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djarins-cyare · 3 days

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Never Look Down

Part 1: Din’s Evening

Series Masterlist

Prompt: “I don’t know what’s happening but I love it.”

Summary: Din has been ignoring his crush on Grogu’s babysitter for a while now, with varying degrees of success. But after a misunderstanding leads to some revelations, there’s no denying things any longer. Sometimes you just need to look at things from a different perspective.

Rating: Mature (18+) with a smidge of explicit

Pairing: Din Djarin x Original Female Character (for his POV scenes) / Din Djarin x Reader (for her POV scenes)

Word count: 5,330

Tags/warnings: alcohol, drunkenness, vomit (no description), numerous references to erections, some swearing, references to sex, non-explicit smutty thots, Din carries OFC a short distance, masturbation (male, semi-explicit, but I don’t think enough to push up the rating), 3rd person POV (part 2 will be 2nd person POV and OFC will become reader/you).

Author’s note: This was originally supposed to be for @beskarandblasters’ Din Djarin Fic Club Drabble Event, although drabble this is not! Kel said there was no word limit, but it grew so long that I couldn’t even call it a one-shot anymore, so I’m uploading it in two parts to make it easier to read and I think that probably disqualifies it from the Drabble Event. But Kel, thank you so much anyway for the prompt – it resulted in me finally pushing through my writer’s block and finishing/uploading something new, so I’m eternally grateful!

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:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:

He’s panicking. It’s stupid, really – he’s been in situations far trickier and more critical than this. But Karga said he needed help urgently, and now his babysitter isn’t answering her comlink.

Should he just go and leave Grogu here? It’s not like he never left him alone on the ship.

Except… something’s changed since the adoption. Din has started to care what others think of his parenting style. He hears people whisper that fatherhood clearly isn’t coming easily to him (he thought he was doing alright). He watches how his babysitter closely monitors every move the kid makes (the Mandalorians never watched him that closely). He listens when people talk about how they raise their own children (he hadn’t realised it was such hard work). And it’s made him feel as if he’s… lacking.

He hates feeling less than adequate in any area of his life, but somehow, failing as a father cuts deep. Perhaps it’s because he grew up without one. Plus, that scolding Peli gave him after she found Grogu alone on the Razor Crest still haunts him.

Although the Mandalorian method of letting them learn from their mistakes has merit (and it never did him any harm), he wants to be there for his son. So, no. He won’t leave Grogu here alone. He can’t risk him waking up and wondering why nobody comes if he calls. The kid has probably had enough of that in his past.

Why isn’t Maia picking up?

Din paces the cabin’s length, listening to the gentle ping of the comlink as it tries to connect with the one he gave her. Even the soothing pulse doesn’t ease his frustration. Diligent parenting is hard.

Just as he’s wondering if he can wake the kid and bring him along, the comlink crackles to life.

“—know what the stinking stang is wrong with it! Ah, frotz! Hello? Is this thing totally borked?”

For a baffling moment, he can’t work out whether he’s shocked or thrilled. She certainly doesn’t use that type of language around the kid, but he’s delighted to hear her voice nonetheless.

“Maia!” He interrupts her frustrated confusion as loud as he dares, lest he wake the sleeping child downstairs.

“Shiny, hi! It works! What’s up, my metal man? It’s late… is this a booty call?”

Once again, Din can’t decide if he’s shocked or thrilled. However, his dick’s instant twitch of interest proves that it, at least, is clearly siding with the latter. Dank farrik, he wishes it were a booty call. “No, Maia, I need—”

“Course it’s not!” she interrupts, giggling inanely. “Sorry, that was ridiculous, ignore me. Go on, you were saying?”

He takes a deep breath and tries to push past the stab of dismay at her labelling the idea of a booty call as ridiculous. At least she sounds in a happy mood.

“I’m sorry to contact you so late, but Karga has some kind of crisis. IG-11 is still with the Anzellans for repairs after the last crisis, so he’s asked for my help. Grogu’s asleep, but I’m gonna need you to come over and wait at the cabin until I return. I’ll pay you double your usual rate. I just don’t wanna leave him here alone.”

“Suuure! I’ll haul my jets over to you now. Five, ten minutes, tops. If you wanna take off now, I know your door code. I’ll check on the li’l bug as soon as I arrive.”

Din breathes a relieved sigh. “Thank you, I owe you. I shouldn’t be long.”

“Happy hunting, Beskar Boy! Or happy dispute settling!” Maia signs off with a melodic laugh that instantly makes him grin beneath his helmet, despite the stupid nickname.

The grin fades as he processes the meaning of the words preceding her addictive laughter, and he sighs. She’s probably right, although he hopes he’ll at least need his blaster for whatever mess the High Magistrate wants him to clean up.

Karga was once able to intimidate the townsfolk, but these days, they see him as purely a leader and captain of industry. They respect his ability to govern and improve the town – he’s more than proven himself capable in those roles. But whipping out a blaster from beneath those ridiculous robes now gains him little more than dubious raised eyebrows. By contrast, Cara was a fearsome and capable law enforcer, and now IG-11 keeps the citizens in line.

Except a reptavian tore off both of IG’s legs a few nights ago. Apparently, whatever the droid equivalent of ‘sick leave’ is, he’s taking it.

Din doesn’t mind helping out when he’s not on jobs for Carson. As long as Karga doesn’t solicit his help too often, it’s an easy way to make a few extra credits. He supposes that kind of makes him a part-time deputy, though he’ll never accept a title or a contract. But if tonight’s job is nothing more than a neighbour dispute, he’ll be a little peeved. His friend is aware of his skillset and wouldn’t contact him unless it required weapons and armour. He hopes.

He checks on Grogu once more, then equips himself with his usual arsenal, making sure to lock the weapons cabinet behind him. For some reason, his blasters fascinate Maia. He’s given her several shooting lessons, and she always asks to hold them whenever the cabinet’s unlocked. Although he doubts she’d handle them without his permission, he’d rather be present if she’s caressing his things.

Truthfully, he’d prefer it if she handled and caressed something else entirely, though he buries that thought for now. He has work to do, and an ill-timed hard-on would be awkward at best, if not downright perverse. He can torture himself later.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:

Din wraps up the problem in less than an hour. It does require his blaster, in fact, and he does have to shoot someone. Okay, it’s in the shoulder to disarm him, but the guy is only on his drunken vendetta because he’s heartbroken. He doesn’t deserve to die.

A year ago, he would’ve just shot him in the head and gone home. But he’s lived among the citizens of Nevarro for several months now, and he’s almost starting to feel like part of the community. Passing through it to visit the old covert was different. The Mandalorians were a separate (secret) colony, and he was merely a visitor who lived on his ship. Even though his new home is still on the outskirts, Grogu attends the school in town, and he already knows many of the other parents by name. These days, the market stall owners try to chat with him instead of looking away in fear as they used to.

The guy standing on a table in the cantina tonight with a blaster trained on his ex and her new flame is someone Din recognises. He can’t recall from where, but disarming rather than killing him feels like the right thing to do.

Once he has him in binders, he delivers him to Karga and hurries straight home. The lava flats are quiet and peaceful this time of night, free from the nocturnal bustle of the town and lit only by the celestial display above. There’s no sulphur fog tonight, and the air smells fresh.

But as pleasant as it is, he doesn’t dawdle. Just like every other time he’s left Maia in charge, he relishes the chance to walk into his home and see her there. As if she belongs. He finds that image far more dazzling than the constellations sparkling above him. It’s far sweeter than the fresh air he inhales through his helmet filters as he hastens toward his cabin.

He can’t pinpoint when his interest in her changed from professional to passionate. Grogu made it clear that he liked her best out of the several childminders they auditioned, so he gave her the job. At some point between then and now, he became enamoured with her.

But he can’t do anything about it.

His loyalty to his son means he can’t fuck the babysitter, so for now, Maia belongs to the kid, and Din sleeps alone.

Even though he’s had no serious relationships in the past, he imagines he’d be willing to try it with her. But since it’ll never happen, it’s not worth dwelling on. He’s noticed a few locals checking him out, so he can always approach them if he’s looking to get laid. He’s much more used to casual encounters.

But none of that stops Din from thinking his babysitter is beautiful. It doesn’t stop him from wishing he could run his hands over her welcoming body, indulge in her tender touch and heady scent, sink into her depths over and over until she’s crying out his name as they shatter together in ecstasy….

Dank farrik, he’d better quit thinking like that. He has enough trouble controlling his physical urges around her as it is. In fact, it’s starting to become a problem. He’s lost count of how many times he’s had to dash off and furtively rearrange himself so his stomach padding hides his boner. He can’t wear the flight suits with the tight pants around her anymore, so the looser-fitting ones are getting much more use. In fact, he’s wearing his last pair. (That reminds him: he needs to do laundry tomorrow.)

Maia teases him whenever she can, but it’s always friendly, not flirty, and it doesn’t come close to being sexual. He’s never caught her looking anywhere other than directly at his visor. Still, he can’t help feeling embarrassed whenever something she says or does causes his cock to harden. He simply can’t control it.

Din reaches the cabin and punches in the door code, happy to note that his guest has locked it from inside. Her diligence and attention to detail certainly helped him trust her in his home from the outset of her employment.

Stepping across the threshold, he notices all the lights are out except for the one above the kitchen sink, which is unusual. Stranger still, all it illuminates is a near-full cup of water standing in a pool of condensation.

Nonetheless, it’s bright enough for him to survey the rest of the room cast in shadowed shades of grey.

He can’t see Maia.

Instantly, his heart rate rises, although he doesn’t panic. She’s probably just in the refresher or the kid’s bedroom with him. But the amount of moisture surrounding that cup shows it’s been sitting there almost as long as he was gone, which is curious. And there’s no light coming from downstairs either.

The cabin is small, with an open-plan kitchen and living space, and a staircase leading down to two bedrooms and the refresher. Din’s priority is his son, so he creeps down the ferrocrete steps, well-practised at following the route silently. With his night vision on, he can see that Grogu’s door is open a crack, and he pushes it wider. Little purring snores verify that the kid is sleeping soundly, and he slides the door fully closed to ensure he stays that way. Good.

Since his babysitter wasn’t in that room, and she wouldn’t invade his private space without permission, there’s only one other option. He bypasses his own bedroom opposite Grogu’s and heads to the door facing him – the refresher. He can’t pick up any sounds from within, but he’s not about to invade her privacy by listening too intently. The door is fully shut, but there’s a faint glow through the ventilation grill at the bottom, too weak to be the usual lights. A glowrod?

That’s rather odd. He’s grateful that Maia avoided putting on the hall lights while Grogu’s door was ajar, but she could’ve switched on the refresher lights once inside.

For an unsettling moment, Din isn’t sure how to proceed. He really doesn’t want to interrupt her if she’s busy. But… his instincts are telling him something is off, and he wants to know she’s okay.

He’ll give her a little longer. He’d rather be cautious than a perv.

He retreats upstairs again, conducting a thorough check of the living space and kitchen but finding nothing abnormal or suspicious. Nothing besides that abandoned cup of water, at least. Next comes his nightly check of the cabin’s weak points – the windows and entryway. He secures them all, figuring he can escort Maia out when she’s ready. Tipping away the water, he runs a fresh cup, turns his back to the stairs to lift his helmet and drink, and refills it. Finally, he disarms himself of most of his weapons, leaving one blaster in its holster and his vibroblade in his boot. He likes to bring some of his usual arsenal downstairs with him, even though he has multiple spares in a secure cabinet near his bed.

Which is where he’s headed now. Din sets the drink on his nightstand, switches off his night vision, and switches on the dim bedside light. His guest has seen him armourless a few times before, so he begins removing his beskar and the rest of his kit. He’s almost finished – just his armourweave stomach padding to go – when he hears a thump from the refresher.

In seconds, he’s outside it again, listening intently for any further clues. He’s been in the business of handling unconscious bodies for decades, and that sounded like an unconscious body.

“Maia?” he tries, keeping his voice low to ensure he won’t disturb the kid.

Nothing.

He knocks gently, giving it a few moments.

Still nothing.

Okay, now he’s really starting to worry. He returns to his bedroom, grabs his vambrace, and flicks through his visual settings until he’s replaced his night vision with the thermal overlay. He hopes he isn’t crossing a line here, but what else can he do? Walking to his doorway, he takes a deep breath… and directs his visor at the refresher.

Dank farrik, she’s on the fucking floor. Why didn’t he check sooner?

Jabbing off the thermal overlay, Din throws his vambrace on the bed, then rushes to the refresher door. He keeps his voice low in case he wakes Grogu, hoping it reaches her anyway. “Maia, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I hope you’re decent because I’m coming in.”

He gives her five torturous seconds to respond or get decent if she isn’t already, and then he keys in the override code. The door slides open, revealing his unconscious (but blessedly fully clothed) babysitter slumped near the toilet, lit by a glowrod on the floor next to her. He can now hear her breathing heavily, though it doesn’t sound laboured, just a deep state of sleep.

His helmet isn’t sealed, so straight away, he’s able to detect the lingering smell of vomit. A somewhat grim consequence of being both a bounty hunter and a father means Din can also distinguish types of vomit. Although she has flushed, there’s no air filtration with the lights off, and the residual odour tells him that Maia has been drinking alcohol.

It also explains her unconscious state, so his worry dissipates a little, and mild annoyance starts to creep in.

She agreed to look after his son when she’d been drinking?

He kneels down next to her, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Maia. Wake up.” He shakes her, but she doesn’t stir.

He assumes she slipped from a propped-up position against the toilet, and the thud he heard was her slumping onto the ferrocrete floor. Did she bang her head? If that didn’t wake her… shit.

He tries shaking her again with as much force as he dares, and she groans and curls up even more. She’s fighting it, but he sees consciousness sluggishly returning.

“Maia, it’s Din. Can you sit up?”

“… y’can’t make me sing for the cup….” She’s still half asleep and confused, but that’s not surprising. A few seconds later, she cracks open her eyes, becomes aware of her situation, and slams them shut again. “Oh… fuuuck… no no, m’sorry… so so so s-sorry… please don’t be mad at meee….” She’s tearful and rambling but mostly coherent, even though she’s still curled on the floor with her eyes squeezed closed.

“What happened?” He can’t think of anything else to say until he’s established her culpability. He knows she wouldn’t drink on the job, so she must’ve been drinking earlier this evening. It certainly explains her overzealous response on the comlink. Dank farrik, he should’ve realised. But, no, he was busy revelling in his own drunken high from her joke about it being a booty call. Idiot.

“It was accidet— ac-ci-den-tal,” she continues from her foetal position. “Tried to call you back, but m’comlink’s busted… figured better I’m here drunk than not at all… ’m sorry sorry sorry, kark, pleeease don’t hate me. I jus’ wanted to make sure the li’l man was okay. I didn’t realise how much I’d had till I stood up, n’ it hit me worse on the way over. But Grogu’s fine, I checked. But I’ve grossed up your ’fresher, ’m sorry…”

Din sighs. In the scheme of things, Maia did the right thing. He’d rather she was here puking in his refresher than risk his child waking up alone. And it occurs to him that she achieved a surprising amount while seemingly drunk as a pirate. She secured the cabin, poured herself some water, stomached a few sips, managed to descend the stairs unscathed, and checked on the kid. Then she sealed herself inside the refresher and threw up neatly into the toilet bowl with no spills, even managing to flush before she passed out. And she did all that by the light of a glowrod so she wouldn’t wake Grogu.

