us, he was so happy, and we were like shocked, cause Mikey, our big brother, the player, brought this girl over to our fucked up family Sunday night dinner. She didn’t care that the TV was loud, that we were even louder, that Mikey and Richie would tell the most insane stories, over and over again, and in fact, she moved around the kitchen like, well, like she’d known us all our whole lives. I don’t know if I ever saw Mikey so happy.” Sugar was sitting in bed, her phone on speaker while you sat silent on the other line.

“You at the restaurant?” Sugar cleared her throat.

“Standing right outside it.” You spoke up, trying to hide your tears from the story Sugar just told.

“I’ll be there soon.” There was rustling on the other side of the phone, like she had started to get up and get ready.

“Sugar?” You questioned, worried she was about to hang up.

“Hm?” She hummed.

“Thank you.” It was two words but sometimes you needed to hear it. How much Mikey loved you, he didn’t tell you often, but you felt it, you saw it. But now, that he was gone, that all that was left of Mikey for you was the things he left at your place, the memories you shared, you took the antidotes Sugar occasionally told you and kept them someplace special.

“I’ll see you in the chaos.” Sugar replied back to you in which you did the same.

For a few seconds after the phone call, you stood there, staring at the gutted restaurant, staring at the mayhem happening behind the glass, which was normal for the restaurant, whether it was in business or not. But right now, standing outside, in the peace of the quiet reminded you of those late nights in the kitchen, and you were destined to hold onto that peace for just a few more minutes.

Eventually, you joined the chaos. Greeting everyone as you made your way through the renovation. Finding yourself getting swept up into something in the immediate first seconds you entered the front door. After an hour or so, when you wrapped up your job in the front, you made your way to the kitchen.

“What’re you doing?” You placed your stuff down in the office as you walked past Richie, Fak, and Marcus who were gathered around someone’s phone watching a video, arguing back and forth. Natalie stood up from the chair in the office and placed a hand on your shoulder in a half greeting and walked over to the arguing men. Your eyes lingered on the office table and chair a little longer than normal, letting the memories flood into your brain for a short few seconds before you turned to put your attention back on everyone.

“Scraping and painting and fighting over moving the lockers.” Marcus spoke up.

You turned around and stepped out of the office, staring at them trying to attempt to move the lockers. Carmy had appeared now, yelling at them to keep it down and when the mention of Mikey’s locker still being locked was announced, that’s when everyone silences.

“Just fuckin’ open it.” Carmy spoke up.

A hat. June 5th, 2010. Taste of Chicago. The booth.

You smiled at that. You weren’t there for the booth, but you heard all about it. From the family, but from Mikey, it was one of the many stories he’d tell you over and over and honestly, you’d do anything to hear him tell it 200 more times.

Carmy handed the hat to Richie, and as he turned around his eyes fell on your.

“Yo, uh, I got something for you.” He said and walked right past you into the office, searching for something. As everyone went back to working, you turned and took a few steps towards Carmy as he moved the papers around looking for something.

“So, uh, we’re sending Ebra and Tina to culinary school, for them to stay sharp, learn some new shit, and uh, I–we, Syd and I figured you didn’t want or honestly really need that, so uh–here!” He proclaimed the last word louder than the rest as he found the envelope with your name written on it and handed it to you.

You looked down at it for a second and then back at Carmy, you two didn’t talk much in general, but you definitely didn’t talk much about him.

“You and Syd…” You started to say as you mindlessly tapped the envelope against your skin. “You uh,” You wanted to say that the two of them reminded you a lot of you and Mikey, the effortlessness in the kitchen, the way their ideas just bounced off each others and how they brought this new sense of life to each other. But it was that last thought that weighed heavy on you. There was a point that Mikey brought a new sense of life to you and you did the same to him but unfortunately that emotion, that feeling, had changed at some point, at no ones fault but it didn’t stop you from not cherishing it more. “Just, don’t take it for granted.”

“Yea, yea.” Carmy nodded, getting where you were coming from but also not really wanting to get into it and you were okay with that because you didn’t want to get into it either.

Carmy’s eyes moved down to the envelope and back to you. Taking the hint you nodded. “Right.” You said quickly and began to rip the envelope open. As your hand reached in and pulled out the papers in the envelope, you saw the word United and then followed by a seat and time and that’s when you saw the airports.

ORD – NAP

Naples International Airport.

“Carmy.” You looked up, eyes shocked.

“It’s what Mikey would’ve wanted.” Carmy nodded and walked by you, taking his hand to rest on your shoulder and then tap it as he exited the office.

You stared down at the tickets, trying to take in everything.

“You, me, and Italy, Mikey.”

#The Bear #The Bear FX #The Bear fanfic #Mikey Berzatto #Michael Berzatto #Michael Berzatto x Reader #Mikey Berzatto x Reader

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livlaughloveluke · 5 months

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𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞- 𝐞.𝐥

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you fall in love with a murderer, and have to choose between living a life with out him, or dying

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: HEAVY angst, no happy ending (sorry), ghostface au, little cursing, scream 6 spoilers ig, death :(

𝐚/𝐧: my first writing!! lmk what y’all think 👀 theme heavily inspired by @auras-moonstone, which go check her blog out if you haven't already! also story very similar to author on wattpad, forgot their name though so if you know, make sure to comment!

your feet ached from running, and with every step you took, it felt like your muscles were snapping into itty-bitty pieces. however, you had to keep running, for yourself, and for your friends.

you were currently being chased by two ghostfaces, who had just brutally murdered chad. it was painful to watch, since you had been attached at the hip since kindergarten, and had grown up together.

he was always there for you, and was a great listener. he listened to you when you needed to vent about your shitty day, or when you were rambling on about how cute and thoughtful ethan was.

you met ethan at the beginning of the semester, and instantly clicked. you constantly hung out, and the group liked to joke about your crushes on one another. you just thought it was playful teasing, although you had definitely fallen for ethan, hard.

unbeknownst to you, he had felt the same. originally, you and him were never supposed to happen. the plan was for him to join the group through chad, and continue the family business from there. although, once he heard your angelic laugh and experienced your lovable personality, he knew the whole plan was fucked.

however, none of that matters now, as you stand in front of detective bailey. he had just revealed himself as one of the heartless killers, and the other murders still had their masks on, and stood next to him proudly.

then, he took off his disguise.

it was ethan. your ethan. the one who you baked cookies with only a few nights ago, was a serial killer, and wanted your blood.

you couldn’t focus on the others words, all you could do was stare at ethan. he however, was to much of a coward to even glance your direction. he couldn’t bear the thought of your eyes being stained with sadness and betrayal.

you were quickly brought back to reality as all hell broke loose. quinn chased after the sisters, bailey after kirby, and ethan after you.

you pushed your sore and aching legs down a dim hallway, only to find a dead end. it was over for you. no where to run, you turned around to look at ethan, and backed into the cold, concrete wall.

“so, this is it? you’re just going to kill me now, after everything we’ve been through?” you ask with an aggravated tone, your words still lingering in ethans ears, much after they were said.

“i- i dont want to do this to you, y/n. but i have to. its for richie, for the family.” he grips the knife, and slowly brings it up to your throat. you tense up, and squeeze your eyes shut.

this is how you were going to die, bleeding out at the hands of the boy you loved most. it felt unreal, although you were starting to except your fate. you internally jumped at the feeling of the tip of the knife to your throat, and now you were waiting for him to end your life with one stroke.

you kept waiting, for what felt like an eternity, but nothing ever came. you decided to open your eyes out of curiosity. he was standing still, looking down at the ground, deep in thought.

“do it. please, don’t drag my death on. the least you can do is make it quick. kill me, ethan.” you say, the tremble in your voice very prominent. the sound of your whispers catches him off guard, and he looks up from the floor to make eye contact with you.

ethan broke upon hearing your pleads. what was he doing? he loved you, more than he loved his father or sister. you made him feel special, in a way no other family member could.

“I can’t do it.” he says, dropping the knife and beginning to sob into his hands. you look at him, both confused and distraught, until your attention is brought elsewhere. sam was covered in blood behind him, a knife in hand. she brought a finger up to her lips, signaling you to be quiet so she could attack him.

you didn’t want him to die, but you knew he had to. you quickly embraced him, arms around his neck, standing on your tallest tiptoes, due to his abnormally large height.

you dig you head into his neck, between your arm, and began to cry with him.

“you dont know how bad i want this to be a dream.” you managed to choke out, in between sobs. “i wish i could wake up in your arms, and everything could go back to normal.” you say, still hugging him, for this would be the last time.

you pick your head up to look at sam, signaling to her that it was time. you bury your head back into the crook of his neck, closing your eyes, waiting. you then hear the knife plunge into his skin, and you feel the vibrations of his muffled shrieks along your skin.

you decide to continue talking, trying to help him through the pain, while sam retracts the weapon from his back and goes to stab him again.

“i wish i could wake up from this nightmare, and we could go back to studying econ on thursdays, and getting milkshakes at our favorite diner while we talk and laugh for hours.” you exclaim with a depressing and heartfelt tone.

“remember when you were walking me back to my apartment late one night, and we saw a stray cat? and you sat there for the next 10 minutes, feeding it scraps out of the palm of your hand?” you recite to him, and he nods slowly, while in pain.

