#this is stuff I can handle and can figure out. I’m capable of it. I’m confident enough

[cr0wc0rpse]

I thiiiiink I’ve had my name changed everywhere I need to which means that is off my plate and I also have my loan repayment figured out so that’s off my plate as well and my hysterectomy stuff is scheduled and it’ll just be Going to appointments so now. We move onto learning to drive

[heliads]

want you, need you - minho

Ever since you became a Med-Jack, Minho can't seem to stop collecting random injuries that absolutely require your attention. You might be catching on.

masterlist

The Med-Jack hut is either overwhelmingly busy or frustratingly slow, no in between. There are days when every single room in the place is crammed full of patients– somehow, every Slicer manages to cut themselves, and every Builder breaks a bone– and you wish you had picked any other job than this one. The busy days are rough. You start wondering what might happen if you stopped being able to put people back together as quickly as they fall apart. You think about the endless cycle of injury and healing until everyone wears out entirely, a map of bandages and skin pressed thin like dead leaves.

Those are the hopeless days. Then, you’ll have a dry spell, when everyone manages to get their stuff together and no one complains of sprained ankles or excessive sunburns. At that point, you start twiddling your thumbs and mindlessly organizing and reorganizing the medical supplies. By the end, you almost start wishing people would get hurt just so you’d have something to do. It’s an uncharitable thought, certainly, and one you regret once you’re stuck in the middle of another hurricane of aching Gladers, but when there’s nothing else to do, it comes nonetheless.

You’ve found yourself in the middle of another boring week. For the past few days, the Slicers have remembered how to hold their knives so they chop the animals and not themselves, the Builders hit their nails with their hammers instead of their thumbs, and the Runners don’t give themselves cramps and stay in perfect health.

Well. Not every Runner.

Even during the most boring stretches of your admittedly short career as a Med-Jack, you can guarantee that you’ll have one specific patient. Just like clockwork, every few days a certain dark-haired, teasing someone shadows your door, complaining of overworked tendons, pulled hamstrings, heatstroke, and every other medical condition under the sun. If Minho can think it up, he’ll say he’s got it.

It’s honestly becoming ridiculous. For someone who’s such a capable Runner, it is truly remarkable that he survives so many ailments. One would think he would give up running entirely if it gave him this much grief. Yet every day, Minho sets out for the Maze with a cheerful disposition, and at least two times a week, he appears in the Med-Jack hut, sporting some new injury that materialized at some point during the day.

So, when you look up from labeling the medicine cabinet for what must be the dozenth time this month, and realize that you haven’t seen the Keeper of the Runners in a few days, you know that it’s about time for him to come down with the flu, a severe migraine, or maybe both at once.

True to form, you’ve barely finished going through the medications on one shelf of the cabinet when Jeff, one of your fellow Med-Jacks, comes into the room. “You have a patient,” he says impatiently. “Guess who?”

You roll your eyes, although you can’t help a small smile. “Can’t you handle Minho yourself?”

Jeff gives you a look. “I tried. He told me he wanted to wait for a professional. Figures.”

You snort. “You’ve been here longer than I have.”

“I told him that,” Jeff complains. “This might surprise you, but he didn’t care.”

“Tell him again,” you say, turning back to the pill bottle you’re labeling. “I’m busy.”

Jeff heaves a dramatic sigh. “I’m not wasting my time with that. He’s your problem, go fix him.”

You shoot him a confused glance. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means,” Jeff retorts, reaching over to grab the bottle out of your hands. “Ever since you started here, Minho randomly comes over all the time. You know he used to hate visiting the Med-Jacks before you arrived? Now he can’t stop showing up.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” you protest weakly.

Jeff sighs again, so deeply you swat him on the shoulder. “That’s klunk and we both know it. The data doesn’t lie, Y/N.”

“There’s no data,” you argue, but Jeff’s already waving you out of the room. 

You make a face at him, then go down the hall until you find Minho waiting in one of the smaller rooms meant for patients. He’s poking at some supplies on a small table in a corner of the room, but he straightens up excitedly when he sees you.

“Doc! I’m so glad you’re here.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. “What have you done to yourself now, Minho?”

“That’s no way to treat a patient,” Minho frowns exaggeratedly. “Whatever happened to bedside manner?”

“You got bedside manner the first ten times you showed up for no reason,” you tell him pointedly. “After that, you get whatever I feel like. You should be happy I’m still giving you bandages. We only have so many, you know that? Maybe I’ll start charging you a fee.”

“I can pay,” Minho says lazily, leaning forward so you can feel his breath hot on the side of your face. One of his hands starts to curl around your side, pulling you closer to him.

Dangerous, he is. You idly push him away with your palm, pretending to examine the supplies he’d been poking at earlier so you have time for the heat to leave your face. “How about you just tell me what’s wrong with you this time?”

Minho sighs dramatically. “Well, since you care so much, I’ll have to tell you that I’ve broken an ankle. It hurts so bad. This might be it for me, Y/N.”

You arch a brow. “Which ankle?”

He pauses a moment, thinking. “Left.”

“You’re standing on it just fine right now,” you point out.

Immediately, Minho shifts all of his weight onto his right leg, grabbing the back of a nearby chair for support. “No, I’m not. Look, I can’t bear the pain. It hurts.”

You just look at him. Minho looks back at you, unable to stop the corners of his lips from curling up into a proud half-smile. “Do you really expect me to believe that?” You ask.

He gasps. “Y/N. Are you trying to discredit your own patients? Some Med-Jack you are. I bet Clint would trust me.”

“Then go talk to Clint,” you say, making for the door.

Minho hurries over, flinging out an arm to close the door before you can open it. “Wait, wait. I didn’t mean it, sweetheart. You’re the only Med-Jack for me, I swear it. Clint is nothing to me.”

You take an obvious glance towards his feet. “That ankle sure seems to be healing fast, huh? You moved over here like it was nothing.”

Minho leans his back against the door. “Alright, you got me. Nothing’s wrong with the ankle. Still, my lungs have been feeling exhausted lately, that might be something–”

“That’s because you run everywhere,” you say, grinning in spite of yourself at his antics. “Come on, Minho, you’ll have to get a better excuse someday.”

“My bad for wanting to see you,” he returns. “I feel like I haven’t talked to you in forever. I miss you,” he adds a little quietly.

It makes you smile in earnest this time. “So you’re here to be a good friend, then.”

“Yeah,” Minho says, and you might be kidding yourself but you swear he sounds almost disappointed, “A good friend. That’s me.”

You tap him gently on the arm to get him to move from the door. “How about I promise to find you straight after my shift ends, and you agree to leave without using any more of my medical supplies? Jeff’s going to kill you if we run through anymore bandages, I swear it.”

Minho pretends to think this over. “Straight after? You promise?”

“I promise,” you repeat. “So? Do we have a deal?”

“We do,” he intones solemnly, and at last lets you open the door and usher him out, but only after extracting one more promise that you won’t delay to talk to Newt or anyone else once Jeff lets you out.

When you get back to the storage room, you find Jeff waiting for you, grinning knowingly from ear to ear. It bothers you for some reason, not the fact that he’s on this topic again but worse, the thought that he might not be entirely wrong for it.

“Wipe that look off your face,” you mutter.

Jeff’s grin just broadens. “How was your star patient?”

“Fantastic,” you assure him, “And I’d be fantastic too, if you could stop bothering me with whatever weird thing you’re thinking about right now.”

Jeff shrugs exaggeratedly. “Of course. I don’t know why anyone would think about Minho being unable to go three days without talking to you. That would be crazy.”

“It would be,” you add darkly. People in the Glade have said that you have a tendency for killer death stares. However, Jeff seems to be impervious to it, because he just keeps sitting there, proud as anything, as if he were in the right about this.

As if. This isn’t the first time your friends have tried to suggest there’s something going on between you and Minho, and the honest truth is that nothing has happened at all. Yeah, Minho’s your best friend, and yeah, your days are significantly better when you see as much of him as possible. What about it? It doesn’t mean a thing. Life is hard. If you want to talk to the boy who makes you laugh like no one else, you should be able to do it in peace.

You can’t deny that the rumors stay on your mind, and recently, you haven’t been able to deny them with as much conviction as usual. You’re not blind, Minho is good-looking, and maybe you start thinking about something past friendship when he makes another excuse to get in your personal space when you’re sitting together by the fire or walking through the Glade. 

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about it before, but as good as it might be to have Minho in every way that matters, you’ll still be perfectly happy with just the one. You can’t risk your friendship, even if, two drinks of Gally’s brew into a Bonfire Night, you start thinking about what it would be like to kiss him, or worse still, when Minho drops by the Med-Jack hut again, you convince yourself that maybe he’s not just doing it because he’s a good friend but because he wants you just like you want him.

It can’t be, though. For one thing, Minho is notoriously confident. If he liked you, he would have told you by now. You’ve seen him argue with Gally for the fun of it, not to mention the fact that he chose to be a Runner of all things. Minho lives on a constant adrenaline rush. Compared to what he does on a daily basis, confessing his feelings has to be nothing major. If he wanted to tell you, he would, and he hasn’t, so obviously there isn’t anything to tell at all.

For another, and this might just be in your own head, but Minho is so brave and capable that he seems to eclipse everything around him. Maybe it’s just the force of your own perspective, but you swear the entire Glade orbits around him. When he gets back from a run, he’s immediately swarmed by Gladers asking him about how it was, if he saw anything important. He’s always the first person people talk to, the immediate choice for a dinnertime companion. Minho could have anything he wanted in the Glade. So why would he want you?

You’ve managed to force the whole thing from your mind as best you can. Minho is your friend. At least you can have him like that, even if it kills you sometimes to look at him and imagine all the ways you would love him if he would just give you the chance. Any good medic can keep their feelings internal when they need it, and you’re the best there is.

You meet Minho later that night as promised, and you do your utmost to pretend everything is normal. You stay with him until the sun sinks below the horizon, until the Doors slam shut, until the moon begins its familiar path across the sky. You talk the whole while, idle chatter that occasionally drifts off into comfortable quiet. You’ve never been able to do that with anyone before, feel so at ease that you can stay silent for minutes at a time and have it not be awkward, but with Minho, it’s so simple. Then again, you can hardly remember anyone at all. Maybe there was someone in the past who mattered to you just as much as Minho does now. Even without your memories, though, that feels impossible. Minho could have no substitute, not to you.

You’re expecting the next day to pass in a breeze of idle hours, but around midafternoon, your dreary day of organization and the occasional bad paper cut is harshly interrupted by the sound of chaos outside. There’s shouting for a Med-Jack, and then several people are rushing someone in. It’s a Runner, apparently, you hear the details as you run for supplies. The Maze started moving during the day and he got hurt.

You can tell from the way people start nervously looking at you that it’s bad. At first, they don’t say any names, but then you burst into the chamber that serves as your operating room and you know that it’s worse than you could have possibly imagined, for not only does it seem like there’s enough blood to drench the Glade, but the victim isn’t Ben or one of the other Runners, it’s Minho. Your Minho. Your Minho, bleeding out on your table, who will need you to save him.

You stand there for one fragile moment, drenched in horror, then spring into action. Clint and Jeff have surfaced by now, and you direct them to anesthetize Minho. You want him to feel as little of this as possible. After carefully cutting open his shirt to determine the source of all that awful blood, you determine that it’s not as bad as you thought, more of a broad surface wound than a deep puncture. That much blood loss is dangerous, though, and he’ll need several stitches to close the flesh.

About an hour and a half later, you’re done. You and the other Med-Jacks lean back, panting heavily. Your hands and clothes are smeared with red, but color has crept back into Minho’s cheeks, and he’s starting to breathe evenly again.

“How long until he wakes up?” You ask Clint.

He checks a nearby clock, then Minho’s pulse. “Fifteen minutes, probably, but he won’t be fully conscious for up to an hour.”

You nod. “That’s good. Clear out, you guys. Get some rest.”

Jeff stops by you on the way out. “You can stay with him if you want. He’d be glad to see you when he wakes up.”

You let out a slow breath. “Thanks, Jeff.”

He pats you on the back then leaves to wash up. You spare the time to scrub your hands and get on a fresh change of clothes, but head back to Minho as soon as you can. Ben was with him when the accident happened, he said that everything happened so fast he hardly knew what went down. You don’t want Minho to wake up alone and confused, covered in bandages and unable to shake the scent of blood.

Once the immediate danger is over, you’re left sitting in a chair by Minho’s cot. His chest is swathed in bandages, but no red has flowered through them yet, which is a good sign. As you watch, the fingers on his right hand start to twitch. Clint said he would start to stir around now, and you’re glad to see the signs of movement. Watching him there– so still, so motionless– it made you wonder if he would wake up. It made you wonder if there was any way you could survive if he didn’t.

Minho is starting to make small sounds of distress under his breath, so you lean over and take his hand, squeezing it carefully but comfortingly. “Hey, hey. It’s me. You’re safe.”

You hear the ghost of your name in his whisper, and then Minho starts to quiet down again, restless rustles turning back into quiet breathing. You check his heart rate with your free hand and are glad to see it returning to normal, shaking off the lethargy of the anesthesia.

Minho sleeps for a little longer. Afraid to upset him, you keep your hand in his. You can tell when he wakes again, because his fingers start to press against yours. Consciousness comes upon him like a wave beating upon the shore. All of a sudden, his eyes are blinking open, and then he’s trying to sit up too fast and is forced back down to the cot by a bout of dizziness.

“Easy,” you tell him, pressing him back. “Don’t try to sit yet. The meds aren’t out of your system.”

“Y/N?” Minho asks, voice hoarse.

Hearing the scratchiness of his voice, so totally removed from the usual confident cadence of his words, makes your throat close up. “Yeah, it’s me. I’m here.”

“Hey, Doc,” he says roughly. “Jeff won’t give me klunk about the bandages now, will he?”

“No, he won’t,” you say, torn between laughter and outright sobs. “How do you feel? Any pain?”

“All good,” Minho tells you. “What about Ben? Is he okay?”

“Ben is fine,” you assure him. “You’re the one we’re worried about, Minho. I knew the Maze was dangerous, but like this–”

He cuts you off, squeezing your hand. “Hey, all in a day’s work. I knew the risks when I went in.”

You shake your head, hot tears starting to well up in your eyes. “No, no. This isn’t fair. You’re not supposed to get hurt during the day. Minho, I didn’t even know anything happened, and then they brought you in, and there was so much blood– I thought I was going to lose you, and I didn’t even get to tell you–”

Even in the midst of your tears, you have the presence of mind to stop yourself before you give yourself away. It’s just– the thought had not abandoned you the whole time he slept, even the whole time you operated, that you could lose him without ever having him at all.

Minho shakes his head as best he can. “I’m okay, sweetheart. I’m okay.”

“But you almost weren’t,” you whisper. “What if Ben hadn’t been able to get you back in time?”

You take a ragged breath, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. Your shoulders shake, and Minho leans up slightly, as if drawn to it. To you.

“You’re pretty even when you cry,” Minho says, one hand weakly rising up to brush a tear from your cheek. “How is that fair?”

You laugh haltingly, in between the tears. “Barely awake five minutes, and you’re already flirting.”

He grins. “It’s all I want to do.”

If this were any other day, you would be able to brush off that comment, but something about this moment, this space– no one else in the room, Minho’s palm still tenderly cradling your cheek, your heart still erratic from the stress– you can’t help but turn the words over and over in your mind. All I want to do. All I want to do.

“Minho–” You start.

“Shh,” he says. “You already know that. Don’t tell me you haven’t seen through it. My smart girl. All those times I came to see you. Don’t say you haven’t realized.”

“Minho–”

“Newt says I’m being stupid. That I shouldn’t keep trying to have something that isn’t mine. But I’ll tell you something, Y/N, I’m selfish, and I’m greedy. I want you, and I don’t want to think about you with anyone else but me.”

Your breath is harsh in your chest, heart beating so loud you’re certain they must hear it echoing all across the Glade.

Minho’s eyes are fixed directly on yours. He sits up carefully, enough to reach his other hand up past your waist to the small of your back. “Tell me you don’t want me, or I’m not going to stop trying to keep you. Tell me to stop.”

Your lips part as you try to form an answer. Minho’s eyes dart down to the movement, and they only rise to your gaze with great reluctance. “I don’t want you to stop,” you tell him at last. “I want you, Minho. Only you.”

Two years now, you’ve known Minho. You’ve seen him proud and defiant, laughing and joyous and as happy as anyone could hope to be. Still, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him smile as brightly as he does right now, right before he kisses you.

Every touch is electric, and this is the most powerful of all. Your mind is reeling from the moment your lips meet, sending you far beyond the reaches of the Maze to the sky itself. You could be floating forever if you wanted, and you only start to gradually come back to earth when he slowly breaks away.

“Minho,” you say, hesitating over every syllable.

“Y/N,” he mimics, lips turned up in an irrepressible smile.

“They’re going to want to know that you’re awake. I promised I’d get the others,” you tell him.

He considers this for a moment. “They don’t need to know immediately, do they?”

You smile. “No.”

Minho’s eyes glint. “Then kiss me again. You can tell them after.”

It seems like a fair deal to you. You kiss him to make sure of it.

maze runner tag list: @blondsauduun, @ellobruv, @retvenkos, @neewtmas, @mayfieldss,

@hiya-itsamber, @gods-fools-heroes, @hope92100, @23victoria, @w1shes43, @imwaysthelastchoice, @fadedver, @il0vebeingdelulu

all tags list:

@wordsarelife

[godslino]

IN BLOOM | jisung first date series. second chance lovers.

pairing: jisung x fem!reader word count: 13.2k genre: childhood friends au, angst, fluff, songwriter!jisung, florist!reader warnings: swearing, minor character death, grief/loss (nothing to do with any of the members!) summary: it's february. the tulips are in bloom. jisung is back.

chan | minho | changbin | hyunjin | jisung | felix | seungmin | jeongin · · · ♡ series masterlist · · · ♡ taglist · · · ♡

a/n: *taps mic* hello?? is this thing on?? oh good. yes. hi. hello! it's been a while, as most of you can tell. thank you all SO MUCH for sticking around. if you've been reading my asks you'll know that march and april were rough months for me personally. shout out to my anons and mutuals who kept my spirits high and made my days brighter. uhhh, this was originally supposed to be a stand alone fic but i figured hey, what the hell, and made it into jisung's first date chapter. it's pretty heavy stuff. lots of feelings, lots of love. i hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it! again, thank you so much for waiting for me. i'll be back soon with more updates! all the love <3

also thank you kenzie for being such a light during all of this. i hope all my screaming in your messages was worth it!

“All of these had to be pulled.” Hyunjin huffs, dropping a few crates just past the doorway. 

“Again?” you ask, hands on your hips as you stare at yet another wasted supply. “I don’t understand, they sold so well last year.”

Hyunjin gives you a sad smile. “It’ll pick up eventually, don’t worry. I mean the holidays just finished and business usually slows down in the months after anyways.”

He’s being sincere, you know that. But there’s a part of you that also knows it’s a lot more than just the usual ebb and flow of sales. He’s being nice for your sake.

“Maybe we could try coming up with other ideas?” he suggests, because Hyunjin is nothing if not kind. Always willing, always finding a way.

He moves past you to grab a fresh pair of gloves. The ones he’s wearing are dirty, pollen-stained and ripped at the edges. 

“You’ve always been really good at basket arrangements. We could try to make some for Valentine's Day. Different sizes, maybe? The big ones will probably do well for online orders since they’re more optimal for things like office deliveries and stuff like that.”

You hum in approval. “True. I mean, I was kind of worried we would have to skip out on deliveries this year since we don’t have the manpower to handle all of that, but I think Jeongin’s been looking to pick up hours around here again. He said something about his program giving them a month of independent study, so he’ll be home for a bit.” you say, scribbling down a reminder in your notebook. “I could ask him to help with driving the truck in his free time?”

Hyunjin lights up– he always does when Jeongin is mentioned. 

It’s been a lot quieter ever since he left for college. There were so many tears and so many hugs that were met with countless 'you guys are dramatic's in return. But it’s hard to not feel sad when people leave town; when they decide the borders lined with apple trees and rice fields aren’t enough to stop their dreams from blooming into more than what’s capable of being pursued here.

That, unsurprisingly, is something you know all too well.

“Can’t believe he’s driving.” Hyunjin laments as he wipes his floral scissors with a rag. “I used to spend my days changing his diapers and spoon feeding him redbulls– but now? Driving? My baby is all grown up.” he fake sniffles. “By the way, I’m gonna take my fifteen after I’m done snipping these tulips.”

You snort, bending down to take the crates of wilted flowers to the back for disposal. Hyunjin moves to help but you shake him off.

“Sounds good. Also, don’t let Innie hear you say that. I’m about a thousand percent sure he has the strength needed to throw you into the dumpster with one arm now.”

“My baby would never do that to me!” Hyunjin calls out as you round the corner, bumping open the back door with your hip. 

February brings a lot of rain in Jeju. Today is no different; fat drops landing on your head as soon as you stumble out into the alley behind the shop. Footsteps heavy on wet brick, you curse under your breath as you run as fast as you can to the dumpster.

There’s still a few supply boxes from yesterday’s shipment laying around. You meant to bring them in, but you were so exhausted that it slipped your mind while you struggled to make sure everything inside the shop was figured out.

Scrambling, you haul them in one by one, shoes squeaking against the floor as you alternate in and out, soggy cardboard pressed against the front of your apron. 

Hyunjin’s on break. A necessary one at that. You can’t bother him, especially not when he’s done enough by taking on more responsibility both as a physical worker and a newly actualized business partner recently. A few stacks of boxes and wet hair seem like a fair trade off for what he’s had to sacrifice in the past year now.

“Idiot,” you mumble, cursing yourself for carelessness. Your slip ups have been more frequent lately, evident in the way you constantly forget things and can’t seem to push away the haziness clouding your mind. 

If it weren’t for the timing of it all, you’d blame it on the weather. The gloominess. The overcast skies probably have some sort of hand in your lack of clarity. Shrouded.

But it’s February. And in Jeju— it rains.

By the time you make it back inside, you’re drenched. 

“You look like you just got dunked in a pool.” 

You frown, ringing your hair out into the trash bin by the door. It’ll definitely take time to dry off, both your hair and your clothes are soaked through.

Hyunjin watches with an amused look, arms crossed as he leans his back against the counter.

“Might as well have. It’s insane out there.” you sigh. “How was your break?”

You look up to find that his face has gone unreadable.

“Yeah, about that…” Hyunjin trails off, voice suddenly smaller than before.

“Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah it’s just–” Hyunjin chews at his bottom lip.

You push past him into the supply room to switch out your apron just as he says, “Do you mind if I leave a little early today?”

You scoff, turning to face him. “Hwang Hyunjin,” you scold, lips twitching when he visibly startles at your tone, “You don’t have to ask me that. We’re partners now, remember? We run this place.” 