In many ways, his babysitter’s actions tonight were more responsible than some of his own questionable choices regarding his son’s safety. He can’t be mad at her.

He tells her so. “I’m not mad, Maia. Thank you for coming over anyway. Can you sit up? I need to know you’re okay.”

Her eyes are still clamped shut, but she cracks them slightly as she tries to push herself off the floor. It doesn’t go well, so Din reaches forward to help, and together, they get her into a stable sitting position. Nevarro’s volcanic environment means the basement maintains a cosy warmth, so he’s not surprised she passed out down here. It’s not exactly soft, but those who grow up in the Outer Rim spend their lives making do. He likes that she’s a survivor. Like him.

“Everything’s s-spinning,” she groans. “N’ my mouth tastes like bantha balls.”

Din suppresses a snort. “Hold on.” He climbs to his feet, retrieves the cup of water from his bedroom, and then passes it to her. “Here, sip.”

After she’s taken a few delicate sips, Maia gives him back the cup. “Don’t wanna puke again.”

“You won’t,” he assures, placing it in her hands again. “Pretty sure you got all the alcohol out of your system already. You gotta rehydrate, or you’ll feel worse.”

Kneeling down next to her again, he watches her try to follow his instruction, pleased she trusts him. He can’t help but admire how adorably dishevelled she is. Her hair is mussed, her clothes are wrinkled, and she keeps pouting between sips… but it’s all so… cute.

Once she’s had half the cup, he accepts it back, though she follows it up with more apologies. “M’so sorry… , m’such a karkin’ idiot… I get it if you don’t want me to look after Grogu anym—”

“Stop,” Din interrupts sharply, unwilling to let her beat herself up. “This is as much on me as it is on you. I didn’t ask you if you were busy. I demanded you come over and bribed you with extra credits. I didn’t question why you sounded different on the comlink. And I didn’t wait for you to arrive. If I’d done any of those things differently, you might not have ended up on my ’fresher floor. So I’m sorry too.” Maia doesn’t reply besides blinking at him a few times, so he asks, “What was the occasion? For the drinking, I mean.”

“One year of freedom from a terrible relationship,” she states resolutely, and for a moment, she seems a little more sober. “Me n’ Zandi, we were both in deep with some mudscuffers who locked us in when we were too young to know any better. But we got lucky. Marshal Dune caught them dealing spice, and now they’re spending a decade mining the asteroid field at the edge of the system. The Nevarran tribunal sentenced them a year ago today, so we drank to celebrate our freedom.”

Din doesn’t really know how to respond. She’s made some previous passing remarks about the toxic relationships she and her friend escaped from, which he’s always taken as hints of her wish to remain unattached. It’s yet another reason he wouldn’t feel right about making any sort of move on her. He settles on, “You… deserve to celebrate.”

“Thanks, Shiny.” He bristles at the nickname out of habit, but he secretly likes that Maia has numerous nicknames for him. “N’ you deserve a ’fresher without a woman on the floor. I should get outta your way, Beskar Boy.”

She tries pushing herself up but instantly becomes dizzy and topples to the side. Din’s naturally quick reflexes kick in, and he positions himself to catch her, letting her fall into his chest as his arm snakes around her back. Before he can even process what he’s doing, he’s slipping his other arm beneath her knees and lifting her up.

“Whoa!” she exclaims, grabbing onto his flight suit with one hand while the other flies to grasp his neck. He almost shivers from feeling her clutch at him so keenly. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I love it! Thanks for the lift, muscles!”

He’s glad his bold move has amused rather than perturbed her, so he doesn’t answer, too busy willing his cock to remain unreactive to this sudden closeness. His main goal is to get her off the ferrocrete floor and put her down somewhere softer as fast as possible. As he elbows open the door and navigates out of the refresher, he makes a split-second decision. His bed is closer than the couch.

“Shiny! This is your bedroom!” Maia whisper-shouts as he steps through the door. At least she’s lucid enough to keep her voice low in case Grogu hears across the hall.

Din grunts in agreement as he approaches his bed and starts carefully lowering her onto it.

She keeps going in a gleeful whisper. “Is this…? Are we…? Kriff, I never thought I’d actually end up in your bed, metal man! I mean, it’s been a dream, sure, but I figured your creed thing meant, like, no sex or whatever. But holy frotz, I guess tonight really was a booty call! Count me the fuck in!”

He’s already laid her down by the time he fully processes her words.

Dank farrik, he’s a fucking idiot.

He will never have sex with any woman in this state. He’s not that kind of guy. The fact that being with Maia is a dream for him too is meaningless, and so is the possibility that she might actually want him. Because does she really? Maybe this is still the alcohol talking. It has to be. Right?

It doesn’t even matter. All Din needs to do is extract himself from this situation in the least awkward way possible and without having to reject her verbally.

But how?

He points a finger at her. “Stay put.” She bites her bottom lip and acknowledges his order with a sloppy salute.

Damn it, the image of her lip caught between her teeth is now burned into his brain, haunting him with forbidden promise.

He pads back to the refresher in his socks and closes the door, relieving himself, flushing, and then pouring some cleaner down the toilet to sit overnight. He then washes up at the sink as fast as possible and refills the cup of water. Returning to his bedroom, Din places the cup on the nightstand along with the glowrod that belongs to his guest.

Speaking of whom…

In his brief absence, Maia has toed off her shoes, stripped naked and strewn her clothes across the floor, and burrowed under his covers. She’s still bleary from the booze, but he sees fire and lust behind her hopeful gaze as she blinks up at him.

It kills him.

He remembers he never finished removing his armour, so he retrieves the vambrace from where he threw it and places it on its shelf. Then he finally removes his stomach padding and puts that away too, directing his visor anywhere except at the naked woman in his bed. He’s doing everything possible to deny the physical reaction her presence is giving rise to.

When he’s done, Din approaches the bed again, acutely aware that she’s tracking him with a hunger he shares but can do nothing about.

Fuck, this is torture. The blanket has slipped down (or maybe Maia has arranged it) so low that it’s daringly close to exposing her nipples. She’s right there, waiting for him. Wanting him.

But she’s drunk. And she’s his kid’s babysitter. He tries to quell his ache by thinking about how she’s thrown up this evening, which would make kissing gross. It helps for a second, although the idea of kissing her at all ends up eclipsing the negatives, and he hardens even more.

Shit, he cannot think about kissing her. Or how naked she is. Or anything like that. Vomit. He should focus on vomit.

Okay. Din taps off the bedside light and picks up the glowrod, then heads to the door in the dark, stumbling over her clothes strewn on the floor. He can’t activate his helmet’s night vision without his vambrace control, but he won’t put it back on just to navigate his escape. Nor will he switch on the glowrod yet because he doesn’t want to see any dismay or regret in her eyes as he leaves her. He wants to remember the hunger he witnessed there.

Hazardous garments notwithstanding, he finds his way to the exit.

Crossing the darkened doorway’s threshold, he whispers, “Get some rest, Maia.” Then he fumbles for the control and taps the door close button, releasing a sigh as it swishes shut behind him.

Switching on the dim glowrod, he traipses upstairs. It’s going to be so kriffing awkward in the morning. Nonetheless, one thought keeps repeating itself to him above all others, one he can no longer prevent his dick from swelling at the prospect of.

Is she really attracted to him?

He has to know.

Din extracts another blaster from his cabinet, knowing he won’t sleep without one beside him. Then he sits heavily on the couch, thinking about how often he used to sleep in his helmet before this cabin became his home. It’s the first place he’s felt secure enough to remove it at night, so he’s no stranger to sleeping beneath his beskar mask. It’s almost a comfort in a way.

With his face covered in a darkened room lit by nothing but a glowrod while those he cares for slumber downstairs, more memories return…

Sitting in the Crest’s darkened cockpit, fucking his fist by the swirling glow of hyperspace, chasing a release during those first stressful days as a fugitive. In theory, if something had pulled him out of hyperspace, someone could’ve quite literally caught him with his dick in his hand. But the odds of anyone being close enough to peer in through the transparisteel at that very moment and notice his furtive actions were slim. Back then, he was so untethered that in his weaker moments, he desperately sought anything that made him feel good. Fleeting moments when he could pretend his life wasn’t falling apart yet again. The risk was worth it.

Here, too, although he’s locked up the cabin and closed the shutters, there’s a risk of Maia sneaking up the stairs and finding him. But a similar desperation fills him now – the utter frustration of loss. Back then, it was the loss of a stable income, the loss of his covert. Now, it’s his missed chance – the loss of what could’ve been with the woman downstairs. And maybe even the total loss of her in his life. Perhaps she’ll be too embarrassed about this evening’s events and quit. Din couldn’t take that, nor could Grogu. It’s why he tried to avoid this.

Can they get past this? Maybe he ought to find someone else to care for the kid. Would that be best? This is getting too complicated. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore.

So, right now, he’ll imagine the positive and lose himself in the fantasy, just like he used to. He’ll think about the hunger he saw in her eyes and let himself believe it wasn’t merely the alcohol. Just for tonight, he’ll believe it’s the truth. The risk, once again, is worth it.

He’s already tenting his loose flight suit pants, so he fumbles to expose himself and relaxes against the couch cushions behind him. The wet spot on his underwear displays just how profoundly turned on he is simply by the idea of being with Maia.

After all the temptation it’s endured this evening, his cock is extra sensitive, so he begins with measured, lazy strokes. Whilst he’d love to revel in the fantasy, he knows he won’t last long. As he imagines joining her in his bed, filling his palms with those half-exposed breasts he saw, pressing his naked body against her, his movements begin to speed up and his pressure increases. Very soon, he’s plummeting toward the edge of ecstasy like a podracer pilot with the finish line in sight.

His helmet tips back to stare at the ceiling as he pictures how it would feel to sink into her warm depths, and the notion ignites his fuse, burning rapidly. It only takes a few more strokes before the powder keg within him explodes into a million tiny raptures. His hips stutter, his muscles clench, and his orgasm tears through his body. He comes hard, and a fractured groan far louder than he’d intended escapes through the modulator as he spills forth his pleasure…

Fucking. Bliss.

Din’s mind is blank for some time, just a sense of fulfilment and contentment gently rippling throughout his relaxed form.

As the real world filters back in, he’s able to think clearly, and he now knows what he has to do. He doesn’t like it, but it’s the mature and sensible option. It’s also a fucking daunting prospect, but he’s faced worse. Has he? Yes, he has. He can do it.

He tucks himself away and finds a cloth to wipe down the mess on his flight suit. That task makes him realise he’ll have to sneak into his bedroom tomorrow without waking Maia to grab his armour and some fresh clothes. And now he really needs to do laundry tomorrow. The only pants he has left are the tighter ones, which he tries to avoid wearing around her. Great, there’s another reason to dread the morning. Although it’s not as if he’s ever caught her checking out his package – she may tease him verbally, but her gaze is always polite.

For now, he’ll enjoy the security of darkness and the lingering swirl of happy chemicals in his brain.

Din lays down on the couch and switches off the glowrod. With a deep sigh, he surrenders to the relaxing state of comfort brought on by his orgasm, letting himself fall into a contented sleep. Before he drifts off, his last thought is of Maia’s beautiful lips… leaning in for a kiss….

If only.

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:

[PART 2 COMING ON 1 JUNE 2024]

Those of you who've read my work before will be familiar with my copious end notes:

As usual, it’s British spellings I’m afraid. Demographic stats say about 60% of you are American, but I can’t help where I was born, so sorry about all the extra ‘u’s and ‘l’s and for using ‘s’ where you would expect ‘z’. However, I’ve channelled my inner linguist and used American language and speech patterns since the show is filmed in the US and Din’s accent is American. All other wording is internationally neutral, including Maia’s dialogue (since the next chapter is written from her POV and I’ll be switching to second person reader insert for that, e.g. you/your pronouns). I’m a little sad I didn’t get to include any Mando’a linguistics in this fic tbh. Maybe another time.

The cabin’s layout is inspired by the concept art by Christian Alzmann that appeared in the closing credits of s3e8, in which there appears to be a staircase leading down to a lower level. That makes sense to me, as Din would need total security to sleep without his armour on, and a windowless underground room seemed appropriate. I also like the parallel that on the Razor Crest he used to sleep on the lower level in a windowless room too.

I know Carl’s absence is going to be felt when we finally get the movie, so I wanted to write something where Karga is still around. If this had been a longer piece, I would’ve had him actually featuring in it instead of being in the background, but in any case, Karga lives forever in the universes I write.

The reference to Din wearing looser pants is, weirdly, Canon. One of the ways you can tell it’s Brendan Wayne in the suit is because he seems to prefer these weird baggy clown pants. Contrast to Pedro who likes them tight (Din Peña?), as does Lateef Crowder, and as did Barry Lowin in season 2. Since Brendan did the majority of season 3, we saw Din in the loose-fitting style a lot more, so I decided to write in a reason for that beyond actor preference.

Though we have no information on Nevarro’s judiciary system, they’re an independent world who have a marshal and a magistrate, so my guess is they’d adopt the New Republic’s system of having a tribunal. Generally, group decision-making is favoured during this era, in contrast to the single-judge system of the Imperial era, so it seems more likely that Karga would encourage citizens to serve on a tribunal rather than unilaterally passing judgments himself.

Apologies to @the-mandawhor1an for using the name of your longtime established OC – it was coincidental, I promise! I chose it after looking up the most common female names in the world, one of which is Maria, and I settled on the variant Maia because it sounded like a more Star Wars-y version (and for another reason which you’ll see in part 2). I only realised when you reblogged my WIP Wednesday snippet, and it was a bit late to change it by then. I guess it’s a common name in the SWU too! But I’m sorry and I hope you don’t feel like I’m muscling in on your domain. Your Maia is of course the original Maia 💖

I made the GIF myself. Sorry it’s a bit blurry, I’m not very good at making them yet. I tried to use Tumblr’s GIF-making function, but it wouldn’t let me crop out Grogu’s ears, so this was my alternative attempt. It’ll have to do.

Definitions: Comlinks are those little cylinder comms they all use. Glowrod is a catch-all term for anything portable that produces light. All the swears/insults (stinking stang, frotz, borked, kriff, kark) are from the Legends list of phrases and slang this time (it’s longer than Canon). Nevarran reptavians are the ones that Grogu saved Karga from in s1e7 and that the Mandalorians were roasting in s3e7. Ferrocrete is a compound building material (Canon and Legends) made from concrete and iron, used in roads, reinforced bunkers and building foundations. I figured Din would only be happy with something strong and defensible, so Karga had the cabin built with it. Transparisteel is used for windows and ship viewports, as well as helmet visors.

Part 2 is written and will be uploaded next weekend once proofing/editing is complete. What do we think? Is Din gonna be dumb and tell her she can’t babysit Grogu anymore? Deny himself what he wants for Maia’s own good?

:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:･ﾟ✧:･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧:･.:

Tags requested…

@aheadfullofsteverogers @alltheotps @axolotllover225 @burntheedges @copperhalfcent

@foomoosworld @jude77 @secretelephanttattoo @stagerightlauren @the-mandawhor1an

Those tagged below showed interest in my masterlist and WIP snippets (comments/reblogs), so I thought I’d sneak in some extra tags. Apologies if it’s too forward, if you’d prefer I didn’t tag you in part 2 just let me know…

@604to647 @cheekychaos28 @djarinmuse @gingerlurk

@joelalorian @kyberblade @readingupsidedown @sunflowersunlight7-blog

@thefrogdalorian @whataenginerd @wrathkitty

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turtletaubwrites · 3 days

Text

Numbers Game ~ Part 21

Pairings: Cross Guild x Fem!Reader x Shanks

Numbers Game Masterlist

Word Count: 4815

Ao3 Link

Series Playlist: Youtube Music Link | Youtube Link

Summary: It's hard to sleep the night before the big event. Everyone finds ways to cope with the stress.