“thats the ethan i fell in love with. he would never do anything like this, and he was the most selfless guy i knew. he would spend hours researching the perfect flower to get, and would make sure to text me every morning and night to check on me.” you share, and start to feel his body go limp, and all color he once had, slowly drained from his soul.

“i love you, so much y/n. i wish things were different.” he stutters out, before going unconscious.

“me too.” you say, laying his body down on the ground. tears spilling from your eyes, and onto his lifeless cheek.

that was it. there was no more ethan and y/n. you would have to live a life without him. no more sleeping in his bed while you ran your fingers through his hair, no more sweet messages, no more song recommendations. apart of you had died that day, and it killed knowing that he would never come back.

#jack champion #ethan landry smut #ethan landry angst #ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #jack champion x y/n #jack champion x reader #liv’s writing !

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starryriize · 2 months

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blankets and plushies | woonhak

— ✧ • ˳೫˚ part of my valentine event!

೫ pairing: bf!woonhak and gf!reader

೫ summary: you and woonhak spend valentine’s making a pillow fort and staying in to watch movies

೫ genre/word count: fluff! 788 words!

೫ author’s notes: ahhh this was too cute to write! i struggled with the ending 😭 but it turned out cuter than i expected ! happy end of my valentine event !! semi-proofread

4:30 pm -

“Woonie, what part of this looks like a fort to you?” A fit of laughter threatens to escape your mouth. The pillows were rapidly falling, making your end of the pillow fort look like a sad pile of blankets. Woonhak gave you a sheepish glance, hurriedly adjusting the pillows and placing books to hold up the pillows in place. He wanted you to enjoy your spot in the fort, and he wouldn’t have as much fun either if the pillows kept falling onto your head.

After some 30-odd minutes of watching and giggling as Woonhak fixed the fort, the precious pillow fort was finally done. Plopping onto the blankets, he turns to you asking, “What should we watch?” You pretend to think for a really long time, putting your fingers under your chin. Muttering softly, you name movies you always enjoyed as a child. "Well I always liked James Bond...or maybe Harry Potter...oh wait, how about Tangled? Nah, there's also Wall-E...oh but what about Pirates of the Caribbean?"

Woonhak laughs, staring at you with wide eyes as he listens intently to you ramble on about the various movies and genres you enjoy. Your quiet muttering would sound crazy to anyone else, but to Woonhak, it was incredibly calming. The way your voice sounded like a harmony that blessed his ears. He could listen to you for hours, days on end, and he'd never get bored.

"So...Wall-E?" He tilts his head toward you, breaking the silence after you've stopped muttering. The screen flicks, changing to show the preview of Wall-E. Smiling to yourself, you nod, adding, "We should definitely watch it." Woonhak giggles, re-enacting how Wall-E was when he met Eve.

"Eeeeve. Eeve? Eva." You burst out laughing at his robot impression, sounding more similar to a chipmunk than a bot. “Woonie, you sound like Alvin.” He rolls his eyes, playfully scoffing as he grabs the remote to click play.

“Hey- if I’m Alvin, who are the others?” He asks, whispering to you. Without even turning to him, you quickly shush him, telling him that this is a part he shouldn’t miss. It was the scene where Eve and Wall-E are running from the other robots, but the Captain knows that Eve has the last plant from Earth. You’d always loved Wall-E, telling your mom when you were little that robots had a better love story than most people.

You giggle at the screen, settling yourself into the fort, bringing a blanket over yourself. Next to you, Woonhak couldn’t focus on the screen, rather, he was staring at you. Sometimes you never failed to make him laugh and you were like a walking sunshine. He couldn’t believe that you were next to him and on Valentine’s Day too no less.

On the other hand, you were beginning to feel sleepy. Perhaps it was because most of your energy was spent laughing with Woonhak as you both made the fort, but either way, you were tired. Your eyelids felt increasingly heavy as you tried your best to focus on the movie.

You relented, giving in to your body wanting sleep. “Used up all your energy, huh?” He laughs quietly, sighing happily as your head falls onto his shoulder. For a few minutes, he watched the movie, making sure to not move so that you could sleep well. The movie was quietly playing in the background as he felt himself get tired with you.

Thirty minutes later, Jaehyun and Sungho came back from the store, grocery bags in hand. They set down the bags, chattering about how they could use help and how they’ll eat all the food if no one else came to help. But how were you both supposed to know? After all, you and Woonhak were asleep in the pillow fort; the movie now playing the credits.

“Hm? Is Woonhak in his room?” Sungho nods at Jaehyun’s question, as he takes out a bottle of chocolate milk. Jaehyun gives him a quick thank you, walking off to get his favorite maknae. As he approached the door, he heard the tell-tale sound of the Disney credits. Opening the door quietly, half-expecting to see you both choosing the next movie, but he wasn’t surprised when he saw you both asleep.

“Awwww.” He swooned, taking his phone out to take a picture, finding you both so cute. You were both snoring softly, the blanket covering the both of you. It was an adorable sight, and you’d wake up to see his hyungs in the fort with you, watching a movie. Some may say it’s annoying but in many ways, it was a perfect Valentine’s Day- spent with what you and Woonhak would call your second family.

#bnd imagines #boynextdoor imagines #bnd fluff #bnd x reader #boynextdoor fluff #boynextdoor scenarios #boynextdoor woonhak #woonhak x reader

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scribble-dribble-writes · 1 year

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Loveless

Next>>>

---

Pairing: Namor x Shuri

Contents: This happens after Wakanda forever. This is how I would build on their relationship which is fractured now but has a lot of scope. I loved how they were similar and yet different, that even through there difference they connected well. It’s also fascinating that they include a lot of great elements for their enemies to lovers trope to work. I based it off of how Riri hints, “it’s like Belle and the beast.”

Word count: 1070

Warnings: none

CONTAINS SPOILERS!

---

“When the times comes, Wakanda will call for us.”, he reassured his cousin. “Till then, we will wait.”, she replied and with a bow, she left. Tiny pellets of water dripped into water pools around him, the cave empty and vacant. His memory flashes back to when she was here. Unusual, unlike anyone he had ever met. It was a test, when he had sent her the royal attire, absolutely sure she would throw a fit and try to defy him. But to his surprise, he remembered the awe he felt when she walked into the room adorned with jewelry similar to his. He was well prepared, ready to turn this into an argument or a demand but something about her wanted him to be better. So he stood up and distanced himself. He wanted to share his history with her, the paintings on his wall, the artefacts around him.

Taloca was forbidden to anyone else but when she had asked him, he could not bring himself to say no. For the first time in the tenure he had been king, he felt excited, like the child he could never be, the child that was deemed to be loveless. So he took her and through the journey, he could only focus on her. Her voice as she called for him. He wanted to take her hand. Her eyes lit up even as she was in a suit, seeing the place he had built through her perspective, his soul churned within him. He had everything he needed. But his want for connection had always been starved, so now as she greeted a few Talocans and smiled back at him, he wanted her to stay here. Stay a little longer with him.

But the memory fades, just as soon as it had happened, he had found another way to destroy it, to be brash and be consumed with vengeance for the surface world that the only surface being that showed him kindness apart from his mother, he had now sowed hatred for him in her heart. She confided in him, one she did not even tell her mother, about her sadness, he wanted to reach out, to comfort her but what can a man who isolated his own feelings help a grieving girl? So he offered her his mother’s bracelet, the only artefact that held sentimental value. It would stand as a reminder that the people you lose are never truly gone.

Now as he looked at himself in the reflection, he traced his finger over the fresh scar on his cheek where her claws had dug in. He had to be alone when he thought about her. If his council knew of his compassion for her, if would be taken away. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind, “You are no different.”, she yelled. “You took her mother away for revenge, now who does she have?”, he paced the room. The consequences of his action should have been death but she spared him. Even after he stabbed her, even after he destroyed her home, he was unworthy. Unworthy of her kindness. His knees hit the floor. The tears that he had not felt once since his mother’s death, now pouring out. His chest heavy with guilt.

He attended the wakandan council meeting, his hopes of seeing her again reduced to nothing when he saw a man sit on the throne. All their eyes conveyed the same message, that they were doing this for her, including him. He brushed it aside, he was here as a part of his duty, nothing more. Nothing more.

Days turned to months, his people were living in peace, his company now only to be chosen between Attuma and Namora both of whom were well versed with disrupting his mental peace. He needed to see her, another moment of carrying this guilt would do him no good. He wanted to tell her the story behind the pearls he wore or show her the new painting he had done to commemorate their duel. The others he hid away, drawings of her, he had selfishly done in his secret books. He knew where she was, the elders discussed of her stay in Haiti and ever since then, he had been plotting ways to get there. The Atlantic sea had great connections to the Caribbean, it was all a matter of choosing the right current.

Shuri closed the door softly, her nephew was asleep. The night sky came alive with stars and the sound of crashing waves. She pulled the shawl around her tighter as she walked on the shore. She missed home, her lab but this was needed. To be away from all of it. To start a fresh , where everything wasn’t a reminder of what she had lost. The moon danced above the water, reminding her of him. The night he emerged out of the water when she was with her mother. He looked around wakanda as though it had been the home he had never had. But now she burned any memory of his. She ended the war but at what cost? Now she was grieving for her entire family, her loneliness so tangible that she felt in soak in her bones.