He shifts on his feet, still unsure.

“Besides,” you huff, tying a knot behind your back, “We were friends way before that, too. You don’t have to be all proper with me. Of course you can leave early. It’s slow today, I can take care of it.”

Hyunjin sighs after contemplating for a second. “Are you sure you’ll be okay, though?” 

When he stares at you for a moment too long, you know the real reason for his hesitation. It makes something twist deep in your gut.

Guilt, maybe, amongst other things.

“Of course.” you shrug, doing your best to seem nonchalant. 

Hyunjin’s ability to read people is kind of intense, a little scary at times. You happen to be one of his favorite subjects in that regard.

“Have fun. Tell Minah I said hi.”

He pales, sputtering around words as he struggles to say something. It’s cute, his plump lips opening and closing, eyes wild.

“I’m not going to see her! I’m–it’s just a movie! How did you—God, you’re so annoying. I should’ve made you trim the tulips. Hah!”

You giggle. “It’s funny that you think I wouldn’t know, especially with the way you love to actually make yourself look busy whenever she stops by to say hi.”

“I am busy.” he mumbles, looking away. “I just emphasize it a lot more when she’s here.”

“Sure,” you roll your eyes, “Let’s go with that.”

He whines a couple more times, trails after you around the shop and laughs when you swat him away with a rolled up newspaper that’s used for wrapping vases.

It’s loud. Easy. Hyunjin is a gentle reminder that normalcy still exists in your day to day, even if it’s hard to find. 

When he finally decides to leave, he lingers for a moment, triple checks that you’ll be okay. You roll your eyes for what feels like the millionth time today, but deep down you’re grateful. 

“Love you,” he says, one foot out the door. “Call me if you need anything.”

You shake your head, ignoring him. “Love you too.” 

And then he’s gone, a skip in his step as he heads down the sidewalk, leaving you with nothing but freshly-trimmed tulips and the sound of rain. 

“Herb snips, shears, tape…” you mumble, scanning the supply shelf. 

There’s not much to do in-shop right now. Almost all the arrangements have been tended to by Hyunjin already, his specialty being his keen eye. That’s why he handles the appeal of the shop, leaving you to figure out all the logistics. Learning it all was easier said than done.

In reality, it was never your intention to take over the shop at all. 

“When I die,” your grandma would always say, ignoring the way you groaned and begged her to stop bringing it up, “Sell this place. Use the money for something worthwhile. A trip to Greece, maybe?”

“Nana,” you would scold, glaring at her where she stood next to you, trimming a batch of roses.

Wrinkled hands that still held all the skill of youth. Fingers moving at a speed others could only ever dream of having– you included.

Your grandma handled flowers with the same amount of care she did everything else. It’s no wonder that when they grew they would lean in her direction, drawn to her like they would be the sun. 

“I’m not selling this place. It’s too special, too important. A vacation only lasts so long, Nana. This is forever.”

She would smile, turn petals over in her hand. Sometimes the marigolds would match the glow in her eyes, a testament to the belief you harbored as a child that she had the ability to sprout blossoms from her fingertips.

“The one thing you shouldn’t do, my dear, is rely on forever. Because that, too, is uncertain.”

You wish you hadn’t been so hard headed. Wish that you would’ve believed her, taken the time to listen, cherished the moment a little bit longer instead of relying on the promise of tomorrow.

I’m sorry for your loss.

Your grandmother was a wonderful woman.

She’ll be with you in your heart, forever.

Oh, what a lie forever is.

The shop stays empty for the rest of the day. There were a few passersby, all of whom simply stopped to scan the arrangements along the windows before giving a polite nod and carrying on their way. 

Realistically, the shop has no problem with attracting customers. It’s a sight to behold: mid-floor to ceiling windows with various displays, hanging baskets of winding greenery, countless arrangements that fill the shelves and add a pop of color, and a wide assortment of flowers for each season. 

The real issue lies in your inability to sell. Most people regard the place as being good for nothing more than window shopping and the usual photo-op.

Business has slowed since your Grandma passed; since you took over as the sole owner and were suddenly face to face with the task of making decisions in the shop’s best interest– both integrity wise and from a business standpoint.

“I know, I know,” you say around the pen cap between your teeth, “You used to be the brains around here, not me. I’m not creative enough for all of this, you know? No matter how much I try to be.”

You look up from where your notebook lays open, dozens of scribbles for arrangement ideas and planning. The picture on the wall stares at you, unmoving, eyes as bright as marigolds.

“Don’t give me that look.” 

She stares. A gaze that holds all the answers while also saying nothing at all.

“Ugh.” you groan, leaning your palms on the desk.

You allow your head to hang forward, defeated, exhaustion flooding your bones. 

Just as you’re about to speak again, to complain about yet another thing that probably has her rolling around in her grave, the bell at the front counter dings.

The clock on the desk reads 6:55pm, five minutes until close. You hadn’t even heard anyone come in.

“Be right there!” you call out, rushing to grab your apron from where you’d thrown it on one of the chairs. 

In your haste, the box of seed packets you’d been inventorying goes tumbling to the floor.

“Fuck,” you mutter, bending down to pick everything up. One more thing to add to the list today. 

Off-kilter. Disoriented. Exhausted. 

You sniffle a few times, blinking against the sting behind your eyes as you stand up to put the box back in its place.

One deep breath, a shake of your shoulders. Just enough to chase it all away until later. 

“Sorry about that,” you say cheerily, pushing past the hanging beads that separate the front of the shop from the back. “How can I help you?”

There’s a stranger, his back turned, attention focused on a batch of tulips. Freshly cut. White, blue, purple.

You realize, belatedly, that you’d forgotten to grab your apron in your haste to clean up the seed packets. Another slip up. Nana always prided herself in her apron, wore it like a badge of honor, raised you to do the same.

Just as you spin around to grab it, the stranger says, “It’s okay. I just, um, I wanted to say hi.”

You freeze. There’s a long moment where his voice rings loud in your ears, reverberates against the walls of your brain until it travels through your blood, the feeling like wildfire in your veins until it settles deep in the pit of your stomach. 

Slowly, you turn, heart clamoring in your chest, threatening to stop altogether as soon as you come face to face with the one person you never thought you’d see again.

Because there, at the front of the store, is Jisung.

Jisung, with wide eyes and parted lips. Jisung, with hair that still curls at the ends and falls in shags around his face. Jisung, broader, more actualized, now grown into his features but still undeniably soft around the edges. Jisung, with thick framed glasses pushed up his nose and silver hoops dangling from his ears. 

A stranger. But undoubtedly Jisung. 

“You look…nice.” he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly with his free hand.

Three words is all it takes. Ice turns to fire. The blood that had drained from your face returns with the blaze of a thousand suns, anger burning your throat. 

You reach forward, grab the remote for the neon Open sign and click the power button. Jisung watches in confusion.

“The shop is closed.” you manage on a shaky breath.

Jisung sighs, something heavy. “Listen, I’m—”

“The shop–” you try again, louder, “–is closed.” 

Jisung stares. His eyes are still the same velvety brown; big and round and just as you remember. 

There was once a time where the sight of Jisung in your Grandma’s shop made your heart sing. A soft tune, the thrum of a thousand harps, a song only for him.

His heart-shaped smile as he helped her hammer some of the shelves onto the wall. The sound of his laughter whenever you’d enter a sneezing fit from accidentally rubbing your face with a gloved hand. His rosy cheeks, burnt from the wind whipping past his face as he ran on foot to make sure you were okay the one time an angry customer smashed a vase on the floor and you called him crying.

But now, seeing him here, a stranger in a body you once knew like the back of your hand— it feels wrong. 

“I…” he trails off, registering the way your fists are clenched at your sides. 

“Okay,” he resigns, licking his lips. “I, uh– have a good night.”

He gives you one last look, bottom lip pulled tight between his teeth, and then slips out the door. You watch his retreating figure through the glass panel, dark gray skies muting the sound of your rattling heart.

It’s February. The tulips are in bloom. Jisung is back.

And in Jeju– it rains.

There’s an apple tree in the middle of town where Jisung told you he loved you for the first and last time. 

Off the corner, a few minutes down the road from where your houses stand a mere five hundred feet away from one another.

Your grandparents were farmers. Your grandma started her floral business a few years before you were born, a dream she always had that your grandpa urged her to pursue once he decided to sell the animals to a younger, more capable couple that could take care of them. 

Jisung’s parents, new residents on the island, looking to settle down and start a family. 

That’s how it happens. Yours and Jisung’s story, two authors of the same book, destined since the start.

Jisung was born on the same night your mother left you at your grandparents’ doorstep. One note, an apology, is all you’ve ever known about her. Your grandma never cared to indulge you. You’re glad in a way. She provided more than enough love to make sure you never felt an absence in her wake. 

The townspeople used to say you and Jisung were soulmates. Something about the heavens knowing he would need a friend, hence why you were delivered that night. From that moment on, the two of you were inseparable. 

Attached at the hip, you and Jisung grew up together. First steps, first birthdays, firsts for everything under the sun.

Jisung was there in the morning to walk with you to school and he was there at night when the two of you tucked into bed, sleepovers a regular occurrence, both of you counting the pale green stick-on stars dotting his ceiling until you fell asleep. 

Jisung was always around. He held your hand and walked with you to the nurse’s office the first time you got stung by a bee. He wiped your eyes when the boy you liked told you he only ever saw you as a friend, your first rejection. He sat with you under the stars the night your grandpa died, your face tucked into his neck as you stained the collar of his shirt with tears until you were too tired to cry. In the years that followed, he took care of you and your grandma like the two of you were his own. 

Jisung, for lack of a better word, was your first forever.

“You could come with me, you know.” 

Under the stars, real ones that time, Jisung had turned to you and offered the world. 

The air was cold. The apple tree was bare.

“It’ll be fun. We’ll be together, we’ll experience new things. I can do music and you can study all that history stuff you like to learn about. You know, nerdy things.”

“They’re not nerdy things, Ji. Don’t you know everything we have now is because of what’s happened before us?” you’d asked. “Doesn’t it make you wonder? Learning about the past helps us better understand the present, and ultimately the future.”

Jisung had hummed softly, an agreement. “I don’t care about the future, though.” he’d said. “I care about right now. You, me, this.” 

When you turned to look at him, he propped himself up on one elbow and stared down at you from above as the moon casted a halo around his head. 

“I love you,” he whispered, “And I want you to come with me.”

Jisung, with all the stars in his eyes and a heart full of dreams. Jisung, with the world at his fingertips and the ambition to make it his own. 

You, with all your hopes stuffed tight into a suitcase and chained to a boulder, thrown into the ocean. Sinking and sinking until it hit the bottom.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

Images of marigolds flashed behind your eyes when you closed them, a tear rolling down your cheek. Jisung’s mouth was soft when he kissed it away, salt on his lips. Burning. 

“But I can’t.” you choked. 

Under the apple tree, Jisung told you he loved you for the first and last time. He promised that the distance would be no match for him, that he would traverse oceans to find his way back. He promised forever.

It was February. The tulips were in bloom. Jisung left to pursue his dreams with a guitar on his back and your heart in his hands. Your understanding of forever was shot at point blank. The bullet passed clean through you. 

And in Jeju– it rained.

“I think you should talk to him.”

The sun is out today. Perfect weather for another field harvest. The distributor had called you early in the morning to ask if you’d be willing to accept a drop off even though it’s the weekend. You’d agreed, calling in your most reliable help for the job.

“And I think you’re not helping.” you huff, snipping the head off another hyacinth.

“Agreed,” Hyunjin parrots from beside you, currently in the middle of putting together an arrangement, “This guy sounds like a total dick.”

Chan sighs from behind the two of you, his knees knocking against the legs of the desk when he swivels back and forth in the chair. 

Besides Hyunjin and Jeongin, both of whom moved into town after you’d already graduated, and of course, Jisung– Chan is your oldest friend. 

Chan was also a neighbor of yours. Three years older than you and Jisung, he was the one who acted as a role model for the two of you when growing up. Nowadays he helps his parents run the largest orange grove on the island during the day and DJs one of the clubs in the tourism hub at night. 

“Jisung’s not a dick, he’s just–”

“An asshole.” you finish, smirking when Hyunjin cackles. 

Chan sighs. Again. “Yeah okay, I’ll give you that one.”

“Listen, I know I’ve never met him, but isn’t it weird that he just, like, showed up?” Hyunjin asks, setting down his scissors. You continue trimming the hyacinths, listening halfheartedly.

“I mean, think about it. Dude disappears to pursue music, right? He’s gone for what– three years?”

“Four.” you correct.

“God, even worse.” he grimaces.

“But yeah, okay, four years. And then boom! He just strolls in through the front door without so much as a word during the time he was gone? No letters, no phone calls, not even a damn visit. Nothing! All so he can pop up and go ‘oh, you look nice’? Come on.” he scoffs, crossing his arms.

You wince, caught off guard because you’ve never really heard it phrased as bluntly as Hyunjin put it just then. It’s no surprise that he’s annoyed, having only just heard the full story thirty minutes ago. He’d been shocked, partly because you never told him and also because he just couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Okay, yes, he was wrong for that. But isn’t part of you even just the least bit curious as to why?” 

You pause mid-snip, mulling Chan’s words over in your head.

The most frustrating part about it all is that you are curious. You wish you weren’t, though. Not when you’ve spent the past four years trying to convince yourself that you don’t need to know what Jisung’s been up to, don’t need to know if he’s been okay since he clearly held no concern for you in that regard anyways.

“What?” you ask when you realize that both boys are staring at you. 

“Well?” Hyunjin pushes. “Are you?”

You shrug. “No, not really.” 

There’s a total of five seconds that pass before Hyunjin is stomping over and hauling Chan up out of his chair, pushing him towards the front door as he protests.

“Out! Out, out, out, we have important business matters to discuss.”

“But we were supposed to get lunch—!”

“We’re taking a rain check!” Hyunjin fights back, shoving him out of the shop before he has a chance to answer. He drops the shade to cover the glass, Chan’s sad figure left alone on the other side.

You gape at him. “What was that for?”

Hyunjin scoffs. “You think you’re convincing? Think again.” 

He hops up on to the counter and gestures for you to do the same. When you do, he pulls you closer, grabs your hand in his, and pushes your head down until it’s resting on his shoulder. 

“Tell me the truth now,” he says, soft. “I know there’s more to it.”

Hyunjin’s warm to the touch. The heat seeps through the fabric of his shirt, igniting the skin of your cheek until you feel like you’re standing too close to the sun. A star. Hyunjin is a light in your tunnel.

“I am curious,” you start, “About him, I mean. I’ve– I don’t know. It’s been so long. I tried to pretend I didn’t care when I saw him, but the minute I looked into his eyes it was like I was eighteen again. Eighteen and happy and looking at someone that I always thought would be there, you know?” 

Hyunjin hums but doesn’t say anything. He squeezes your hand once, a signal to keep going. 

“I’m scared, though. Part of me doesn’t want to know.”

Hyunjin takes a deep breath. “What are you scared of?”

Through the gaps in the beads you can see into your office, the picture of your Grandma hanging on the wall. She stares at you, unblinking. 

“What if he tells me that it’s true?” you ask, lifting your head to look up at him. “What if he says that I was right, that he didn’t care? That he left and didn’t want to call because it no longer mattered to him? That he loves his life there and only came back to clear his own conscience?” 

“Oh honey,” Hyunjin soothes, pulling you into his chest. You hadn’t realized you were crying, that the anger and fear had bubbled over until there were tears falling down your cheeks, wetting the fabric of Hyunjin’s sweater. 

He lets you cry for a while. It’s nothing new; Hyunjin has seen you break down countless times. He’s been there through the worst of it, held your hand even in the aftermath. He’s picked you up off the floor more times than you can count, has grounded you when you felt like the world was gonna open up beneath you and swallow you whole. Salt of the earth, returning you to its core.

Once you’ve quieted into nothing more than shallow breaths and a few scattered hiccups, Hyunjin speaks again.

“Can you be honest with me?”

You nod, the hair stuck to your cheek with tears rubbing against his shoulder. 

“Do you love him?”

It nearly knocks the wind out of you. This concept, so foreign to you now, shoved to the back of your mind to make room for the things that matter most. Hospital visits, labor cuts, wage increases— none of it left any room for love, let alone the thought of someone else. Especially someone as all-consuming as Jisung.

Slowly, you inhale, breath shaking on the exhale. Hyunjin squeezes your hand to remind you that he’s there.

“I don’t think I ever stopped, Hyune.”

The silence stretches thin. The realization is dizzying. Years of suppressed emotions, of telling yourself and everyone around you that it wasn’t a big deal. The sad eyes of the townspeople whenever they’d see you sitting beneath the apple tree. The gentle touch of your grandma’s hand when she’d find you on the front steps alone, staring at the stars. The soft hum of the radio in the shop, set to a playlist of all the songs he’s written, the only reminder that somewhere out there he was doing well.

The final crack in the dam, its water pushing until it gives way.

“Then you owe it to yourself,” Hyunjin says. “You owe it to your heart to get an answer. Free yourself from this pain, love. Don’t let yourself suffer forever.”

Forever. That word again. No matter how many times you’ve tried to escape it, it always comes back.

“It’s gonna hurt.” he sighs, tightening his grip when you sniffle. “It’s gonna hurt so fucking bad, babe. But you can take it. You’ve got people who love you enough to stand in front of you and soften the blow from time to time. But you’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

He hops down from the counter and moves to stand in front of you, right between your legs. Placing both hands on your shoulders, he pushes until you’re sitting with your back straight and lifts your chin. 

“You deserve an answer.” he says, with conviction this time. “Okay?”

He lets his thumb swipe beneath your eyes, smiles softly. Unconditional— that’s what he is. Hyunjin burns brighter than any star in your sky, the heat wrapping its arms around you like it’s too scared to let go, to watch you freeze and die out like so many others. 

“I don’t deserve you, though.” you say, laughing wetly when he rolls his eyes.

“Shut up,” he chuckles, pulling you in for a hug, “You deserve everything and more.”

When Jisung comes into the shop two days later, you’re ready for it. 

Chan had talked to him. No surprise, really, not when he’s been letting him crash in his spare room ever since he figured out that he was holed up in one of the hotels out in the tourism hub. 

If there’s one thing about Chan, it’s that he’d rip the shirt off his back to clothe anyone in need. Housing a friend is nothing, especially when that friend is Jisung.

“I don’t know how much of a consolation this is,” he’d said nervously, watching as you regarded him with an expectant look, “But he’s pretty cut up about you not wanting to see him. Which, I know, is stupid. He is the one who fucked up. But I just– I don’t know. I’ve never seen him like this, I guess.”

It’s not a consolation, not really. Knowing that Jisung is struggling is far from anything you want to hear. 

Sure, there’s anger present. Anyone would be stupid to not feel the least bit frustrated with what’s happened. Years lost, time stripped away. But you’ve long since come to terms with it, the anger turning to sadness in the meantime.

“Also, he leaves tomorrow.” Chan smiled sadly. “He really wants to talk to you before then.”

Hyunjin left early again today to give the two of you space. Not before making a show of his own though, threatening to incite violence with his arms that are supposedly ‘shredded’ from years of lifting boxes filled with petunias. 

The shop is slow again, not many sales nor a lot of foot traffic. Usually when the sun is out there’s more to do; people to see, smiles to give. But there’s nothing, just the chirping of birds and the sound of cars rolling by. 

Maybe the world knows that this is what you need. The calm before the storm. 

Five minutes until close. You’ve spent most of the day pacing back and forth. Waiting. Anticipating. 

Chan had said Jisung planned on stopping by, trying again. You’d told him that was okay, and his eyes lit up. Too much hope, maybe, that something might come of this. 

You’re seated in the back office, staring at marigold colored irises when the front door opens. You hear it this time, ears fine tuned, waiting. 

Slowly, you stand, make your way to the front. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you pull back the beaded curtain and Jisung’s figure comes into view. 

He looks the same as he did the other day: curled hair, thick glasses, parted lips. His sweater, fluffy and striped, hangs off of his shoulders in a way that boxes off his tapered waist, one that you know is hidden beneath all the layers. The sleeves are way too long judging by the way it curls over his fingers. 

“Hi.” he breathes out, watching as you step into full view.

You blink. “Hi, Jisung.”

His name feels weird on your tongue. Bitter. It’s been years since you uttered it, forbidding yourself from the luxury out of fear that it would make his absence more real. Talking about him in the past tense always scared you off before you could even get the chance. 

“How– How’ve you been?” he chews on the inside of his lip.

You want to scold him, tell him to stop the habit just like you always would in the past. He’d make a joke then, tell you to kiss him so that he had something else to do instead. You would laugh, feign disgust, but in the back of your mind you’d wanted it more than anything. 

You’d waited for it, the day you could kiss him without warning and melt into his touch as he kissed you back. Another stupid bet on forever; the belief that you had all the time in the world for things to get to that point.

“I’ve been better.” you say, taking a deep breath. “What about you?”

Good, you think. He’s been good. He looks good. He doesn’t need this place.

“Me too.” he says instead. “I’ve been better.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Silence fills the room, heavy on both your chests. The anticipation feels like it might kill you before anything else does. 

“I’m sorry that–”

“Is that all you came here to say?” you cut him off.

“What?” he asks, confused. “No, I– no.”

“What, then? What is it you want to say, Jisung?” your voice is firm. He winces when his name leaves your mouth. “Because, honestly, I’ve waited all this time to hear literally anything from you, and if all that comes out of this is that you’ve ‘been better’ I might actually lose my fucking mind.”

The words tumble out faster than you intend. You can’t help it, not with the way anxiety has been bubbling over in your chest since the moment you woke up this morning. You could barely sleep last night, not when you were playing out every possible scenario in your head, the anticipation of it all making your sheets feel scratchy against your skin and the lumps in your pillow more discernible. 

“No, no, of course I wouldn’t do that.” he says quickly. “It's just that I didn’t know where to start. I don’t know how much you’ll allow me to say, what the boundary is here. I didn’t want to just barge in and demand you listen to me. You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe me anything. Not after what I did.”

What I did, his voice rings loud in your ears. He’s aware of it, of the pain he caused. 

He takes a step forward, and then another, again and again until he’s right up against the front counter, an arm’s length away. 

Your breath catches then, when you see him up close for the first time in four years, see the way he’s grown and changed with your own eyes. 

Stubble dotting his chin, laugh lines around his mouth, the dip and curve of the bow above his lips that you always loved. Brown eyes, soil and stardust. 

“Tell me what your conditions are,” he says quietly, “And I’ll give you every explanation I have.”

The sincerity on his face is blinding. Your stomach twists at the thought of hearing what he has to say, that same fear brewing in the pit of it. You take a deep breath, feel the phantom ghost of a hand squeezing yours and a crescent moon eye smile. 