Author's Note: This chapter contains big TRAUMA/DRAMA/HURT, but also big SMUT and COMFORT, I swear!! However, the flashback includes the trauma of the reader's father's death. I have bracketed that section between these symbols ~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~ and you can skip it without missing the story. Please do not read that section if parental death, trauma, shipwrecks, panic attacks, or grief may be triggering for you!

Alternate POV Symbols:

!!! SPOILER WARNING !!! Fic contains spoilers for the end of the Wano arc

Rating/Warnings: Author May Choose to Exclude some Warnings to Avoid Spoilers for Certain Chapters, Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, Use of Y/N, Dark Content, Blood & Violence, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Dissociation, Grief, Death of Minor Original Character, Swearing, Alcohol, Cigars, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Drama, Jealousy, Manipulation, Humiliation, Pet Names, Power Imbalance, Cross Guild boys are VILLAINS, Parental Death, Possessive Behavior, Teasing, Threats, Size Difference, Daddy Kink, Anal, Hair-Pulling, Blowjobs, Face Slapping, Degradation, Inappropriate Use of Akuma no Mi | Devil Fruit Powers, Shameless Shameless Smut, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

Gods fucking damn it.

Shanks had the presence of mind to pull on his pants before running away from that room, but now he was wandering down the corridor with sex all over his skin, a sticky reminder of the scene he’d just left.

Fuck.

His clothes were in the middle suite, the one nextdoor to the room he’d just fled from like a coward.

Buggy’s scent, so precious, so craved for so long, made him want to smash his head against the wall.

The way they kissed…

Shanks opened the next door he saw, finding another suite, remarkably full of exactly what he needed. Except for the fact that it all belonged to that swordsman.

He’d found Mihawk’s “closet,” an entire suite of wardrobes, coat racks, and shelves for all of his annoying boots.

He wanted to burn it all to ash.

Shanks stomped across the suite, relieved to find the extravagant bathroom fully stocked. Stripping out of those sticky pants, he struggled with the fancy soap in its pretty packaging. Normally, he’d be able to unwrap it easily, years of practice with one hand.

But right now, his fingers were shaking, and he needed to get that fucking smell off of him.

Growling as he tore the soapy paper with his teeth, Shanks managed to get under the water, scrubbing himself like he was warding off disease. He resisted the urge to yell and curse since he didn’t want his old “friend” to hear him.

He fought with piles of fabric, hissing with annoyance until he found one of those frilly fucking shirts, tugging on the softest, loosest pants he could find. He pulled the laces tight, but left them untied, strings hanging down over his thighs as he left his sex-covered pants in Mihawk's giant closet.

Booze. Where the fuck is the booze?

Shanks became nothing, but that singular goal. The Emperor of the Sea was about to search every fucking room he passed until he remembered where he needed to go. Where he’d find the relief he needed.

It’s that room. The one with that stupid, green couch.

~~~🔴🔴🔴~~~

~~~~~~

You didn’t answer.

No storms.

No ships.

No voice calling your name.

Just the snail on the desk, and your pencil in your hand.

Then there was your body, trapped and suffocating. Too much heat, too much, too much!

You gasped when you woke, tasting the middle of the night on the air. Buggy’s upper body had tilted away from you, but his leg had you trapped, panicking with the need to move. Crocodile’s massive arm wrapped around you like a cage, and your breath went too light, too fast, too close to a scream.

Whimpers left your throat as you tried to wriggle free without waking the sleeping pirates. You managed to scoot down a few inches before that giant hand grasped your throat, pulling you against his chest.

“Sorrysorrysorrysor–”

“Fuck, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Crocodile hissed, pulling his hand and body away from you, letting you breathe. His voice was full of sleep, groaning a bit as he rubbed his hand over his face. “Had a dream you were– Are you alright, babygirl?”

A tiny, sad laugh left your throat, and he kissed the top of your head.

“What do ya need?”

The darkened ceiling stole all of your focus for an unknowable amount of time before you breathed out your answer.

“I want to see Adam.”

~~~

“I thought you hated Adam,” you whispered, tugging on your robe before you left the room. You’d kissed Buggy’s cheek, pulling the blanket over his snoring form. Your mind struggled for a moment when you realized that there was no one else on the bed, but Crocodile touched your elbow, guiding you to the hallway before you could think about it too long.

“Why would I hate such a tiny creature,” he snorted as he opened the door to that cat paradise. Adam came up to you first, then rubbed himself against Crocodile’s bare ankles beneath his long, velvet smoking jacket. His sharp eyes glanced toward the cat’s servant that was dozing softly by the door. “Come back in two hours.”

Giggling while the guard hurried out, you laid on the carpet to spend time with your little tabby cat.

Not mine. Just pretend.

Heat filled your throat as you fought against an odd guilt. Guilt that you weren’t showing this innocent animal the perfect happiness that he deserved. Guilt that you were struggling to keep pretending.

“Sweetheart…”

Crocodile joined you on the floor. Sitting against the wall with his long legs stretched out for Adam to rub along, he offered you his comfort. He pulled you to him when you nodded, grabbing a pillow from the couch to set on his lap when Adam wouldn’t stop jumping onto that fancy, green jacket.

You leaned into his warmth, breathing in the scent of cigars while you curled up against him. Petting the purring cat, you smiled at how relaxed Adam was on the lap of your frightening lover.

No. It’s all just pretend.

“Your dad told you that story, right,” he asked softly, touching a tentative finger to the top of Adam’s head. “About the Jewel Tree Adam?”

“Yeah.”

“What other stories did he tell you?”

Crocodile’s voice was so deep, so soothing. That question made you sink into yourself, struggling between a smile and a frown.

“Most stories were about trees, or what they’re used to build. And math, always math. Great mathematicians that made their worlds better. But that story was my favorite.”

His strong fingers were so gentle as he trailed them through your hair, down your face, your arm, rubbing his thumb over your hand before letting you pet Adam again.

“Why don’t you tell me about him? Anyone that loved my sweet girl like that deserves my respect.”

Strange pride and sorrow made your eyes clench shut, pressing your face into his chest.

“He loved me,” you agreed, voice almost silent as you slipped away from the moment.

“But he cursed me.”

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

The end of the semester was close, and you’d already finished all of your assignments. Just the final was left now, and you knew you didn't need to study. You knew you’d already killed this class.

But the sound of your pencil scraping away, the crisp scent of your textbook, your dad’s comfy desk chair… It was all comforting.

Moving numbers around was satisfying. Especially when he’d come home, and go over every assignment with you, making up his own so you could show him how you thought things through.

You were erasing a mistake, brushing the bits off of your paper when your dad’s transponder snail rang. A little yelp left your throat as its lazy eyes turned to stare at you. You’d never heard a call this late before, even after all the nights you’d accidentally fallen asleep at his desk.

Should I answer?

The snail went on and on, until you finally reached for it, wanting to help your dad by taking a message.

“Y/N?”

“Dad?”

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

“Y/N?”

“Dad, is that–”

“Y/N? Can you hear me?”

“Dad?”

“Y/N, sweetheart! You can hear me?”

“Barely,” you yelled at the snail, struggling to hear through whatever chaos was happening.

There were people yelling.

Noises you didn’t understand.

Until thunder explained it all.

Waves.

Wood creaking.

Sylvad wood creaking.

Cracking.

“Y/N?”

“Daddy, what’s–”

“I love you, sweetheart. I love you so–”

Louder yells, louder sounds. Your body was about to explode with a terror you couldn’t acknowledge.

I fell asleep at the desk. This is a dream.

“Y/N?”

“I hear you, daddy,” you lied, pressing your ear close to the snail even as the crashing and creaking echoed through his peaceful office.

“My girl,” he praised, his voice straining over so many horrible sounds. “Knew you’d be working, my little numbers girl. Please be happy, be–”

Daddy’s voice.

His scream.

So many screams, and crashes, and Sylvad wood splintering beneath waves, until the snail finally gave nothing but choked, watery gasps.

…

“Dad?”

Your head was shaking back and forth, warding off what couldn’t be real.

“Daddy, can you hear me?”

The snail’s eyes looked even wider, even more hypnotizing when you clenched your fist around it, shaking the strange creature while you screamed, begging it to bring back the voice that had called for you on that stormy ship.

“DADDY??!!!”

~~~⚫⚫⚫~~~

~~~🌲🌲🌲~~~

~~~~~~

“Shh, I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Crocodile soothed while your panicked breathing made you shake. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. Thank you for trusting me. I’m right here, babygirl. Not going anywhere.”

Why did I tell him that? He’s just going to sell me. Just going to use this against me.

Those instinctive, defensive thoughts fell apart as his voice kept washing over you. As Adam crawled off of his lap onto you, reaching up to rub his chin along yours until you held him, and sobbed.

You’d never told anyone about your dad’s last call. That you’d heard your dad’s last words.

The only people that knew about it were people that had used it against you. Had judged you. Had screamed at you.

Had sent you…

“Don’t tell anyone,” you begged, panic flooding your veins. “Please, don’t–”

“No one,” Crocodile vowed, his words heavier than the island you laid upon. “You know I’m here for you, Y/N. Anything you need.”

Somehow, relaxation moved through your body. Your mind battled between distrust and comfort, fear and peace. The contradictions gave you a headache, but soon you were nodding off against his warm, powerful body. A body that had frightened and satisfied you, overwhelmed and spoiled you.

A body that was now poised to protect you.

“You can sleep, sweet girl. Daddy’s here. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

~~~~~~

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

Mihawk had no trouble crawling out of bed without waking his lovers. No trouble slipping on his silk robe as stepped into the hall. No trouble following that taunting voice to the lounge.

He had trouble opening the door.

“Don’t be shy, old friend. Come on in.”

I’m a coward.

“We haven’t got all night, Hawk Eyes.”

The rage in those teasing words had Mihawk’s hair standing on end.

I deserve it. I deserve every ounce of anger he wants to drown me in. Don’t be a fucking coward.

“There you are,” Shanks cheered, holding his arm out wide in welcome, a mostly empty bottle of wine sloshing in his hand. “My gracious host. Take a seat.”

Mihawk walked through the wine scented air, joining his old friend on that pretty, green couch. He wanted to stab himself in the leg for his urge to caution Shanks against spilling red onto the velvet cushions, or onto his stolen clothes that the emperor looked stunning in, even in his haggard state.

“Don’t be so stiff, Hawky,” Shanks laughed, turning to lounge against the armrest. He stretched his legs across Mihawk’s lap, shoving the bottle toward him until the swordsman took it, chugging the rest.

“What would you like to discuss,” Mihawk drawled, reaching for another already opened bottle on the side table. He almost smiled at how annoyed he used to get when Shanks would open every bottle in sight before drinking, just in case he couldn’t open them later.

He tried to at least look relaxed, but there was nowhere to rest his feet. Servants had cleaned up the splintered remains of Crocodile’s rage, but they hadn’t replaced the coffee table yet. Guilt started filling him again at the thought of all the lovely and terrible things he’d done on that table.

“Gee, I wonder,” Shanks mocked, snatching the new bottle, and taking a generous swig. “Why don’t we start at the beginning?”

~~~🗡️🗡️🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🗡️🔴🗡️~~~

Shanks was glad the wine had dulled him, because his desire to kill the swordsman was still incredibly high.

Instead, he drank more.

And more.

Then he started, and he couldn’t stop.

“You left me in that tavern,” Shanks growled, almost reaching out to strangle the man when he had the gall to look confused.

The tavern… Of course.

Shame. An incredible amount of shame slammed into Mihawk, and all he could do was nod, grabbing another bottle for himself. Shanks had clearly prepared to stay on this couch, setting open bottles around everywhere, just waiting to spill.

“You told me love was boring,” Shanks spat, an old scar scraping open. “Don’t be boring, Shanks.”

“I–”

“You laughed at me. I told you I loved you, and you laughed in my fucking face!”

Mihawk had to close his eyes, the burn of bile creeping up his throat. He tried to speak again, but Shanks wasn’t done seething.

“You left me there. I got over it,” Shanks lied to himself. “We went back to drinking and fucking everytime we’d cross paths. So much fun, pretending that never happened. But I was okay with it.”

He gave a tired laugh at his own words, drinking more before he lost it.

“You’re Dracule Mihawk. Heartless. Cold. Of course you couldn’t feel that with me. You couldn’t feel it with anyone. I could live with that.”

“I’m…”

Mihawk couldn’t stomach the pain moving across his friend’s face. He wanted to look away, to run away, but this was the least he could do. To witness what his selfishness had caused.

“But now? With Buggy,” Shanks choked, looking up and away while he swallowed the heat in his throat. It wasn’t enough, his voice cracking when he met those horrible, golden eyes again. “My Buggy? Now you’re taking the only other person... Why are you taking him from me?”

“Shanks, I…” Mihawk failed. There were muscles moving in his face that were weak, that had never been allowed to move before.

Why does this hurt more than a fucking stab wound?

“What the fuck did I ever do to you,” Shanks cursed, stumbling off of the couch, his voice more manic with every step he took while he paced. “Were you sent from the fucking hells just to torture me? To take everything?”

“Please,” Mihawk begged. He didn’t know what he was begging for, but he couldn’t stop the need.

“You broke my fucking heart, Hawk! You laughed while you did it. And now you’re making me watch you… Why the fuck are you doing this to me?”

Shanks couldn’t think, couldn’t even drink, dropping the bottle to stain the soft carpet before tearing at his hair. He needed to fucking scream, to rage, to fight. Anything but let these pathetic tears keep burning in his eyes for this fucking monster.

“I’m so sorry,” the monster breathed, barely able to speak over the hatred that had replaced every drop of blood in his body. Hatred for himself, for a life wasted, for this pain. This pain that he’d… “I wish—”

“Wish what? Wish there was something else I love that you could fucking destroy? Why don’t you go slice my ship in two, huh? Go ahead, kill my crew. Then you’ll really get me. Take fucking everything you fucking demon. You fucking–”

“I’m sorry,” Mihawk cried out. Falling to his knees, he managed to grab Shanks’ hand with both of his, bowing his head against all those shaking fingers. He begged as he’d never done a day in his life. He cried more tears than he knew existed in his cold, unfeeling body. He let those tears fall onto their hands, vicious sobs ripping through him as he felt his heart break from his own selfish cruelty and cowardice.

“I’m so sorry, Shanks. I don’t know what to… I know I can’t do anything. I don’t know why it took me so long, I hate… I fucking hate myself for this. I wish I could…”

Mihawk pulled at his hand, desperately crying at his feet, and Shanks was frozen. Shock wasn’t strong enough for the sight before him. The red haired pirate was stunned. He couldn’t fucking believe what was happening. After Mihawk cried enough to soak all their fingers in salty tears, Shanks plopped onto the floor in front of him, leaving his hand to be cradled like one of the stray kittens Mihawk had saved.

“You didn’t do this on purpose?”

Shanks’ quiet wonderment pulled fresh tears and pleading from the world’s greatest swordsman.