The waves crashed, she walked further with only moonlight there to guide her. She stopped, when she heard disturbance in the rhythm, as though someone was walking onto the shore She turned to spot a lonely figure, limping out to the sand and then collapsing onto the shore. They needed help or they could be in grave danger. She could help them. But her mind wanted to take her to the moment she had the exact thought but had failed instead. But as she got close, the figure’s neck shimmered like faint gold under the moonlight and she knew instinctively who it was. She didn’t approach him any further when the figure pushed himself onto his elbows as he finally found his ground.

His eyes found hers, “Princess.”, he said softly. “It has been awhile.”.

Should I continue this haha?

#mcu namor #namor #tenoch huerta namor #namor x shuri #shuri #shuri black panther #shuri x namor #mcu fic #fanfiction

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nervocat · 2 months

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“The stars look down on you as you wander with your cat guide. They want to tell you a story of theirs. Will you listen to them?”

# — Notes: THE LONG AWAITED CH 1!! IT'S HERE!!! I'm so happy with the outcome hehe. I hope you all enjoy it too, I had fun writing this <33 and things are just getting started with the angst.. 😈😈 # — Word count: 826 # — Fandom: Honkai: star rail # — Cw: hinted YingFeng (it's NOT RenHeng, it's different), mentioned stabbing, and technically murder # — Taglist: @dumbificat , @ariicandy , @thetwinkims , @imanonandawkward , @klemen-time , @akuangels , @minvtte

—Chapter 1: The Fallout

Yingxing and [name]’s weapons clashed, the sound carrying throughout Scalegorge Waterscape. It had been a long time for Yingxing, his hair turned white and face aged with time. Though he was still as nimble as he was when he was younger — for the most part.

“Hah.. you're good, [name]..” he says through heavy breaths. “Just give me a break, alright?” they smile and nod at Yingxing, laughing a bit as they help Yingxing to move.

Jing Yuan was an adult now, and watching the two old friends spar, their matching red jewelry a sign of said friendship, he couldn't help but feel enamored by their fighting style. It was similar, obvious that old man Yingxing had helped [name] learn to fight in his earlier years.

[name] still used the weapon Yingxing had crafted them all those years ago, and Yingxing used the sword he crafted for himself. The weapons that the Quintet members wielded were also made by Yingxing, gifts by him.

Jing Yuan was taken out of his trance when Jingliu, his former mentor, elbowed him lightly, a small smile adorning her lips. “Seems Yingxing is getting a bit old, tapped out again because his back hurt,” she laughs a bit, with Jing Yuan looking back to Yingxing and [name] walking over to Dan Feng.

It was known to the group the two friends — including themselves — were very proud of [name] in their accomplishments. They learned how to fight well, and had made it big in writing with the help of Baiheng in publishing their stories along with hers. Yingxing always looked at them with fond eyes and a smile, almost like a father would their child.

Dan Feng was similar — though he was older than both of them — and looked at both with the same fond eyes and a softened expression. [name] was technically one of the younger ones in the group, only being older than Jing Yuan, looking up to Yingxing and Dan Feng like a kid would. Their friendship was more of a found-family bond, running deep into the years they've known each other. And there was definitely something more going on with Yingxing and Dan Feng behind the scenes.

“Dan Feng!!” [name] calls, running ahead of Yingxing. “Did you see me?! I'm finally able to keep up with Yingxing and his attacks!” Dan Feng's lips curl into a small smile, his arms crossed like they always are, and nods.

“I did see, [name],” he looks up to his other close friend, a teasing glint in his draconic eyes. “Though, don't you think it's because he's getting to be a bit old?” [name] feigned a gasp as Yingxing stood beside them, laughing a bit.

“Dan Feng! How could you!?” The Vidyadharas smile widens slightly, also laughing a bit.

“I know, crude of me, huh?” Jing Yuan, Baiheng and Jingliu look on with smiles at the three. They truly hoped that this would last as long as they all lived.

The sorrows of the Quintet spill over onto the battlefield, their group slowly cracking and falling apart.

“Dan Feng.. Yingxing.. why...? Why would you commit such a foul crime?”

Cries of sadness and pain echo out, [name] stands amidst it all, weapon in hand as tears fall from their eyes. Their friends having turned against each other, it was hard to watch. They fall to their knees, weapon clattering to the ground.

“..Baiheng’s dead!”

What happened..? Why did they.. what was their goal? “Yingxing..”

“I am no longer him, but a shell. Keep that name out of your mouth.”

He is but a shell, is what “Blade” says. An abundance abomination. An immortal being who cannot welcome death and can only yearn for such a fate, and is forever stuck with the Mara and losing his memories of the past.

Jingliu.. stabbing into Blade many times as [name] calls out for her to stop, that it's not worth it as they sob uncontrollably at the sight of what used to be their mentor getting killed over and over and over and over and-

“Jingliu! Please! Just- just stop this insensitive madness!”

They remain in the shattered aftermath of the battlefield with Jing Yuan. He, who had to rid of his mentor because of the Mara. She went on a rampage, killing many in her wake. They look at each other, the only ones that are left of what was the High Cloud Quintet.

“So.. now what?” They ask, voice full of regret and sadness as they clutch their weapon, the last thing they have of Yingxing other than their necklace.

“That.. I am unsure of, [name].”

Dan Feng, he who was forced into a rebirth, and was chained up in prison for his crimes. He, who is now Dan Heng.

The Xianzhou pick up the broken pieces and put their lives and civilization back together, but as time passes, [name] and Jing Yuan still remain shattered, only having the other for comfort and companionship.

#🗯️ ͏ ͏͏ ͏: ͏ ͏ ͏ galaxy series ˑ ִ✷#・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗#honkai star rail #star rail #hsr #x gender neutral reader #x gn reader #honkai star rail x gender neutral reader #honkai star rail x gn reader #hsr x gender neutral reader #hsr x gn reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr angst #platonic hsr #platonic angst #strictly platonic #high cloud quintet

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andy-wm · 6 months

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Aesthetic Emotions and the Catharsis of Tragedy

How I feel after watching Jimin's Production Diary - The Truth Untold.

Why do we feel so drawn to emotional outpouring of others?

Why does the suffering and pain of artists make 'meaningful' art'?

I'm going to tell you why I think Face is a Greek Tragedy and why, even though the album is a complete and perfect story, we still needed Letter.

You know how sometimes you just need a good cry? And afterwards you feel better, like a weight has lifted... that's catharsis.

Based on the philosophy of the ancient greek philosopers Aristotle and Plato, the catharsis offered by tragedy in art is good for your soul.

The tragedy I'm talking about is not like a natural disaster. Its not like an unfathomably sad real life situation such as war, or the failure of the referendum for The Voice to pass in Australia.

I'm talking about Tragedy as a literary and artistic genre.

Simply put, Tragedy as a genre is identified by pathos and passion. And the work must have a narrative structure - a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Pathos being the ability to identify with and pity a person going through hard times.

Passion referring to strong emotion (of any sort).

But how do we find the equivalent of that literary theory in work that's not a typical story? In a song, or in art?

In my opinion, we can see something similar in music if we combine literary theory and art theory. After all, what is a song but a story delivered with emotion through music, and experienced as art is?

There's a school of art theory called Aesthetic Emotionalism.

In a nutshell, this means that the VALUE of the artwork comes from the way it communicates or expresses emotion. Mood, colour, tone, language all contribute to the feelings we get when we experience that work, whether it's looking at a picture or listening to music. They help us pick up on the emotions the artist is conveying.

So what happens when you experience those emotions through art? What is catharsis?

The experience of tragic events in art, whether it's a heart-rending drama, or a beautiful sad song, or a dark and menacing painting, can give you access to emotions like fear, pity, and regret. Feeling those emotions through art lets you purge the heaviness of them from your mind and body, giving you a sense of relief. That's catharsis.

It seems counter-intuitive but ultimately the experience is uplifting. It's like having the benefits of a therapy session, but without having to face YOUR OWN demons.

Becuase of the narrative structure, and the resolution of conflict, there's always relief at the end of the story.

You feel cleansed of those strong emotions, reengergised and ready to go on. But you also feel a sense of calm understanding. The pathos part of the tragedy gives you insight into the suffering of the character in the story.

Think about the narrative structure of the album Face.

The album has a carefully planned narrative, and a sense of rising and falling energy with these songs that's strongly reminiscent of the structure of a Hero's Journey.

And think about the individual songs in terms of Aesthetic Emotionalism too ...how they convey emotions through tone, pace, language, colour etc.

I'm going to go ahead and say that the strength of the Aesthetic Emotionalism in these songs (and in BTS's music in general) is a major reason they have such impact even when you dont understand the lyrics.

Now let's combine them... look at the emotions conveyed in these songs and how the literary theory of a tragedy might apply to the album :

The first song is the slow and devastating Face Off, with its hypnotic rhythm and strange, discomforting sound effects. It reallly does transport us into a dreamlike/nightmare landscape. But the last few words of the song foreshadow that it's gonna be alright.

Then we have the surreal, melancholy Dive, drawing us further into this dystopian world. It also uses sound effects to make us feel like we are being pulled through time. Dive is reminiscent of a soundtrack from a video, but it's been separated from it's film reel, leaving the listener to guess and imagine the scenes unfolding. It feels like jimin has come untethered from his reality.