“I waited four years for you.” you say.

“I know.”

“I trusted that you’d be back. That you would keep in touch during the time you were gone.”

“I–” his voice cracks. “I know.”

“You lied to me.”

Jisung tips his head back then. Swallows down a lump in his throat. Blinks rapidly at the ceiling, veins of ivy crawling along the expanse of it.

“I know.”

“So you owe me everything. I deserve that. I deserve answers.”

When he brings his head down to look at you, it’s unreadable. A mix of emotions that you aren’t familiar enough with anymore to decipher. Fear, guilt, sorrow. Hope, too. Maybe.

You stare at him head on, fully letting your eyes meet for the first time in what feels like an eternity. He holds your gaze, unwavering. Determined. The sight makes your heart clench. 

“Okay,” he says after a beat of silence. “Okay. I can do that.”

Despite the ever-growing mountain of things to address, you decide that the first thing you want to hear from Jisung is about his time in Seoul. 

You’re only human, after all.

Best friends from the start– you can’t stop yourself from wondering what life has been like for him. Jisung’s always been good at storytelling, animated in his features and gestures to the point that you’d be rolling around and clutching your stomach from laughter. It’s one of the things you missed the most, just talking and being present in one another’s lives.

The two of you end up at one of the diners down the road. The owners, an elderly couple, coo as soon as they catch sight of you.

“My flower girl,” the old lady, Mrs. Kim, greets.

“Mrs. Kim,” you beam, moving in for a hug. When you pull away, Jisung is behind you, hands clasped behind his back and feet together like he has his tail between his legs.

“Halmeoni,” you say, gesturing at him, “Do you remember Jisungie?” 

His eyes go wide at the nickname, and you try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck, avoiding his gaze and instead watching as Mrs. Kim blinks in surprise.

“Oh! Oh my goodness, our Jisungie? Honey! Honey, look, Jisung is here! Oh you crazy boy,” she scolds, rushing forward to hit his shoulder and pull him in for a hug. “Where have you been? It’s been ages!” 

Jisung lets out an oof! as her body slams into him, all of his anxiousness dissolving into laughter as he hugs her back. 

“Hi Mrs. Kim, how have you been?” 

“Me?” she asks, pulling him away to hold at arm’s length, “Nevermind about me! I’m old! How have you been?”

Good, you think again, a mimic of earlier. Jisungs eyes flit over to yours for the smallest of moments before he answers.

“Better,” he says. “I’m doing better.”

Once both Mr. and Mrs. Kim are done doting over the both of you, they seat you by the window.

The island is always beautiful on sunny days: trees swaying, golden rays painting the rooftops in hues of pink and orange, the indigo shimmer of the ocean off in the distance.

“So,” you say, catching Jisung’s attention, “Tell me about Seoul.”

He hums. “It’s busy. Stinks. Lots of people.”

“Dream come true, yeah?” you joke, taking a sip of your water.

Jisung chuckles. “You could say that, I guess.”

“I mean, it was yours.”

“It was.” he sighs, looking down at the table. “I don’t know. It’s nice. I met good people, made even better connections. I live in this one bedroom studio apartment just outside of Itaewon, so I’m close to where all the foreigners hang out. I’ve learned a lot, gained a lot of inspiration for my music.”

You follow along, staring at him intently. His mouth, still heart-shaped, twitches when he catches you in the act.

You clear your throat, glancing away. “Yeah, I’ve– uh, I’ve heard some of your songs.”

He raises his eyebrows, almost like he hadn’t expected you to say that. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, I hear them on the radio sometimes.” A lie. “It usually takes me a second to realize that it’s you.” Another lie. “But they’re good, you’re doing well.”

Pink dusts the tops of Jisung’s cheeks as he turns back to the window, clearing his throat.

He looks younger like this, like he’s still the same boy who would sit across from you all those years ago. Cherry-stained lips and a smile so bright it put the sun to shame.

He talks a bit more about his music, about how he’s with a good company that gives him creative freedom and enough support to pursue more if he desires.

His eyes light up when he tells you about his studio, a small room on the fifth floor of a building in the middle of the city where he does all of his writing. It’s equipped with an entire soundboard, full of instruments that he says he’s been able to get signed by artists that come in and out. Most notably, his guitar, the same one he left with. 

Slowly, like a flower blossoming, petals opening one by one, you feel yourself falling back into step with him.

Everything is so familiar: the curve of his smile, the tilt in his voice when he gets excited, the rumble of laughter when he recounts an embarrassing run-in with an A-list celebrity in the company’s cafeteria. He shares stories that fill your heart as the two of you fill your stomachs.

But with the ease comes something more, something you recognize as longing. You hadn’t realized how much you longed to be there through this part of his life, how you wished you’d been the one to answer a video call as he showed off his apartment the first day he moved in, his company badge when it was newly issued, every moment of happiness that you’d been absent for just as much as he was absent for yours.

He seems to share the same sentiment then, when he sets down his fork and stares at his empty plate. 

“You run the shop now,” he says, “How’s that been?”

You purse your lips, nodding your head slowly. You knew this conversation would happen, that it was coming.

“It’s good, I guess. Been almost a year now since, uh, it was left to me.” you shrug. “I’m not alone though, Hyunjin is a big help. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

Jisung noticeably bristles. Eyebrows pulled together, staring more intently at a crumb on his plate. It looks like there’s a lot he wants to say, like he can’t find the words to say them.

So, naturally, you do it for him. 

“I assume Chan told you so I wouldn’t have to, by the way.”

He looks up then, as if he wasn’t expecting you to address the very obvious elephant in the room.

“He did, yes.” Jisung says after a while. His voice is quiet, gentle, like he’s walking on eggshells. “I– I didn’t know how to bring it up. I assume you’ve heard it all already but– I really, really am sorry to hear about Nana.”

The way her name sounds coming out of his mouth turns your mind to static.

Suddenly you’re in the hospital again, monitors beeping, hands as soft as petals cradled in your own and wishing that you could bury your face in a familiar neck as you cried and watched the marigolds wilt. 

“I don’t need an apology for that.” you croak, blinking back tears. Jisung is somewhere in your periphery, your vision blurry around the edges.

“It wasn’t sad. Her life, I mean. It was full. Of love. Of light. She left this place happy. That’s what she told me, at least.”

You take a deep breath. “So don’t be sorry about it.”

Jisung sniffles, and the sound shoots straight through your chest. 

“I know. I just– I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I should’ve been. I had no idea that–”

“Nobody did, Jisung. Don’t punish yourself for that.”

He sees it then, when you finally meet his eyes, the acceptance. You’ve come to terms with things a long time ago, have fought tooth and nail to come out on the other side of all the guilt and resentment and grief alive. Scathed, but alive nonetheless.

“You’re right.” he sighs, wiping at his eyes quickly. “She’d probably yell at me for saying that.”

You laugh, suddenly, the noise startling him. Jisung looks at you like you’re crazy.

“I think she has a lot more to yell at you for than being sorry that she died.”

The bluntness punches a chuckle out of him, and you giggle at the thought.

Your grandmother was always such an outspoken person. She always said what was on her mind, speaking it loud. There’s no doubt that if she was here she’d be berating Jisung, smacking him upside the head before pulling him into a hug and cooking his favorite meal. Tough love, but still, love.

“She would’ve loved to be able to see you.” you say once your laughter dies out, the air a bit lighter between the two of you. “She always wondered if you’d grow your hair out without her around to nag you about keeping it short.” 

He reaches up to run a hand through his curls, the strands falling around his face in a way that has your heart stammering in your chest.

“Well, clearly I don’t know how to listen.”

“No, you don’t.”

Jisung smiles softly. “Maybe I’ll cut it now. You know, since I’m here. And because I know she’d want me to.”

You watch him carefully, searching his eyes. For what, you don’t know. All that’s in them are stars. 

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “You’re here.”

By the time the two of you leave the diner, stomachs full and enough bags of extra side dishes hanging off of your arms to last you at least two weeks, courtesy of Mrs. Kim, the sun is almost fully set. 

The ocean is calm, the evening breeze just barely brushing the surface of the tide. Jisung walks in step with you down the street, one side of his face cast in a glow from the sun’s fading rays. 

“Do you think you’d maybe want to stop by the arcade that Old Man Park runs? Just for a little?”

You snort. “Why? So I can embarrass you?”

“Hey!” he puts a hand on his chest, offended. “I’ll have you know that I let you win all those times.”

“How do you let someone win after spending hours practicing while I worked at the shop?”

“I was being nice!”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t believe me?” he grins. You try not to look, afraid of how bad your blood pressure might spike from the sight. 

“I’ll have you know that I’m one of the best Kart Rider players in the PC Bang scene back in Seoul.”

“Jisung,” you scold, “That’s a computer game. These are coin-ops. There’s way more skill needed.”

“No there isn’t!”

He knocks his shoulder against yours, tucking his chin to his chest to hide his smile when you try to fight back.

It’s easy. Nice. There’s a soft melody echoing in the dust-covered chambers of your heart. You still know all the chords.

Old Man Park’s arcade is a few doors down from the shop. You stop there to drop off the food, spare a glance in the mirror hanging in your office to fix your hair.

Your grandma’s picture stares at you from the other wall, eyes bright.

“Love you,” you say, kissing the skin of your fingertips and pressing it gently against the frame.

Jisung is toeing at a few rocks on the sidewalk when you walk back out. He doesn’t see you, too busy with his eyes casted down at the concrete, hands shoved into his pockets. 

It’s still hard to believe that he’s here. Flesh and bone. For a long time it felt like he was nothing but a distant dream, someone who only existed in the memories that you kept locked deep within your heart, the key somewhere on the streets of Seoul.

“Ready?” you ask.

He looks up, his glasses moving when his cheeks round into a smile.

Something passes across his face– a myriad of emotions in just a fraction of a second. Hesitantly, he holds out his hand. Long, delicate fingers.

You stare at it, swallowing roughly around the butterfly wings flapping inside your throat. 

The one thing you shouldn’t do, my dear, is rely on forever. Because that, too, is uncertain.

Forever isn’t promised. But even then, there are things you know for sure:

It’s February. The tulips are in bloom. Jisung is here. Living, breathing, in the flesh. 

So you take his hand, watch as relief floods his features, and let yourself feel.

The wind in your hair, the calluses on Jisung’s palms, and the warmth radiating out of the smile that threatens to split his face into two.

And with that certainty, the two of you start walking. A silent agreement to focus on the now.

You. Him. This.

“God, I can’t believe everything is only one coin.”

You laugh, watching as the multi-colored lights cast a glow on Jisung’s face. 

“Stop acting like you don’t remember this place.”

“I don’t!” he argues, smiling. “We stopped coming here, what, in middle school? Once Chan hyung started driving? We would always ask him to take us to the other one out in the big town!”

Chan’s first car was an old Camry with leather seats and enough room for the three of you to pile into after school. Used, but still with enough juice to satisfy three young kids who felt like they were on top of the world.

You used to sit in the back, the wind whipping your hair every which way while yours and Jisung’s hands lay side by side in the middle seat, pinkies brushing but neither of you willing to take it further. 

“Oh, shit!” Jisung gasps, letting go of your hand as he runs up to the space invaders machine. 

“Here we go,” you sigh, following after him. He’s like a kid in a candy store, face filled with innocent wonder and joy.

“Aren’t there, like, I don’t know– things better than this in Seoul?” you ask as he shoves a coin into the game.

Jisung turns to look at you with a devilish grin. “Obviously,” he says, “But I can’t beat anyone’s high score over there. Here though? Ha! This place is ancient. I can finally be at the top of the leaderboard in something.”

“We’ll see about that.” you mumble, the noise of the game booting up drowning you out. 

Jisung sticks his tongue out when he focuses really hard on things. It’s cute, the way the end of it sits between his lips, spit-slick and parted just a little bit.

He’s glowing, probably because of the lights, hues of red and green and blue flashing across his face. But then again, Jisung has always shined brighter than anything. 

The game beeps to signal that he has one life left. He grunts a few times, his fingers tapping the buttons madly as his other hand handles the joystick in a frenzy of movements.

When it ends, he groans, throws his hands up in defeat.. 

You shake your own head knowingly, watching his eyes bug out of their sockets as soon as the leaderboard appears on the screen, the 8-bit letters blinking at him. 

“You’re joking.” he laughs in disbelief, turning to stare at you. “Please tell me you’re joking.” 

There, on the screen, is your name. The highest score. Jeongin and Hyunjin’s names sit just below you, respectively.

“What was that again about finally being able to be at the top?” you mock him, smirking.

“Since when did you get good at this?”

You shrug. “Had to find something to do in my free time.”

“No,” he says, rolling up his sleeves. “Nuh-uh. No way. This is not happening. I will beat you.” he holds out his hand for another coin, to which you roll your eyes and place one in his palm. 

“You might as well give up now. We’ll be here all night.”

“In your dreams.” he scoffs, assuming his position as another round loads onto the screen.  

Jisung has always been competitive. It’s one of his more hidden characteristics. 

It persists still, you realize, as you watch him burn through the styrofoam cup of coins that Old Man Park had given the two of you. Free of charge for old time’s sake.

Fort-five minutes. All he’s managed to do is bump Hyunjin down to fourth.

“Ugh!” he groans, kicking the machine lightly with his foot. 

“Look at you throwing a tantrum.”

“I’m not throwing a tantrum.” he pouts. You raise an eyebrow.

“Okay fine. I’m throwing a tantrum.” 

“Thought so.”

“Can you blame me?” he asks. “This is, like, our first date. And I’m sucking. Hard.”

“Our–” you stop, eyes wide. Jisung mimics you, almost like he didn’t mean to say what he did. 

Heat rushes to your cheeks. Your mind goes blank. But the world doesn’t end. Time keeps moving. Jisung is still here.

“I didn’t–”

“I like the sound of that.” you say quickly. “Of this being our first date, I mean.’

He smiles. Slow and sweet like molasses. Blinding.

“And the fact that you suck.”

The moment is shattered, his resulting whine echoing throughout the arcade.

“Come on you big baby,” you laugh, grabbing his hand. “I know a game you can beat me at.”

He lets himself be pulled, pretending that he’s upset, but you can see the smile tugging at his lips when you lace your fingers together.

The feeling is still new, this ease you have with him. The wounds you sported all those years are still healing, some more fresh than others. But with each laugh that comes out of Jisung’s mouth and shared glance, every note that your heart sings, you can feel them beginning to fade. A balm to soothe the burn.

The Pac-Man game is situated in the back corner of the arcade, right next to the jukebox. It used to be your favorite, because Jisung would always use his own coins to play songs for you while you tried to score higher than twenty-five thousand points. 

When you get there, he frowns. “The only game you think I can beat you at is Pac-Man?” 

“I don’t think,” you say, grabbing a coin before shoving the cup into his chest. “I know.”

The game boots up instantly, and you smile softly to yourself when Jisung moves wordlessly behind you, slips a coin into the jukebox.

“Play something good, Jisungie.”

He freezes. Out of the corner of your eye you watch him stare at you for a long moment. And then he smiles. Stardust.

“You got it.”

In a matter of seconds, Lovers In A Dangerous Time by Bruce Cockburn rings throughout the arcade, the speakers on the ceiling fighting past the static.

An old song. The same one your grandparents would dance to in the mornings, eggs on the stove and love in the air.

Your grandma used to say it was written for them, because when they fell in love the war was at its peak and she didn’t know if he’d ever come home. 

After he passed, she still played it, except those times it was Jisung who twirled her around and painted a smile on her face as you watched from the same spot you grew up in. Always there.

Jisung, Jisung, Jisung. 

When the game starts, you try your best. It’s hard. You’ve always been terrible at anything involving quick decisions. Focusing on everything at once isn’t easy for you, that much is still true. 

“Shit.” you mumble, the top right corner of the screen reading ten thousand points as the ghosts run into you.

Jisung lets out a low whistle. “Harsh.”

“You wanna go back to space invaders and waste the last of our money?” you raise an eyebrow. 

He holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry. Go ahead.” he says, holding the cup out for you to take another coin. 

You try a couple more times, failing each and every one. You can tell that Jisung is growing more and more amused with every attempt, and the smugness radiating off of him is starting to rub you the wrong way.

“If you’re so good,” you say after a particularly sad attempt, turning to glare at him. Jisung has his lips pulled tight to stop himself from laughing. “Then why don’t you try?”

He chuckles then. “I’d rather help you, if you’ll let me.”

“How are you supposed to do that? We only have one coin left.”

Jisung doesn’t say anything. He puts the cup down, the last coin held between his fingers. You watch as he slips it into the machine, move to get out of his way once he’s done, but he stops you by grabbing your hand and spinning you back around, his fingers placed over yours on the joystick. 

With your back flush against his front, caged in by his arms on either side, Jisung takes a deep breath.

“This okay?” he asks right next to your ear, the curls on the side of his head brushing your cheek when he leans down to get a better look at the screen.

Warm. He’s so warm. The material of his sweater only worsens the heat, and the faint scent of vanilla makes your head swim.

It’s more than okay. Great, even. It’s Jisung. Everything and more.

“Yeah,” you say, letting him control your hands as he flicks the joystick. “It’s okay.”

The hair against your cheek moves when he smiles. “Good.” he says, and then hits the start button.

The game begins but you’re barely processing what’s happening, too aware of the feeling of his body pressed against yours. 

A firm chest, different from what’s observable on the outside, what with the fluffiness of his sweater and soft features. His arms too, encasing you, the bulge and flex of his biceps every time he moves.

It’s all so intoxicating, so much so that you don’t even realize you’ve beaten the highest score in the system by the time he loses his last life. 

“What?” you blink. “What the hell?!”

You laugh, spinning to face Jisung who’s grinning from ear to ear. In your excitement, you jump, flinging your arms around his neck. He’s surprised, but catches you nonetheless, circling his arms around your waist.

“Holy shit how’d you do that!” you squeal while he swings you around, feet off the ground.

“Magic, I guess.” he chuckles. 

The closeness of his voice brings you crashing back down, suddenly aware of what position you’re both in. You pull back quickly, clear your throat, and watch as his face falls from the loss of contact.

It’s been a long time since you hugged Jisung. The thought transports you to that day four years ago, standing under the apple tree, the future uncertain. Forever promised.

Things are different now.

“Sorry,” he backtracks. “I didn’t– um, I wasn’t trying to–”

You cut him off by throwing yourself at him for a second time. Intentional. Breathless. Tired of running and acting like it’s not the thing you want most in the entire world.

Jisung doesn’t react until he feels your face against the skin of his neck. On instinct, he hugs tight, hands around your waist, breathing in the smell of your hair.

“Hi.” you whisper against him. 

One word. Simple. However the weight of it sends a chill down his spine. It feels like home. 

He tightens his hold. A silent understanding. The two of you never had much of a need for words anyways. 

“Hi.” he whispers back.

The apple tree is much bigger now.

Long, thick branches, a wide trunk, a slight tilt in its shape.

It’s bare. The season is long gone. But it’s okay, because it means that the view of the stars isn’t blocked when you and Jisung lay beneath it.

It’s the same but it isn’t. There’s gaps– periods of time where the two of you grew separately. There are moments and memories tucked away that neither of you know about, whole lives to discover. 

But even so, it feels right. His arm wrapped around you, your head on his chest. The stars and the moon. You and Jisung.

It’s nice. Perfect, even. But there’s a conversation that needs to be had. One that can’t be put off any longer.

“Ji.”

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

Jisung shifts beneath you, tightening his hold. The grass is damp. Neither of you care, too caught up in each other to stress about whether or not it’ll stain.

“Of course.”

“Am I ever gonna see you again?”

He takes a deep breath. “Yes.”

“You said that last time.”

“I know.”

“So what makes this different?” you ask, sitting up. He watches you carefully, eyes trained on every movement like he’s scared you’ll get up and run away.

When he realizes you’re waiting for an answer, he sits up too, pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. 

He doesn’t say anything, just wordlessly reaches into his pocket. Silently, he hands whatever he grabbed to you. A guitar pick.

It’s white, a marbled design. Golden flecks infused into the lines. There, on the front, is a singular marigold. When you flip it over, you’re met with a tulip. 

“Do you remember that one time, when you called me crying at midnight because Nana told you that she didn’t know if she’d be able to afford school in the city?”

You nod silently, still turning the guitar pick over in your hand. 

It was one of those nights where the rain was relentless. Monsoon season always tagged on to the tail end of the school year, bringing with it a more intense gloominess than usual. 

You’d been angry. Stressed. Irritated that other kids at school were making plans to go to the mainland for college and you were stuck helping your grandmother trim foliage and wrap vases in newspaper.

“You told me that you couldn’t do it anymore.” Jisung whispered, staring up at the sky. “That you were tired of being here. That you needed to get out.”

You remember. Jisung had walked through the rain to show up at your window. Had climbed in with muddy shoes and sat on the floor of your room with you until the downpour stopped and your tears dried.

“And I said that I would make it happen, that I would invent a way to live amongst the stars so you could be as far from here as possible.”

“So what?” you ask, looking at him. “Did you finally do it, then? Is that why you came back?”

“Don’t be like that.”

“No, Jisung, I’m gonna fucking be like that.” you scoff, rising to your feet. 

There’s a fire in your veins, stoked until the embers are burning hot against your throat. Too good to be true. You should’ve known that there was no explanation left for him to give.

Jisung scrambles to his feet. “It wasn’t like I wanted to–”

“Oh like hell you did.” you say, turning to face him. “Four years, Jisung. I waited four years and you just– you come back and decide to tell me about some make-believe bullshit to save yourself and feel less guilty about the fact that you left.”

“It wasn’t make-believe to me,” he argues. “It was real. Everything I said was real. I left and I tried for years to make something of myself so I could come back here and get you.”

“Oh so it’s my fault? I made you leave, is that it?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“So then say something else!” you yell. The stars rumble, threatening to fall out of the sky. “Say something else, then, Jisung. Why didn’t you call? Huh?”

“Because I–” he stops, licks his lips. “God. Fuck. I couldn’t face you if I had nothing to show for myself, okay? It wasn’t fair to you for me to leave you behind just so I could fail.”

“Ha!” you laugh, running a hand through your hair in disbelief. “So you decided to go radio silent instead? Decided to not only leave me alone but let me suffer and wonder about where you were because that’s so much better than telling me that you were struggling, right? Great choice, Jisung. Really.”

He blinks a few times, watching as you pace back and forth in the grass. 

Anger bubbles deep in your gut. This whole time, he knew. It was a conscious decision. Jisung deliberately didn’t contact you because he chose not to.

“Did you ever even love me?”

The words tumble out before you can stop them. Jisung’s entire body goes rigid, his face falling and eyes hardening within a fraction of a second.

“Watch what you say.” he says, his voice low in his chest.