“No,” Mihawk laughed, raw and weak. “Gods, no. I’d do anything to fix this, but I…”

He caught those gorgeous brown eyes, wide as they scanned his wretched face.

“I’m a monster. I destroy everything around me. I wish I’d never met–”

Salty, quivering lips, a touch that stopped their breath. Old friends, old lovers, having their first real kiss after decades behind masks.

They clung to each other, ignoring everything they knew they’d have to deal with. For now, Mihawk and Shanks poured every feeling they’d ever held back into each other.

For now, they kissed.

~~~🔴🗡️🔴🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🤡🤡🤡~~~

It’s cold.

Star!?

Buggy reached for nothing, a moment of panic that didn’t fade when he moved his arms around the empty bed. The bed that should have had three of his lovers on it.

Maybe four…

“Y/N? Are you in here, star?”

Buggy’s body floated through the room in pieces, a silent search that offered no clues, no relief from the pressure around his lungs.

Gone. Everyone’s gone.

Why would they all leave me here alone? Are they okay? Why didn’t they–

They didn’t want me.

Buggy choked on that thought. Choked on how fucking loud it was. Choked on the fears he’d been swimming in since his old friend had dropped back into his life.

What if I make the wrong choice? What if I lose everything?

What if I end up alone again?

He pulled his body together, fighting the sick feeling swirling in his gut while he found his pajama pants.

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine. They all just got hungry at the same time, and left me all alone.”

His comforting words turned sour too fast, and he took deep breaths like he did before taking the stage.

“Y/N? Are you out here,” he called softly, the long, empty corridor stretching on like a nightmare, like he’d never find his love again.

“In here, Buggy.”

The clown caught himself, cutting off the yelp he’d let out at the deep whisper from the door across the hall.

“Quiet,” Crocodile ordered, barely audible from Adam’s room.

Buggy held his breath when he opened the door, but still couldn’t breathe when he found the owner of that voice. Crocodile was leaning back against the wall, sitting on the floor. Y/N was curled up beside him while Adam was snuggled into a tight circle on a throw pillow, perched atop the ex-warlord’s lap.

The clown just stared for a minute until Crocodile sighed.

“Can you help me? I don’t wanna wake up our girl.”

The larger man raised a brow, glaring until Buggy moved, floating his arms as carefully as he could to lift Y/N into the air.

Our girl…

~~~🤡🤡🤡~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🤡🐊🤡🐊~~~

Do I just push it off? Will I hurt it?

Crocodile wanted to give his full attention to his pretty lovers as they left this ridiculous room, but he studied the purring cat as if it were a ticking bomb.

He shifted, tilting slightly as he tugged a corner of the throw pillow to slide it off of his lap.

Adam made a sleepy, disgruntled noise as he squeezed his paws over his face, almost like pulling a blanket over his eyes to ward off the morning.

Crocodile snorted, startling the cat out of his relaxed, circular pose, just when he'd gotten the pillow off of his lap and onto the floor.

Adam stretched toward him as he stood, but Crocodile had much cuter creatures he needed to cuddle.

~~~

Our girl.

Buggy didn’t think he’d ever held something with more care, not even his most explosive Buggy Balls. He carried Y/N to the center of that giant bed, floating random parts of his body to shove the pillows and blanket into place before setting her down.

“He’s calling.”

“Shh, baby. Just sleep now.”

Buggy set her up, his upper body floating above her while he made sure her face looked peaceful.

He bit his tongue to fight the surprised yelp he let out when a large hand touched his hip.

He's so soft with her.

Crocodile stood beside Buggy’s lower half at the foot of the bed, watching the gentle care his clown gave to their sleeping sweetheart. He chuckled at the shocked sound from Buggy’s throat, glad that it hadn’t woken her up.

Buggy followed the ex-warlord after he jerked his head toward the far wall, sitting on the new loveseat.

What happened to the old one?

“Come here,” Crocodile rasped. Buggy hesitated, but let himself be pulled into that world, Crocodile’s warm arm wrapping around his shoulders as he leaned down to whisper. “Sorry we left you alone, little clown. Didn’t wanna interrupt your beauty sleep.”

The tiny noise that escaped Buggy’s lips made Crocodile want to keep teasing. He was looking forward to making his little clown blush and squirm for him.

But their girl needed them tonight.

“Thank you for protecting her from me. I’ll never be able to repay that debt.”

Buggy was shaking. All the words Crocodile had spoken to him the last few days were overwhelming, confusing, enticing.

These words held respect, and it hurt. Pride almost poured in, but Buggy couldn’t help but wait for the joke.

He was everyone’s favorite punchline.

Crocodile frowned at the frown on Buggy's face.

“Help me protect her,” he urged, holding his hand out as he stood. “She needs you right now, Buggy.”

The clown stood slowly, unsteady on his feet as he blinked up at that frightening face.

That face that had terrorized him. Had made him fight, pathetically fail to fight, just for the slim chance that he could save his star from whatever harm this monster might inflict.

That face that had made her smile, made her scream, that had called him pretty things.

That face leaned down, a slow smile hovering close.

“All you gotta do is tell me what you want, little clown,” Crocodile purred, breathing in pleasure at the sight of those wide, crystal eyes, and those lips parted in soft awe while this pretty clown stared up at him. “Do you wanna help me take care of her?”

“Yes, daddy,” Buggy breathed, not realizing he’d spoken until the words left his lips.

“Good boy.”

They shared a kiss, quiet and quick before they cradled their sleeping girl, and fell into dreams.

That quiet kiss held a weight, a heaviness that seemed to anchor them in place. To draw them close. But for now, they left the kiss where it was.

For now, they slept.

~~~🤡🐊🤡🐊~~~

~~~~~~

~~~🔴🗡️🔴🗡️~~~

Whimpers.

There’d never been so many panicked whimpers between them. Plenty of needy whines, hungry moans, and filthy gasps, but the noises that left their throats tonight needed their own word.

Tonight, true need flowed through them. A need to make up for every moment they should have cherished.

Mihawk thought his tears were done, but every time they’d pull back to take a breath, he’d see Shanks’ face. His old friend. That lovely, crooked smile.

“You gonna help me feel good, bright eyes,” Shanks teased, his voice shaky as it fought for lightness. “I’d say it’s the least you can do.”

The swordsman barked a healing laugh, stretching his body toward the ceiling before wrapping his arms around Shanks’ neck, twisting his fingers into that red hair.

“I think I owe you a lifetime’s worth of pleasure. How can I—“

“Take your fucking clothes off, slut,” Shanks grinned, his body pulsing at how those simple words made his friend’s eyes flutter with need. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Mihawk couldn’t hold in a moan at those deep, burning words. His hands flew to work, tearing each garment away from them both, not giving a fuck about where they landed. Not giving a fuck about anything besides feeling Shanks’ perfect cock, rubbing his hands along that silky flesh, licking at him, savoring his taste like the finest of wines.

“There you are,” Shanks purred, stroking his fingers through Mihawk’s hair as those intense eyes stared up at him. “I always knew you were good. So good for me. Just wanna please me, huh?”

“Mhm,” Mihawk nodded, voice muffled around that thick cock.

“This’ll be even more satisfying than usual,” Shanks laughed before he yanked Mihawk off of him, tearing at that soft, black hair while the swordsman twitched in painful pleasure. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? My golden boy doesn’t wanna be a monster. You just wanna get fucked by a monster.”

“Fuck, Shanks, plea–”

“Shut your mouth,” Shanks ordered, giving that perfect face a back handed slap. “You shouldn’t have gotten so good at fighting, friend. Can’t get off to getting fucking wrecked if no one can touch you. Must be so desperate, huh, baby? Want me to hurt you?”

Mihawk's eyes were already rolling white, his tongue hanging loose while he nodded.

“Think you deserve that? If you can’t even let me hear your pretty voice?”

“Shanks, need you so bad. Hurt me, daddy, pleease...”

“That’s what I fucking thought,” Shanks bragged, pleasure running through him. “Take me to a room I can fuck you in. Need to teach my little hole a lesson.”

“The table,” Mihawk gasped, reaching over the pull at the drawer of the side table, revealing a bottle of lube and a hand towel.

“You fucking slut,” Shanks laughed, shoving Mihawk onto his stomach before grabbing the lube. He poured it over his old friend's ass, smirking at how he twitched when the cold liquid touched his skin, dripping down onto that sensitive little hole he was about to rip apart. Watching his fingers sinking into him wasn’t nearly enough. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want you so–”

“Tell me what my slutty little boy wants before I walk out that fucking door.”

“Hurt me, daddy,” Mihawk cried out, his body twitching and curling with need, the rough fingers inside of him driving him mad. “Hurt me, fuck me so fucking hard, please.”

He was almost sobbing with that plea, his body on fire.

Shanks.

Gods, it was Shanks.

He was–

“How’d you like that,” Shanks taunted, eating up the sight of Mihawk’s reddened ass, the brutal slap bringing a filthy moan from the man’s throat.

“So good, daddy, please more,” he begged, “Hurt me, ruin– Fuuucck, daddyyy! Mmn, please…”

“That’s right,” Shanks growled, his body taking what it needed from the willing and desperate flesh beneath it. “Missed daddy's cock so bad, huh? Slutty little hole, just waiting for me to find you, to fuck you like the nasty whore you are?”

“Yes, please,” Mihawk begged, drooling onto the carpet.

“Gonna come for daddy? Gonna come like a good little slut?”

“P-please, hurt–”

“Ha, greedy little hole,” Shanks laughed, shoving harder, deeper, while Mihawk made such, delicious, pathetic noises. “Tell me what you are first, and daddy might be nice.”

“I'm your slut, daddy’s whore, your nasty little hole, your–”

Mihawk came onto the plush carpet when Shanks bit into his neck, teeth sinking deep as the red haired pirate filled his needy ass with come.

“Shanks, daddy…”

Shanks growled through that mouthful of skin, his last few thrusts more brutal at the memory of someone else getting called by his name. But then his eyes rolled back as he finished sinking himself into the perfect body of his old friend.

His old something more.

Mihawk whimpered, gasping when Shanks released his neck to kiss, and lick, and breathe along that sensitive skin. Shanks hummed with pleasure at those sweet little sounds, his cock still twitching inside that needy hole.

“Missed me, didn’t you,” Shanks breathed, heat and satisfaction radiating from him.

“Always,” Mihawk told the truth. “I always miss you.”

~~~🔴🗡️🔴🗡️~~~

~~~~~~

“What’s he doing here?”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Shh, she’s still sleeping.”

“We need to get ready, it’s–”

“Daddy?”

You found yourself about to cry when sleep was torn away, but all of those voices reminded you of what a strange world you seemed to be caught in. A world that you hoped was real, even if it meant more torment, more people using you.

Pros and cons.

One of the pros was opening your eyes to find four incredibly powerful, beautiful men on that giant bed with you. All staring at you like you were precious. Like you were worth more than your name.

I’m definitely crazy.

“Shh, babygirl,” Crocodile soothed, kissing your temple to quiet your sick laughter before it could take over another day.

Too tired to panic today, anyway.

Today...

Oh fuck.

Likes, comments, and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you!!

a/n: I loved writing this one, I hope you enjoyed reading it!

Part 22

Operation Olive Branch has compiled a working spreadsheet of ways to help families fleeing from the genocide in Palestine. If you enjoyed this fic, and are able, please click the link to find a list of GoFundMe's, as well as other ways to help.

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mothmans-side-ho · 2 days

Text

Armand called Lestat a clown in the most round about way

s2e3 hot wired the two passions in my brain into this info dump, however seeing as a central theme of this episode (and the season) is power, status, and their subversions, it seems relevant. for context, I have 2 degrees in theatre, specifically theatre history and how trends effect form. (I am in no way an expert though, and this is very simplified). long story short, I'm relishing in being a big ol nerd about this entire season

FINALLY, we got to see Lestat (a version of) strutting his stuff on stage in a scene with peak commedia dell'arte shenanigans. Commedia dell'arte is/was an originally Italian form of theatre which was defined by lazzi (comedic bits), improv, and stock characters. these stock characters have been around from Roman times and are still super familiar to us today - the young lovers, the pervy old rich man, the soldier with bravado, etc. It's been seen as a somewhat formulaic form of theatre which relied on quickly identifiable characters and situations so audiences can sit back and enjoy the butt jokes and servant beatings.

In the book - specifically The Vampire Lestat - our beloved Lestat RELISHES in playing a character called Lelio, one of the young lovers. It is in playing Lelio that he "found a tongue for verses and wit [he]'d never had in life" (TVL pg 31). It is in playing Lelio that Lestat first gets a taste of the person he can become, and it is in Lelio that we see the first glimpses of the Lestat which so fully seduces Louis. In short, Lestat casts himself as the suave and handsome romantic protagonist, here to sweep people off their feet. The young lovers are also notably some of the only roles portrayed without masks, to emphasize their youth and natural beauty.

SO IMAGINE MY SURPRISE WHEN LESTAT SHOWS UP IN S2E3 DRESSED LIKE THIS:

He has a half mask! He's wearing all sorts of colors! He's clearly acting as a go between between two other characters who seem to be of a higher status than him! As I said before, commedia dell'arte can be very formulaic (especially by the late 1700s when it is being codified away from being improv focused to being cemented into scripts). From all of these visual and characterization clues, Lestat is not playing Lelio the young lover, he's playing a Harlequin! And his costume seems to be heavily based off of this Harlequin (Arlecchino, Arlecino, etc.) which is literally the wikipedia image of a Harlequin.

(note, if you give a fuck, this image is depicting an Arlechino from 1671, roughly 125 years before Lestat on stage. in my mind, this accounts for the changes in silhouette, styling, why Lestat doesn't wear the mask for the entirety of the performance, etc. Also, just while we're talking about costuming, I believe the late 18th Century was still a time in which actors would have been expected to provide their own costumes, which would explain why Lestat's version is made with expensive fabrics and includes cunty little details like the bow in his hair. At the very least, I can see him making looking good a priority as the owner of the theater and as...well...Lestat.)

Okay, okay, okay. Why does this matter?

Harlequins are not characters of any social status. They're servants who are quick witted enough to get into antics but stupid enough to be commanded by animalistic instincts (lust, food, you name it). The Harlequin being beaten by their master was ENORMOUSLY funny, and is the origin of the term "slapstick comedy". They a memorable iteration of clown.

In this scene, which I'm willing to bet was inspired by (if not outright) Carlo Goldoni's A Servant of Two Masters, Lestat plays a servant who interacts with two characters. One appears to be a young woman in a breeches part - another common trope of commedia performance. The other appears to be the young male lover! We see Lestat prancing between the two, seemingly facilitating some romance plot, being paid for his compliance, and doing a good ol fashioned butt lazzi. (Could he be presenting his ass for beating? Maybe.)

So why is Lestat not the young valiant lover, but instead A LITERAL CLOWN? Three potential, not conflicting, reasons. By the time Lestat is performing (mid to late 1790s, based off Armand's earlier comment about Robespierre's 1794 execution), the Harlequin characters were the most sought after roles! At this time, we are seeing the emergence of "Celebrity Culture" where audiences sought out actors for their off-stage personalities as much as their on-stage ones. This is an extremely fitting position for Lestat to fall into. Yay a semblance of historical accuracy!