Like Crazy comes like rising action in a novel, and we get character development, a bit of plot information, and conflict. But the song itself is a viby dance track with a party atmosphere (if you don't look too closely) so we get a reprieve from the darkness of Face Off and Dive. Its hypnotic beat is enough to keep us locked in the surreal dreamlike world that's been built around us by the previous songs, and the lyrics echo that.

Alone takes us back down into the darkness of Jimin's state of mind, both lyrically and with its low tones and slow pace. We get the metronome, the marking of slow time.

Set Me Free has a totally different energy. Jimin's tone of of voice is much brighter, but hard and determined. Set Me Free isnt a request, it's a demand. The music is forceful. It's like a battle march. The story has reached its climax.

Returning to Like Crazy (English version) after Set Me Free, is like returning to a gentle refrain. Its so much softer and more plaintive than the demanding Set Me Free, echoing the earlier melody and words, but it hits sightly different in English. We are into the denouement of this story, the resolution has come.

But it's not the end.

It is not the end, because after a few minutes of silence, time to breathe, we get Letter.

Why is letter here?

Jimin could have released Letter on Weverse or Soundcloud or directly onto Spotify. But he chose to include it at the end of the album.

I feel this is so important, because the specific set of circumstances of this album means this Tragedy we've just experienced isn't entirely consistent with the literary genre.

FACE ticks all the boxes for a Tragedy in the literary sense, it has pathos and passion and narrative structure. If you were a casual listener and you got to the end of the album you would have a sense of catharsis, as intended. But there's a complication.

ARMY aren't casual listeners.

This is personal.

We know Park Jimin, the real person.

We know this isn't fiction. This shit is real. It was real for him when he wrote it and it's real for us now.

Achieving catharsis isn't that easy when it's personal. Not when the hurt is real.

That's why he gave us letter.

That's why he gave it ONLY TO US.

Letter is a soft sweet gift, a sentimental dedication full of reminiscences that only ARMY will understand. The melody is gentle, like a lullaby, and Jungkook's backup vocals are enough to make you weep, if you aren't weeping already.

(**I have a theory that jk either didn't know about letter or didn't know Jimin was going to ask him to sing. See this post for why)

Letter does exactly what it's meant to - it fills us with warmth. It makes us overflow with love. It's a soothing balm to heal our hearts.

And its everything we need in order to let go of those heavy feelings of fear and pity, of worry and sadness for Jimin that the album brought to the fore.

Jimin knew we would need more. That's why he he sent us letter, right at the very end.

"I'm sorry. Thank you," It says.

"Don't cry. It's gonna be alright."

#park jimin #jeon jungguk #jikook #jimin face #park jimin face #park jimin letter #letter for army #pathos #plato #tragedy #aesthetic emotion #art theory #literary theory #bts #bts Jimin

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renthony · 11 months

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Some recs for adult animation I enjoy:

People always seem to think I only watch kids' shows, so here's a list of animated television shows I adore, that were all made with adults in mind:

King of the Hill - Genuinely didn't think I'd like it, but I actually really love it? I expected something that was basically just The Simpsons or Family Guy, but got a surprising amount of emotional depth from the main cast. Bobby Hill is my son boy.

Futurama - I am legally obligated to list Futurama. I have watched the entire series so many fucking times. I'm going to watch the reboot and we all know it.

Disenchantment - It's more than just "Futurama medieval fantasy" but tonally, they are pretty similar. I enjoy it immensely. Bean is a #bicon, and that's fucking canon <3

Samurai Jack - The original show aired as a kids' show, but the revival apparently put it into the adult category. I haven't gotten that far yet, but holy shit, it's so good so far. Even the "kids' show" part is pretty mature, imho.

Bob's Burgers - I fucking love Bob's Burgers. I need to catch up on the more recent seasons. A sitcom that DOESN'T have parents who clearly hate each other? Whaaaat?

Harley Quinn - I'm not caught up, and there are aspects I have critiques of, but overall, it's been fun as fuck. I LOVE this interpretation of Ivy so fucking much.

Metalocalypse - My dad's a metal musician, so this was on in my house all the time when I was a teenager. I haven't watched it in *years* but I still reference the early seasons in conversation constantly. The Duncan Hills will wake you, motherfuckers.

Big Mouth/Human Resources - They are better than you think they are, and the "ugly style" reminds me of classic Klasky-Csupo. Compare it to Rugrats and tell me it doesn't have similar caricature styles. Story-wise, it nails the exact blend of panicked awkwardness I felt as a disaster tween, it has SO MANY queer characters. They dramatically improved on their more problematic aspects after getting called on it in seasons 1 and 2. And Human Resources made me sob like a little baby in the episode with Kieth from Grief.

BoJack Horseman - Starts off as a goofy gross-out humor sitcom but very quickly becomes a serious drama. Incredibly heavy and dark, but holy shit the catharsis. Delves into a lot of musings about morality, celebrity culture and Hollywood, generational trauma, and the perpetuation of cycles.

Tuca & Bertie - Goofy slice-of-life about characters navigating their 30s. Lots of musings about family, trauma, sexual abuse, queer dating in your 30s, friendship, and trying to survive it all. I relate so fucking much to the main cast.

Magical Girl Friendship Squad - It's a magical girl cartoon about milennials. Their magical girl weapons are birth control pills and a bong. It's fucking amazing. I'm really sad nobody else seems to have heard of it. :(

Little Demon - Sitcom about the Devil's daughter. Unsure if it's going to get a season 2, since it's about to get taken completely off of Hulu. Still worth watching if you can, because it's so fucking good. Centers on a teenage girl navigating Being A Teenage Girl while also dealing with her dad being the Devil and her mom being a traumatized mess who's figuring her own shit out.

Q-Force - The advertising did this show so fucking dirty. It was genuinely fucking funny, and it was clearly made with love. This isn't straight people making fun of us, this is queer people making queer comedy. Watch it.

Arcane - Arcane's politics are all over the place and I am in my "Silco Was Right" corner, which is right next to the "Magneto Was Right" clubhouse. But goddamn, the animation is gorgeous and the story is intense.

The Legend of Vox Machina - I haven't watched Critical Role, so I can say with confidence that this show is fucking amazing even if you have zero interest in the original gameplay streams. Fantasy animation for grownups, where they can show blood and titties, my beloved. <3

#original post

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kyaa-q · 5 months

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A Train Wreck (part 1)

Lee Know x fem!reader warnings: fluff but heavy angst and themes of abusive relationships wc: 8k>. AO3 link :) synopsis: Your life has changed a lot throughout the past 6 months, since you started dating Jun. Events lead you to slowly distance yourself from some of the people you loved the most - Stray kids. Even your friendship with Bang Chan, your closest friend, was damaged after that day. Now, you find your life to be like an unstoppable train wreck hurtling toward disaster. You're gradually losing the bonds that had always kept you sane, for a serie of events that turned your world upside down. It feels inevitable: you will crash. Could someone help you avoid the collision? Could someone take the wheel with you, and help you get control over your life again? You don't know anymore. There's only one thing you do know: you are not welcomed and Lee Know, in particular, might hate you. And his opinion about you hurts more than you wanted it to.

Or: Y/N is in an abusive relationship and ends up distancing herself from her friends (Stray Kids). She thinks everybody hates her, especially Lee Know. She doesn't understand the effect he has on her (and vice-versa).

important a/n: This work deals a lot with topics of toxic/abusive relationship. There is no physical violence, but it does show cases of emotional manipulation and the potential impacts it can have over someone. The reader is in a toxic romantic relationship (I'm sorry to all Jun's out there), and the story is basically about how it affect not only the reader herself, but also the people around her who she held dear to her heart. It does contain a lot of self-doubt, anxiety, depressive thoughts and having your world reshaped by someone else, taking down important pillars to someone's life, finally facing what it means to have been deceived and accepting it (eventually). Having said all that, if you think this is a sensitive topic to you, please proceed with caution (if you choose to do so). I suck at tagging, but I hope this note made things a little clearer. In the end, it's supposed to be a way of comforting and healing - which will come, eventually -, especially with the help of someone else. I'm not sure how long this will be, but there's still a long way to go. Also, I use "Lee Know" and "Lee Minho" interchangeably, depends on the feeling. A final note is that this chapter has a lot of flashbacks of the past, so the timelines might be confusing to some, but hopefully it is clear enough and I can convey the message and feeling I aimed for. Lots of love, everybody!

You just finished ordering when your phone rings. Your stomach drops and you catch yourself being scared that it might be your partner, Jun. It hasn’t been an hour since the fight you two had over the phone, and if you were being completely honest, you can’t even recall the exact reason for the argument. What you do recall, though, is the aggressive silence, followed by yelling, aggressive silence again, a very passive-aggressive monologue about how you simply can’t understand. Why are you making things so difficult?, a quiet rage when you tried to speak, finally ending with Jun hanging up on you. In that order, specifically.