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d just be honest.”

“I’m trying.” he pleads. His eyes are glossy. Big and round behind his glasses. Illuminated by the moon. 

“I fucked up, okay? I prioritized myself and the way I felt over you and fucked everything up. But I tried. I tried so fucking hard. And I’m sorry it took me so long but I wanted– no–  I needed to make sure that I had everything figured out before I came back. I promised I would.”

“No, Jisung, you promised me that–”

“I’m not talking about you.” he says then, taking a deep breath. “You weren’t the only one I made promises to back then.”

Before you have a chance to speak, Jisung says, “I promised her. I told her I’d get you out of here. That I’d give you a life that you deserved, because she knew she couldn’t.”

You drop to your knees when the first sob hits, the force of it racking your body so hard you feel like you’re drowning. Jisung catches you on the fall, holds you up, lets you bury your face into his neck like he had so many times before.

“She told me you believed in forever. She wanted me to give that to you. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Jisung lets you cry. He holds you through the storm, your wails as loud as thunder and tears as heavy as rain. Four years in the making; the sky and the earth colliding until the dirt and layers of sediment give way to the molten core that’s been hiding beneath the surface all along.

Pain. Grief. All of it pent up and leading to this moment. 

“You should’ve told me.” you cry, beating a fist into Jisung’s chest. “You idiot. You fucking idiot. You should’ve told me.” 

Jisung pulls you in closer, takes each hit as long as it means that it’ll soften the blow on your heart. He whispers apologies in your ear, runs a hand through your hair. 

When it quiets again, the worst of the storm gone, he shifts so that your head is in his lap, his legs crossed and tucked beneath him. A few stray tears wet the fabric of his jeans, your eyes focused on the field of flowers across the street.

“I won’t ask you to come with me.” he says after a long while, when your breathing has evened out. “I know that things are different. You have a life here that you’ve made for yourself, responsibilities to bear as well.”

He pauses to push a few strands of hair out of your face. His fingers are gentle against the skin of your cheek.

“But I promise it’ll be different. I spent too long away from you, was too selfish for my own good. I won’t disappear again. I’ll call every day. I’ll visit. You’ll get every part of me that I kept away from you all this time, and I’ll get every part of you in return.”

Your heart thrums. The thought of having what you’ve wanted for so long. Of having Jisung.

“And when you’re ready, when you feel like you can’t do it anymore, there’ll be a place for you.”

His voice is firm. Confident. More sure than he’s ever sounded before in his life.

When you turn to face him, he’s already staring back. Jisung, with all the stars in his eyes and a heart full of dreams. Jisung, with the world at his fingertips and the offer to make it yours.

Under the apple tree, Jisung leans down and kisses you for the first time. Twenty four years in the making, soft and slow, his lips a perfect fit against yours. A starboy and his flower girl. His glow is so bright it makes blossoms sprout from her fingertips.

Soft curls tickle your eyelids when he pulls away to rest his forehead against yours. You reach up to run a hand through them, smiling softly when he presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. 

“I love you.” you say first this time. 

He reaches out a hand, closes it over your fist that’s still clutching the guitar pick. A marigold and a tulip, both working together to make a perfect harmony. 

“I love you, too.” Jisung whispers back. “Forever.”

Jisung stops by the shop early to say goodbye.

There’s less tears this time, less of a reason to be sad. But still, when he wraps his arms around you, vanilla filling your nose and curls against your face, you feel your composure crumble.

“Every day.” he says, repeating the same thing he did all night. “I promise. Morning and night. Also at lunch. Oh, and on your days off. Matter of fact, you can call when you’re on the toilet too.”

The last part earns him an elbow to the ribs, his laughter bubbling up and out of his throat as he tries to dodge any and all subsequent attacks.

He kisses you stupid before he goes, Chan rolling his eyes from his car out front. You flip him off blindly, Jisung’s lips still attached to yours, earning a loud honk in response.

When he leaves, the shop is quiet, the only sound being the buzzing of your phone as Jisung blows it up with text messages the second the car pulls away.

You’re too busy replying, giggling to yourself when a slew of cute emoticons start appearing one by one, that you nearly fall over out of your chair when Hyunjin bursts through the door.

“Jesus Christ Hyune, did you have to–”

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asks, breathless. 

“Uh,” you blink, glancing round. “Working?”

“Is Jisung not on a damn plane right now?”

“I mean he’s on his way to the airport. Chan is–”

“Chan hyung told me that Jisung wanted you to go with him.” Hyunjin says, brow furrowed.

You sigh. “He didn’t want me to go with him. Well, okay, he did. But I told him I can’t just pick up and leave. He knows that. Nana left this place to me and–”

“You are so stupid.” Hyunjin sighs. 

“Excuse me?” you ask. You stand up, crossing your arms as you walk closer to the counter. 

“Come on. We have to go.”

“Go where, Hyunjin? I’m not leaving to–”

He cuts you off, places an envelope on the wooden surface. “And I am not letting you stay here and pretend that this is what you want.”

“What is that?” 

“A plane ticket.” he says, pushing it towards you. “To Seoul.”

Your mouth opens and closes, lost for words. Hyunjin is already moving around the counter, pushing past you with an expression the most serious you’ve ever seen on him.

“Hyunjin I– I can’t– where did you even…?”

“Chan hyung has a friend.” he mumbles as he begins pulling stuff out of the office. Your planning notebook, your apron, the picture of your grandma off the wall. All of it thrown into a small box he managed to snag from somewhere off to the side.

“His name is Seungmin or something. Met him out in the tourist hub. Dude’s super rich with tons of miles and apparently owed Chan for a drunken night where he needed to be escorted to his hotel. So thanks to him, you’re leaving.” he explains as he grabs the box with both hands and starts walking towards the door.

“Wait.” you stop him, watching as he turns to regard you with a look that says his patience is running thin. 

“I told you I can’t leave, Hyunjin. This place is where I need to be.”

He huffs, places the box on the ground in front of him. His hair falls in waves around his face, a shimmery dark brown beneath the rays of the sun poking into the room. 

“Can you be honest with me?” he asks. 

You nod, slowly. 

“Do you love him?”

Hyunjin watches you with careful eyes. Reads you like a book, something he’s always been good at. You don’t doubt that it’s written on your face. Star-kissed cheeks and eyes as bright as marigolds. 

“So much that it hurts, Hyune.”

Hyunjin smiles, eyes watery. “Then you deserve to go. You deserve your chance to be free. Don’t worry about this place, I’ll take care of it.”

The familiar sting of tears sits behind your eyes. Your heart swells full of love for this friend, this light, this beacon of unconditional love in the shape of your best friend.

“I don’t have clothes.” you manage to say around the lump in your throat.

Hyunjin shakes his head, tears spilling down the bridge of his nose. 

“I’ll send them to you.”

“There’s a lot to do around here for just one person. What if you need me?”

“I’ll manage.” 

You round the corner quickly, throwing yourself into his chest. He catches you with ease, wraps his arms around your body as the both of you cry into each other.

“I’ll miss you.” you say weakly.

Hyunjin’s throat bobs against the top of your head. “I’ll always be here in our little corner of the world.”

The two of you stay like that for a while. Hyunjin’s warmth seeps into your skin, lights you ablaze. By the time he pulls away, his hands on your shoulders, you feel like you’re floating. Unreal.

“I don’t have a way to get there.” you say quickly, glancing at the clock. 

Jisung’s plane leaves soon. The airport, the only one on the island, is a thirty minute drive. You’re at a disadvantage the more time you spend not moving. 

“Don’t worry,” Hyunjin chuckles. “I’ve got that taken care of.”

You open your mouth to ask him what he means when you’re cut off by the sound of honking from outside. Confused, you run to the door, your jaw dropping as soon as you realize who’s waiting for you.

“Hurry up people we don’t have all day!” Jeongin calls, his upper body hanging out of the window. He’s parked outside in a beat-up truck, arms waving wildly when he spots you.

“Innie!” you scream, pushing through the door to run at him. He jumps out of the truck just in time for you to barrel into his chest, laughter loud in your ears as he spins you around. 

“You’re here! Oh my god I thought you weren’t coming for another two weeks.” you say in disbelief once he puts you down.

He looks older, more sophisticated. His hair is rusted and falls past his ears, the ends just barely touching his shoulders. 

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs. “I figured I’d show up earlier. You know, see you before you leave, catch up with my parents, help Hyunjin break into your house. The usual.”

“Help Hyunjin break into my what–” you say, but you stop when your eyes fall on the small suitcase in the backseat. Your own bag, the one that’s been sitting in your closet untouched for years now.

“For the last time,” Hyunjin says from behind you, carrying the box in his arms. “It’s not breaking and entering if I have a key. Which, by the way, I told you would come in handy one day.”

He sets the box down next to the luggage and dusts his hands on his pants. When he turns to face you, he’s smiling, eyes disappearing into crescent moons.

With tears threatening to spill once again, you stare at the both of them, your heart bursting at the seams. “I love you guys.”

Jeongin grimaces, opts for getting back in the driver’s seat as you laugh. Hyunjin rolls his eyes and ushers you inside of the truck.

“Yeah, yeah. Save it.” he says. “Right now, you have a plane to catch.”

The airport is crowded. 

There are tons of people everywhere, some saying hello and some saying goodbye. Hyunjin explained the gate system to you before you left him and Jeongin on the curb, and you keep glancing down at your ticket to make sure none of the information has changed in the past thirty seconds since you last looked. 

Thankfully, your gate isn’t far. With twenty minutes to go until boarding, you can feel the sweat building up beneath the hand that’s curled around your suitcase handle. 

It’s scary thinking about the fact that this is it. That you’re finally leaving. 

It’s bittersweet, too. There’s an excitement in the pit of your stomach as well as a feeling of dread in your chest, both of them meeting in the middle somewhere. 

You let your eyes scan the crowd, searching for wavy hair and thick-rimmed glasses. However, the first thing you see is the familiar neck of a guitar, strapped right on to a back that you would know and recognize anywhere without warning.

Jisung is seated near the gate, his eyebrows furrowed and lips set in a pout as he glares down at his phone. You realize that he’s probably wondering why you won’t answer, why all of his emoticons are going ignored. 

Quietly, you come up behind him, reach into your pocket, and say, “Excuse me? I think you dropped this.”

Jisung startles, his eyes falling on to the guitar pick being held out in your hand. Slowly, he lets his gaze follow upwards, wide-eyed and shocked.

“What– what are you doing here?” he asks. 

You place the pick in his hand. “I'm on my way to Seoul. There’s a guy there that I’ve been trying to find for a while.” you say. 

Jisung catches on quickly. “Oh, really?” he asks, moving over so you can sit beside him. “This guy must be pretty great if you’re leaving for the mainland.”

The rain starts hitting the tarmac outside right as you sit down. “Hm, yeah. He is. He really likes the stars. He says that he found a way for me to live in them, too.” 

He laughs, the sound making your stomach flip. “Sounds like you’re excited.”

You nod. “I am. He promised me that we’d do a lot together, experience new things. Apparently he’s gonna write songs and I’m gonna be a nerd.”

Jisung snorts and reaches across to link his hand with yours.

“He’s really lucky.” he says, leaning over to plant a kiss on your lips.

You smile into it. “So am I.” you whisper into his mouth, your heart stuffed to the brim with flower petals. 

And when Jisung smiles back, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek and give you another kiss with the force of a thousand suns, you feel the key you’d been searching for finally click into place. 

Salt of the earth. Soil and stardust. A boy who glows so bright that his girl sprouts blossoms from her fingertips. 

Forever isn’t promised. But then again, with Jisung by your side, there are things you know for certain:

It’s February. The tulips are in bloom. In Jeju– it rains.

And no matter what, despite all odds, you and Jisung will always find your way back to each other in the place where marigolds grow.

[tags: @skzstarnet @snowyquokka @palindrome969 @summergirlsmj @n1staytiny @drhsthl @strwbrrychannie @shays-library @giuliadesu @iknowyouknowminho @linocz @pynchkilledme @jisunglyricist @itsgghowitsgg @alician87 @skzms @meloncremesoda @ilychee08 @allaboutsan @legally-lixs @stayceebs97 @candyquokka @chans1aptop @liknws @realrintaro @beeracha @vxllxnsworld @feelikecinderella @caitxx1 @lilac13 @sebastianswhore13 @classiclitandmemes @hyunverse @linosazuna @lastgreatamericandynasty1 @bubbly-moon @cookiesandcreammy ]

[yoomiwrites]

Can you write a thatch or marco with a small female reader? I dont mind the personality but maybe she is a bit witty and cheeky or a bit like ace.

Too small

Summary: Being the smallest member of the Whitebeard Pirates meant constantly fighting to be taken seriously—not that you’d ever admit it bothered you, if Thatch wouldn't add to it.

Note: When I saw that request, I was all hyped up to write for Thatch. In the end, I also didn't know how I wanted to write him...so you had to wait a bit longer, sorry. It's kinda GN-reader? Well, I had fun writing it, so hopefully you have fun reading it!

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

The sun hung lazily over the deck of the Moby Dick, its warm rays casting a golden glow over the ocean. It was the perfect time for a nap—or, in your case, a bold display of relaxation. Stretched out on a towel, arms behind your head, you had your tiny frame sprawled in a way that screamed: I belong here, deal with it!

And yet, despite your best efforts, you knew exactly why the others had left you alone. You weren’t oblivious. The teasing, the well-meaning but infuriatingly patronizing head pats, the constant remarks— Oh, Y/N, you’re so tiny! Are you sure you can handle that?—all of it made your blood boil. You weren’t weak. You weren’t some kid. You were a Whitebeard pirate, dammit!

So, when a shadow loomed over you, you cracked one eye open, fully prepared to snap at whoever dared disturb your peaceful sulking. Instead, you were met with the smug grin of Thatch, a plate of pastries in one hand.

“Enjoying some alone time, short stuff?” he teased, kneeling beside you.

Your eye twitched, but before you could protest, he plopped a pastry into your hand.

“Before you bite my head off, at least eat. I made these myself,” he added, waving the plate at you as if it were a peace offering.

You huffed but took a bite anyway, stubbornly ignoring the way the sugary taste melted on your tongue like pure heaven.

Thatch chuckled, watching you with a knowing glint in his eyes. “So… wanna tell me why you’re out here all by yourself?”

“I like being alone,” you shot back immediately, puffing up your chest. “Unlike certain people, I don’t need to be surrounded by a crowd every second of the day.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawled, clearly unconvinced. “Totally not because the others have been getting on your nerves, huh?”

You nearly choked on your pastry. “What? No! I—”

He raised an eyebrow.

You crossed your arms. “I just needed some fresh air.”

Another eyebrow raise.

Your scowl deepened. “And some peace.”

The way he just smiled at you—like he had already figured you out—was infuriating.

“Y’know,” Thatch mused, setting the plate aside, “I get it.”

You blinked. “Get what?”

“The whole ‘proving yourself’ thing.” He leaned back on his hands, looking up at the sky. “People assume stuff about you, and no matter how strong or capable you are, they still treat you like something delicate.”

Your fingers curled slightly around the pastry. That was… painfully accurate.

“But here’s the thing, Y/N.” He turned to you, his expression softer now. “Size doesn’t matter. Not to me, not to Pops, and not to the crew. You’ve already proven yourself just by being here.”

You swallowed hard, looking away. It was stupid how much those words made your chest feel warm. Thatch grinned and—before you could react—ruffled your hair.

Your entire body froze.

“You’re still a pain in the ass, though,” he added with a laugh. “Tiny, but mighty.”

You swatted his hand away, face burning. “Oi! I’m not a kid, stop doing that!”

“But it’s just so easy,” he teased, holding his hands up defensively. “You’re fun-sized.”

“I swear to god, Thatch, I will end you.”

He only laughed harder. “Relax, relax! No matter how small you are, I’ll always take you seriously.”

The words softened the edge of your frustration. Just a little. Not that you’d admit it. Still grumbling, you finished your pastry in a huff, but the corners of your lips twitched despite yourself.

Thatch smirked. “Feeling better?”

You huffed. “…Maybe.”

“Good,” he said, standing up and stretching. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back before Marco eats all my food.”

As he turned to leave, he reached out—and gave you one last pat on the head.

“Thatch!”

He darted away before you could throw the plate at him, laughing the entire time. And though you scowled, your heart felt just a little lighter.

The usual lively buzz of the ship had settled into a more comfortable hum after lunch, laughter and clinking mugs filling the air as the crew enjoyed their evening. You, however, had other plans.

Standing at the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed and trying very hard to look nonchalant, you found yourself watching Thatch move effortlessly between counters, humming to himself as he cleaned up after dinner. It took a moment to shake yourself out of it. With a huff, you marched inside. “Need some help?”

Thatch barely glanced up as he wiped down a plate, his usual smirk firmly in place. “Oh? You? Volunteering for kitchen duty? Who are you and what have you done with Y/N?”

You scowled, snatching a dish off the counter. “Don’t get used to it. I just don’t like owing people anything. Consider this a thank-you for earlier.”

His eyes flickered with amusement, but to his credit, he didn’t outright call you on your flimsy excuse. “Mm-hm. Sure.”

You ignored the teasing lilt in his voice and got to work, scrubbing dishes with more force than necessary. The quiet between you was… nice, actually. Comfortable. Thatch worked beside you, chatting here and there about whatever crossed his mind, while you mostly grumbled responses—though your lips twitched once or twice at his more ridiculous comments. Eventually, you found yourself tasked with putting away the now-dry dishes. Reaching for a bowl, you turned toward one of the overhead shelves, stretching onto your toes to place it where it belonged.

The problem? The shelf was too damn high.

Not that you’d ever admit that.

Jaw tightening, you stretched just a little further—fingers barely brushing the edge—when suddenly, the plates stacked on the shelf wobbled.

Oh.

Shit.

Before you could react, a warm presence appeared behind you, and in one swift motion, two strong arms reached around you, hands catching the unstable dishes before they could come crashing down. For a second, you just stood there, wide-eyed.

Because holy hell, Thatch was right behind you.

As in, close enough that you could feel the heat of his chest pressing against the top of your head, the solid weight of him warm against your back. And he smelled… good. Like fresh-baked bread, a hint of spice, and honey.

Your grip on the bowl tightened slightly as your heart did an embarrassing little doki-doki against your ribs.

“Well, that could’ve been a disaster,” Thatch mused, his voice right near your ear, far too casual for someone who had you effectively caged between him and the counter. “Y’know, I appreciate the effort, short stack, but maybe leave the high shelves to the professionals, yeah?”

Your brain took a full two seconds to reboot before you sputtered, “I-I could’ve handled it.”

“Oh, no doubt,” he chuckled, still holding the plates steady as he leaned just a little closer. “You were doing great—really had that whole ‘about to be buried under ceramic’ thing going for you.”

You could hear the grin in his voice, the absolute smugness radiating off him, and it only made the warmth in your face worse.

“Shut up,” you grumbled, shoving the bowl onto the counter and stepping very quickly out of his space. To your horror, he ruffled your hair. Again.

“You’re cute when you get flustered.”

Your entire body locked up. Then—purely out of self-defense—you grabbed a dish towel and whipped it at him. “OUT!”

But instead of making a run for it like any sane person would, he simply caught the towel, slinging it over his shoulder with a smirk. “But this is my kitchen,” he reminded you, completely unfazed. “Shouldn’t you be the one leaving?”

You opened your mouth—ready to argue, to tell him to just shut up and let you suffer in peace—but then his smirk softened, just a little.

“Alright, alright,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe I pushed it a bit.”

That threw you off. “Huh?”

His grin turned lopsided. “Didn’t mean to actually upset you.” He leaned against the counter, watching you with something gentler in his gaze now. “I just… I like the way your nose scrunches up when you get mad. The way your cheeks go all pink, and your eyes—” He tilted his head, studying you like you were something rare. “They shine when you’re fired up.”

Your breath caught.

Oh.

That was—that was not fair.

Suddenly, standing still was impossible. You fidgeted, shifting your weight as you fought to keep your expression neutral. “Dumbass,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “You can’t just—say things like that.”

“Why not?” His voice was way too amused, and the warmth in his eyes was making your stomach do something stupid.

You swallowed.

Screw it.

Before you could think better of it, you pushed up onto your toes, gripping the counter for balance as you tried to press a kiss against his smug face—

—only to realize, to your absolute horror, that you were still too damn short.

Thatch blinked. And then, the bastard wheezed.

“Oh my god—” He had to brace himself against the counter, laughter shaking his entire body. “You—you really just—”

Your eye twitched. “Don’t—”

But it was too late. He wiped at his eyes, gasping for breath between chuckles. “That was adorable.”

“I hate you.”

You spun on your heel, fully prepared to stomp out of the kitchen and never look back—

But before you could, a warm hand caught your wrist.

The laughter softened. “Hey,” he murmured, tugging you back. And then, in one smooth motion, he tilted his head down, closing the distance himself. His lips met yours—warm, teasing at first, just the barest brush, like he was still playing around. But then he lingered, pressing a little more firmly, letting you feel the weight of it. It was soft but deliberate, steady in a way that made the breath catch in your throat. His free hand settled at your waist—not holding, just there—while his other fingers traced slow, absentminded circles against your wrist.

It was infuriatingly gentle. Like he had all the time in the world to savor this, to savor you. By the time he pulled away, your heart was practically racing.

He grinned, his breath still warm against your lips. “There. Better?”

You were going to die. Right here. In his damn kitchen.

Scowling, you smacked his chest, ignoring the way your hand lingered just a little too long. “Next time, just bend down in the first place, dumbass.”

His laughter rumbled through you. “Where’s the fun in that?”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Summer Breeze 6

Warnings: age gap (reader is 22, Andrew is mid 40s), dad’s friend, Andy being Andrew, other dark elements. As usual, be mindful of your content consumption.

I also beg of you to leave me some tuppence in the form of a comment and/or reblog. You are cherished!

Enjoy, my loverlies.

You sleep sitting up. Aside from the stiffness in your muscles, your stomach is gurgling from the greasy meal. The night fraught with worry and restlessness leaves your head even more cloudy than before. It’s real, you know it, and yet you just don’t want to accept it. 

The doctor comes after 8am. He checks your father’s vital and makes some notes on his chart. Andy asks about his condition as you can’t bring yourself to speak. He looks ragged and tired, you must not come off any better. 

“We’ll have to wait until he’s stable to make any further determination. We’ll need to test his cognizance along with his physical capabilities. The injury like has caused a TBI, meaning the effects will vary. He’ll need to be monitored well beyond his time here,” the doctor explains as Andy listens intently. You cling to every word but your mind is reeling. “Best to discuss what sort of therapies would be covered by insurance.” 

“Yeah, I figured,” Andy says, “thanks, doctor.” 

“Of course. You did a good job getting him here quickly,” the man in the white coat pauses and sends you definitive look, “keeping pressure on him. You both saved his life.” 