Secondly, Lestat's ENTIRE ROLE in season two is to come between this season's new pair of young(ish) lovers: Louis & Armand. Lestat's function is to repeatedly detract and distract from their relationship through Dreamstat's antics (appearing at the piano calling Louis a whore, having Louis re-kill him, etc.). Additionally, simply put, Lestat (and Sam Reid as Lestat) is a lot of fun to watch. He is absolutely a stand out (if not THE stand out) of the show! His constant ability to serve cunt is often what your eye is drawn to, he pulls focus to himself, and often undercuts the more subdued, philosophical, and morose nature of others. Both on-stage and on-screen, Lestat continuously upstages his screen partners. He does kinda function as a Harlequin. But in the end, the Harlequin's antics are also what ultimately drive the young lovers together. If not for Lestat's actions, Louis and Armand would have never met nor bonded over knowing this fucked up brat prince.

But we also have to remember! This portion of the episode is presented by Armand the mind fuckery master. It is absolutely in his best interests to paint Lestat as some sort of ridiculous, lesser being driven by animalistic nature. Especially if - by extension of the metaphor - this frames he and Louis as the virtuous and optimistic young lovers, striving to cling to each other in a world of chaos. I would be EXTREMELY interested to see if, when recollected by someone else, Lestat appears in a different role or characterized differently.

Again, given the celebrity culture of the time and Lestat being himself, it is entirely believable that he would appear in the Harlequin role (Truffaldino, if this is Goldoni's Servant). However, I think it's extremely telling that in Armand's iteration of the story Lestat is not the dignified, refined, and sympathetic young romantic. He is instead a literal fucking clown.

#amc iwtv #iwtv #memory is a monster #loustat #loumand #interview with the vampire #lestat #lestat de lioncourt #the vampire lestat #sam reid #commedia dell'arte #louis de pointe du lac #the vampire armand #armand #theatre #theatre des vampires #long post #claudia iwtv #theatre history

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hey-i-am-trying · 3 days

Note

hi, tripoier here! Long text incoming alert and a detailed explanation of the situation for qsmpblr (also sorry if I make some typos I'm writing without translator)

Yeah I also saw what happened today with the og admin of Pepito and I have a lot to say about it. First of all I'm not speaking in behalf of the community but I'm my own experience of the situation. I watched the development of Pepito's story since day one and fell in love with that little guy (and his laggy PC). Then second day arrived and I noticed the admin change bc he was less laggy and I've learned enough Portuguese and 07's (Richas admin) mannerisms to recognize when he's playing a character, even Roier noticed but didn't say anything until the screencap incident lol

Few day passed and 07 created such a cute and wholesome personality for Pepito, that contrasted very well with the role that roier was having at the moment— that it's understandable that it may not be too comfortable for some people but for the ones that had been watching Roier's story in the server + his relationship with Bobby, we take it with humor/hope for him to heal slowly after what happened in Purgatory and with Bobby (and believe me, Bobby had a HUGE impact on how Roier behaved with the rest of he eggs after his death)

So during the days 07 played as Pepito all the tripoiers were in this state of hope because we knew how much q!Roier was trying hard to not to get attached to Pepito, he knew the moment something happens to him he was gonna suffer A LOT, and Pepito was this pure, innocent ray of sunshine that it was imposible for us not to love immediately (Roier also did from day one but he loved to play with us + his lore at the moment was being in depression for the lost of his husband and having Richas and Leo in their comatose state). Also, is worth to mention that after he discovered it was 07 the one playing as Pepito he became more playful and started to tease him just to make him go out of role (and succeeded one time). Which is why he used the chancla a lot with him, as a shield for the feelings that were starting to grow on him again.

Then, Otipep happened.

This is the part I'm gonna be more careful to explain bc there is a language barrier that for the people who don't have Spanish as their first language they cannot understand or got confused

When Otipep appeared Roier noticed that it was another admin playing as Pepito because 07 was busy helping with Q's lore, we don't know if he recognized immediately that it was the original one or just a random temporary admin, but he noticed that this Pepito appeared where the fist one disconnected (in the garden outside of his house). Some people noticed that it was the original one and got happy bc it meaned that finally Pepito had his permanently admin back and bc Richas and the others eggs were also back from the coma we could see them both at the same time (roier used to joke about it every time 07 was around)

We also thought that the og admin had been catching up with the role that 07 has built so far with Pepito (which was not, and we would never know if it was either miscommunication between the admins or the og admin just decided to ignore the actual role to keep their 'idea' for the role), so at first we were a little bit shocked when this Pepito started acting so "dry" (idk if this is the correct word) with Roier, bc we had already gotten used to Pepito's tender way of speaking, but we just let that pass for a bit.

But then that "dry" behavior started going to go down a path were even we as an audience started getting uncomfortable, because roier was trying to socialize with the admin but they clearly didn't knew what's has been going on these past days, so Roier take the time to make a summary of the last days with his typical chill humor, and while he was doing that everything reached its final point with the sign "hueles a culo también hijo de puta" = you also smell like ass son of a bitch.

now This. THIS right here is what destroyed everything. Because you would say "oh, it's just Pepito following Roier's game, it's was in a playful way".

No.

It. was. not.

When Roier starts calling someone with some swears or related words is always in a playful way, and there is context and trust behind. When Otipep put that sign Roier was making a summary of the role that 07 has been doing with Pepito, bc he didn't wanted to let them behind, and while doing that he always explain with his usual humor to make it less unconformable for the admin/ entertained for his audience.

So when he placed that sign we all get out of the loop because it came from nowhere, even Roier kept silence of a few second because 1). it sounded rude, that sign was so out of place 2). Roier was explaining the last few days to the admin so he can keep up with the role, he was not "joking" with the admin, or moving on to another topic, he was helping the admin. 3). We, as an audience, felt so shocked because they weren't saying that to Roier in a playful way, they were giving weight to those words. And this is the part that people that do not have Spanish as their first language doesn't understand. They gave weight to the insult. They didn't wrote that as a joke, they directly INSULTED the streamer.

Then roier proceeded to hit him with the chancla bc he wanted to take the control back of the situation in a humorous way, a damage control in other words, because the chat was filling with "??????" And people getting offended and angry (justified, even I felt offended) with the admin, but Roier is not of those type of persons and he always try to make his streams a safe place for his community, so if you ask me he did a really well job handling the situation even tho he felt offended and his audience noticed that for the rest of the stream (hell, even days later)

And if that was not enough, Roier kept trying to save the situation but the admin was not cooperating, with the "no he preguntado"= I've not asked you and other sign that I just don't remember and is not really worth it (and bc Otipep literally left Roier speaking alone with the "I'm going to look for better parents" and went to spawn zone), he just gave up trying and waited for Richas to come back (which was also chocked w the situation)

And this is me speaking from a non-neutral tone, but I think we could've had a Roier being super loving and caring with Pepito if this situation didn't happen in the first place, bc after this I noticed that Roier stopped tried to get close to Pepito, the situation really affected him so whatever role he was building with the character he just simply stopped and changed the dynamic with another one more limited and less parental, but keeping his usual humor bc it was not the fault of the actual admin or 07, it is what it is unfortunately.

That's why I'm so glad that the actual admin and Ricardão did such a good job saving Pepito because the Spanish speaking community was about to drop him, even streamers friends of Roier that are not part of the qsmp acknowledge the behavior of Otipep with Roier (if that doesn't say a lot about how complicated it was on this side of the road)

And even after all these things there was people out there calling the Spanish speaking community as dramatic or harassing Roier when the situation happened (and it seems they still do it :/ ), but most of us kept quiet because we respect Roier and as he says, mejor pasamos de movidas.

and well, this is it, I know I'm missing some points in the story but honestly getting into fights or hate in general is not my thing, I wanted to give some context for the people of Tumblr because I know, at least here people take the time to read and are more chill unlike twt, and I hope I gave some clarification for the rest of the communities that are not native in Spanish, I really really love Pepito and I'm so glad we had 07 and the actual admin there to play this character, I still can't believe that person had the audacity to come out proudly as Pepito's 1st admin when literally no one from the Spanish community considers his 2 appereances as canon after their blunder xd

Thank you for sharing!

I understand that some stuff are hard to translate, thank you for taking the time. I didn't know that your community was being called dramatic because of that! That is dumb as hell and I am sorry it happend in the first place.

Of course we are no in business of spreading hate. I have always tried to see the other side of situations, I think from what I read in the admin's doc they had some kinda of vision for the character, but I guess they didn't realized that well, they were not going to become automaticly friends with Roier and have room to "joke" like that just because they have become an egg admin. Probably my best guest of what it happend.

It is really weird, maybe they were banking on the support that the other admins have gotten? Or they actually never realized how insulting they have come out as.

Well, I don't have much to say, except I am sorry it happend at all with Roier and the hispanic community.

#qsmp #qsmp discourse #otipep #pepitoadmin

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redbatchedcumbermayned · 2 days

Text

It all started under a duvet held up by an oar

Not so long ago I emailed Chris Tester, the voice of Heinrix van Calox in Owlcat’s recently released CRPG Rogue Trader, and asked if he would like to sit for an interview with me. Having some experience in interviewing people I like, most famously Oscar winner and all-around sweetheart Eddie Redmayne, this was not a completely nerve-wracking endeavour. And within a day of sending my email, Chris said yes. And what a pleasure it was interviewing him: Chris was so generous with his time, that the agreed upon 30 minutes turned into 50 minutes as we brushed upon many topics from his start as a theatre actor to his first voice-over role in a video game to his recently discovered hobby of playing D&D. Of course, we also spoke about all things Warhammer 40k, his new found fame brought on by voicing Heinrix and the insights he could share about the character.

I will publish this interview in three parts over the next week in text form and with the accompanying audio file (the audio quality is not spectacular but tumblr limits uploads to 10MB). If you quote or reshare, please quote me as the original source.

Fran: Thank you very much for taking your time.

Chris Tester: That's no problem. No problem at all.

F: So then let's start. You graduated in 2008.

CT: I did. Yes.

F: You started out as a stage actor. Did you always want to become a stage actor or an actor in general? Tell us a bit about your career.

CT: I always wanted to be a stage actor. Yes, as soon as I knew that I wanted to be an actor, which probably wasn't until I was a teenager. But yeah, my first passion was always the stage, and that was kind of borne out in my career. I would have been open to TV and film of course, if it had come along, I'm a huge fan of TV and film as well, but I never got an audition for any TV or film work.

I think I literally did about three short films in my 10, 12 years of actually professionally acting, and it is one of those industries where the more you do of one thing, the more you seem to find yourself doing the same thing to a degree. So yes, watching Shakespeare from an early age was one of my first passions.

And that was what first planted the seed of wanting to do it myself. The whole aspect of live performance is still something that I'm very passionate about. Up until 2020, when the world changed, I was trying to do two or three theatre shows a year, but since 2020, I haven't been near a stage and I doubt right now, especially with the way that the UK theatre scene is going, that I'm going to be back on stage anytime soon. I am resigned to that, but at some point in my career, I know I will be on stage again, because I can't live without it, but only for the right thing, both financially, but more importantly, creatively.

F: Your production company is currently on hiatus?

CT: I was the producer of a theatre company, which was run and was the baby of the director of the company, a guy called Ross Armstrong, who's one of the most talented writers and directors that I've ever worked with. I was helping out with a lot of the administration stuff so that he could still put me in plays. Instead of creating my own work because I'm not a very good writer or the best writer in the world, I support those people who will write me good parts. So yes, it is currently on hiatus, but never say never, we would always be looking to get back. It's difficult right now. It's difficult for all of us, because arts council subsidy, that way of being able to fund stuff, is drying up. We were doing a national tour of the UK when we were doing that [with the support of a subsidy]. There's even less money, there's even more people. I won't bore you with anything more than that, but it's kind of tough. We'd like to come back, but in the right way, and that's tricky to negotiate.

F: It's always hard as a stage actor to earn a living.

CT: Well, I've been spoiled by voice-over as well, and whereas when I was in my 20s and 30s then you're all about your art. And of course, I'm still all about my art, but I'm also about my wife and my cat and the mortgage and the bills and wanting to have nicer things to a degree as well. I've come to terms with that and voice-over does facilitate that as well as it opens you up to different roles and working with different people. So, I can't complain.

F: It's quite similar with making a living as a writer, because with a steady income you get used to a certain standard of living and once you have obligations and bills to pay, I think the stress on your mental health being creative and having all the stresses of regular life thrust upon you brings with it a challenge.

CT: It's a cliche we can very easily fall into: if I'm suffering, then it means I'm an artist. And that's not necessarily very true. It very often means that the art that we create only reflects one aspect of our lives, and it's usually a very tortured one. I am also about having wider experiences and broadening myself out. Whereas I think when I was in my twenties, I was thinking a bit more like: Oh, I'll experience the world and life through my art and just purely through my art. Whereas now necessarily I need to have a life outside of it as well, and then I can justify like I have the life so that I can feed my art or not, whatever. You know, I'll be a better artist by having a bit of a life outside of it. Maybe.

F: But that's what your twenties are for.

CT: Yeah, indeed.

F: Doing the crazy stuff, doing the band stuff

CT: Yeah, yeah, exactly. So, there was certainly an aspect of that in my twenties.

F: So, what brought you to voice acting or voice-over work initially?

CT: Money. Video game stuff is kind of sexy and cool, and I'm a gamer, so that's important. Before I was a video gamer, I was a board gamer and off the back of that, I was a voracious video gamer, partly because I wasn't very good at team sports at school. I was always the person who was picked last in the football team. So that becomes part of your identity for better or worse. But video games, I was pretty good at, not amazing, but I was pretty good at, and I enjoyed it. And it gave me a different form of escapism as well, and off the back of that I always had an interest in them.

So, the very first voiceover job was a video game: Dark Souls, which is quite a big franchise. At that time, I was your very typically jobbing actor. My acting agent came in and said: I got something for you. And so, I went in with that. But it was only in 2016, 2017 that I realised it was something that you could actually do yourself. People had recording studios at home and they were contacting people directly, not just going through agents. Because I'd basically written to the same 20 voice agents in the UK, mainly in London for like eight years in a row and not received anything. So, you keep knocking on those doors hoping.

Before I'd even graduated from drama school, I'd burnt a CD and made these cases with my headshot on it and sent them all off at what at the time felt like great personal expense and didn't get anything for eight years in a row. So, I was a bit like, I'm obviously doing something wrong, but I don't really know what, because I'm doing these workshops and getting good feedback. Then I found out through a couple of online courses, that there were ways and means of doing it myself, and that was a bit of a game changer for me, and within six months of having started, I was earning more through voice work than the bar job and the box office job that I was doing combined. Within six months, I was kind of like: “I gotta quit because I'm actually holding myself back from things.” So that was quite a big shift.

F: Somewhere you said, you started out under a duvet and with an oar.

CT: Yeah. On my website, I do have an image of it. [Dear reader, I could not locate this elusive photo] I literally had to take the duvet off my bed and put it into the living room, which was the quietest space in my then shared flat. I also had to wait until after one flat mate had watched TV and another one had used the table that had their washing on it. One of my flat mates had stolen an oar from some night out and that was perfect in order to be able to erect it over my head and the duvet as a frame.

I did probably the first four or five months of voice recording like that. Probably about 10, 15 voiceover jobs that I actually got paid for, I was using that because it worked well enough. Since then, I've gone through various different iterations of a setup in the bedroom, to a setup in the hallway, to my current setup. In 2020 we moved to our first house, and this is the spare bedroom which I've had converted into a studio, which means my cat can be here asleep on me or near me getting fur everywhere, but it's fine. I can thrash around and I've got natural light to work in at the same time, which I find quite important. [Pictured below Chris' current setup.]