You force yourself to analyze the conversation. You remember calmly asking him where he had been the past few days. The overreaction you got threw you off. After days of complete silence from his end, could anyone actually blame you for genuinely being intrigued? Did that mean you were you a control freak? That you did you not trust him? That had never crossed your mind, for God’s sake! You only wanted to know! It was insane what he accused you of, for simply wondering whether he was busy or something similar. Suddenly trying to justify your question as coming from a place of sadness, not control, felt like a weakness. It didn't matter nonetheless, since he had hung up so abruptly. A mix of shame and guilt engulfed you, with a hint of anger that you very consciously denied.

Before you knew it, you were outside walking without direction, just desperate to unwind your mind. You hoped the fresh spring breeze healing powers would be enough. So, you walked and walked and walked, crossing streets and taking turns mindlessly. Or so you thought. You cursed your feet when you, at last, realized where they had dragged you, spotting the JYP-Entertainment building at one corner. A few buildings away, you remind yourself, your favorite coffee shop still stood. You actively deceived yourself, claiming that that is the place your feet had been leading you all along and resuming a much more determined march. It was the craving for coffee that had brought you here, you told yourself, and not the fear of running into any of the boys.

“Ma’am?” The cashier, a boy that probably is still in school, brings you back from your daze. He has a painfully obvious worried look on his face. Do I look on the outside as shitty as I feel in the inside? The phone stops ringing and you blink, hoping your mask is good enough to pull off a relaxed demeanor.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” You reach into your bag and aim for your wallet, doing your best to ignore the pity on that young boy’s eyes. Shame swirls inside your chest and you’re scared you might start crying in front of this poor kid.

You hand him the money and allow your eyes to wander around for a moment. The mechanical sounds the cash register makes are relaxing, and you take in the place you so dearly liked. You aren’t alone in the shop — in fact, it is quite busy for a Thursday afternoon. It is better this way, you think. The sensation of merging with the crowd and disappearing is welcoming. The boy hands over your change, and your phone starts ringing again.

The color of your face must have disappeared, by the look of the cashier’s face. “Can I do anything to-“

“Keep the change.” You smile once more, cutting him off. You turn around before he can finish his sentence and head to the farthest table you can spot. On your way, you wonder whether you look as pathetic on the outside as you feel on the inside. Without realizing it, you made a decision. The decision of avoiding Jun as if it could make anything better — as if it could even change anything by any means. You hated yourself for being scared, afraid of something you can’t exactly name. It couldn't be Jun. Why would it be? Apart from the occasional raised voice, he has never done anything to you. It's just a phone call, you tell yourself. If it goes downhill you can simply hang up, just like he did to you before. As simple as that. By the time you reach your seat, you're determined. This is foolish, you swear under your breath. Still, you hesitate to take the ringing phone out of your pocket — but end up doing it anyway.

The word Chris glowing on the screen feels like a cozy blanket being wrapped around your cold body. You must have audibly exhaled, perhaps muttered some thanks — whether to a higher being or to Chan himself, you're not sure — because you notice a few people turning their heads toward you . It’s okay, everybody! Everything is fine now!, you want to say. You clear your throat before answering it.

“Hey there.” Hopefully you don't sound so gloomy. You put in a double effort to sound as cheery as possible. Perhaps, if Chan believes you’re okay, you might as well just be.

“What’s wrong?” Straight to the point, you wince by the dry, clearly worried tone. Tough start.

You know Chan and the way he worries extensively about everything and everyone — not enough about himself, some would argue, but you'd slightly disagree. It’s simply part of his nature, you’ve learned. As much as you admired deeply his instinct to help, you did not want to be the object of such attention at that moment. He is a great friend – fuck, he is the best friend. In normal instances, you wouldn't hesitate before sharing your mind and soul with him. Right now, however, worrying him also meant being faced with too many questions, none of which you wanted to answer — perhaps not even knew the answer to. Not only that, you were also vaguely aware about the upcoming Stray Kids comeback in less than two months. Having witnessed the boys go through times like this firsthand before, the last thing you wanted was to add your name to the list of “Things That Keep Bang Chan Up At Night”. In reality, you knew he couldn't do anything about your situation regardless. Therefore, you conclude, worrying him would simply be counterproductive.

“Ouch. Not even a hello?” You play it off, fidgeting with your bag’s strap. You know you can't fool Chan. You shake your head to ward off the thoughts.

“Hello. What is wrong, Y/N?” He insists and you shift nervously in your chair. Your eyes travel to the cashier, who is talking to the barista, a boy as young as him, keeping them both in your line of sight. “Why didn’t you pick up the first time?” Chan questions.

“Is it that weird for me to not pick up immediately?” You joke quietly. You know Chan is not buying your act. “Actually. I think I should be the one asking you. Why do you sound so urgent? What is going on?” You deflect, but Chan doesn’t take the bait. He takes a deep breath, audibly through the speaker, and you feel bad for making things difficult for him — you really do. But you know it’s the best option. You will sort all the awkwardness in the future, hoping it won't be too late for it to have settled and stained your friendship irreversibly. You want to fill the silence, but your tongue feels heavy in your mouth.

Is it really the best option? What would be worse — telling Chan and burdening him with your own confusing problems, at least having him know what’s wrong, or avoiding talking about it? Certainly, he will sense that something is wrong, but at least he won’t feel bad for not helping if he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on.

But where to start?

Chris exhales audibly once more. “Nothing. I’m sorry.” He wants to insist, you can tell, but you’re thankful he’s holding back. “I just miss you.” He says it so softly the phone barely captures it. It hits you like a truck, and tears are rolling down your cheeks before you acknowledge them. The lump in your throat grows, and you're afraid your voice will betray you if you try to speak. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. When was the last time you came to the company?”

And it has been weeks - months, actually. You’re sure you can hear your own heart shattering like glass inside your chest. You can touch the sharp edges of the cracks and spot bruises that were supposed to have healed long ago but linger still. You miss him too. Not only Chan, but you you’re your routine with him and 3RACHA. You miss Changbin’s loud teasings and Han’s snuggles. You miss spending the hours on end holed up in a practice room with the eight of them, watching as they dance and sing and spin and fight and laugh, as if their own life depended on it. You were just a lucky spectator who has been very much avoiding the fact that you've been neglecting your most precious fortune. When did you become this mess of a person?

You’re bothering them. The male voice resonates in your mind and you close fiercely your eyes. You are not one of them, Y/N. You’re just being a nuisance all the time. Why can't you see it?

You try to stop it, but it's in vain. The memory memory comes back regardless.

“I never said I was one of them. That’s silly.” You replied as you entered the company’s elevator, followed by Jun. With your hands occupied holding plastic bags filled with snacks handpicked for each of the boys, you press the button with your elbow. “I just don’t think they see a problem with me coming over from time to time. It's not like I'm showing up every day." You glimpsed at your watch. You were early and Chris wouldn't be waiting for you. Perfect, you could surprise them. "You know, Channie was the one-“ He scoffed and you felt a puncture of guilt. “Chris.” You corrected yourself, not wanting to get into a fight because of this again. “Chris was the one who texted me asking if I was planning to come or not.” You tried to conceal the pride warming your chest with that statement.

“Maybe it’s because they just want to go home, but they can’t because there’s always the chance of you showing up out of nowhere. Have you ever thought about that?" His tone was harsh and took you by surprise. Actually… No. You have not thought about that, in fact. He inhaled deeply, massaging his temples in a sign of stress. “Of course not."

“I didn’t ask you to come.” You mumbled, fighting against the flush of shame on your cheeks. What if he's right? What if you've been bothering and annoying some of the most important people in your life this whole time, and they've just been putting up with you? Your heart sank at the thought.

“Babe.” Jun appeared in your line of sight and placed his hands on both your shoulders. "You know I'm only saying this because I love you, right? I just don’t want you to embarrass yourself in front of those people, that’s all." You tried to avoid his gaze, but he gently turned your chin and held it. "Okay?”

His voice was soft, but clear. Too loud for your ears, perhaps. The soft tone did not make it easier to absorb the painful words. It took you a moment to register that the elevator's bell had run the doors had already opened. Your partner stepped back, taking some of the bags from your hands and turning to exit. Had you been paying attention, you would've noticed the cynical smile on his face as he turned toward the figure standing at the entrance. You only registered the other party after Jun's venomous tone. “If you excuse us.”

The shadow, meanwhile, did not excuse him. He didn't move not even an inch to the side, and you caught Jun trying to pass by them smoothly - but failing. The figure didn't show to care when he bumped into him, murmuring curses under his breath that were very much audible. You turned your head and found, as already expected, Lee Know standing there. Nonchalantly, hands in the pockets of his jeans, you met his piercing dark gaze, already fixed on you - and you only. He paid as much attention to Jun as he'd do to a fleck of dust.

Although it had been about two months since you started dating Jun, all the boys had already met him. You held a habit of visiting them regularly at the company after being close to Chan for so long. Dating Jun hadn't stopped you from doing that, in fact, for some reason, he'd insist to come along. You tried questioning him if that came from a place of jealousy, but gave up after a few attempts. Mentioning Stray Kids was usually the motive for big arguments, which never led anywhere. Coming to the company to hang out obviously gave Jun as much amusement as he’d get from attending a seminar on top 10 best lore of teenager’s movies, and it was up to him how he spent his time. You actively did your best to dismiss his mean comments about the most insane things, be it the lightening of the place or the paint color they chose to paint this one specific wall or the supposed secretary’s rudeness. Every aspect of the building had something wrong with it that deserved a specific remark about it. Jun had learned not to make any unpleasant comments about - or even to - the boys. That was the only instance you would not let slide. In return, you learned to let him rant about how god damn cold or hot or crowded or empty the building was.