Your eyes sting and your nose burns. You can't cry. Not yet. Once you crack, you know that’s it. You won’t be able to stop. Your cheeks tug and you thank him, swallowing down the swell of horror.  

“Andy,” you eke out as the doctor leaves, “I couldn’t get through to my mom. Do you mind if I try again?” 

“Hm, I haven’t charged my phone,” he slides his cell from his pocket, “I’m at twelve percent. Could do the trick.” 

“Oh, maybe I could ask the nurse’s desk. I think I saw a patient phone around here.” 

“Good idea,” he nods. “I texted Jacob but I don’t think he has service up there. We’ll need to go grab some clothes so how about we do that today?” 

“I... I can’t leave my dad,” you insist. 

“Sweetheart, they said he’s going to be out for some time.” 

“He shouldn’t wake up alone,” you argue. 

“Alright,” he shows his palm appeasingly, “I’ll drive up, grab your stuff, and we’ll get everything else sorted when I get back.” 

“I can do this,” you avow, as much to yourself as him, “you’ve done enough.” 

“Right, I know, you’re a strong girl. But what do you do next? Once you talk to mom. You gotta call insurance, right? Do you have what they need? You’ll need the plan number, that’s probably in his wallet, right? You’ll at least need proof of ID. We brought him in in his trunks and nothing else. All that’s up at the cottage,” he shakes his head, “I don’t doubt you can handle it but a little help can’t hurt.” 

Your eyes widen and you sigh. You drag your hands down your cheek, “yeah...” 

“You can’t think of it all right now. That’s expected. You should worry about him. So I’ll deal with the details.” 

“Andy,” you utter, “I...” you look at your dad and get up, shuffling to his bedside. You take his hand, careful not to tug the tubes and tape, “I owe you.” 

“It’s what people do for each other, right? I’m a dad too. I know if anything happened to me, Jacob would be lost.” 

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” you crackle from your dry throat. 

“Try to rest if you can,” he sniffs and scratches his beard, “I’ll be quick. As quick as possible.” 

“Sure,” you squeeze your dad’s hand, barely hearing Andy. You just want him to wake up, or maybe you can wake up from this nightmare. 

🌅

You force yourself out of the room to ask the nurse about a phone. She points you towards a worn phone down a few halls meant for emergency calls. You punch in your mom’s number and wait for it to dial. It takes six tries for her to answer but you won’t give up this time. 

“Hey, what’s up?” She answers casually. 

You don’t answer right away. You can hear the lightness in her voice and the rustle of unknown movement. She’s busy with something or someone. Probably her latest fling. 

“Mom,” you scratch out, “it’s dad.” 

“What is it now? Tell me he’s not drank himself into the tank again. He’s too old for that.” 

“Mom,” you say firmer than before, “mom, he’s hurt.” 

“Hurt. Well, call the paramedics, I don’t know,” she giggles and you sigh. 

“We’re at the hospital,” you raise your voice, “he’s... he’s not awake. He hit his head. And I... I’m scared.” 

She’s silent. You hear her move around and she excuses herself. A door clicks on her end and she scoffs, “well, what do you want me to do about it? He’s your father.” 

You’re stunned by her callous response. 

“And I’m your daughter,” you insist, “what... you should...” you shake your head and deflate. “Well, mom,” your voice cracks, “I’m sorry I interrupted fun for something so stupid as this.” 

“Honey, please, I’m a bit shocked is all,” she squeaks, “I mean what can I do from so far away. For my ex-husband of all people? You’re an adult. You need to learn how to handle these things.” 

“Gee, thanks, mom,” you sneer and slam the phone on the hook. 

You don’t know why you expected any different. You’re not at her house because she told you plainly that she didn’t want you spoiling her fun. She gave up trying to be a parent the minute you turned eighteen. 

You roll your eyes back against a new wave of tears; these one angry. You guess you just need to grow up. It’s your turn to take care of your dad. 

[drenched-in-sunlight]

Hey, so I remembered in one of your earlier post you said something along the lines of souls women only really falling into the helpless victim or serious sword lady trop. And how Ema was a great subversion of it, I was wondering if you had any thoughts on

I’m making a souls-like and trying to avoid the pitfalls where I can

Btw, I love your art so much I would love to support you but I am broke

sorry i let this reply marinate in the docs for months (along with a lot of other replies like im having a catalogue of Fromsoft replies that read like thesis at this point *crying* my job is not letting me sit down and edit them) but here it is.

firstly, thank you for your message, kind encouragement already means a lot to me, so don’t worry about not being able to support me or anything ! After all I’m not putting out any new books or fan merch haha.

Here is a whole rant about Ema but somehow my grievances with how they handle Malenia's story in comparison to Messmer also pops up.

Regarding your question about Ema, I love her because of how complete her story feels and how her personal motivation and personality are written as coherently as the male characters.

She’s a war orphan who did her best to survive, learned the sword from the best swordman but with the only purpose is to kill demons. Ema saw firsthand how violence and meaningless killing did to people, so her aim can be seen as trying to offer those lost souls a mercy death, so they don’t have to suffer as a mindless demon for eternity (as in shura ending).

Yet, she's actually more interested in being a doctor & saving life and it’s not something expected of her because she’s a woman or whatnot, she chose that.

(+ she's skilled enough with the blade that it shows in her mannerism to the point Wolf, who had never seen her hold a sword, knows that she's good with one).

she was ready to kill Scuptor - someone akin to a parental figure to her, should he succumb to grief and hatred. because she loved him. not to mention she saw Tomoe - someone in a way is also her mentor, tried to take her own life, while her childhood friend Gennichiro slowly went apeshit. like that girl witnessed so many insane stuffs & they spur her to be strong & steadfast in her ideal to protect her loved ones, even when it means to lay them to rest by her own hands.

her dialogue in Shura ending "maybe i should have killed you long ago" feels like being punched in the guts to me, because she knew Wolf turning out that way meant that somewhere along the way, all of them had failed him, had ignored the signs that all the killings he was tasked to carry out was taking a toll on him. And so she took upon herself the responsibility to offer him a mercy death, even as it broke her heart.

It’s the passionate drive and decisions made as her own person, not out of blind devotion to another character, and how much we know of that because the game let us find more about her, that makes her stands out from the epic sword lady category, while the violence and steely resolve she was capable of makes her stands out from the helpless maiden one.

-kinda lose the plot here with Elden Ring rant jumping out-

This is one of the main points I have about the difference between Messmer and Malenia, how even though their stories parallel each other, I think Messmer has the better writing and gets a more complete story. He’s super devote to Marika, but in his own way, not what Marika wants of him. Evidently with how he still fights the Tarnished because he deems us unworthy, despite knowing Marika sanctioned us for Lordship.

We see a lot of sides to him outside of just a filial son, his rage and sorrow and love and a moment of stubborn selfishness that results in him willingly become a curse that clings to Marika than to let go. We see his relationship with other characters and even though his love for Marika outweighs all else, it doesn’t negate completely others that exist outside of it.

And precisely because of that, it’s more heartbreaking to see despite all these connections he has with other people, he yearns to be reunited with his Mother above all else. That kind of devotion is more hard hitting to me than the writing for the Empyrean twins.

Like, Malenia…. outside of Finnlay (whose description says more about herself than shedding any new light on Malenia) and the mentor that we actually don’t even know much about yet, what are other personal connection she has outside of Miq? I could argue the Marika’s Soreseal in the Haligtree was meant for her and that she still loved her Mother in some kind of way all I want, but at the end of the day that’s a headcahon I have to theorize from item placement, and not many ppl will notice that. We don’t know for sure what Malenia thinks of anyone else but her twin and it drives me up the wall.

Another comparison I want to bring up is DS2 Lucatiel.

I fr think even Lucatiel gets a better story arc than Malenia, despite also largely being shaped by her relationship with her brother.

Loss frightens me no end. Loss of memory, loss of self. If I were told that by killing you, I would be freed of this curse… Then I would draw my sword without hesitation. I don't want to die, I want to exist. I would sacrifice anything, anything at all for this. It shames me, but it is the truth. Sometimes, I feel obsessed… with this insignificant thing called "self". But even so, I am compelled to preserve it. Am I wrong to feel so? Surely you'd do the same, in my shoes?

She is trying to find her brother, but at the same time wrestling with her own troubles and limitations. We get to know a lot of her own motivation and her fear. I mean one could argue that it's because she's an NPC while Malenia is a boss, but the same thing could also be said for Messmer like I explained above.

-back to Ema-

As the extra sauce, I love that Ema boss music has such layers to it. the theme of her - someone clinging to her humanity to the very end because she has ppl love & support her, also acts as an elegy for Wolf's lost of humanity, of him not being able to escape the abuse trauma he grew up in. its opening instrument also appears in Demon of Hatred's OST. Her presence and theme affects other characters’ life, and we get to see her marks on a personal level in the story’s overarching narrative.

Which is the same as how Marika’s presence is everywhere in the Elden Ring OST, that little soft piano. A little in Radagon’s theme, in Shaman’s Village, in the final DLC boss ost where the female vocals starts belting out “Hail, Marika the Eternal”, in a boss arena where she had walked through to scavenge the remains of her fallen family and ascended to an existence she knew would kill her all the same, but she would do it again every single time. Walking down that hell with her eyes wide open.

When a character that could get me to write paragraphs about like that… man you know how much the writing cooks.

[tgmsunmontue]

Season to Taste - 32/42? WIP

Explicit Hangster - Celebrity Chef Bradley and Naval Aviator Jake Seresin who have a relationship spanning the globe before they realize how tightly bound they are to one another. Heading into this little world.

PROLOGUE/ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN (interlude) ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FORTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY (interlude) TWENTYONE TWENTYTWO TWENTYTHREE TWENTYFOUR TWENTYFIVE TWENTYSIX TWENTYSEVEN TWENTYEIGHT TWENTYNINE THIRTY THIRTYONE

(And we have an estimated final chapter count!)

CHAPTER THIRTYTWO

                “Hey baby… how was work today?”

                “Busy busy, usual stuff. Lots of prep. Lots of high pressure so there was a bit of yelling,” Bradley admits, because Jake never believes him when he says he sometimes yells at people.

                “You were yelling at people? I can’t believe that…”

                Bradley laughs, because Jake hasn’t ever seen his infamous temper. Not that he really feels he has one anymore, capable of putting it when the cameras are rolling, but otherwise he’s pretty even keeled.

                “God I miss you.”

                “I’ll be back before you know it.”

…            …            …

                “Seresin’s Sauce. This why you always insist on having sauce with every meal you egotistical dick bag?”

                He ignores the insult. Gravel is, and always has been, incapable of handling Jake being better than him. The fact that there are so many aviators better than Gravel doesn’t seem to ping his radar, but Gravel is not Jake’s favorite person. However he is holding something that Jake’s recognizes.

                “Where did you get that?” Jake asks, reaching for the bottle. It’s plastic, not like the glass ones he gets with little love notes written on them from Leo. But the logo on the front is the same, and he knows Maria and the others have been doing something, and it’s involved making this sauce and blah blah blah. He really doesn’t care about the business side of the farm, just knows that they were making sauce now, and it had their name. He unscrews the lid.

                “Hey! Hands off! What the fuck do you think you’re doing! Don’t stick your finger in the bottle? Oh for fucks sake…”

                “Where did you get it?” Jake repeats, and he licks the sauce off his finger. It’s just the plain one, not one of the variations that Leo had made him try.

                “I bought it at the grocery store, like a normal human being you asshole.”

                “Huh. Like… This is my sauce though.”

                “Just because it’s got your name on it doesn’t make it yours.”

                Jake wants to argue, say that the tomatoes in it are grown on his family’s farm, that his boyfriend made the sauce but if it’s gotten to be a big enough operation that they’re somehow stocking grocery chains enough that his dickhead colleagues can just buy it then maybe they’re getting the tomatoes from somewhere else because this tastes different.

                Jesus.

                He can tell the difference.

                Leo will be so proud.

…            …            …

                Bradley reaches for his phone, sliding his thumb across to answer it when he sees Ice’s name pop up. They’re about due for a catchup.

                “Hey Ice.”

                “It’s not Ice. He’s sick again. Please don’t hang up.”

                He doesn’t hang up but he does suddenly sit down, his free hand scrambling for the nearest chair. Vi is looking at him with concern so he figures he’s probably gone pale. Again? What the fuck does Mav mean again?

                “I’m listening,” he croaks out.

                “The cancer is back…”

                Bradley closes his eyes, feels the world tilt and can’t believe that this is the first he’s hearing about it. Fucking Ice and Mav both. There’s Maverick living dangerously and dodging the grim reaper at every turn. And now here is Ice, who quit smoking years ago and yet somehow still inviting death in. He shakes his head, refuses to borrow trouble before he even knows the whole story. It might be different than it was with his mom.

                “How bad?”

                “He’s undergoing some scans right now. I needed to tell you, because… shit. I need to tell you something else as well.”

                “Okay?”

                “Your mom asked me to make sure you never flew.”

                It hits out of the blue.

                The air in his lungs punches out of him and he doesn’t know what to say at that declaration following on from finding out Ice has had cancer and didn’t tell him. He knew there was something that Ice knew, that he’d never felt like he could share with Bradley, and he has no idea what he’d been expecting but this had not been it. What is up with the two men and keeping everything locked down and secret? As the thought skitters through his brain he realizes that’s their entire lives, living under DADT, both of them career Navy. So is Jake of course, but he has five older sisters who have helped mold him into the man he is.

                Well shit.

                “Why now? Why are you telling me now? Why didn’t you tell me back then?”

                “I didn’t want you to resent her!”

                “It wouldn’t have mattered if I had resented a dead woman Mav, it was far worse to be betrayed by someone alive. Who I thought loved me.”

                “I do love you.”

                Bradley’s hands are shaking and he runs his knuckles over his forehead, not sure what he can say or do right now. He wants to go home, so have Silvia fuss over him, to have Leandro make him pasta and push a glass of wine toward him and ask him what he thinks. They’d both be urging him to calm down and he realizes with startingly clarity that if Maverick hadn’t done what he’d done, he’d have never met Silvia and Leandro.

                Oh shit.

                Would he have ever met Jake?

                Thousands of different lives flash through and he forces himself to refocus.

                “I was eighteen Mav…”

                “I know. I’m sorry. I just… I panicked and did the only thing I could think of. Ice was… well. He went after you. Made sure you were okay. Asked the Gallo’s to keep an eye on you. Refused me when I said I wanted you to come back to the States.”

                He had no idea that any of that was going on back then, not about Mav wanting things and Ice denying him, nice to know that that’s even possible. He can only imagine what Ice said, and he desperately wants to talk to him; figures he must be somewhere that he can’t take his phone, given that Mav is calling him using it. And it’s taken Ice getting sick for Mav to finally tell him.

                “You could have told me this years ago. Why didn’t you?”

                The silence at the other end is telling and he takes in several deep calming breaths, waves away Vi’s concerning look when she realized just who he was talking to.

                “I… I didn’t want to admit I was wrong.”

                And there it is. He feels like crying, so lets a few silent tears just slip down his face, which makes Vi flail angrily before she settles at his side awkwardly and wraps her arms around him and there’s another person he wouldn’t have in his life if it had been different.

                “So. I was wrong and I’ve felt that guilt for years and I’m very sorry but… Jesus Bradley. I’m so proud of you. What you’ve accomplished all on your own.”

                “I wasn’t… I wasn’t alone. I didn’t do it on my own,” Bradley says, looking to Vi but also biting back the fact that if he was alone it was because of Mav. He’s still a little angry and bitter, but he also wouldn’t change anything. He’s more than happy with his life.

                “I… I know,” Mav says, voice breaking and he’s pretty sure Mav is also crying. “I’m sorry.”

                He wonders if Ice already knew he was sick again the last time they spoke, when he said with certainty that Maverick would call him. He’s going to have words with him.

                “So. What does Ice need?”

                Then Mav is off, listing a whole range of things and Bradley realizes that Ice doesn’t talk very much anymore, his phone calls with Bradley one of the few times he solely talks. Fucking martyr. He’s definitely going to be having words with him.

                “I never blocked your number Mav. You can call me if you want. I won’t always be able to pick up, but I’ll try to.”

                “I… thank you.”

                “Hmm,” Bradley hums back, because it’s going to take a bit to completely let go of the anger. But he realizes he’s holding onto it out of habit now, rather than actually feeling angry. He doesn’t know if he’s ever going to utter I forgive you when he still really doesn’t understand why Mav did what he did. He guesses he was trying to do what his parents wanted but… well. He sort of has different parents now and they might have entered his life once he was officially an adult, but he feels like he got third time lucky.

THIRTY THREE

[its-all-papaya]

The “not champion mentality” is honestly one of the worst to me.

Bc if we break this down, this is people saying that if you struggle with self confidence, self doubt, mental health or anxiety then you’re not capable of achieving success.

It’s such a dangerous and toxic message that people don’t realize is hurting a lot more people than just Lando. (Bc lets be so fr these aren’t opinions, these are comments meant to hurt and hate)

And as a Rosberg fan back in the day, I KNOW how bad that man’s mental health was when he won his WDC. He pushed through that self doubt, anxiety, mental health issues and he still won. He’s living proof that there is no perfect/specific “champion mentality.”

I absolutely understand your struggle with the F1 community/people online rn. I’ve felt the same way today. (And many other days). I’ve been a fan since I was a kid, it’s been rough watching fans become nothing more than a herd mentality of hate and toxicity. It’s exhausting honestly and I’ve been so close to stopping watching the sport entirely bc it felt so miserable at times.

But I’m grateful for people like you bc you make it a positive place to be. You don’t contribute to hate, you don’t trash teams or drivers you don’t like, instead you support your team, write fics and create a positive environment for so many people. You have no idea how much of an impact that can make. It’s rough out there but I’m glad we got good ones like you.

(You absolutely can ignore this, Ik you were hoping to move on/forget about this negative online stuff, your post just had me thinking and ranting so I thought I’d give my own input lol)

(I really am incapable of sending a normal sized message aren’t I?) -og

yeah, no, i mean the reason i crash out about lando is because i identify with him so much in moments of failure/non-perfection. like the WHOLE original inspo for anybody, nowhere were his comments after silverstone, as i've said before, but more specifically the horrible mental place that i'm familiar with where you're trying SO HARD to figure out where to assign blame, and it feels like a knife's edge between "all me" or "all others." and no matter what lando says, it's the wrong amount of one or the other for people. if he says the car's difficult it's "if i was in woking i'd hate him" and if he says it's himself making mistakes it's "not a champion mentality." and in moments of high stress and intense emotions, like straight after a botched qualifying, it's nearly impossible to remove yourself from a situation enough to make sound determinations about what went wrong where and who's to "blame" for it (which. whatever on that word but.) and so i am IN HIS WALLS in those moments where it feels easiest, optically, to blame yourself entirely. because then the worst thing people can say about you is "he's too hard on himself" and not "he won't accept his own faults" or "he's making excuses," which both feel morally worse.

the other irritating thing to me about it all is that self-confidence is not usually something you can just pull out of fucking nowhere, especially if you're already struggling with it. like if you're told to be more confident and then picked apart and smeared at every turn, how the fuck are you going to do that? like sure, therapy, your loved ones, etc, but it's the people saying you're not confident originally who you're trying to "prove" yourself to, and they're the ones making it impossible. as you say, it's the narrative that if you don't handle negative emotion in the "right" way, it's a moral or competitive failing. you're lesser, you're a burden, you're "stealing" resources or a seat or a "rocket ship" from someone who "deserves it more" just because they're a more outwardly confident person. and by the way, if you let any of that shit that people are implying or outright saying get to you - if you even acknowledge it - that's your fault, too. basically, it's really hard to perform under the pressure of everybody hoping you'll fail, and it's even harder never to reveal outwardly how that's affecting you as a person.

i think i suffer a lot from projecting on lando and then internalizing things people say about him because of that, but i also don't think i'm alone in that, as you say. "mental health" is such a buzzword to everybody that it literally means nothing to most people in practice.

at the end of the day, i know lando's got a really, really good and solid support system and i know he'll be fine and it's early in the season. but it's so hard to watch people i know and i'm friends with make jokes about this to me because it's like what are you saying about me to other people, then? because nothing lando's said today or ever after a disappointing result is remarkably different than things i've said about my own job and my own self over the last ten months. just demoralizing.

anyway, i appreciate you saying that last bit, because a lot of the time i don't FEEL like i'm being very positive here. and to be clear, when i'm frustrated about f1 fans, it's very, very rarely a tumblr issue. as much as rpf is funny and fake and a game for us, i do think it does work to humanize drivers in a lot of ways. i like interacting with fans of all drivers, i just can't stand how every one of lando's mistakes feels quadrupled to me because i know there are people (on twitter mainly, as well as my irl friends) who are going to make it into more than it is to feed their narratives.

sometimes a man is suffering with a car just because he is. if it ended with that, i'd be handling this way better.

[honey-milk-depresso]

Hello! I don't know if you take writing requests for aeppermint but how would he react to Yuu or his s/o being independent? Like they can look after themselves, grim, and ramshackle all on their own?

Actually I’ve been having quite a number of OC asks, but they’re mostly in my art blog and I’m just waiting, WAITING for myself to get find a solution to plug my Kamva into my new laptop somehow and you know what? I’m gonna do that now- :”))

But anywho, YES!! I miss my twinkish peppermint-looking man who’s a 164cm! Been a while since I drew him :”))

also my fav one about him by a friend 🩷

Aeppermint with an independent s/o

At first, very pleased that you can handle things on your own. He was thinking Crowley had forcefully signed him up for babysitting two people at once, but it seems that you’ve got this sorted out on your own!

But then it started to seep in… he’s still a butler. He still gotta serve you in some way even if you’re very capable and independent. So now he’s trying to figure out how.

Aepper mostly does the smaller things to still respect your independence: using his umbrella to shield you and Grim from the hot sun or cold rain, making sure the things go your way in Ramshackle, making sure Ace and Deuce don’t give you a headache, stuff like that.

Sometimes he needs to remind you he’s here for you if you ever need help, but he’s experienced to know when you really need help or when you’re really struggling. It’s when you really ask for help. Otherwise, he wouldn’t intervene.

He’ll just be by your side as a silent reminder that he’s always there for you if you need him. But he’s experienced admires your strength and resilience to handle things on your own.

Just don’t beat yourself to it, alright? <3

Reblogs help! ^^

[lukyan-james-barnes]

"And who am I, father?"

People usually hear the last name “Barnes” and think they know everything they need to. They see the history behind it—the legends, the shadows, the expectations—and for some reason, they expect me to live up to them. The thing is, I don’t try to be someone I’m not, but it’s hard not to feel the weight of it sometimes. Growing up around parents like mine, you learn fast that your actions carry more than just your own consequences. I guess it’s not always a bad thing, though. It keeps you focused. It keeps you moving forward.