F: Very pretty. That's good. Guide us through a typical day of yours, if you like.

CT: Oh, sure. I mean, there is no typical day. And yet, and yet, and yet. A typical day for me is, because I am spending the vast majority of the day sitting in this room or somewhere close to this room, because I may need to record at short notice, because the vast majority of jobs are quite short notice. My priority is exercise for mental health more than anything. I've got some weights at the bottom of the garden, and I will get up first thing, and I will go there and I will do that after breakfast. And that's my minimal routine of physical activity done.

And then I'll come back, and this is so rock and roll. Now what I do is, I spend like an hour on LinkedIn. And that's what you dreamed of as a creative person. Isn't it as an actor? I spend time on LinkedIn regularly every day, because it's a really good networking place for a lot of my types of work, and first thing in the morning, I'm a bit mentally sharper. So that's when I come up with a quick post that may be inspired by a bit of content that I've made elsewhere. That probably takes about 20 minutes and then I spend another 45 minutes to an hour engaging with people and saying hi and introducing myself and asking questions, whether that's with video producers or game developers or documentary makers or pretty much anything and everything. There are a lot of people who are active at that time. And so I do it.

And then after that, if I already have some recording lined up, then I'll prioritise mid-morning, because I've warmed up physically a bit more then, and I'm focused. So, you're going through the scripts, annotating the scripts, recording the scripts, editing the scripts. But then there could be live sessions at any time within that as well. I try to keep hours from nine till six. But occasionally, like with Rogue Trader, that was recorded at various different times of the day because we had people in New York, we had people in mainland Europe, and we had people in the UK. So all different time zones, so that can happen at any time.

And then I try to do other kinds of bits and pieces of marketing whenever I've got free time to. I do use really exciting productivity hacks, like time blocking. Again, not something that as a creative individual, I was like: Oh God, this gets me so excited, because it doesn't, but it works. It's finding a system that works for you, but still has a certain kind of flexibility and fluidity. I'm trying to make sure that I get outside of the house, and that kind of stuff.

Recently, over the last year, I’ve started doing audiobooks as well. That long form type of thing is quite nice to be able to dip into because sometimes you don't record for two, three days. You don't get the work. Nothing’s coming in. So, you’re marketing, but it kind of connects you back to the performance side of things to go: I can do a few chapters and you know, that kind of thing. So that's probably it. I try to formalise it, but you know, every voice actor’s day is radically different. There are people, some of the biggest names, going into different studios every week or every day. I very rarely, despite being based in London, I very rarely go into external studios. Like I would say 99 percent of the work I just do from home.

F: So how do you find the right voice for the specific type of voiceover work you do, maybe start with how did you find Heinrix's voice?

CT: Thankfully, Owlcat sent through quite a detailed casting breakdown. So, you get a picture, and that's pretty crucial, as well as a short bio, in terms of the background of the character, but not too much, because you have to sign an NDA, a non-disclosure agreement. But even if you do sign an NDA, I think developers are always slightly hesitant of giving you too much info about the game because things could still be changed. But I think I did get a picture of Heinrix, if not in the first audition, then certainly on the second one. From that you immediately think about the physicality and what might affect the voice, and there was also some direction in terms of what they were looking for. Anybody who has heard the character and me, they do not sound radically dissimilar. There's not a transformative process that I needed to go through, other than his sense of authority and the space that he takes up and the sureness that he has in that he has a kind of divine right from the emperor, so that level of confidence being brought through.

The other part of the audition was about the void ship [the Black Ship] that he'd been raised in and the horrors that he'd seen. And you as the actor have to do the detective work to go like this is showing another side, the more vulnerable side, the side that underpins all of his life choices up to this point. It's essentially playing the opposite to a degree. So it was kind of knowing when to let those elements bleed through a little bit. I think I had probably about a page worth of scripts, quite a lot of script actually to audition with.

But I don't like to listen back to it a lot, because I think you get into your head. My biggest thing is stage work where it's ephemeral. You say it once and it could be different the next night. The whole point is that there's no one definitive way of doing things. Not quite the same with voice acting, where it's being recorded and you've got to get used to hearing it back. But I try not to overthink it. Just like record it two or three times with different impulses and then review and go like, those two seem pretty contrasting. I'll send those along and hope and then never hear anything back unless I do.

#chris tester #heinrix van calox #rogue trader #warhammer 40k #rouge trader crpg #owlcat games

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hard-core-super-star · 2 days

Note

Random thought popped into my head but it's about vampire Kate x reader. What if reader was a witch of some sort who got her heart broken because Kate is an fboy and became terrified and left when she realized how much she loved the reader but came crawling back a year later because she needed reader's witchy help and they ended up casually flirting because they clearly still have feelings for each other and stuff

ain't that the kicker [K.Bishop]

pairing: vampire!kate x reader

summary: the morning after your late-night encounter with kate doesn't go quite as planned...and neither does the day after that or the day after that. [aka you and kate have way more issues than you thought]

warnings: none, i think?; did somebody order angst?; so much tension, you need more than one knife; i rob you of a longer wanda scene; cliffhanger ending because this got too long; weird vampire powers that are badly explained; very long dream sequences; a surprising lack of actual vampire stuff [i badly need to rewatch first kill]; idiots in love but emphasis on the idiots!

wodcount: 3.2k

a/n: hey everyone, my motivation was pretty dead for a while but, unsurprisingly, vampire kate brought it back! and before you all freak out, YES! THERE WILL BE ANOTHER PART! and maybe it'll be less sad and more spicy, who knows? anyway, thank you so much for sticking with me and my constant disappearing act. my second year at university is wrapping up so hopefully you’ll see more of me this summer ;) that's all i have to say, hope you enjoy <3

* * * * * * *

Saying going home with Kate Bishop had been a bad idea would be a massive understatement.

You knew being alone with the heir of Bishop Security would come with problems but the problems all seemed relatively small compared to the continuous waves of pleasure you had been under all night.

To be fair, though, you never expected a grainy picture of you on Kate's lap to be part of that list of problems. You had expected some awkwardness from the charming brunette, the usual "we can't do this again" speech while actively making out in some random storage closet, maybe even some weird looks from your co-workers to further complicate things.

Your original plan had featured everything except you going viral overnight and waking up to the biggest PR disaster to ever hit Bishop Security. (Which is saying a lot considering the many one-night stand scandals Kate always finds herself wrapped up in)

You had so many ideas of what the morning after would be like but none of them included you waking up to an empty bed and a large pit in your stomach that tells you you fucked up big time.

Maybe it had been your fault, maybe you had been too naive for thinking you could really have it all.

Or maybe Kate was right. Maybe she had a longer list of enemies than you had been willing to entertain.

There were far too many “maybe’s” in your mind, an overwhelming amount of notifications on your phone, and you had no idea where Kate had gone.

You’re not sure how long you spend scrolling through Twitter and avoiding all the texts filled with unanswerable questions from your co-workers but eventually, you manage to regain control of yourself and get up from the archer’s ridiculously comfortable bed. You do your best to ignore how shaky your legs are as you get dressed, your mind unfortunately drifting to the night before.

You manage to find your way to the kitchen where there's a full spread of, slightly burnt, breakfast waiting for you. Your heart swells as you read the messy handwriting on the post-it note next to the biggest stack of pancakes you’ve ever seen.

Morning, sunshine. I didn’t know what you were in the mood for so I made a bit of everything. Eat as much as you can, you’ll need a lot of food and water to recover from last night ;) - Kate

It’s impossible to stop the wave of relief that crashes into you after reading that.

As impossible as it feels, you allow yourself to believe things will be fine. That Kate will stick by your side after opening up to you about her supernatural abilities.

But the fantasy doesn’t last long.

You’re halfway through your breakfast when you hear the front door slam shut with so much force you briefly wonder if the hinges came off. It takes no more than fifteen seconds for the archer to appear in front of you, her shoulders tense and an unreadable storm in her eyes.

Her posture already tells you the answer to the question forming on your lips but you ask anyway. “Everything okay?”

She seems almost startled by the sound of your voice as if hearing you makes you real.

It makes the mess you’re both in real.

“No,” she sighs. “I have some shitty news.”

“Shittier than being called a slut by all of New York?” You reply, unable to stop the urge to make her smile.

Kate doesn’t fully smile but she does let out a small chuckle, her shoulders dropping into a less tense position as the sound escapes her. “Yeah…shittier than that.”

You should’ve known where the conversation was headed. Should’ve realized there was no way you’d be able to have it all. No way for you to continue with your life as if nothing had happened.

Maybe you are too naive because you truly didn’t see her next sentence coming.

“y/n…I have to fire you and we...we can’t do this again. This has to be goodbye.”

Everything crashes into you at once.

The realization of what you’ve actually done, the stupid ease with which Kate is cutting you out of her life, the betrayal of her practically kicking you out onto the streets. You’re not an idiot, you know there’s no way you’ll be able to keep your apartment, your humble yet expensive life in New York, without your job.

Without her.

“You…you’re serious? You’re throwing me out just like that?”

“It’s not easy for me either-”

“It looks pretty damn easy, Kate.” You scoff.

“You’re not the one who spent her whole morning getting chewed out by her mom.” Her words come out like an afterthought, like she knows just how badly she’ll fuck up if you hear the annoyance behind them.

Unfortunately for her, you hear her loud and clear.

“Oh, come on. That’s your excuse? You had one bad conversation with your mom and suddenly I don’t mean anything?”

She doesn’t reply and her silence only serves to stoke the flames of fury and resentment rising within your chest.

“Do you know how many death threats I’ve gotten in the last hour? How many coworkers have tried to blackmail me already? Do you understand just how much of my life this has ruined? And you have the audacity to act like you have it hard?”

“Don’t pretend like you know anything about my life,” she spits back. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it, Katherine. If I didn’t know you, if you didn’t care, why the hell did you tell me your dirty little secret?”

She blinks, taken aback by the hard-hitting truth you throw her way.

If you didn’t know her, you wouldn’t notice the way she nervously fidgets with her fingers or the way she bites down on her lower lip while she tries to come up with something to say. If you didn’t know her, you wouldn’t know she’s hurting underneath.

You do know her, though, but knowing her isn’t enough if she’s not willing to let you stay.

So, because you do know her…you walk away.

It feels like giving up in the most infuriating of ways but it’s the only thing you can do. If Kate’s mind is made up, there’s no amount of reason that will get her to change. That’s another thing about her you’ve learned the hard way.

So you swallow your pride and walk away with no plan, no job, no way of supporting yourself. If you were a more spiteful person, you would have applied for a job at Stark Industries but instead, you do the second hardest thing you’ve ever done.

You restart.

It’s a bitter defeat and still, you pack up your things and pay an old friend a visit.

You had left Wanda behind after the Westview fiasco but she’s the only person you can think of running to after your entire life went up in flames. All it takes is one quick spell and the realization that a life without dark magic isn’t one you can live before you’re standing on the porch of her small cabin in the middle of nowhere.

Saying she’s disappointed would be an understatement, especially since she explicitly warned you not to fall in love with Kate Bishop. It’s hard to believe the witch knew about Kate’s vampire secret but you also wouldn’t be surprised if she knew what awaited you the second you left for New York.

Unfortunately, you had to learn things the hard way.

You could write multiple books on everything you’ve learned the hard way.

At the top of that list, though, is the true extent of a certain archer’s vampire powers.

It takes less than a month for Kate to reach you again…through your dreams. Dreams that feel far too real and leave you a tad bit more breathless than you’ll ever be willing to admit.

The first time it happens, you assume it’s one of Wanda’s new tricks, maybe it’s her way of helping you cope with what (or rather who) you’ve left behind. You think it’s weird but maybe a tad bit sweet and you make a mental note to ask her about it in the morning.

It’s not until you realize that you’re actively thinking that you start to worry.

To make matters worse, you’re inside Kate’s apartment…and she quite literally stumbles out of her bedroom to see you standing in the middle of her living room.

“Oh, shit.” She groans.

Your heart skips a beat at the sound of her voice. You know you’re just dreaming and yet it all feels so real. It’s like you can feel her eyes on you, hear the way your heart won’t stop pounding in your ears.

Your confusion must be written all over your face because she answers your question before you can even ask it.

“Yes, you are dreaming but this isn’t like a normal dream.”

“What the fuck happened to you not being a mind reader?” You blurt out.

You wait for that stupid smirk of hers to appear, maybe with a half-assed shrug and a semi-charming joke, but it never comes. “My dream, my rules, I guess.”

“That still doesn’t explain what’s going on.”

A beat of silence goes by before she sort of gives you an answer. “I can explain but you might hate me afterwards.”

The look in her eyes says more than you can possibly handle right now. You’ve never known Kate to be particularly insecure but all you can see in those blue depths is fear and insecurity. Fear that your feelings for her have changed, that you already hate her and never want to hear from her again.

Too bad you’ve never been good at lying.

“Try me.”

The corners of her mouth quirk up into a small smile. “Long story short, we’re bonded. That’s why we’re in each other’s dreams.”

There’s a bigger question to be asked but you’re still a little freaked out by how real this all feels. By how intense your feelings for her still are.

“But this isn’t like a normal dream, is it?”

“Nope, perks of having vampire powers.”

“So, you can do everything except read minds?” You can’t help but tease her like all the times before. “That sucks.”

“Shut up,” she says with an over-dramatic roll of her eyes.

A calm silence falls over both of you and you hate how normal it feels. How just like that, you forget your anger and the betrayal you’ve felt every minute since the day you left New York in favor of falling for her stupidly enchanting self all over again.

It doesn’t help that with every second, the distance between you gets smaller and smaller.

You don’t know who takes the first step, all you know is you blink and suddenly she’s standing right in front of you, those soft blue eyes of hers searching for the truth you can’t hide.

“y/n,” she murmurs, her hand tentatively reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t what you wanted.”

She’s technically not wrong, leaving because of her incapability to deal with her feelings was the last thing you wanted, but it’s not like you had any other choice.

She didn’t give you any other choice.

And now she’s here, staring at you with that wounded puppy look she so effortlessly embodies.

“I wanted you,” you whisper in response. “When are you going to get that through your thick skull?”

She chuckles, the sound warm but nervous. Her hand moves to cup your face and her touch is so soft, it leaves you breathless for a moment. “Never, I’m too stubborn for that, remember?”

You can’t help but tease her as the atmosphere shifts into something more affectionate than you’d like. “How could I forget? It’s your worst trait.”

“Ouch. Is that how you treat your favorite vampire?”

“Aw, poor little vampire baby.”

You wait for her to make one of her usual jokes but she doesn’t.

Instead, her eyes drift down to your lips and your mind instantly goes blank.

There’s an endless list of reasons why you shouldn’t do it. Just because it’s a dream doesn’t mean it isn’t a bad idea. Then again…when has that ever stopped you from being with Kate Bishop?

It’s subtle but you lean forward just enough to give her the invitation she’s too much of a gentleman to ask for. Her eyes widen the slightest bit before she meets you in the middle, the space between your lips becoming nonexistent in the span of a few seconds.

You try your hardest to hold on to your self control, to not seem as desperate as you’ve felt since that first night, but it’s useless. Your hands grip the front of her shirt in an attempt to pull her closer despite how insane everything is.

You’re simply dreaming and yet you can feel every touch, every breath, every desperate effort to make your desires a reality. You would feel embarrassed if Kate wasn’t acting the same way.