You never told Chan - or anyone, for that matter - about it. Practically any of the members, even Chris himself, had ever explicitly stated whether they liked or disliked Jun, and you never asked them directly. They maintained an awkwardly polite demeanor in Jun’s presence. At least they tried to keep it civilized, even when Jun was being difficult. Well, practically because there was one exception.

Lee Minho clearly disliked your boyfriend, and the feeling was mutual from day one. The first day Jun came along and you introduced him to your friends, they were all respectful and dealt fairly well with Jun’s special ironic remarks. Minho, on the other hand, had withdrawn into a state of heavy silence and deadly stares that alternated between you and Jun. You tried to ignore it, initially, not giving it too much thought. That was until Minho questioned, in a very audible and shameless, almost whiny voice, 'Ah, Hyung! When is this thing leaving? It’s so annoying.'

Before you could decide whether you’d argue with Minho or Jun, your short-tempered partner was already looking, outraged, for the source of the voice. You grabbed his arms and tried to drag him toward the door, saying goodbye to the boys with a hasty 'Yes, I’ll see you soon! Take care!' And, 'Let’s go, Jun, we have to—'

But as you left the room, both you and Jun saw that Minho had stood up and was leaning proudly against the wall. His deadly stare had followed you to the exit and you caught when the shadows on his face gave place to a malicious smile forming on his lips. He was looking at Jun, as he gave a tiny wave, somehow a sign of imminent violence. Just before you closed the door, you couldn't stop the shiver running down your spine when you noticed he was staring at you. You couldn't read what they said, but your stomach churned nonetheless.

Minho was the primary target of your boyfriend’s distaste ever since, and a common fight motive. Jun had always been the type to overthink, but it was ridiculously worse when it came to Lee Know - which was tragically hilarious. From all the eight, he had chosen Lee Minho to pick on? You'd try to argue, but his reply would always come to You can’t be this blind. It was maddening, always as if you were both arguing about two completely different things.

Thus, you weren't surprised to find Lee Know in front of you - that particular mocking tone coming from Jun in If you excuse us, would only be used with Minho. What did surprise you, however, was Minho himself. Standing as still as a statue in front of you, the man emanated annoyance and deep displeasure. His dark eyes exuded an anger you were certain you could touch. It made the air surrounding you heavier and colder. The chill reflected in your stomach as your face grew hotter. You couldn't look away, as if you were under a spell - and perhaps you were. You didn’t know if you wanted to scream, to run, or to hide. Maybe all three options. The knowledge you were the reason behind this anger was as clear as running fresh water, and it gave you goosebumps. Somehow, it wasn’t a question. You didn’t know what you could’ve done to trigger such fierce feelings from Lee Know. Although his feelings were as transparent as clean glass, you were unable to read his thoughts. Honestly, you weren’t sure you even wanted to.

How long it passed, you couldn’t tell. How long you stood there, pitiful and unable to move or look away, a mess of flushed face and glassy eyes, remains unclear to you to this day. What was very clear even at that time, however, was the shadow of disappointment you spot on the vastness of his deep dark eyes the moment before he turned around. He walked to the opposite direction of the hallway without saying a word. The abrupt withdraw left bad taste in your mouth. The spell was broken and you could breathe again, but the air was too icy in your lungs, making you wonder whether it'd be better to go back underwater - to be back under his gaze. That shadow of disappointment in his eyes persisted like an annoying fly you couldn’t shoo away, accompanied by a heavy weight in your chest.

“What the fuck was that?” The angry whisper suddenly reminded you that you weren’t alone. You might as well have been, though. The world could have ended and the universe collapsed at that very moment, and yet, staring into Lee Know’s eyes, you knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Under his gaze, you wouldn’t have noticed anyone but you and him. Your eyes followed the dark spot going down the corridor, until the moment he finally took a turn and disappeared completely. You collapsed against the elevator’s wall, finally breathing in as deep as you could until your lungs ache. Hold for one. Two. Three. Four. Exhale.

“Hello? What the fuck Y/N?” For a moment you considered yelling at Jun. You felt your nerves on the surface of your skin, and your heartbeat was distractingly loud in your head.

“I don’t know.” You breathed out, realizing that, in fact, you didn't have energy to fight. Your legs were unsteady and you realized your hands were shaking. The fog in your mind dissipated a little, and the pleas in your mind for Minho to come back died out. You tighten the grip on the left bags on your hands and push yourself forward. In automatic mode, you got out the elevator and headed to the first and closest safe place your mind could think of: 3RACHA’s Studio.

Perhaps you should have realized that you were heading in the same direction you had just seen him go, only a few minutes before. That you would, unavoidably, end up facing Lee Know again - although 3RACHA’s Studio wasn’t the only active room on that floor, that was the most obvious conclusion to arrive at. Maybe you knew it, unconsciously. Today, you wonder if you didn’t turn back that day simply because following Minho was like an instinct. You were confused, sad and scared, but still, going to Minho felt as natural as searching for a shelter during a storm. In this case, Minho was both the storm and the shelter. You should’ve turned your back and gone home, but you didn’t. Your mind was a hurricane of confusing feelings and images that, in the end, returned to the same name being chanted again and again. Lee Know Lee Know Lee Know.

Jun kept saying things you didn’t register. His voice was just a bit more than an agitated whisper, and you wished he would just shut up. Or even better, stayed at home. The doubts and fears resurfaced and you couldn’t shake them away. What if he was right? What if what had just happened was a statement of how much you annoyed and bothered this people?

Did they hate you that much?

As this last thought crossed your mind, a loud thud echoed, followed by a harsh voice. You froze, realizing it was emanating from 3RACHA’s Studio, and the door was half-open.

“Why is it still going on? It’s ridiculous!” It was… Minho? Could it be? You had never seen him raise his voice in anger - at least not seriously. It was unmistakably Minho, but the so intense anger was foreign to you. You couldn’t place it to the so coldhearted and detached person that Minho had always shown.

“YA! Don’t go around slamming things!” Changbin’s scolding came even louder, followed by mumbles you thought was Han's, but they were too muffled by the distance and walls to be sure.

They were fighting. They were very seriously fighting, and the realization sank in.

You should run. Run run run. Something was so clearly and deeply wrong. You should not be here. Now. Run.

Your members didn't follow your mind’s orders, and you caught yourself frozen in place.

You couldn’t move.

Your eyes snapped to your left, where Jun started moving. The sparkle of hope was extinguished when you realized he was moving forward, and not back to the elevator. He took one step closer to the door, and then another. Slowly, but surely trying to get a better listen. This isn't right.

“What do you want us to do, Minho?” Chan’s voice was also alien. The hasty, firm and contained anger just didn’t fit his patient personality. “Should we yell at her? That’s your solution?”

Her. Obviously this was about you. The word solution haunts you to this day, but even back then, the harm was starting to settle in. The need of a solution arises from the existence of a problem. You. In the end, you were the problem they were looking for a solution for.

“I can’t do this.” It was Lee Know again. Although his voice was much lower, it was as clear as it would’ve been if you were in that room with them. Pain and exhaustion overflowed from his words, and you felt their weight on your own face, in the form of tears that welled up and streamed down nonstop. His agony was overwhelming, and you felt as if your own heart was a broken dam. “I can’t, Hyung.” It was getting harder to understand his words - not only for the walls muffling them, but also for your own heartbeat was deafening. For a moment, you considered whether they could hear it too.

You sized your options. First, you could casually knock on the door and hand them the bags – somehow still in your hands –, then find an excuse to leave right after. Oh, sorry! I’m super busy, just wanted to give you guys these. No, it’s fine! Enjoy! It could work. Except the atmosphere inside was beyond intimidating. You would never be able to put on such an act that convinced them you weren't listening. The second option was simply leaving the bags in front of the door and leaving instantly. You shook your head, discarding the idea as soon as it happened. Leaving without saying a word would be a clear statement that you heard them, then felt bad and left. While it was precisely what had happened, you did not want them to know that. No, you couldn’t bear having Chan forcibly explaining to you in which ways you were a problem to the boys. The fact that he felt this way - or at least knew the others did - and had not talked to you prior stung at the back of your brain. Lastly, you could just leave. Dragging Jun and all the bags, you would leave no traces behind and, hopefully, Minho would think you didn’t even leave the elevator. Maybe he would think you had seen him and finally realized you were not welcome, then you had made the smartest choice – the one you should definitely have taken – and had gone straight home. He would ignore it and not mention it and-

Shouts suddenly pulled out from of your daze.

“GONE! OUT OF HERE! OUT OF MY FUCKING SIGHT!” Someone vociferated, followed by the sounds of a chair being dragged and steps. You grabbed Jun's hand and started pulling him after you before you even register doing the action. Desperately going back to the direction you both came from, you prayed to find an unlocked door before anyone heard your footsteps and plastic sounds. Not sure how, your pleas were quickly answered. In a moment of despair, trying to open an unknown door, you pushed both you and Jun inside the empty dark room. Shortly afyer you shut the door and locked it, hoping the thud noise went unnoticed.