I’m not a big talker. Not because I can’t hold a conversation, but because most of the time, there’s just no need. I watch, I listen, I think. Then I act. I’ve learned that less is usually more. You don’t need to speak every thought that comes to your mind. And when you do speak, it better count. My parents always said there’s power in silence—it forces you to listen harder. It’s a habit that’s stuck.

I guess I’m not a typical 21-year-old. Most people my age are still figuring things out, still testing boundaries, still trying to figure out who they are. I’ve always known exactly what I am: a reflection of everything that’s come before me, but also something different. Something that’s still finding its own way. It’s why I spend so much time training, not just physically but mentally, too. I’ve spent years working on my mind, sharpening my instincts, building my endurance. I’ve been pushed to my limits in every way, from combat to survival to just holding it together when everything around me seems to fall apart. I’ve learned how to push back against my own limits. And I’ve learned that knowing when to step back is just as important as knowing when to move forward.

I guess, in a way, I’ve become this blend of things—my dad’s resilience and my mom’s calm, focused precision. The way they both move through the world, seeing everything and nothing at the same time. It’s not something that’s always easy to handle. People tend to have their own ideas about who I should be, based on who they think I come from. But I’ve always done my best to stay grounded in what matters: doing the work, learning the lessons, and finding the space between all the noise.

I can be quiet, but I’m never unaware. Some people think I’m distant or cold. I don’t mind that. It’s just who I am. I don’t waste energy on things that don’t matter. I’d rather observe, take my time, and understand the situation before I make my move. When I do speak, it’s not just to fill the space—it’s because I have something worth saying.

Most people don’t realize how much of a fight is mental. It’s not always about strength—it’s about knowing yourself and staying calm when things get chaotic. That’s how I approach everything. Life, combat, decisions—it’s all about maintaining control, even when everything’s in motion.

I don’t talk about the other stuff much—the part of me that’s a little... different. The side of me that carries a few extra genes that make me more than just human. It’s there, sure, and it makes certain things easier, but I’ve never let it define me. In some ways, it makes things harder. People expect more from you when they know what you’re capable of, and it’s a lot to live up to. I guess it’s just another layer of the balancing act I’ve been figuring out my whole life.

So, yeah. That’s me. I’m not perfect. I’m not trying to be. But I’ve learned to trust myself—to trust my instincts, my training, and the lessons I’ve been taught. Maybe that makes me seem distant, maybe it makes me seem like I’ve got everything together. But the truth is, I’m just doing the best I can with the cards I’ve been dealt, while still trying to figure out what happens next. I’ve got a long way to go, but I’m not backing down anytime soon.

-- L.J. Barnes.

[sapphiresaphics]

The unspoken rule of children’s media that we’ve had for the past 50+ years or so is that children’s media have to have morals.

In the 70’s and 80’s this was taken to the extreem and morals were literally tacked on to the end of episodes. “G.I.Joe Says” and the like. In the 90’s entire shows were turned into morality and education teaching tools for kids. Over time that has definitely changed and gotten less invasive. But while most shows today are pretty good at hiding the morals they teach, there’s still this unspoken rule we’ve all agreed to and understand that these animated shows for kids still have some sort of lesson or moral to be taught in them.

Avatar The Last Airbender is a good example. Aang accidentally burns Katara when he’s learning Firebending? The lesson is not to rush learning and to do things in the right order. Sokka gets a space sword? The episode is about him learning to appreciate what his uniqueness brings to the team and teaching kids to think outside the box. The lessons are still there, just burried in the episode a bit more subtlety.

But adult animated shows are a different breed. The unspoken rule there is that you’ve grown up and are capable of understanding the morals already and therefore the moral lessons don’t need to be shoved down your throat every episode. You are supposed to be capable of using critical thinking skills to figure stuff out on your own and the creators TRUST that you’re capable of doing so.

Maybe that’s a failing on the creators side? Because for the past 20 years education has been gutted and stripped. Internet culture and YouTube have shoved content at kids at an alarming rate and no one is teaching kids these days how to analyze or understand how media works.

When I was a kid we read stories together as a class and analyzed what the work was saying. These days kids can’t even handle writing an essay on their own without ChatGTP giving them a boost.

So is it any surprise that kids today when they grow up take with them that unspoken rule that animated shows HAVE to teach them a moral lesson? And is it any surprise that when the show doesn’t hold their hands they get angry and defensive and blame the writers for their inability to grasp what’s happening? And is it any wonder that these same people will see an unpleasant outcome as the creators being “centrist” instead of trying to send a message?

I really am fascinated by the people who hate Arcane because they think it’s a “pro-cop” show just because Caitlyn is a cop and gets together with Vi in the end. I seriously want to challenge every one of you who thinks Arcane is somehow “copaganda” to watch Blue Eye Samurai and come back to me and tell me what you thought of it, because I have a feeling you’re not going to be able to grasp the complexities of the story.

Taigen defends the Shogun, so is he pro-cop? But the Shogun let Fowler and his guns into Japan, does that make the show anti-cop? Fowler is a terrible person so he’s clearly the bad guy, but he’s also only able to do what he does because the Shogun allowed him in, so who’s at fault?

I’m so sick and tired of the lack of media comprehension on the internet and in my time here it’s only gotten worse. It used to be that tumblr was the place you went to find analysis of your favorite shows and see things from a different perspective. Now it seems like this has become yet another echo chamber where instead of listening to different opinions you just block and ignore anyone who says differently or challenges you on your reading.

Frankly I do not see how this is going to change. All we can do is encourage people to TRY to look at media from a less restrictive viewpoint and pray for the best.

[moonlight0934]

Explosion

This was a Valenfield fic I wrote with Pinterest prompts, which I'll list below before the fic!

Keep breathing, you’re doing great; No, don’t go to sleep. Hey! Eyes open! I can’t find a pulse; Come on, breathe! Please don’t leave me

Chris leans forward, flipping his turn signal so he can move into the next lane. Jill is snoring softly in the passenger’s seat, and the rest of Alpha S.T.A.R.S. team is asleep in the backseat. It’s a few more hours before they’re going to reach the site of their newest mission. The mission itself is supposed to be simple. There are riots going on in a small town over something the mayor did, and they’ve gotten violent. The police station only has a few employees, and they called in for backup when they started getting bomb threats. So, S.T.A.R.S. were called to come rendezvous with the police so they can help. Even hours of driving later the roads are still quiet, and they’re the only car on the road.

It’s odd since normally Wesker is driving his car in front of Chris no matter where they’re going, but he had to stay back this time. Not that he’d tell them why, but Chris has learned not to question him too much. He’s a busy guy, and they’re perfectly capable of handling small town riots.

Though I do wonder why we were called in for this. It seems a bit below our paygrade. Not that I’m complaining, it’s just odd, Chris thinks as he sees the town limits sign come into view. It’s also so quiet. I know this place is pretty out of the way, but there hasn’t been a single person since I got off the highway.

Jill stirs, stretching. She barely misses Chris’ face, and he smiles, his mind taken off of his questions instantly.

“Hey, we’re almost there. You should start waking up,” Chris says, gently touching Jill’s arm.

“Mh, ok.”

She straightens up in her seat, rubbing her eyes. Chris glances at Jill one more time before turning all of his attention back to the road. Chris notices a shadowy figure on the porch of the first house they past, but whoever it is quickly scurries into the darkest corner of the porch where he can’t see them anymore.

“Did you see that?” Chris asks.

“No, I don’t see anything. Though it’s really dark now, so that’s probably why. What was it?”

“Not sure. More likely than not, I’m on edge cause of how quiet it’s been. Don’t worry about it.”

Neither of them speak again until Chris pulls into the parking lot of the motel they’re going to be staying at until it’s time to go home.

“Can you start waking the guys up? I’ll get the rooms, and then they can get unpacked while I head to the police station for the briefing.”

“Yeah, I can do that, and I’ll go with you to the precinct after.”

Chris nods, climbing out of the car. He checks in, and gets keys. Everyone is out of the car, and grabbing their gear when he gets back out. He hands all of the keys to Joseph, and turns back to Jill.

“You ready to go?”

She nods.

“Ok, then we’ll let these guys get their stuff out of the car, then get this show on the road.”

It’s only a few more minutes before they’re back on the road, Chris still in the driver’s seat.

“You must be tired,” Jill comments.

“I mean, of course I am. We had a mission that lasted thirty-six hours, and then I had to drive everyone here. It’s been a long two days.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure the guys leave you alone when we get back. We’ll have an early morning since we’ll have to make our plan of attack, but it’s early enough to get some rest.”

Chris laughs. “Yeah, I appreciate it.”

Jill bumps his shoulder. “What are partners for?”

Chris smiles gently. The precinct has cars outside, and the lights are on, but there’s no one outside. Chris feels his chest get tight. Something feels off, wrong.

“Be on guard. I have no idea why there’s no one out right now, but it’s weird,” Chris says, opening his car door.

Jill nods, her hand going for her gun, though she doesn’t pull it out. She rests her hand on her holster. Chris walks up to the doors, and pulls them open. They’re unlocked, so they head inside. A man in a blue officer’s uniform is sitting behind the desk, but he’s the only person in sight.

“Hello, I’m Chris Redfield, and this is my partner, Jill Valentine. We’re from S.T.A.R.S., and we were sent to help with the political unrest. We’re supposed to be talking to the police chief.”

“Ah, yes. He’s briefing everyone in the conference room, but I’ll take you to his office. You can wait there for him to be ready.”

Chris looks back at Jill, then turns to the officer. He raises an eyebrow at Jill.

“Would you be willing to drop my partner off at the office, and then run through some numbers with me? I would love to have some additional information that we don’t have to bother the chief with,” Jill says, catching on to Chris’ unease.

At least if something happens, she’ll be able to contact the others. Though I shouldn’t be worried about it, they’re cops too, and we were sent here by Wesker. I’m only being paranoid.

“It would be ok for you to go with your partner, Miss Valentine.”

“I think I’ll stay here, and you and I can talk. I don’t mind waiting if someone comes in needing to talk to you.”

The officer smiles, though it looks more like a grimace. “Alright, come with me, Mr. Redfield.”

Chris narrows his eyes, but follows the man through the station to the chief’s office. He opens the door, which is already unlocked, and motions for Chris to sit down on the opposite side of the large, wooden desk.

“How long do you think the briefing is going to take?”

“Yours?” the officer asks, looking confused.

Chris narrows his eyes. “No, the one that the chief is in right now .”

“Oh, shouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes. Sit tight.”

He steps out, and Chris immediately stands up. He’s too jittery to stay seated, though there’s no logical reason for him to be. He waits ten minutes, pacing around the office before walking over to the window. It’s nailed shut, and Chris cocks his head to the side in surprise upon noticing the nails.

“What the hell?” he whispers, reaching out to touch the pane.

It’s not cold, something that also sets off alarm bells in Chris’ head.

“Glass shouldn’t be thick enough to keep the cold out entirely. What is going on?” he mumbles, walking towards the door.

He tries the knob, but it doesn’t turn. Everything in him is screaming that he’s trapped, and they were set up. He races back to the window to see if he can get the nails out. It would be a tall jump, but not an impossible one for him to make without hurting himself. He’s about half-way there when he hears something ticking.

The officer takes a long time coming back. When he does, Jill tries to ask him a few questions about town, and where the riots were, but he interrupts her with his own questions.

“Wasn’t all of S.T.A.R.S. supposed to come to get briefed?”

“Yeah, but we were all pretty tired. We came here straight from another mission, so we’re just going to brief them ourselves.”

“So where are you guys staying?”

“I don’t think that really matters. What does is where the riots are happening. Where do we need to start, and do you have any idea who could be orchestrating them?”

The officer, whom Jill just realized she never caught his name, glances at his watch.

“I have something I have to check on outside, but then I can answer all of your questions.”

He rushes out before Jill can even respond, leaving her completely confused. “What is going on here? This is weird, and it’s getting really ridiculous.”

Jill folds her arms, one hand still loose enough to reach her gun. She waits another minute, then follows the man outside. She doesn’t see him, and the Jeep that was parked outside when they arrived is gone. That leaves squad cars, and Chris’ truck as the only cars in the lot.

Where did he go?

She peeks across the lot, trying to see if he’s smoking a cigarette in the corner or something, but there’s no one there. The whole area is dead quiet, just like the entire town has been. The only person she’s seen thus far is the officer, though Chris saw someone while he was driving, and he had to have spoken with someone to get their room keys. Jill turns to head back inside, and wait for someone else to show up, or for the officer to come back when the whole building blows. All of the windows blow out, and it’s enough to throw her off her feet even from a few feet away. She’s barely able to bring her hands back in enough time to stop her head from hitting the concrete though her hands are stinging from scraping the concrete. It takes Jill another few seconds to sit up, and register what just happened.

“Chris!” she screams, stumbling to her feet as fast as she can. Her lungs won’t fill with air as she stares at the burning wreckage for a second.

This was intentional. They meant for all of us to be here. That’s why he was asking, but why?

She races around the building to see if Chris might have gone out of the backdoor. The area is lit up from the flames, though she can’t hear any sirens, and she has no idea if anyone is coming. It’s the police department after all, and this was a targeted attack. That much she’s sure of now. Then she sees the curled body slumped a few yards away from the burning wreckage. She recognizes Chris’ build instantly, and reaches him in a few seconds.

She flips him onto his back, entirely forgetting about spinal injuries, and proper first aid protocols. Her heart stutters in her chest. Burns cover his right arm, extending towards his hip too. There’s blood on his lips, and splattered on his clothes and the ground. There’s a shard of something lodged in his chest, and more small pieces in his left arm.

He must have been thrown through the window.

His head is also bleeding, and his eyes are half open. Her hands are shaking more than she’d like to admit when she reaches for the pulse point on his throat. His eyes blink, and suddenly he’s trying to focus on her face. His breath comes out as a wet rasp. Jill rips her jacket off, trying to staunch the bleeding from the gash across his head. The shard is doing a good enough job stopping the external bleeding with that injury, so she doesn’t bother with that right now since she can’t do anything about the internal bleeding. She turns him on his side, eyes scanning his face. He continues to rasp, though it’s weaker and quieter now.

I have to get him help right now. Sounding like that, his lungs aren’t going to make it much longer.

Jill looks around, spotting another establishment in the distance.

I don’t have a phone, but they might.

She looks back at Chris, trembling at the sight of him. He’s getting paler by the second, but his eyes are still open.

“Ok, keep breathing, you’re doing great. I’ll be right back, ok? I’ll be right back. Just hang in there for me, tough guy.”

Then Jill is running, she’s running faster than she thought she could. She calls the hotel, and has them transfer her to the only room number she caught. Barry is the one to pick up, which is good since he’s the only one other than Chris that can understand her when she gets incoherent. Though it’s not normally from desperation and fear. She explains that the precinct blew up, and Chris is badly injured. She had no idea how to call the hospital, or if there’s even one in town that can handle his injuries.

“Ok, all you need to do is try to keep him stable, and I’ll handle everything else. Don’t worry, we’ll be there soon. Get back to him, ok?”

“Ok,” Jill stutters out before tossing the phone back to the shop owner.

She’s racing back to Chris, finding him exactly where she left him. The first thing to hit her is how quiet it is, and she looks down to see that his chest isn’t moving. He’s trying to pull his eyes back open, but it’s obvious that if he is still breathing, he’s barely pulling in any air. Jill places her head lightly on his chest, not even feeling a wisp of air. She drops Chris onto his back, and forces his chin up. Then their lips are on each other, and it’s nothing like what she imagined. He’s cold, blank, and she’s overwhelmed by the taste of copper.

Three sets of rescue breaths later, and his eyes are beginning to close again. Jill, slightly out of breath herself, slaps his face lightly.

“Don’t go to sleep. Hey! Eyes open, Redfield!” she exclaims, slapping his face a little harder now.

Despite her efforts, his eyes finally shut. She reaches for his neck again, almost collapsing when her fingers make contact.

“I can’t feel a pulse,” she whispers, blinking harshly.

It takes a few more seconds for that to sink in, and her hands on already on his chest by the time it does. It feels wrong, angling her hands to avoid any more damage to his chest injury, but doing nothing means he’s not coming back. Jill can’t live with that, so she pushes down, trying to keep herself steady as blood makes her hands slick.

“Please don’t leave me, Chris,” she whispers before giving him two more rescue breaths.

A rib cracks, and Jill gasps back a sob.

“Come on, breathe.”

Another round of compressions, two rescue breaths, and another round of compressions later, and Jills arms are starting to burn.

“Damn you! Breathe! You don’t get to leave me,” she cries.

There’s no response from the still body beneath her hands, and she can feel tears start slipping down her cheeks. She doesn’t stop though, because that would mean giving up. She could never give up on her partner, the only person who had never given up on her either. Chris wasn’t the person she connected to the fastest, but something drew her to his quiet demeanor, and goofy personality. Maybe it was the way he would give her a small smile, and say good morning to everyone in the office before going to his desk to work on paperwork. Or the way he would wrap her hands before training to make sure she didn’t get hurt since he knew she wasn’t good at it herself. Or the way he started to bring coffees in for her, and have them waiting on her desk when she arrived on Mondays, because she was always too late getting up to get one herself.

In all honestly, it was probably the fact that she could list a dozen other things he does for her because he knows her, and she never had to ask him to do a single one of them. Life without Chris is playing as a harsh reality in Jill’s head as her hands are the only thing keeping his heart beating, and it feels unbearably empty. Not having anyone to do paperwork with when it got to be a lot of work, and not having someone to call on Saturday nights to make sure he didn’t get too drunk to get home. Jill thinks of his little sister that he promised she could meet some day, and she never considered that day could be his funeral. She can almost imagine Wesker’s monotone voice from his office as he makes the call to tell her while Jill tries not to break down looking at Chris’ jacket on the wall. Sirens break her out of her thoughts, and it immediately hits her how badly her arms are burning. Then Jill’s being swarmed by paramedics, and they’re talking, but everything is blurring together.

Arms wrap around her waist, pulling her further back, away from Chris. Blood drips from the tips of her fingers, and then she’s collapsing, tears streaming down her face. Barry carefully lowers her to the ground, kneeling next to her. Joseph is off to the side, on the phone, and Brad is watching Chris with wide eyes, fear and horror etched into his features. Jill tries to look back at him, to see what’s happening, but Barry turns her head into his chest.

“Don’t look,” he whispers, and Jill only cries harder.

Everything is crashing down, and all she wants to know is if he’s going to make it.

“He couldn’t,” she gasps. “He couldn’t breathe. They have to help him, he couldn’t-”

Her vision spins before the world goes black. Jill wakes up to find herself in a white bed. It takes a few seconds for the memories of everything to crash down on her, but she’s sitting up as soon as it does. Barry is sitting in a chair beside her bed, looking worn out.

“Barry.”

“Hey, don’t get up yet. They want to keep you under observation for a while.”

“Chris?”

“He’s in surgery right now. He made it here, but I haven’t heard anything since then.”

“How long have I been out?”

“All night. We talked to Wesker, and he’s sending Beta team down here to deal with the cops. Turns out, the riots were actually because of corruption throughout the system, and the person who called us down actually wanted help with the cops. He planned to meet us at our hotel so he could explain everything to us, but they got to him first. It ‘wasn’t safe’ to tell us over the phone.”

Jill blinks.

“But since they got to him, they planned to blow the precinct with us in it, and blame the protesters. That’s why he was questioning where everyone else was.”

“I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

“Take a breath. Freaking out won’t help anyone right now.”

Jill rolls her eyes, but forces herself to take a deep breath.

“I guess we just wait then?”

Barry nods, grimacing.

Chris blinks, annoyed by his alarm going off.

Why does my chest feel so heavy? Damn everything hurts so much.

His whole body feels like it’s weighted, and his chest only hurts more the closer to awareness he gets. Something is cutting into his face, so he clumsily reaches up to push it away.

“Hey, leave it,” a soft voice says, catching his hand half-way to his face.

Chris turns slightly, wondering if he could convince Jill to turn off his stupid alarm. It isn’t until he catches sight of the monitor with spiky lines that he realizes the beeping isn’t his alarm clock.

Right, we’re on mission. Wasn’t I just driving? No, the police station, but what happened?

“Hmn,” is the only thing he manages to get out.

Jill is rubbing her thumb across his knuckles, her face set into a tight smile. They stay like that for a few minutes before Chris is finally able to attempt talking again.

“Jill?”

She looks back at his face, her smile turning genuine. “You’re actually awake? Chris, I was so scared,” Jill says, leaning forward to carefully wrap her arms around Chris’ shoulders.

Chris grunts. “What happened?”

“The precinct blew up. It’s a long story, but you got hurt pretty badly.”

Jill’s eyes get a little glassy, and she reaches up to gently touch her lower lip. Chris frowns.

“Are you alright?” he rasps, his voice still scratchy.

She laughs. “Yeah, I’m fine, and you’re going to be too. No work for a while, and some physical therapy, but you’ll live.”

Chris smirks. “Like I’d kick the bucket over an explosion.”

Jill rolls her eyes. “Yeah, sure… I’m really glad you’re ok.”

Chris grabs her hand even as his eyes start to feel heavy again. He lets the darkness overtake his vision with Jill’s smiling face being the last thing he sees before falling back into sleep.

[xyzssss]

also i have another thing, imagine that gojo has a daughter and shes grouped w the first years and she runs away after a fight with her dad (just to get some air) and then there is a special grade curse there and she tries fighting it but she loses and then she runs and either calls ijichi and pretends like nothings wrong and asks if he could send nanami to her location or she knows that nanami lives close to where she is and she shows up at his doorstep all bloodied up from the fight, luckily she didn't lose any limbs because she doesn't know how to use reverse curse technique yet, but she's close with nanami and he's like her sensible uncle (she is exactly like gojo, just a big ball of adhd chaos) shes too stubborn to ask for her dad. idk if this is like a full fic thing, one-shot, headcannon stuff, but if you manage to understand my ramblings interpret it how you want or don't. no pressure at all to write this! don't worry i totally get the new to writing too! rn i'm trying to write a request for headcannons and its kicking my butt. love you <3 sorry if this is a lot

I’m sooooo sorry this took so long I had much going on and forgot about this request :(

Nanami x Fem!Gojo!daughter!reade

Warning: fight scenes, arguing (not really that bad) curses

The sun was setting over Jujutsu High, casting an orange glow across the training grounds where Gojo Satoru and his daughter, Y/n, stood facing each other. Gojo, with his signature blindfold and relaxed demeanor, looked far too calm for the situation. Y/n, on the other hand, was a bundle of energy, her H/c hair bouncing as she shifted from foot to foot, exuding an impatience that mirrored her father’s chaotic nature.