Her lips leave yours only to trail down to your neck, her fangs instantly teasing the sensitive skin she finds. The anticipation builds inside your chest as she toys with you and it’s all you can do not to beg for more.

“Kate.” Her name leaves your lips in the form of a whisper that disappears just as fast as it formed.

All you hear is her sharp intake of breath before it all fades to black.

Your eyes snap open and you’re greeted with the absolute silence you’re starting to associate with Wanda’s cabin. All you can do is lay there in the darkness, your heart pounding in your ears while your fingers trace the spot Kate’s lips had just been on.

It had all felt so real and now you’re all alone again. It shouldn’t be surprising at this point and yet you still hold on to the hope Kate will come looking for you.

But she doesn’t.

All she does is haunt your dreams in the most literal way possible. She doesn’t come to find you and fix your many, many issues, instead, she simply appears in your dreams long enough to send your mind reeling without offering any solutions.

You wish you could hate her for doing this to you but you can’t.

You love her.

Worse than that, you love her more and more each night. Even though it’s not nearly enough to heal any of your wounds, and maybe it only serves to hurt you more, it’s definitely addicting.

Wanda offers to help you sever the connection between you and Kate, something about a spell she read in the Darkhold being her only assurance that she knows what she’s doing. You don’t fully trust her on that but you do consider the option for longer than you want to admit.

You reason with yourself that there are much worse things to deal with on a daily basis than highly realistic dreams, though. That being bonded to a vampire isn't the worst thing in the world.

And maybe that would be true…if the vampire in question wasn't Kate Bishop.

You don't know what possesses you to ask but the question slips out in the middle of another midnight rendezvous. It’s been a little over two month since you moved away from New York, a little over two months since you've shared these weird dreams with Kate, when you finally ask.

“What exactly did you do for us to be bonded to each other?”

The question must catch her off guard given the way her eyes widen in panic. “What?”

“You said these weird dreams happen because we’re bonded or something but you never explained how that happened.” You watch the brunette from your spot on the couch and impatiently wait for a response, for something that will help you make sense of everything.

She swallows back her nervousness but gives herself away due to the way she fidgets with the rings on her hand. “Oh, yeah, that…it’s because I bit you that night in my apartment…remember?”

Her awkwardness would be endearing if her response wasn't so damn suspicious.

“Yeah but you're a vampire, biting people is kind of your thing. You're not automatically bonded to every person you bite, right?”

A beat of silence passes before she answers, her voice shaking the slightest bit. “No that…that only happens when there are…certain feelings involved.”

It takes a second for her answer to click in your brain. For her sudden nervousness to hold real meaning.

The answer hits you like a train and it makes your blood boil like nothing else.

“Kate, tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means. Tell me you didn't fire me because you were too afraid of having feelings for me.”

“y/n-”

“For fuck’s sake, Kate!”

The sudden frustration in your voice makes her jump, hundreds of meaningless explanations forming on the tip of her tongue.

You don't hear a word she says.

You can't hear anything besides the pounding in your heart and the devastation that threatens to swallow you whole.

You always knew being with Kate would be impossible but this was something else entirely. This wasn't a lack of feelings between you two, this was too many feelings and too many miles of distance and not one ounce of regret from her.

You're not sure when you stood up from your spot or when she approached you, you simply feel her hand on your waist and the unmistakable sound of her breathing.

“y/n,” she tries again. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m so tired of hearing you say that.”

“I know.”

The last thing you feel is her lips on the back of your neck before you wake up. Alone. Again.

Wanda must catch on to your desperation because she brings up the idea of cutting your connection with Kate that same morning.

“It’ll only be temporary,” she assures you. “No offense but you need sleep more than you need Kate Bishop.”

“I’m a little offended,” you grumble in response.

Despite your reservations, and the voice in the back of your head that tells you running away again is a bad idea, you go along with her plan. She's right, after all. You definitely need some time away from Kate Bishop and her never-ending messes.

The spell is simpler than you expect and it, thankfully, requires pretty much no effort on your part and no weird liquids.

It does also bring the best sleep you’ve had in months so you can’t complain…even when you wake up missing the sound of the archer’s voice.

You still miss her every day and you're sure that won't change any time soon but you welcome the peace with open arms.

Wanda spends her time teaching you random spells while you help her build a nice flower garden in the backyard. It's weird but…comforting.

You could even get used to life out here someday.

At least, that's what you keep telling yourself as the weeks go by.

Until Kate shows up unannounced and flips your world upside down again with those same soft eyes you fell on love with all those months ago.

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writingquestionsanswered · 3 hours

Text

Anonymous asked: I have a few questions as an aspiring writer and a current fanfic writer who publishes.

Okay! But if you write fan-fiction, you're already a writer! I'm guessing you mean an aspiring author? ♥

How would you help with distractions and writer's block? I try to dedicate myself to writing, but then I wander off to other stuff and my motivation wanes.

This is not uncommon and there can be a lot of different reasons for why it happens. Understanding the reason behind why it's happening is important for knowing how to fix it. I have a couple posts that will help with this:

5 Reasons You Lost Interest in Your WIP, Plus Fixes! Feeling Unmotivated with WIP Writer’s Block

How do you advise me outlining a huge original story plot with world-building in an organized way that isn't just scattered?

Outlining is really just any method that helps you get all the important pieces of the story out, in order, so that you can use it as a reference while writing. Some people use one big beginning to end summary. Some people like scene lists or timelines. Other people like scene cards or mind maps... Different things work for different people, so part of the work you need to do as a writer is figure out which method/methods work best for you.

I often find, though, that the struggle people have with outlining is less about what method to use and more about how to actually fill out the details, which brings me around to plot and story structure. All stories have structure. Fan-fiction is often short, character-driven fiction, which gives it a different structure from the average novel. That said, even if you're a prolific fan-fiction writer, you may still need to take some time to learn about plot and story structure. I'll link a few posts that will help, but once you understand story structure (all the specific plot points a story should go through), it becomes much easier to know how to outline it.

Guide: How to Outline a Plot Guide: Starting a New (Long Fiction) Story Basic Story Structure Beginning a New Story How to Move a Story Forward Plot Driven vs Character Driven Stories Understanding Goals and Conflict

What advice would you give for writing fictional religions and mythology?

First and foremost, it's important to understand the role religion and mythology play in your story... how do they feed into your characters' beliefs? How do they influence your characters' actions and behavior? How do they guide the forces of power in your story's world? How do they impact the story's conflict/s and plot? Ultimately, you don't want to put a lot of time into creating and fleshing out a religion or mythology that's ultimately unimportant to the story. It helps to focus most on the aspects that truly matter.

Also, you might consider using real world mythology and religions as inspiration... just be careful about cultural appropriation. It's best not to use anything that belongs to an active culture or religion unless it's yours, or unless you do intense research and consult with sensitivity readers to make sure you don't do anything harmful.

And lastly, what sources do you recommend to accurately describe buildings (especially castles and manors) battlefields, geographical locations especially when it comes to mountains and rivers, etc), dresses and clothing especially if it isn't modern, and fighting techniques that are believable (for example, how a smaller woman would fight a larger man without being unrealistic)?

1 - Find Inspiration Sources - No matter when and where your story is set, it's important to find inspiration sources for the places in your story, whether that's buildings, towns, regions, whatever. Not only will this help you imagine and describe what you're envisioning, it will help you immensely with research on specific details.

2 - Time and Place Are Important - Many descriptive details are specific to time and place, so make sure you know that about your inspiration sources and/or the elements in your story. You can do a Google search for layout, architecture, and design (along with relevant location and era information) to find the details you need. For example, "medieval European castle layout" or "Victorian era manor house architectural details." Likewise, you can look for "Tudor era menswear" or "Victorian era dress details."

3 - Fighting Techniques - This again will tie into the time and place when your story is set. However, some fighting techniques will be somewhat timeless. I would strongly suggest heading over to @howtofightwrite for the best information and resources about portraying fighting techniques in writing.

Happy writing!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

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caligvlasaqvarivm · 2 days

Note

How do you analyze so good I'm really impressed and honestly wonder if I can learn from you

It's a skill, so the good news is, you can practice and get better at it!

Read A Lot/Gain Context

Analysis often means making comparisons or drawing from external context - one of the best things you can do if you want to be better at analysis is to try to cram your head with as much knowledge as possible. The time period, culture of origin, and where the author slots into those are usually major influences on a work (in Homestuck's case, much of it is a direct commentary on the internet culture it emerged from, and missing that part of it can drastically influence how the story reads).

Also important are the works the author themselves are inspired by. You've likely heard some variation of "nothing is original." We're actually really lucky with Homestuck in that regard, as the work is highly referential, and you can glean a lot by looking at what it references (for example, if you watch Serendipity, one of Karkat's favorite movies, which is titledropped during the troll romance explanation, you will understand Karkat so much better). This applies to things like mythological allusions - you'll hardly know why it matters that Karkat is a Christ figure if you don't know what the general outline of the Christ story is, nor will you pick up on the Rapture elements of Gamzee's religion or the fact that Doc Scratch is The Devil, etc. The key to picking up a lot of symbolism is being aware that the symbols exist.

And last, it helps to read a lot of media and media analysis so you can get a better understanding of how media "works" - how tropes are used, what effect language has, what other entries into the genre/works with similar themes/etc. have already done to explore the same things as the piece being analyzed is doing - and what other people have already gleaned and interpreted. I've mentioned before that many people seem to find Homestuck's storytelling bizarre and unique when it's actually quite standard for postmodernism, the genre it belongs to. But you're not going to know that if you've never read anything postmodern, y'know? I also often prepare for long character essays by reading other peoples' character essays - sometimes people pick up on things I miss, and sometimes people have interpretations I vehemently disagree with; both of these help me to refine my take on the matter.

Try to Discard Biases/Meet the Work Where It Is

Many will carry into reading media an expectation of what they want to get out of it. For example, one generally goes into a standard hetero romance book expecting a female lead, a male love interest, romance (of course), and a happy ending for the happy couple. If the book fails to deliver these things, a reader will often walk away thinking it was a bad book, even if the story told instead is objectively good and interesting. We actually see this a lot with Wuthering Heights, which receives very polarizing reviews because people go into it expecting a gothic romance, when it's really more like a gossip Youtube video spilling the tea on some shitty rich people (and it's really good at being that).

There's nothing necessarily wrong with this when reading for pleasure and personal enjoyment, but it presents a problem when attempting to analyze something. There's a concept called the "Procrustean bed," named after a mythological bandit who used to stretch people or cut off their limbs to fit them to a bed, that describes "an arbitrary standard to which exact conformity is forced." Going into a media reading with expectations and biases often results in a very Procrustean reading - I'm sure we've all seen posts complaining about how fanfic often forces canon characters to fit certain archetypes while discarding their actual character traits, etc.

Therefore, when reading for analysis, it's generally a good idea to try and discard as much bias and expectation as possible (obviously, we are never fully free of bias, but the effort counts) - or, perhaps even better, to compartmentalize those biases for comparison while reading. For example, Hussie talks at length about what they INTENDED Homestuck to be, and, while reading, I like to keep Hussie's words to the side while I try to experience the comic fresh, seeing what choices were made in accordance with Hussie's intentions, or where I think Hussie may have fumbled the messaging. At the same time, I try to let the work stand on its own, set in its proper context.

I'd say this is the number-one problem in fandom analysis. For example, people hear from the fandom that Eridan is an incel or a nice guy, so they interpret everything he says and does to fit that belief, or ignore any contradictory evidence. Or they fall for the character's façade that's meant to be dismantled by the viewer. Some works are fairly shallow and accessible, wearing all their meaning on their sleeve (or are Not That Deep, if you prefer meme-talk), and problems arise when a work is, in fact, That Deep, because someone biased towards the former will discard evidence that a work is the latter. This isn't exclusive to HS - it's happened in basically all of my fandoms - which is a statement to how easy it is to fall into this way of thinking.

Even without knowing that Hussie had coming-of-age themes in mind, for example, characters will talk about being kids and growing up. Knowing that Hussie has explicitly said that that's one of HS's themes serves as extra evidence for that interpretation, but the work itself tells you what it's about - if you're willing to listen to it.

Even If the Curtains are Just Blue, That Still Means Something

This is the next biggest fandom stumbling block - thr insinuation that when things in a work are put into the work without more explicit symbolism, that that means they're a discardable detail. This one is more about making a mindset shift - details aren't discardable, even if they don't appear to have been made with the explicit intention to mean something. Everything kind of means something.

First of all, whether or not the curtains are Just Blue is often highly dependent on the work. For example, in something made in large quantities with little time, staff, and budget - say, for example, one of the entries into the MCU's TV shows - there likely isn't too much meaning behind a choice of blue curtains in a shot (although you'd be surprised how often choices in these constrained environments are still very deliberately made). In a work like Homestuck, however, so terribly dense with symbolism and allegory, chances are, the blue curtains DO hold some special meaning, even if it's not readily apparent.

However, even in cases where a choice is made arbitrarily, it still usually ends up revealing something about the work's creative process. Going back to our MCU example, perhaps the blue curtains were chosen because the shot is cool-toned and they fit the color grading. Perhaps they were chosen because the director really likes blue. Perhaps the shot was filmed at an actual location and the blue curtains were already there. Or, even, perhaps the blue curtains were just what they had on hand, and the show was made too quickly and cheaply to bother sourcing something that would fit the tone or lend extra meaning. These all, to varying degrees, say something about the work - maybe not anything so significant that it would come up in an analysis, but they still contribute to a greater understanding of what the work is, what it's trying to say, and how successful it is at saying it.

And this applies to things with much higher stakes. For example, Hussie being a white US citizen likely had an effect on the B1 kids being mostly US citizens, and there was discourse surrounding how, even though they were ostensibly aracial, references were made to Dave's pale skin. Do I think these were deliberate choices made to push some sort of US superiority; no, obviously not. But they still end up revealing things about the creation of the work - that Hussie had certain biases as a result of being who they were.

Your Brain is Designed to Recognize Patterns, So Put That to Use

So with "establish context" and "discard expectations" out of the way, we can start getting into the nitty-gritty of what should be jumping out at you when attempting to understand a work. One of the most prominent things that you should be looking for is PATTERNS.

Writing is a highly conscious effort, which draws from highly unconscious places. Naturally, whether these patterns are intentional or unintentional is dependent on the author (see again why reading up on a work's context is so important), but you can generally bet that anything that IS a pattern is something that holds significance.

For example, Karkat consistently shows that he's very distraught when any of his friends get hurt, that he misses his friends, even the murderous assholes, that he's willing to sit them down and intervene on their behalf, despite all his grandstanding to the contrary. We are supposed to notice that Karkat actually loves his friends, and that he's lying when he says he doesn't care about them.

Homestuck is very carefully and deliberately crafted; if something comes up more than once, it's a safe bet to assume that you're supposed to notice, or at least feel, it. Don't take my word for it:

Basically, [reusing elements is] about building an extremely dense interior vocabulary to tell a story with, and continue to build and expand that vocabulary by revisiting its components often, combining them, extending them and so on. A vocabulary can be (and usually is) simple, consisting of single words, but in this case it extends to entire sentences and paragraph structures and visual forms and even entire scenes like the one linked above. Sometimes the purpose for reiteration is clear, and sometimes there really is no purpose other than to hit a familiar note, and for me that's all that needs to happen for it to be worthwhile. Triggering recognition is a powerful tool for a storyteller to use. Recognition is a powerful experience for a reader. It promotes alertness, at the very least. And in a lot of cases here, I think it promotes levity (humor! this is mostly a work of comedy, remember.) Controlling a reader's recognition faculty is one way to manipulate the reader's reactions as desired to advance the creative agenda.