“Are you crazy?” As soon as he started, you dropped all the plastic bags and covered his mouth with both hands. You closed your eyes – to avoid the tears that threatened to spill or to hear if anyone had left the studio and came after you, you didn’t know. Regardless, you couldn’t hear anything over your heartbeat and a high buzz in your ears.

“Y/N?” You blink, coming back to the present. You open your eyes, and the barista is in front of your table holding your coffee. You notice his uncomfortable gaze and blush in embarrassment, murmuring thanks and apologies as he hands you the cup and leaves. He must’ve called you and you didn’t hear, giving him extra trouble to leave his spot and hand it to you personally.

It can also be due the tears flowing uninterruptedly on your face. Who knows.

You look at the black screen on your hand, laying on your lap now. You unlock your phone and blink to try to clean your vision from the tears, regardless, there is no new notifications. You can't recall the conversation with Chan exactly - if it could even be called a conversation. You don't know whether it was you or Chan who hung up, or even if you got to say goodbye. Had he noticed you crying?

You stare at the ceiling, doing your best to stop the tears. That was the last time you went to the company, and that was months ago. You miss Chan. You miss Changbin and Han. You miss spending the afternoon simply watching them working on music. You miss how they were loud and lively and intense. You miss how you felt when you were with them, and knowing that the feeling was only one sided broke your heart in ways you have no idea how to heal. You can’t shake the feeling of losing them - it seemed inevitable, and you wanted to scream.

You don't know why you act the way you do - running away since then. Evidently, it wouldn't magically make things right again. It wouldn't wipe out your memories of that day, or care less, for that matter. Some of the dearest people in your life thought of you as a problem to be solved, and it simply hurt. Minho’s anger and disdain were far too ingrained in your brain. You’ve been ignoring the acute pain that always followed remembering his exasperation and fury. Gone, he had shouted at the top of his lungs. He wanted you gone and couldn’t fathom why no one had talked to you yet. Honestly, it's hard for you to not question the same.

Something very solid and real had broken inside you that day. Your attempt to pretend nothing happened was reinforced by the fact that, that day, Minho had, indeed, did what you hoped he would do. You texted Chan a little after, apologizing for not showing up, and he didn't say anything about you being there. Minho hadn’t told them about meeting you, and you felt relieved – maybe you could work things out by yourself, without having to make things even harder for them. You still didn't know how - but you planned on finding out.

The weeks that followed that incident were a messy blur. Thankfully, Jun didn’t mind your absentmindedness. It didn't bother him – interacting was an action that had to come from your end, and, since your mind was preoccupied with something else, he wouldn’t even try pulling you out from your thoughts. You couldn’t focus on anything else for too long, your thoughts would always, somehow, end on Minho’s resentment. On Minho's angry pleas to the winds for you to go away. On Minho's eyes. On Minho. Minho. It drove you mad. You felt bad and didn't want to admit you resented Chan a little. As you learned, asking Jun for advice proved to be completely unhelpful – in fact, it made things worse most of times. The situation was as clear as crystal to him: the boys were busy people, while you were someone desperately clinging to their attention, and, in the end, it saturated them. They were also not assholes - except that guy, he'd add - and that’s why they had been trying to give you hints. Then, you could arrive at the conclusion yourself, and there wouldn't be a need to go through the confrontational phase. Unfortunately, you hadn’t done your part and didn’t read between the lines, that's why you stood where you did. Why are you so upset about it? Fuck them! I never liked those guys anyway, and variations would usually put an end to the "conversation".

At work, however, you didn’t have the comfort of having your absentmindedness be dismissed. That was quickly noticeable not only by your clients and colleagues, but also by your manager. He was a patient man, but seemed to be in a permanent state of exhaustion and you guessed that's what capitalism did to a person. He never raised his voice and treated employees as human beings – an unprecedented event according to your own experience -, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have the company as top priority. He tried to listen and help, but wouldn’t hesitate to fire someone if they messed up. The first time you were called to his office, he questioned, impassive, about the embarrassing decline in your productivity. He didn’t seem exactly worried - employees had ups and downs all the time. You tended to overwork yourself, and, although you weren't the employee of the month, you knew you did a good job overall - so did your superior. “It’s just proceeding, you know?”

The downs persisted, unfortunately, and two weeks later you were called again. This time, his approach was more assertive and concerned.

“You can’t stay like this, Y/N.” He turned the monitor on his desk to face you, showing the numbers you had missed the last 15 days. “What is going on?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” You bowed deeply one more time, having no explanations or justifications for your bad performance. You couldn’t tell your manager you had your confidence undermined, that you were questioning every single act and interaction you had. You couldn’t tell your superior how deeply you missed your friends, missed love and hugs and affection and care. You missed yourself. You couldn’t tell him about the constant presence in your head that kept saying you were doing everything wrong. Everything. All your achievements, be they your job or your relationships - all of them were product of luck and you clearly weren’t good enough to keep them. Chan instantly came to mind. Even though he was texting you regularly, you couldn't get rid of the overwhelming sadness gripping your neck and kept your replies short. Obviously he had noticed, but respected your space - he stopped asking what was wrong after the first week. Knowing him, it was good that he didn’t know where you live, and that his own job kept him busy through day and night, or else you were certain he would’ve shown up at your door already. “It’s all my fault and I am deeply sorry I am bringing losses to the company and-"

“Y/N.” Your manager cut you, “When was the last time you slept?”

Confused, you blinked. “Excuse me?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That answers it. You need to see a doctor.”

“I’m fine.” You raised your hands in surrender. “I promise, I don’t need to-“

“You can be a lot of things, Y/N. Sleep-deprived. Careless. Stressful. Anything but fine.” You flinched on the bluntness.

“Don’t you mean stressed?” You mumbled, embarrassed, trying to play off a joke.

“No, I said what I meant. Stressful. I cannot go on even for one more day if I look at my window one more time and see you staring blankly at your hands for God knows how long.” Before you could protest, he stopped you again. “I’m serious. I can’t afford the trouble of having an employee passing out because of lack of sleep. Take the rest of the day off and go to the hospital to get checked up. Come back tomorrow with the results in hand stating you are not dying or turning into a damn zombie.”

Left with no choice, you headed to the hospital. The feeling of guilt lingered in your chest a little, wondering if the insomniac nights were obvious in the dark bags under your eyes, if your anxiety was that evident in your eyes, words and walking.

You expected your health to be in check. You were certain modern medicine wasn’t capable of curing broken hearts yet – unfortunately. In worst case scenario, you’d probably walk out with a prescription to help you sleep and that’d be all. You took a deep breath before going in.

“Y/N?!”

Your body reacted before your mind and your eyes snapped in the direction of the source – Chris. He was already walking toward you, emerging from inside the huge building you had been staring at. You wondered if you were finally at the stage of hallucinations, and perhaps it was good it was happening next to a hospital - but this thought soon evaporated. Before you registered your own actions, you were also walking toward him, falling into the so missed and familiar hug your heart ached for.

It was the first time meeting Chan in almost a month. Usually, it wouldn’t have been a big thing, but it was for you. Your heart had been bleeding out for the past four weeks, and you hadn’t found a way to stop the pain. Chris was instant medicine, one that you had been actively depriving yourself of. You allowed yourself to be selfish for a moment. It was okay if you disturbed them and if you were an overall headache to them. In that moment, though, it was just you and Chris. You let yourself to believe that the love and appreciation you received from him were as real as they felt.

“Hi.” You murmured against his chest, inhaling his familiar perfume. His body vibrated with a chuckle, backing off just enough to look you in the eyes.

It was short, but you saw when the fun and joyful semblance turned into a concerned expression. You thought you sensed Chan becoming rigid, stiffening the hold on your shoulders just a little, as if you could run away if he let you. You remembered how you awfully sick and tired you might look. “How are yo-“

“I’m fine.” You cut off him, not being able to hold back a smile. “Do I look that terrible?”

He shifted, trying to cover up for his shameless stare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

Your smile widened; it was so easy to mess with him. “I’m just joking. I’m really fine, though.”

He glanced at you suspiciously. You could’ve well said you won the Olympics, and a quick look at you was enough to say that both of those things – being fine and winning the Olympics – were equally unlikely. And you didn’t account for the fact he had caught you standing in front of a hospital, just about to go in. Then it clicked, a hospital he just walked out of.

“Wait, what were you doing there? Are you okay?” It was your time to shamelessly look for wounds and signs that could hint if there was anything wrong with Chris. You noticed his clothes – shorts and a black long-sleeve shirt, it’s not something he’d normally wear outside, and rather stay inside working or even practicing.

He laughed shortly. “I am fine. Jeongin had an accident during practice and-“

“Jeongin had an accident?” Your voice was high pitched. Your eyes shifted to the entrance, past Chan, and you tensed, afraid you could see a badly hurt I.N.

“He is fine, Y/N.” He put his hand on the top of your head and turned it back to him. Looking into his eyes, you searched but found no traces of lying. Indeed, Chan looked quite chill, given the circumstances. “We feared he had a strained ligament or something, but he’s fine. I'll still hurt for the next few days, for sure. But he'll survive."

You breathed out in relief. “That’s great.” The story also explained his clothes.