“Dad, you’re being ridiculous! I can handle myself!” Y/n exclaimed, her voice sharp and filled with frustration.

Gojo crossed his arms, his expression turning serious. “It’s not about whether you can handle yourself, Y/n. It’s about understanding the risks involved. Special grade curses are no joke.”

Y/n rolled her eyes, the familiar rush of defiance bubbling within her. “I’m not a little kid anymore! I can fight! Just like you!”

“You’re strong, but strength isn’t everything. You need experience, and running off to fight curses alone isn’t the way to gain it,” Gojo replied, his tone firm yet concerned.

“Maybe I just need some air!” Y/n shouted, suddenly turning away from him, frustration spilling over. Without waiting for a response, she sprinted away from the training yard, the sound of her footsteps echoing behind her.

As she ran through the forest bordering the school, Y/n felt a mix of anger and disappointment. Why couldn’t her dad see how capable she was? She needed to prove herself, to show him that she was strong enough to stand on her own two feet. But more than that, she just wanted some space to breathe, away from the weight of expectations.

The trees whizzed past her as she continued deeper into the woods, her heart racing. It wasn’t long before she stumbled upon a clearing, and her breath caught in her throat. In the center of that clearing stood a special grade curse—a grotesque, towering figure with twisted limbs and a mouth that seemed to stretch impossibly wide, dripping with malevolence.

Panic surged through her, but it was quickly replaced by the familiar thrill of adrenaline. “Okay, Y/n, you can do this,” she whispered to herself, her determination igniting. She hadn’t come this far to back down now.

Channeling her cursed energy, Y/n launched herself at the curse, her heart pounding in her chest. “Get ready to meet your match!” she shouted, a wild grin spreading across her face. She unleashed a flurry of attacks, each one fueled by her chaotic energy and a desire to prove herself.

But the curse was swift and brutal. It retaliated with a force that knocked the wind out of her. Y/n grunted as she stumbled back, but she refused to give up. “Come on! You think that’s all I’ve got?” she yelled, charging in again.

But the more she fought, the more she realized she was outmatched. The curse’s strikes were too powerful, too calculated. It was only a matter of time before Y/n found herself on the ground, panting and bloodied.

With a final desperate attempt, she turned to run, her heart racing as she fled the clearing. The curse let out a terrifying roar behind her, but she didn’t look back. She needed to get away, needed help.

Reaching for her phone, she dialed Ijichi’s number, trying to mask the fear in her voice. “Ijichi, it’s Y/n. Can you send Nanami to my location?” she said, feigning nonchalance.

“Y/n? Are you okay?” Ijichi’s voice was tinged with concern.

“Yeah, just…needed some air. It’s nothing serious. Just send him, please,” she insisted, her heart pounding as she hung up.

The minutes felt like hours as she waited, her body trembling from both fear and adrenaline. She was too stubborn to reach out to her dad; she didn’t want to admit defeat. She could handle this on her own.

Finally, she decided to head toward Nanami’s place, knowing it was close by. As she made her way through the streets, the reality of her injuries began to sink in. Blood dripped from her forehead, and her clothes were torn, but she pushed through, determined to reach him.

When she finally arrived at Nanami’s doorstep, she hesitated. She could feel the pain radiating through her body, but her pride kept her standing. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door, the sound echoing in the quiet evening air.

The door opened, and there stood Nanami, his expression shifting from surprise to alarm as he took in her state. “Y/n!” he exclaimed, stepping aside to let her in. “What happened?”

“Just a little…training accident,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady as she entered his home.

Nanami frowned, guiding her to the couch. “This looks more than just a training accident. Sit down; I’ll get the first aid kit.”

As he disappeared into the other room, Y/n took a moment to collect herself. She was safe now, but the shame of her actions weighed heavily on her. When Nanami returned, he knelt beside her, his expression serious.

“You need to stop pretending everything is fine when it’s not,” he said, gently cleaning her wounds. “You can’t fight every battle alone, Y/n.”

“I know,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “I just wanted to prove to my dad that I could handle it. I didn’t want to be seen as weak.”

Nanami paused, looking at her with a mix of empathy and concern. “Your father wants you to be strong, but that doesn’t mean you have to face everything by yourself. Strength comes from knowing when to ask for help.”

Y/n nodded, tears brimming in her eyes. “I just… I wanted him to see me as capable. I didn’t want to be just his daughter.”

“You are capable, Y/n. But you’re also human. It’s okay to lean on others,” Nanami replied softly, finishing up with her wounds. “And you’re not just Gojo Satoru’s daughter; you’re Y/n, and that’s enough.”

Feeling a mix of gratitude and frustration, Y/n looked at Nanami. “I’m sorry for bothering you. I didn’t want to come to my dad.”

“You don’t have to apologize for needing help,” he said, his tone firm yet kind. “Now, let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can figure out how to handle that curse together.”

After a brief moment of silence, Y/n chuckled softly, the tension easing. “You really are like my sensible uncle, you know that?”

Nanami raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I suppose that makes you the chaotic niece.”

“Guilty as charged,” she replied, a grin breaking through her earlier distress.

With Nanami’s help, Y/n cleaned herself up and bandaged her wounds. She felt a sense of relief wash over her as they talked, sharing stories and laughter. It was a welcome distraction from the chaos of her earlier confrontation.

As night fell, Y/n knew she needed to confront her father. The thought of facing Gojo filled her with anxiety, but she couldn’t avoid it forever. With Nanami’s support, she felt a little more ready.

“Thanks for everything, Nanami,” she said, standing up. “I think I need to go talk to my dad now.”

“Good luck. Just remember, it’s okay to be vulnerable with him,” Nanami advised, giving her a reassuring nod.

Taking a deep breath, Y/n left Nanami’s house and made her way back to Jujutsu High. The night air was cool against her skin, contrasting her earlier warmth. As she approached the school, she spotted Gojo standing outside, his figure illuminated by the soft glow of the lights.

“Dad,” she called out, her voice steady despite the knots in her stomach.

Gojo turned, his expression shifting from worry to relief. “Y/n! I was worried about you. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, her heart racing. “I just… I wanted to talk.”

As they stood there under the stars, Y/n felt the weight of everything she wanted to say. “I’m sorry for running away earlier. I just wanted to prove I could handle myself, but I realized that I don’t have to do everything alone.”

Gojo’s expression softened as he stepped closer, concern lacing his features. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, Y/n. I want you to be strong, but I also want you to be safe. It’s okay to ask for help.”

“I know that now,” she admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “I just didn’t want to be seen as weak. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“You could never disappoint me,” Gojo said, his voice warm and reassuring. “You’re my daughter, and I’ll always be proud of you, no matter what.”

Feeling a wave of emotion, Y/n stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him in a tight embrace. “I’m sorry for being stubborn.”

“I’m sorry for not seeing how much you wanted to prove yourself,” Gojo replied, hugging her back. “But we can grow together, okay? You’re not alone in this.”

As they stood there, the warmth of their bond enveloping them, Y/n realized that she didn’t have to fight every battle alone. With Gojo by her side, and with the support of Nanami and her friends, she could face whatever challenges lay ahead.

“Together,” she whispered, pulling back to look at her father.

“Together,” he echoed, a proud smile breaking across his face.

And as the stars twinkled above them, Y/n felt a renewed sense of purpose. She was Gojo Satoru’s daughter, but she was also Y/n—a force of her own, ready to embrace the chaos of life, one battle at a time.

---

My request are open :p

[kristannafever]

Big Sky Ranch - 17

Kristanna Modern AU Rated: Explicit WC: 3560

Chapter Index

-------------------------

Anna was walking by Mr. Weadick’s study in the afternoon after she’d made him his lunch, when he called to her.  She set the basket of folded laundry against the wall in the hallway and went to the open door to see what he wanted.

“Yes, Mr. Weadick?”

“Come in, Anna.  Have a seat.”

She did as she was told and took a seat in a cushy chair across from his big mahogany desk, still harboring a little fear that he was going to say he didn’t need her anymore and send her packing back to the diner, even though he always complimented her food.  Even that morning, he’d told her that the Stroganoff she’d made for when his daughter visited was the best yet and reminded him of the way his grandmother used to make it. 

“I just wanted to let you know I have some more appointments in the city coming up so I will keep you posted when I am not around.  Also, I wanted to ask, if you would you be able to assist me with a research project?”

Out of all things, that was not what she was expecting.  “Um, yeah, of course.”

He leaned back in his big leather chair, his back to the large picture window that overlooked the sprawling pastures of the ranch.  His expression, normally looking grumpy, now only looked sad.

“I would like you to pick up on something my dear wife had started when she learned that her diagnosis was terminal.  I’ve tried, but every time I pull out all her research, it upsets me.”

Anna felt her throat tighten with emotion, now understanding the sadness about her boss.  “I understand, Mr. Weadick.  Again, I am so sorry for your losses.  I would be happy to help you with the project.”

He nodded, his eyes wandering off to her right and seeming to lose their focus.  “It’s the family trees, on both sides.  There is a lot of information for mine, however, hers has a lot of holes in it.  I don’t even know how one would go about filling them, but I assume you can figure that out?”

“Of course.  I can do research, no problem.”

He nodded again, seeming like he was lost in another thought.  “It would be nice, for my daughter to see the history of this place, I think.”

Anna didn’t really think it would make any difference to that woman one way or another.  “Sure, that’s a good idea.”

His focus snapped back to her.  “I’m not saying there is a deadline or anything, but this is something I do want handled with priority.  You can forget the housework for now and once you make some headway, if it helps to prep some of my meals, let me know.”

“Sure, Mr. Weadick.  I can get started after I put the laundry away.”

He waved her off with his hand.  “Never mind that, I am perfectly capable of handling laundry.”  He sat up in his chair and leaned to the left and opened one of his desk drawers.  He pulled out a stack of paper and several manilla folders and tossed them on the desk in front of Anna.  “That’s the extent of what she got done.”

Anna nodded quickly and took the pile, shuffling it all back into place.  Another person might have considered him throwing the stuff on the desk like that a rude gesture, but Anna knew him and that was just the way he was.

“I’ll get started right away,” she said, as she stood and tucked the pile of paperwork under her arm.

“You have a computer?  I’m using mine.”

“I do, at the cabin.  I can rush over there and grab-”

“Yes, go home, but don’t worry about coming back today.  You can just work on it in your place.  There is plenty of leftovers I can heat myself for supper.   But please, bring it with you tomorrow?”

“I will, sir, absolutely.”

“There might be some shit at the library in town for my side too.  Someone mentioned something to me a while ago, although for the life of me I can’t remember who or when that was.”

“Sounds good, Mr. Weadick.  I’ll check it out.”

He gave a single firm nod of dismissal and Anna hurried from the office.  She was nervous and excited and gleeful that Mr. Weadick had said that the cabin was her home and her place.  It was Kristoff’s, of course, but Anna felt more and more like she was part of it too.  It was a relief that Mr. Weadick seemed to be so comfortable with Anna living there.

She drove back to her and Kristoff’s place and set up on the kitchen island with a glass of cold water and a bowl of hickory sticks and began to carefully go through all the paperwork she was given. 

*****

Kristoff rode up to the houses and despite the rush they were in, wondered immediately why Anna’s car was gone.  He frowned, and pulled out his phone, expecting to see a text from her but there was nothing.

“Old man probably has her out on an errand,” Sven mentioned at his side, noticing himself that her car was gone.

“This late?  She’s usually down here for an hour by now shooting the shit with Coop.”

Sven shrugged.  He was in the dark as much as Kristoff.

Levi rode silently on his other side to the stables, and the men set about putting the horses away.  The wind was starting to pick up, one of those early summer storms from the hot dryness of the day, and everyone picked up the pace to get the horses stowed before they became restless.  Buck rode in with Jett only a few minutes later and they all helped to stable the remaining two horses.

All five of them were walking to Sven’s place clutching their hats to their heads in the wind, when the sky opened up and tiny balls of hail started pelting them, forcing them to run the rest of the way.

Kristoff got to the house first and opened the door, a fierce gust yanking the knob out of his grip and slamming against the railing of the steps.  After everyone was in, he muscled it closed, and his phone started ringing.  He grabbed it and answered quickly, relieved that it was Anna.

“Hey, you okay?”

She laughed.  “Yes, and I am sorry!  I totally lost track of time!”

“Where are you?” 

“At home.  Mr. Weadick gave me a research project and the afternoon off to work on it.  I was so wrapped up in it I didn’t realize how late it was until that storm kind of snapped me out of it.  I hope you’re at the houses by now?”

“Yeah, just stepped in through the door,” he answered, happy that she was safe and sound.  He was about to mention that he was worried when he didn’t see her car, but she didn’t really owe him an explanation for her movements.  “How’s the old place holding up?  That wind is pretty awful.”

“Oh, it’s fine!  I’m snug as a bug in a rug.  But I don’t think I am going to make it over there for dinner.  I don’t want to drive in this.  Why don’t you just eat with the guys and wait it out, then head on home?”

He smiled.  “Sure, Anna.  I’ll bring you a plate and let you know when I’m headed out.”

“Okay!  I am going to get back to this.  Have fun.  I love you.”

“Love you too, Baby.”

He hung up and joined the guys as they were dishing in plates of the Jambalaya that Coop had made.  Levi stayed, wanting to wait out the storm too before heading back to his wife, and they all had a good meal, even though there was plenty of wind and thunder rattling the old ranch hand house.  Thankfully it didn’t last long, and Kristoff was able to hop on a quad and head home not long after they finished the meal.

It was a refreshing ride, the air smelling like rain and the faint aroma of wet grass, as well as a pungent scent of alfalfa from a neighbouring farm.  The cool air rejuvenated him, and as soon as he was in the cabin, he was over to Anna and kissing her passionately.

~   ~   ~   ~   ~

The next morning, all the hands knew that the first order of business for the day was to split up into groups and check the entire ranch for any damage that may have been caused by the violent storm the night before.  Normally, they never found too much and doing the exercise was out of precaution more than anything else, but once in a while they would find a downed tree that had taken out a fence, or a blockage in the stream from the copious amounts of rain that had fallen grabbed deadfall as the little river surged.

Kristoff arrived on the quad bright and early, still feeling the lingering kisses that Anna had given him when he was headed out the door.  He parked it in the usual spot beside Sven’s house just as his brother was coming down his steps and settling his cowboy hat onto his head.

“Mornin’,” he said in a very unhappy tone.

“What’s up?” Kristoff asked, suddenly worried as to why Sven looked so down.  “Something happen?”

Sven shrugged, sauntering up to Kristoff.  “Dixie was offered a gig during her break.  Teachin’ some young girls how to race.”

Kristoff frowned.  “She’s not comin’ back for those ten days then?”

“No.  She said she was gonna turn them down, but I could tell she really wanted to take it, so I told her to go for it.”

Kristoff placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder.  “I feel for you, but it was the right thing to do.”

“I know.”  Sven sighed.  “I just really miss her.  She says she misses me too but…” He shrugged again, looking dejected. 

“She probably wouldn’t have even brought it up if it wasn’t important to her.”

“Yeah, I figured.  That’s why I told her to take the job.”

Sven’s tone was getting a little annoyed, so Kristoff figured he’d drop it.  He knew exactly how Sven was feeling in that moment.  There was always a little bit of doubt in their minds that they were worthy of the love from the women they’d fallen for.  It was completely unfounded, and yet there all the same.  Perhaps that was from the way they were raised.  Their father was a simple man, but he showed his wife all kinds of love and support and constantly told the boys that when they grew up to honor their women and always know that they can and will find someone better if you didn’t treat them right.

“Mornin’ fellas,” Coop said in his normal chipper tone as him and Jett walked down the steps to join them.  They started shooting the shit when Levi pulled up and Buck sauntered down the steps towards them.

Buck took charge as soon as they were all gathered.  “Coop, you and Jett take the East pastures, me and Levi will handle the middle section, and Sven, you and Kris take up the left.”

All the men nodded their agreement.  The left was the biggest and hardest of the sections to check, but neither Kristoff nor Sven minded.  They were the fastest riders of the bunch and more than capable of handling the extra workload.

“Well meet back here at noon,” Buck continued, “and after lunch…”  He stopped talking, his eyes taking focus on something out beyond the group of men.  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said slowly.

Every man’s gaze turned in the direction Buck was looking and their eyes widened in surprise at their visitor.   Each man had heard the stories and none of them really believed them.  Now, faced with the potential truth, all five of the other men standing around Kristoff, slowly backed away from him while he remained frozen, staring into the eyes of the bull that had it out for him.

“Holy shit,” Sven said quietly.  “He’s looking right at you, Kris.”

“I can fuckin’ see that,” Kristoff hissed.  “And I fuckin’ told you!”  His eyes remained locked with the beast as he slowly lowered his big head.

“Bruce!” Buck yelled.  “Git on outta here.”

The bull ignored him and continued to stare at Kristoff, squaring off his big body and arching his back.  Every man there knew the animal was getting ready to charge. 

Buck started laughing.  “You better run, Kris.”

“Uh huh,” he agreed, taking a step backwards.  As soon as he moved, Bruce snapped forward and ran directly at him.

Any man with half a brain doesn’t just stand there when a bull is charging in their general direction, and all six of them scrambled towards Sven’s house and up his steps, jamming each other against the screen door making it impossible to open.  Kristoff was in the middle, and he used his large body to push the guys behind him with his back while he reached forward and shoved the other guys out of the way to yank the door open.  No sooner did the screen door slam shut with them all inside, Bruce came to a skidding halt at the bottom of the steps. 

They all looked through the screen down at the furious bull, and every man except Kristoff burst into laughter.

“You wasn’t wrong after all, Kris,” Buck roared. 

“Dude, I didn’t even believe you,” Sven chuckled and slapped his brother on his shoulder.  “Sorry, bro.”

Kristoff turned away from the screen door and scowled at all of the other men as he pushed his way past them.  “I’ve never done a damn thing to that animal.”

“You’re the only one of us who’s blond though,” Buck said to his back.

Kristoff turned around.  “What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, I always figured you was full of shit, but considerin’ that bull clearly does have a hate on for you, I think I know why.”

“Enlighten us all, please.”  Kristoff gestured vaguely with his hands. 

“Before you and Sven came lookin’ for a job, we had one ranch hand that was a blondie like you.  Guy didn’t last long, wasn’t all that bright, but he did fancy himself a bull rider.   We had Bruce in a pen by the stables for the vet to check him out the next morning, and that night this guy, can’t remember his name for the life of me, gets drunk and decided he’s gonna ride him, so he climbed the fence and jumped right on.”

“You’re kidding?” Sven said.

Buck laughed.  “Nope.  He got bucked off in about two seconds flat.  Had to scramble his ass back over the fence to avoid getting a horn in the ass.”  He looked at Kristoff’s hair and shrugged.  “Maybe he thinks you’re that dude.”

“I don’t really give a shit what he thinks.  We need to get him back where he belongs.”

“How we gonna do that?” Coop asked.  “He’s pissed as hell.”

“First thing we’re gonna do is make sure Kristoff is out of sight.”  Buck laughed again.  “Maybe he’ll calm down enough we can get him back.”

“With the horses?” Jett asked.  “That don’t seem like a smart idea if he’s angry.”

“Best bet is use the truck first, get him pointed back in the right direction, then keep pushin’ him with the horses when we run out of road.”

“Speaking of road,” Sven chimed in, “all them gates musta been left open if he managed to get all the way back over here.”

“Yeah, that was my call,” Buck answered.  “We were trying to get back before the storm opened up last night.  Figured they would be fine for a night with the cattle all the way in the back forty.”  He shrugged.  “That big oak out in his pasture must have finally come down and took out a part of Bruce’s fence.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to check that out seeing as how it’s in our section.”  Sven answered. 

“You and Kris take the gator with all the fence material in the back then, I’ll drive the truck, and the rest of you can mount the horses and follow-”

The sound of tires on the gravel road came floating through the screen door.  Kristoff’s eyes went wide, and he looked at the clock in Sven’s kitchen.  “Fuck!”

He ran to the screen door and peered out.  Sure enough, Anna was just parking her car in the usual spot beside the stables and Bruce was no longer looking at the house.  His big head was now pointed towards her car.

Kristoff put his hands around his mouth as soon as he saw her head poke out of the vehicle.  “Anna!  Get back in the car!”

Her head swung in his direction, looking a little startled, and her gaze went from him, straight to the big animal that was turning to face her.  Her eyes went wide and she scrambled back into the car, yanking the door shut.

The bull started walking towards her, but he did not look like he was about to charge the car.  Kristoff’s phone started ringing and he answered it without having to look to see who was calling him.  “Just stay in the car until we get him outta here.”

“What the fuck?”  Anna sounded exasperated.  “Where the hell did he come from?”

Kristoff had to chuckle.  This whole thing was ridiculous.  “We’re going to look into how he got out, but for now we gotta get him outta here.  Sit tight.”  He hung up and looked at Buck.  “You guys slip out of Sven’s window and I’ll try and keep his attention on the door.  Get the truck, mount up, and get that thing moving.”

Every man nodded with a smirk, and they removed the screen from Sven’s bedroom window, slid it open, and dropped to the ground to sneak around to the stables.  Kristoff peered out the screen door and Bruce was just standing there, halfway between Sven’s house and Anna’s car, looking in her direction.

Not wanting to chance the guys being seen, he shouted, “Hey!”

Bruce turned back towards the house and stood there staring.  He didn’t charge, just resumed looking tense and pissed off.  “Jesus,” Kristoff muttered and shook his head at the animal’s audacity.

It didn’t take long for the big dually to slowly rumble around the houses and approach the bull.  Bruce looked at the vehicle without a care in the world and only moved when the grill was just a foot from his face.  Slowly, he turned and started to walk back the way he’d come. 

Only when the one-ton animal was securely locked on the other side of the first gate, did Kristoff finally relax and go straight to Anna in her car. 

“What the hell?” She laughed, getting out of her car and shutting the door as he walked up.

“Storm probably pulled a tree down onto the fence,” he answered.  “And that nasty old thing came and found me.”

Anna laughed.  “You know, even I wasn’t sure to believe the stories about-”

A sharp whistle came from the house and both Anna and Kristoff looked towards the sound.  Mr. Weadick was on the deck looking at them.  “Kris!” he shouted, and gestured with his hand for Kristoff to go see him. 

He looked at Anna quickly with a nervous smile before taking off and jogging up to the house.

“Yes, sir?” he asked when he got close enough to where his boss was resting his arms on the deck railing. 

“That old Bruce I just saw being led out of here?”

“Yes, Sir.  He musta got out of his pen.  We figure that big oak finally came down.”

Mr. Weadick nodded thoughtfully.  “I been thinkin’ about sendin’ him to auction.  He’s a mean old cuss, always has been, and now that he’s well past his prime I recon it’s time.”

Kristoff knew that meant he’d be bought up by a feedlot or slaughterhouse.  That was the way it worked on the ranch.  That’s where all the cattle ended up.  Still, he suddenly felt bad for the nasty old thing.  He certainly had fight left in him.

Mr. Weadick seemed to instantly pick up on his silence as Anna finally made her way up to the house.  “Either that or he can just stay here if you boys don’t mind takin’ care of him.”

His eyes slid to Anna as she ascended the steps, throwing him a look and a smile before heading into the house.  He looked back to his boss.  “Don’t matter too much to me, sir.  It’s your business.”

Kristoff saw it then, a glimmer in his eye and the faintest of smiles, just like Anna had talked about seeing one time.  “Well, I’ll think on it,” he said slowly, then turned away to head into the house.

Kristoff, being dismissed, turned and rushed to the stables to grab the gator with the fencing materials to catch up to the others.  Only, not getting too close…

---

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

[urinarythreatinfection]

Oda being a writer of heavy themes doesn’t mean every random interaction is abuse, that has nothing to do with the fact that Shanks and Buggy are not an abusive friendship. They literally fight over things the way they did as children. Shanks isn’t some helpless guy being abused, nobody thinks this way when they look into them, Buggy having a rough attitude and Shanks being the even-tempered one has always been their dynamic since they were kids. Shanks is capable of tricking Buggy by lying about a treasure map, he knows how to work Buggy, they can bicker and bite back at each other. It’s not even that shitty, it’s just a typical One Piece friendship between men. No one is stopping you from disliking it, it’s how you police other fans from liking a typical dynamic in the story that’s not even presented as toxic.

Posttimeskip, what has Buggy done to Shanks that feels terrible or abusive at its worst? They seem to be living their own lives. What have they done besides being typical enemy pirates working on different things and not talk to each other? Buggy canonically doesn’t even hit Shanks unless Shanks is also hitting him back like Nami does with the Strawhats. Buggy just says he’s angry over the treasure map. You could say objectively, even if Nami hits for the right reasons that’s still bad, beating up someone whenever you think they deserve it and they don’t fight back is still bad.

I basically mean you’re treating the shitty thing as unacceptable because it seems to be one of the crimes Buggy committed against Shanks. What change of behavior? He left to start his own pirate crew, neither of them sought each other out, what change of behavior are we supposed to see? They’re both enemy pirates going after the One Piece, at this point a sudden behavioral change doesn’t make sense and serves no purpose to the plot.

Nothing better to add then Buggy didn’t turn him down civilly. We’re suddenly judging characters by how civil they act in a show about pirates? Their father figure just died it was a pretty emotional moment. It was supposed to be a bad time  and emotional fallout.

I’m explaining why that dynamic exists from the characters’ portrayal in the story. I’m not saying Shanks can ‘handle it’, I’m saying in his view the argument would be so meaningless he would either fight back equally petty or completely forget about it, because that’s who his character is. Most of these arguments are just stuff that annoys them, because there hasn’t been anything they seriously have to fight about, or it just highlights their differences. While Shanks seems to care about fun and adventure, Buggy cares about piracy the connection between him and Shanks is based on their shared life of piracy. So when their views of piracy don’t align they have to separate. When they fight about the North Pole and South Pole, it’s an equal disagreement and we don’t know how it started. When Shanks lied about the treasure map and Buggy gets mad, neither of them actually seem victimized, Shanks just looks smarter and like he knows Buggy well for being able to trick him. That’s their canon dynamic, and the author writes it as a funny way to depict old friends. Friendships have that kind of dynamic where you’re both reckless with each other. You see this kind of dynamic in characters and pairings throughout One Piece. It’s not even about abuse it’s about friendship dynamics being able to do things everything without it becoming a matter of hard feelings, close friends are able fight and be flawed that can be lighthearted without it being overly sensitive about every little thing, realistic close relationships argue and act like idiots. Sanji can simp and Nami can beat people up because they’re close enough they can act like idiots with each other and know it’s not seriously harmful.

What’s the worst thing they have to apologize for? The separation at Loguetown? That was Buggy’s choice as his own free person. Shanks or Buggy could’ve sought out each other for twenty years in East Blue if they wanted to. Neither of them have to apologize, both of them likely have regretful feelings, it was an emotional night where they saw Roger die. As a reader, we should know Buggy doesn’t pose serious harm towards Shanks.

I’m not downplaying Shanks’ emotions. I’m saying between them there aren’t any major fights that are worth taking seriously, besides maybe Loguetown, but even that separation was for the best. Even objectively, it’s not a crime to go their own ways. Any serious fight, Shanks would fight back as he’s not shy about doing so with Buggy, but when he doesn’t it’s because it’s a superficial matter. Or Shanks also has flaws and the problem dynamic goes both ways. Just because Shanks doesn’t visibly shout or get angry doesn’t mean he can’t also be a flawed person and bad partner. I’ve seen your post being angry over the idea Shanks would shower more and drink less if he was with Buggy. Those are both completely inconsequential things that don’t hurt Shanks, it’s just a habit of his that someone could nag him about. Most of the fandom content you seem to complain about aren’t actually as serious as you claim and not worth screaming toxic over, you think even a slight attitude is toxic. I’ve never seen content where Buggy genuinely considers Shanks trash and Shanks suffers through the pain to treat Buggy preciously but you act like it’s everywhere. I’m not sure what example you’re talking about when it comes to serious arguments where Buggy treats him like trash over something genuinely serious and Shanks just doesn’t fight back. Most seem either like a joke or an inconsequential fight like the fruit and map, or because of the Loguetown fallout which was a miscommunication as kids anyways, so what other serious matter is there?

So many of these characters would be crazy in real life, if I was constantly thinking about real life I wouldn’t be able to watch the Strawhats because they’d be so much worse in real life. Buggy having an attitude and still being simped after looks incredibly tame compared to viewing the other characters through a real world lens. But this is a fantasy story where the bad attitudes play a role in entertainment and over-exaggerating character dynamics.

I understand if you just don’t like a character dynamic, but this is a fantasy story where every character dynamic is exaggerated for entertainment in some way. They’re enemy pirates, they aren’t even currently on speaking terms. One is the one who holds no grudges, the other still does, and fans just play on this existing dynamic because it aligns with their characters. It’s not even that absurd because Buggy is someone close to Shanks, they separated, had a petty fight, and are separately operating their own crews. Personally I don’t care for the overuse of Shanks as a lovesick dog but that’s a general fandom issue and not even that big of a deal.

So you refuse to accept that others might have a gentler interpretation of Buggy’s character by denying canon itself. Yet you claim this is not a bad faith reading at all, yeah, sure.

This isn’t Buggy is a tsundere argument, I never even used that word. The treasure map specifically is used as a joke and coverup in canon. We literally see Buggy using that as an excuse during Loguetown separation, when his true feelings were actually hidden, did you miss that? The treasure map is the petty thing you did that your old friend keeps bringing up. Buggy’s anger at Shanks is because of their separation at Loguetown. His inner thoughts and spoken words were different, because his inner thoughts were his real feelings. That’s what the men of One Piece are like, they don’t genuinely say their emotions because they have too much pride as men and pirates. By having Buggy use the treasure map excuse in Loguetown, it makes us understand the feelings he had everytime he said that before.

In Impel Down, there was an instance where Luffy was also very happy to see Buggy alive. Buggy is clearly treated as an annoyance like Mr 3. You don’t have to be a saint, more like understand that in the world of pirates fights happen all the time, and you learn to choose which squabbles are worth your time. Buggy is like a rock in his shoe, he’s annoying but he’s not someone like Blackbeard or Akainu. Luffy doesn’t like Buggy but he recognizes Buggy’s just a loser with some petty grudge against Shanks. If Buggy was seriously harmful towards Shanks he wouldn’t act so nonchalant with him. You think Buggy is going to be the villain that’s hardest to forgive? Buggy obviously is being shown in a more positive light when he made the speech about the One Piece and roped in Crocodile and Mihawk, when he sent money to a man’s dying family. The Roger Pirates still think well of Buggy.

We can’t really say why Rayleigh left, he’s also a mystery when it comes to his motivations and thoughts. Buggy leaving was the right decision anyways, you can’t be the subordinate to someone else if you have conflict with them and don’t agree with their goals. Look at what happened with Usopp and Luffy, that kind of conflict tears the crew apart and places a burden on the Captain. Buggy leaving was the best decision for both of them. Otherwise Shanks would’ve been like Luffy and prioritized his friend over his role as Captain. Buggy would’ve been a bad friend and bad crewmate had he joined Shanks and disrespected him as Captain and duelled him, but he never joined, they stayed apart as two fellow Captains on different paths.

The business of pirates is a lot like the mafia or criminal gangs, you have to hold your own and protect your reputation. I know some fans were shocked that Shanks’ crew blew up Bartolomeo’s crew even when he displayed such loyalty to Luffy. That’s just how the business of pirates is. 

I think it’s important to consider Shuggy in the context of the One Piece story, that’s where the authorial intent is. Especially for Shanks who still has many mysterious motivations and subtle readings to his character. Buggy acts like a regular pirate, and his attitude towards Shanks has constantly been regarded as petty beef between close friends. Amongst the many over-exaggerated character dynamics in One Piece, it’s not meant to be harmful, even outside of the author’s intent it just seems like a typical close relationship between two guys, and they’re extremely chummy for two enemy pirate Captains. Even Kinemon and his wife’s story was more ‘toxic’, he constantly stole money from her and he gambled it away and she paid off his debts while he was ungrateful. So many relationships use bickering and nagging as a way to signify closeness. Compared to canon couples the level of ‘harmful’ Buggy was towards Shanks wasn’t even that bad. You just seem extremely biased towards Buggy as if he’s a real person without understanding the common tropes utilized in the story and that he’s meant to be shown as someone important to and liked by Shanks. You say Shanks’ feelings are important, but Buggy’s feelings are also important since his dreams and desires have been given such spotlight as one of the Four Emperors. There is more to Buggy and he’s not just a harmful presence, his feelings have been given meaning and validation in the story.

I can understand if you just dislike Buggy on his own, nobody has to like a character, but tagging your hate about how harmful Buggy is while acting like you’re in a parasocial relationship with Shanks and policing others on the ship, you’re being completely irrational. 

I’m trying to explain why the dynamic exists. To us, we already know Shanks’ life is cool and admirable, but for Buggy that’s not what he wanted, while Shanks did want Buggy with him. If Buggy is so worthless in your eyes, then leaving was him doing what’s best for Shanks, despite Shanks’ wishes. Shanks loves his friends and loved ones more than anything, nothing can compare to that, you should know that as a fan. It’s not Buggy specifically, it’s any one of Shanks’ friends. If Yasopp suddenly left the crew to go back home, it would also be like Shanks lost someone precious, Yasopp is precious to him. That’s just Shanks’ character, his friends are his most precious treasure.

I knew you’d bring up Usopp since you’re not understanding the story. Usopp joined the crew and accepted Luffy as his Captain, then he belittled Luffy’s authority and challenged him to a duel to win the Going Merry as its Captain. When he tried to beat up Luffy and lost he even got pitied by being given the ship. Luffy not chasing after him wasn’t a matter of personal feelings, it was his responsibility as Captain and for their pride as pirates, and even then afterwards Luffy eagerly wanted to get Usopp back without apologies needed, but Zoro was the one who stopped him and couldn’t ignore the duel with the Captain and demanded he apologize. It’s a completely different situation from Buggy who turned down Shanks before he could accept him as his Captain. If even Luffy wanted to go after Usopp after the major disrespect and conflict he caused, of course Shanks would wish he could go after Buggy. I don’t think Buggy is particularly precious, but he is an important enough friend to Shanks for him to be that way.

Maybe Shanks will be revealed to be whatever you think he is, but we can’t be completely sure that’s what’s going on with him. He sure does seem like a good sacrificing hero. It’s more about how you thinks Shanks gets utterly wronged by the slightest offense because he’s some holy suffering figure, and that restricts your ability to see him as a fully fledged person. I think in ships and stories people prefer to think of Shanks as a human who is flawed and can be made fun of like other characters and not make everything about how great and noble of a sacrifice Shanks is. So fandom tends to blow up flaws because we see so little of him, like him being a careless drunk or giant baby, but that’s a general fandom issue. We know Shanks is cool, strong, goodlooking, most fans know that Buggy can’t match up to him, but to his close friends he can just be a normal guy without the pressure. Everyone probably worships or acts careful around an Emperor, so it’s more precious when someone treats him like a casual friend. In a relationship there has to be a reason why Shanks likes Buggy, he must love Buggy because he treats him like he did when they were kids. That’s a very possible interpretation that has nothing to do with toxicity.

Oh yeah, that dastardly kid. How dare he eat a fake devil fruit and keep a treasure map he found from an enemy pirate? The crew freely gave that fruit away for anyone to eat, and yeah, he’s a pirate who stole a map from an enemy. Maybe it’s just me, but in this story where the characters literally commit many crimes, a kid stealing on a pirate ship is not that bad. This is the same crew that was going to disband a year later anyways and leave Shanks and Buggy to fend for themselves.

There’s a difference between admitting a character is bad and what you’re doing. You talk about Buggy as if everything about him is an atrocity towards Shanks, and that everybody else has to feel the same. At most, it’s likely that Buggy is just meant to be greedy and dumb but harmless. Zosan or Shuggy, they are pretty similar in that they’ve both got a dynamic as naturally opposing forces, they both misunderstand each other and don’t fit over their differences. It’s not that Shuggy can’t be toxic or angsty, it’s literally filled with tons of angst content and messy exes content, but it’s not all because Buggy is the worst friend and undeserving which is how you make it out to be. It’s as if someone demanded reformation from Zosan fans for having Zoro loving on Sanji when it should be Sanji redeeming himself in Zoro’s eyes for his sexual harassment and for leaving the crew and Sanji should be asking for forgiveness from Zoro for beating up the Captain he gave everything for.

Shanks swooning over his lover is literally in every Shanks ship and Shanks x reader and Shanks x oc. Shanks being written as a sad and mentally unwell man is not that common anywhere. You literally just said that you think Shanks would be a simp in any ship, so every Shanks shipper is guilty of this. A lot of Shuggy content is when they’re younger too when Shanks didn’t have those problems, so you’re just saying things that other Shanks ships are more guilty of as they’re ‘pretending a troubled Shanks has a clear mind and being all lovey dovey’. I actually think then there’s too much Shanks and Luffy content that erases Shanks’ troubles over Uta and not enough Shanks and Uta content. Shanks might be depressed, but he’s still gonna try to have a positive mindset and maintain his old personality. If anything, Shuggy shippers are the only shippers who act like Shanks is flawed and unwell and copes badly, thus the jokes of he doesn’t wash and drinks too much. He isn’t alright because he misses Uta and Buggy. So shouldn’t you like Shuggy shippers because of this? Outside of Shuggy, people say Shanks is a whore who sleeps around and he has too many kids he abandons and neglects. But Shuggy shippers saying Shanks misses and longs for Buggy fits right into your characterization of him as a sad man who holds in his feelings.

I do agree Shanks has inner struggles going on. I think the ship doesn’t worsen or cheapen his struggles any more than others. Plenty of characters made sacrifices, they are both pirates and grown men, I very much doubt we’re supposed to clutch our pearls over people not treating him delicately. You’re too focused on characters not having the proper attitude when that’s just a typical friendship in One Piece. We don’t even have the whole picture of Shanks’ character and his plans. I’m not even saying I understand Shanks completely, but that’s why there’s gonna be different interpretations. He can have issues and still show love and happiness like many people do, he doesn’t have to be sulking and brooding all the time. Even in the middle of Marineford when Ace was dead a few meters away, Shanks was smiling at Buggy and happy to see him. So doesn’t that mean Shanks’ mood got lifted just because of Buggy? But all you keep saying is Buggy harmful, Shanks the victim in their toxic relationship. Plenty of fans have biases and they freely admit that and just have fun with it. You can’t even admit you have a bias, it hinders your ability to read correctly. The author certainly doesn’t care if fans are loving Buggy too much and not focusing enough on the problems he brings to a relationship.

There are are countless metaphors, you could’ve used the one about cattle. We’re talking about petty hate, comparing that to speaking out against colonizers isn’t even anywhere near the same topic nor the same level and I prefer not to stoop to that.

Dude. This isn't about canon one piece. Obviously in canon one piece they don't have a toxic relationship. They aren't even near eachother. This was never about canon one piece. Never. You keep bringing up canon one piece and their relationship there to "disprove" me when it was never about that. It was about Shuggy. Nor did i say Shanks isnt a grown man. He is. Though you are downplaying his sacrifice as "well something pirates just do" like every pirate out there would give an arm to save a kid. Plus, Shanks wasnt even the one to take the initiative to shoot down Bart, it was Yassop. Shanks was ready to just let it slide for Luffy, but Yasopp took initiative to remind Shanks that there needs to be consequences. Also about you "Knowing i would bring up Usopp" yeah obviously. That moment is the closest gotten to what Shanks and Buggy have gone through, theres no 1 to 1. I don't know why you're using that as a "gotcha". I kept using your points and using one piece moments to argue against it but now that I have you're just bringing up their canon relationships when it hardly matter because they don't itneract. Anyone would react the way Shanks did when he saw Buggy, if i saw a childhood bully I'd react the same, its just someone familiar and like you said they were children so the bickering didn't matter it was just bickering. Of course Shanks isnt some helpless guy in canon, no shit. I wasn't talking about canon, I was talking about the popular and normalized Shuggy relationship. Like 85% of this is trying to defend Buggy and Shanks's relationship in canon saying it isn't toxic 10% of it actual argument and the other 5% is bringing up that damn metaphor again. Your argument with Zosan isn't even applicable because my while point in bringing up Zosan previously is that they're not toxic, just have some elements of argument. Yet they are more aware of that than Shuggy shippers and the toxification of their ship. Genuinely I want you to take away the percentages of this where you bring up things that don't matter because so many of your arguments is bringing up their canon relationship when they hardly even have one and I was going off of how they interact and how the Shuggy media uses it to paint Shanks as an infant that can't defend himself. Its not me saying that, i'm going off of them. As for my "parasocial relationship" what a way to put it just because I don't like Shanks being used as an accessory.

So honestly if you want a proper reply to this "argument" you need to write something bringing up SHUGGY. Because right now I was using the Shuggy basis and bringing up canon to show both of their psyches and how it would work in a relationship like that, using the Shuggy dynamic as a mold. What you're doing is bringing up the canon relationship and then trying to use that to "debunk" me saying that they have a toxic relationship in canon when the only time i said that was that Buggy was a bad friend and at worst abusive. You said you were a "Shanks fan" but this is really reading as you're just a Shuggy fan that likes Shanks and how he is a cute little puppy simp in Shuggy despite the only way he would be like that when Buggy would treat him how its popularized is if there was a toxic dynamic, again, me using Shuggy as the mold, not the canon current relationship. There hardly is one. Im not even gonna tag this one Shuggy because there is nothing Shuggy about your reply to me, you were just bringing up the canon as a mold and "gotcha"ing me because Luffy doesn't have a 1 to 1 Buggy reference and that my metaphor was too crazy for you.

[serenescribe]

Hello hello~ I think amidst all this chapter 7 stuff we could do very well with the “Hug” prompt. I’m sure Silver would love a hug from his dad! … or is that really Lilia?

Hm? Hmmm~?

Lol, I’m just kidding, have fun with the Hug prompt!

shrieks and wails this is really short but i hope you like it anyways :')

“Silver!”

His ears prick at the sound of that voice, ever so faint and muffled by the walls of the house. Distracted from the sweeping he’s been doing, Silver turns around in the direction he thinks he heard the sound come from, perking up considerably. Is that…?

In his haste, he accidentally knocks the broom onto the floor while hurrying over to the nearest window, poking his head out. Sure enough, he hears it again — a call of his name, in a voice so familiar that it makes his heart sing.

And in the distance, Silver sees him: a tiny figure approaching from the woods, waving at him from afar. His father is home!

This is not the first time his father has left him alone to go travelling by himself, always departing with a kiss against his forehead and a warm embrace. When he was younger and less capable of handling himself, Sebek’s family had insisted on him staying with them — but now, at nine years old, Silver can proudly say that he’s old enough to be left on his own.

Even though Father leaves time and time again, it always hurts to see him depart. But in return, it always makes Silver feel all warm and giddy to see him come back home.

It’s in Silver’s joy of seeing his father return that he flings open the front door, bare feet pressing against coarse dirt and grass as he sprints towards the woods. How long had Father been gone this time? Too long, his mind answers; it isn’t as though Silver got impatient, willing to wait with a composed diligence for his papa to return home, but all the same… he’d missed him.

As he gets close enough to see his father’s features — those red eyes, gleaming with mirth, his lips widening into a smile, dark hair streaked with pink swaying from side to side — the fae opens his arms wide: an invitation for an embrace, a hug.

And with all the enthusiasm of a boy who’s missed his father dearly, Silver flings himself into his papa’s arms, arms latching tight around his body as he feels himself get picked up and swung around. Laughter escapes his lips — how long has it been since they’d done this? — and he feels giddy with such merry relief.

“How excited you are to see me, little one!” Father coos, finally letting him back down on the ground. Silver beams up at him, happiness unrestrained — he truly is, always so thrilled to see him return home. His father wraps his arms around Silver once more, limbs loose, the touch a comfort against his back. “How have you been, dear?”

“I’ve been good!” Silver tells him, a little quickly. “I’ve been doing my training exercises, and I’ve been taking care of the house, just like you told me to!”

“Good,” Father praises, leaving Silver with a warmth blooming within his chest, unfurling like a flower. “Now then, shall we head home together?”

And Silver nods, lips parting so he can reply. The word is on the tip of his tongue, excited and ready, when all of a sudden—

“Silver!”

He hears—

Father’s voice. But… but it’s strange. He’s not hearing it from above, from the man holding him close, head just above Silver’s. No, this voice is coming from behind.

Stiffening, Silver squirms in his… his father’s hold. He wants to turn, wants to look for the source of the sound, but the arms wrapped around him tighten just enough that it begins to hurt. Silver bites back a hiss of pain. With a little desperation, he manages to wiggle around enough that he can twist his neck and glance over his shoulder to spot—

His father, standing there. One arm outstretched, a look of what Silver can only describe as anger on his face. It makes him shudder. Silver’s eyes flick downwards, glancing over his father’s attire — his travelling cloak wrapped around his shoulders, a bag strapped against his back, and it is only upon the sight of these things that Silver realises… his father, holding him right now, wears none of that.

“You,” Father hisses, voice deadly low, making Silver tense. “What do you think you’re doing with my son?”

The arms curling around him only tighten, so much so that Silver begins struggling to breathe.

And when he dares to peek up—

Silver’s heart plummets.

The only thing he can see is a wickedly sly smile.