Chan smiled at your concern. “Actually, they should be here at any minute now.” He glanced at the watch on his wrist.

“They?” You looked at him puzzled, but as if waiting for its cue, a loud calling Hyung! drew his attention.

When he turned around, keeping one hand gently on your elbow, he stepped aside and gave you a clear vision of the hospital's entrance.

Your heart caught in your throat. It wasn’t the imagery of an injured Jeongin, who limped just a little toward you and Chan, using a crutch to support his body. Oblivious, you didn’t even notice the way he was happily surprised to see you after so long, his dimples showing even after he had just left the hospital.

No. In all honesty, you had barely registered Jeongin’s presence at all at first. Instead, your eyes met with the figure following him, just slightly behind. The simplicity of the large white shirt and gray sweatpants would have made anyone else look comfortable, casual at most – but Lee Know wasn’t just anyone else. He wasn’t just comfortable or casual. He was so goddamn attractive - he was hot, you dared. His dark hair was even longer than it was the month prior, falling a little on his eyes depending on the movement of his face, and you had the urge to place a lock behind his ear.

He stopped walking suddenly, his gaze locking with yours. In that moment you knew the word that best described Minho: breathtaking – quite literally.

It lasted for a moment. Chan called for I.N and Minho started walking in your direction. Your eyes instantly deviated from his, and you forced yourself to focus on the maknae, rather than the burning stare coming from Minho or the blood flow running in your ears.

“Y/N!” Jeongin smile was contagious.

“Hey there, baby bread! How are you feeling?” You wanted to hug him, but you were unsure about his injuries, so you chose to stick with the smiling. Lee Know caught up to you all and placed himself by Jeongin's side.

“Oh, it’s nothing serious.” You saw him blushing. “This thing helps," he jiggled the crutch, "but it makes it seem way worse than it actually is. Ice will do just fine.”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Innie”. You smiled at him, and he smiled back. Keeping your hands in front of your body, highly conscious - conscious of your posture, choice of clothes, and greasy hair. You felt like a prey being watched by a predator – but choosing to avoid the predator’s eyes instead.

“What’s wrong with you?” Although Minho’s voice didn’t carry any resentment or accusation, you still winced. The sensation was like having a burnt hand and then someone grabbing it and placing it under a stream of cold water for relief. Yes, the relief would come right after, but first came the moment of shock and instinct to move away, before realizing how much you needed the cold water (his voice?) to relieve the pain of your burnt hand (your heart?).

“Come on, Lino. That’s not how you greet people.” Chan began, glancing at you apologetically. Unable to ignore him any longer, you let your eyes shift towards him.

His expression was a mystery, as hard as if it were sculpted in marble. Minho's face revealed no emotions, nor did his words. The bluntness could be mistaken by indifference, still his gaze was intense, making it hard to breathe and sending chills down your spine.

“Why would anything be wrong?” You questioned. Your voice somehow didn’t shake, and you hope you didn’t look as affected as you felt.

“Because I have eyes.” You felt your face growing hotter. “And because you are in front of a hospital. What is wrong?” A sparkle of defiance lit in your chest – you owed him nothing. In fact, last time you checked, Lee Minho had made it very clear he did not want to see you.

“That’s not nice, Minho.” Chan scolded him, more fiercely this time.

“No, Chan.” You began, smiling warmly at Chris. He had so much on his shoulders already, you wouldn’t let Minho become another topic of trouble for him. “I’m fine, Minho. I’m here only to get checked up. Routine, that’s all.” You sustained his gaze with one of your own, hands held in fist so tight you’d later find red marks on your palms.

Minho raised a brow, almost mocking your poor explanation. The maknae spoke before him, “Are you sure you are well, Y/N?” The gentleness appeased your heart.

“You have to be joking.” Lee Know scoffed, apparently to himself but audibly to all of you. He was infuriating, daring to demand answers he had absolutely no right over! Why was he pressing on this? Why did it matter, anyway? Before you launched on him, Chan spoke.

“Okay! We’re done here.” He felt the weird energy between you two and wanted to prevent a war. “The driver is waiting for us, we need to go back. I.N, can you walk by yourself?”

“Yes, Hyung.” The maknae responded, particularly confused for the sudden shift but not daring to ask any questions.

Chan clapped “Okay, great. Minho, let’s-“

“I’m staying.” Minho said simply, placing himself by your side. Both you and Chan turned your heads to him abruptly.

“You are what?” You stepped away from him in disbelief. Your voice was a little higher than you wished. His face remained impassive, but there was something in his eyes that you quite put your finger on. “No, you are not.”

“Oh, come on. I’m not gonna do anything to you.” He exasperated.

You tried to sense his motives, but it made so little sense that it was hard to put some logic into it. Did he get some twisted pleasure from upsetting you? It could be. But again, not a month had passed after the incident at the company. Back then, the sight of you had triggered as far as rage in him. But even now, he didn't look exactly the type of person that was getting any satisfaction from being in your presence.

Chan’s tone was serious. “Minho,” His eyes left yours and shifted to the oldest, changing his demeanor in a bit. His posture was rigid, but his gaze carried a determined defiance. “What is going on?”

Minho pointed at you without adverting his eyes from Chan. You gasped angrily, about to protest, but he didn’t give you the space. “She is going on, hyung. Look at her. If not for the obvious signs of being ill, then for the fact she’s missing work to come to the hospital.”

You argued. “I’m missing work because my boss told me to!"

“Which only proves my point.” He continued, letting his hand fall right by his side. “Something is so obviously wrong that it was up to her boss to step in, or else I doubt she’d come by herself.”

Ouch. “Listen." You interrupted. "I don't know what's going on with you, but you’re making it way bigger than it actually is. I am okay and I most definitely do not need your help.” You glanced at Chris, but his attention was still directed to Minho. You could see the gears working in his head, but you decided it was time to leave. “It was great seeing you guys. I mean it. But I really don't have time for this. If you excuse me.” You turned your back and tried to leave, but in vain. Not even two steps later did a hand wrap around one of your wrists. Minho’s hold was gentle, but firm, and you tried to hide de burning in your cheeks. “YA!”

He pulled you closer than you were before, and his voice was deeper when he spoke. “How long has it been since you last saw your boyfriend?” You were dizzy. The sudden shift in subject, accompanied by the warmth Minho's hand transmitted to your wrist and the disdain he had put into the word 'boyfriend,' clouded your thinking.

“Jun?” You blinked, trying to disperse the fog, but the scent of his perfume was inebriating. Minho was too close. “I saw him yesterday.”

“You saw him yesterday?” Minho’s voice had a hint of disbelief, and he searched for lies in your eyes. You saw him becoming tense, and you prepared to feel his grip tightening, but the hold on your wrist remained the same. “Are you sure?”

“What?! Of course I am sure! What kind of question is that?” Angrily, you pulled your wrist away from his grasp. He let you, keeping his stare a little longer. “What is wrong with you?!” You turned your eyes to Chris, begging a way out of this insanity. You caught I.N behind him, almost as uncomfortable with the scene as you were. Chan sustained Minho’s gaze for a moment, and your eyes darted between the two of them. No words were spoken, but obviously they weren't needed. The silent conversation through telepathy or whatever the sorcery clearly didn't include you.

After what seemed like forever, Chan sighed, defeated. “Okay. Y/N," he turned to you. "do you mind if he accompanies you?”

“What?! This is madness! Of course I mind. I’m not a child!” You begged.

“It’s not that, sweetheart.” He got closer and you let him when he pulled you to a hug. “We’re just worried about you. We all know you’re very much capable of taking care of yourself.” He added the last phrase when he felt you were about to protest. “We just want to make sure you are okay and can go home safely afterwards.”

“I can do this by myself.” You mumbled.

“I know, I know. But Lee Know can’t. He won’t be able to rest if he doesn’t make sure you’re safe and sound.” He kissed your forehead. “And my mind will also be at ease if I know you’re with him.”

After a moment, you sighed. “Fine.” You accepted reluctantly, stepping away as Chan positioned himself next to the waiting maknae.

“Thank you, Y/N. You’re amazing. Lemme know how things go, yea?” Chan’s warm smile was impossible to be angry about. You nodded with your head and waved a tiny goodbye to I.N and watched them walk away.

Lee Know, didn't move an inch throughout the entire time. When you turned to him, somehow, he seemed relaxed. Even his eyes had changed. Although they still carried a wince of something unknown - similar to concern but deeper in a way -, they were calmer. They were almost… gentle. It could’ve made you mad. He had made a huge thing out of nothing, stressed both you and Chris, and now dared to look at you with tenderness in his eyes. You exhaled, knowing it'd be pointless to yell at him. You were exhausted and had no energy spared to bicker. His motives was still undisclosed, but perhaps they weren’t important right now. You decided that your main task was to get whatever prescription as easily as possible, and then have a doctor to state you were not about to collapse. Then, not only would it solve the matter with your boss, but also it meant you would finally get rid of the man in front of you.

Okay, that sounds like a plan.

“Shall we?” Minho reached out his hand with an overly soft voice. You rolled your eyes.

"Weirdo." You cursed under your breath and avoided his hand, heading, finally, straight to the entrance. You did take note of the small chuckle he let out, and how he smoothly followed you behind.

#lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfic #skz fanfic

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