But this applies to less deliberately-crafted work, too; for example, if an author consistently writes women as shallow, cruel, and manipulative, then we can glean that the author probably has some sort of issue with women. Villains often being queer-coded suggests that the culture they come from has problems with the gays. Etc. etc.

This is how I reached my conclusion that Pale EriKar is heavily foreshadowed - the two are CONSTANTLY kind to each other, sharing secrets, providing emotional support, etc. etc. It's why that part of my Eridan essay is structured the way that it is - by showing you first how consistently the two interact in suspiciously pale-coded ways, the fact that a crab is shown in both Eridan's first appearance AND his appearance on the moirallegiance "hatched for each other" page becomes the cincher of a PATTERN of the two being set up to shoosh-pap each other.

A work will tell you about itself if you listen. If it tells you something over and over, then it's basically begging you to pay attention.

Contrast is Important, Too

Patterns are also significant when they're broken. For example, say a villain is constantly beating up the protagonist. Here's our pattern: the hero is physically weaker than the villain. In a straight fight, the hero will always lose.

And then, at the mid-season two-parter, the hero WINS. Since we've set up this long pattern of the hero always losing to this villain, the fact that this pattern was disrupted means that this moment is extremely important for the work. Let's say the hero wins using guile - in this case, we walk away with the message that the work is saying that insurmountable obstacles may have workarounds, and adaptability and flexibility are good, heroic traits. Now let's say the hero won using physical strength, after a whole season of training and practicing - in this case, we say that the work says hard work and effort are heroic, and will pay off in the end.

In Homestuck, as an example, we set up a long pattern of Vriska being an awful, manipulative bitch, and a fairly remorseless killer. And then, after killing Tavros, she talks to John and admits that she's freaking out because she feels really bad about it. This vulnerability is hinted at by some of her earlier actions/dialogue, which is itself a pattern to notice, but it's not really explicit until it's set up to be in direct contrast to the ultimate spider8itch move of killing Tavros. This contrast is intended to draw our attention, to point out something significant - hey, Vriska feels bad! She's a product of her terrible society and awful lusus! While it's shitty that she killed Tavros, she's also meant to be tragic and sympathetic herself!

Hussie even talks about how patterns and surprises are used in tandem:

Prior to Eridan's entrance into the room, and even during, the deaths were completely unguessable. After Feferi's death, Kanaya's becomes considerably more so, but still quite uncertain. After her death, all bets are off. Not only do all deaths thereafter become guessable, but in some cases, "predictable". That's because it was the line between a series of shocking events, and the establishment of an actual story pattern. The new pattern serves a purpose, as a sort of announcement that the story is shifting gears, that we're drifting into these mock-survival horror, mock-crime drama segments, driven by suspense more than usual. The suspense has more authority because of all the collateral of unpredictability built up over time, as well as all the typical stuff that helps like long term characterization. But now that the pattern is out in the open, following through with more deaths no longer qualifies as unpredictability. Just the opposite, it would now be playing into expectations, which as I said, can be important too. This gear we've switched to is the new normal, and any unpredictability to arise thereafter will necessarily be a departure from whatever current patterns would indicate.

Patterns are important because they tell you what baselines the work is setting - what's normal, what's standard, what this or that generally "means." Contrast is important because it means something has changed, or some significant point is being made. They work in tandem to provide the reader with points of focus in the story, things to keep in mind as they read, consciously or unconsciously.

Theme

I'm talking about this stuff in pretty broad and open terms because stories are so malleable, and so myriad, and can say so many things. There are stories where horrible cruelties are painted as good things - propoganda is the big one, but consider all the discourse around romance books that paint abusive/toxic relationships as ideal. There are stories where the protagonist is actually the villain, and their actions are not aspirational, and works where everyone sucks and nobody is aspirational, and works where everybody is essentially a good person, if sometimes misguided.

This is, again, why outside context is so important, and biases need to be left at the door. For example, generally speaking, one can assume that the protagonist of a children's cartoon is going to be an aspirational hero, or at least a conflicted character who must learn to do the right thing. However, there are even exceptions to this! Invader Zim, for example, features an outright villain protagonist - a proud servant of a fascist empire - and for a lower-stakes example, the Eds of Ed, Edd, n' Eddy are the neighborhood scammers, constantly causing problems for the other characters with their schemes.

Thus, how do we determine what any particular narrative's stance on a given topic is? It's a difficult question to answer because every narrative is different. If I say something like, "the things that bring the protagonists success in their goals are what the narrative says are good," then we run into the issue of villain/gray morality protagonists. To use moral terms like "hero" and "villain" instead runs into the problem of defining morality within a narrative in the first place. But you have to draw the line somewhere.

So that brings us to themes.

Now, as with a lot of artistic terms, "theme" isn't necessarily well-defined (this isn't helped by the way the word is used colloquially to mean things like aesthetic, moral of the story, or symbolism). Wikipedia says: "In contemporary literary studies, a theme is a central topic, subject, or message within a narrative," but this is still very broad and hard to work with, so I'll give it a shot.

A theme is what a work says, beyond the literal series of events. Sometimes a theme is obvious - the theme of Boy Who Cried Wolf is that if you become famous for lying, you won't be believed when you tell the truth. Sometimes a theme is one of many - for example, Disney's Cinderalla says that kindness and virtue will eventually be recognized and rewarded, and that cruelty is interlinked with ugliness. Sometimes a theme is unintentional - for example, how Disney's body of work tends to villainize queer-coded characters. Sometimes context and the passage of time changes the theme - for example, Snow White originally held a message of hope for wartime families that domestic normalcy would one day return, but is now seen as anti-feminist as it appears to insinuate that a woman's place is in the kitchen, and her happiness is in marriage to a man. And sometimes a theme is not something you agree with.

In any case, a theme is a meaning to be gleaned from the text, more broad and universally applicable than the text itself. After all, we humans have traditionally always used story to impart meaning; our oldest epic, The Epic of Gilgamesh, contains within it several themes, most famously that of accepting one's mortality. It's startling, really, how applicable the story is to this day, even if specific details have become obtuse or unsavory to a modern reader.

This is, again, why it's so important to engage with a text on its own terms, in its own context, with as little bias as possible. A story's themes are not necessarily apparent, and commonly implied rather than stated outright, and approaching the story with expectations can easily lead to a Procrustean twisting of the facts to fit those expectations. A theme should emerge to the analyzer out of the reading, not the other way around.

Identifying theme gets easier with practice, and largely comes down to identifying patterns within the narrative (alongside looking at context and symbolism, of course). What does the narrative consistently touch base on? Are there any references; is there any symbolism? What does the story deem "normal," "good," or "bad"? How are ideas developed, and why? Why did these events happen, and are those motivations echoed anywhere else?

Homestuck is very complex and tackles many topics at once, and explaining why it's a coming-of-age would basically require a whole second essay, so I'll use a simpler and more popular example (like I've been trying to do) - let's say, Shrek.

The most obvious theme of Shrek is that beauty does not equate goodness, that one mustn't judge a book by its cover. The opening sequence is LITERALLY Shrek ripping out pages of a fairy tale book to use as toilet paper, and the movie ends with Fiona finding that her happiest, truest self IS as an ugly ogre. Shrek's main character conflict is that people immediately judge him as cruel and evil because he's ugly, and the characters' lowest points occur because Fiona is similarly insecure about her ogre half, considering it unlovable.

But there's other stuff in there, too. For example, if you know that Dreamworks and Shrek were founded after a falling out with Disney, then the beautiful, sanitized city of Dulac, with its switchback queue and singing animatronics add to this theme of a direct refutation of traditional Disney fairytale values, mocking them as manufactured, inhuman, and even cruel in the way that they marginalize those who don't fit an ideal of beauty. Again we see the opening sequence - defacing a fairytale - as support for this, but also the way that Dulac is displacing fairytale creatures. There's a moment where Gepetto literally sells Pinocchio, which can easily be read as a commentary on the crass commercialization and exploitation of fairy tales Disney likes to do.

And then, of course, there are lesser, supplementary themes. Love being a powerful positive force is one - Donkey is able to rally Shrek after he truly reciprocates Dragon's love for him (which echoes the theme of not equating goodness with beauty, as Dragon is still big and scary), and it's true love's kiss that grants Fiona her happy ending.

And then there's stuff that's unintentional. There's all this work done about how beauty =/= goodness, but then they made the villain incredibly short, which is a traditionally unattractive physical feature. So, does that mean that ugly things can be beautiful unless that ugliness is specifically height?

Sometimes, authorial intent does not match up with result - but in those instances, I think the most is revealed about the author. Modern Disney products tend to be very cowardly about going anti-corporation and pro-weirdness, despite their usual feel-good tones and uplifting themes - and that says a lot about Disney, doesn't it. That's why I think it's still important to keep authorial intent in mind, if possible, even if they fumble what they say they've set out to do.

Obviously, Lord Fuckwad being short doesn't REALLY detract from the overall message - but it's still a weird hitch in the themes, which I think is interesting to talk about, so you can see where personal judgement and biases DO have to be applied. There are two options here, more or less - either one believes that Shrek is making an exception for short people, who are of the Devil, or one believes that the filmmakers did a bit of an oopsie. Barring an outright statement from the filmmakers, there's no way to know for sure.

We can say a work has very complex themes when it intentionally explores multiple ideas very deeply. We can say a work has shallow themes when it doesn't have much intentional meaning, and/or that meaning is explored very lightly. The labyrinthine storytelling of Homestuck, with its forays into mortality, morality, and growing up, chock full of symbolism and pastiche and allusions, is a work with complex themes - especially as compared to the average newspaper comic strip, although they ostensibly share a genre.

We can say a work has very unified themes when these themes serve to compliment each other - the refutation of Disney-esque values, and love as a positive driving force, compliment the main theme in Shrek of not judging books by their covers, of beauty not equating to goodness. Ugly things are worthy of love, and those who push standards of beauty are evil and suck.

Similarly, we can say a work has unfocused or messy themes when the themes it includes - intentionally or not - contradict, distract, and/or detract from each other. Beauty has no correlation to goodness... unless you're short, in which case, you are closer to Hell and therefore of evil blood. To get a little controversial, this is actually why I didn't like Last Wish very much - there are approximately three separate storylines, with three separate thematic arcs, going on in the same movie, none of which particularly compliment each other - so the experience was very messy to me, story-wise, even though it was pretty and the wolf was hot. This is why we feel weird about Disney pushing anti-corporate messages, when they're a big corporate machine, or why it's easy to assume Homestuck was written poorly if you don't like Hussie - we want themes to be coherent, we want context to be unified with output.

Tone

Tone is somehow even harder to define than theme. It's like, the "vibe" of a work. For example, you generally don't expect something lighthearted to deal with the realistic, brutal tragedies of war. Maybe it'll touch on them in light, optimistic ways, but it isn't about to go All Quiet on the Western Front on the reader. By the same token, you don't expect fully happy endings out of the melodrama of opera, or frivolous slice of life from something grimdark.

Tone, too, is something people often wind up Procrusteanizing, which makes discussion difficult if two people disagree. If I read Homestuck as unwaveringly optimistic, with its downer ending the result of an author fumble, I'm pretty much going to irreconcileably disagree with somebody who reads Homestuck as though it's always been a kind of tragedy where things don't work out for the characters. Since it's even more difficult to define than theme, I'm not even really going to bother; I just felt like I had to bring it up because, despite its nebulosity, it's vital to how one reads and interprets a text. Sometimes I don't have a better answer for why I dislike a certain interpretation other than that it doesn't suit the work's tone. I generally try to avoid saying that, though, because it winds up smacking of subjective preference.

In summary... analysis is about keeping everything in mind all the time! But i swear, it gets easier the more you do it. Happy reading!

#homestuck #literary analysis #critical thinking

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embrosegraves · 13 hours

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𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕦𝕚𝕕𝕠 𝕋𝕠 𝕄𝕪 𝕃𝕦𝕚𝕘𝕚

Alessandro Fusaro x Fem!Reader (she/her) Where taking your niece to a race has an unexpected, very stressful (but eventually very welcome) outcome.

Warnings: None! Maybe some brief talks of the dreaded emotions!! (also probably some bad Italian translations 😅)

Ember's Notes: I really hope you like this one @pear-1206 because I actually loved writing it so much oml 🫶🫶

(I left it kind of open ended so if there’s a decent demand for it, I can write a part two that focuses mainly on the pairing)

For as long as you could remember, your family had been staunch Ferrari supporters. You had been part of the Tifosi for your whole life. It was something that you had found so much joy in, being able to cheer and root for the same team as the rest of your family. Which is why you had asked your younger brother if you could take your 7 year old niece, Gianna, to the Imola Grand Prix. He had told you a few months ago that he was trying to get Gianna to be a Ferrari fan (a fan of motorsport in general) but it was turning out to be tough work.

Originally your father had planned to take you with him, but given the circumstances, he had told you to take Gianna. So you brought it up to your brother and his wife. Your sister-in-law had been worried that something might happen to Gianna (and you of course) but she swiftly agreed to let you take her daughter when you promised to facetime every morning and every night that you were away. All that was left to do was to tell Gianna that she would get to spend a whole weekend with her Zia Y/n. [Auntie]

A few weeks have gone by and it was finally time for you to introduce your niece to the world of Formula One. You hoped that she would have fun, especially given just how excited she was when her parents told her about the trip. You desperately didn’t want that excitement to have been for nothing.

“How long will we take this weekend, Zia?” You heard her ask from the backseat of your car, your beloved 1959 Fiat 500. Your car had been another thing that Gianna was excited about for the weekend, as you usually only drove it around on special occasions.

“We’re going to be here all weekend, Bambina. Nonno was kind enough to get us passes into the garage for the whole weekend.” You told her. [Baby] [Grandpa]

“Are we going to meet important people?” She asked, twiddling with her thumbs timidly. You became worried as this was so far away from how she usually was.

“Mmm, I’m not sure Fiore. Why? Are you nervous?” [Flower]

“Un po’” [A little bit]

Your heart melted and seized simultaneously. You reassured her that being nervous was normal, because she had never gone to a race weekend before. Wanting to see her smile again, you offered to teach her about who was who in the paddock as soon as you settled into your hotel room. Gianna quickly agreed and was back to her vibrant, excited self in no time.

Walking into the paddock on Friday morning was a feeling that you would happily get used to. Gianna had asked if you could try and get there earlier than all the drivers. When you asked, she told you that she still wasn’t 100% confident about who was who, despite spending well over an hour the night before looking up pictures and matching them to names. Gianna said that by getting there earlier than the others, the two of you could find a nice spot somewhere near the entrance where you could point and tell her who was walking through.

Thinking about it, you couldn’t fault her logic. So here you were bright and early. You had arrived with enough time to buy some breakfast and find a nicely shaded spot where you could settle in while you waited. Gianna had insisted that you both sit at a table that was both directly opposite the paddock entrance and under a rather large tree. Sitting down you gave Gianna her breakfast, a freshly toasted bacon and egg croissant, and made sure that she was drinking enough water from her Cars themed bottle. Similarly you also began to eat your own croissant while you sipped your scalding hot coffee.

Gianna spoke to you about what she was most excited for this weekend while you both ate. Occasionally someone would walk through the entrance that she recognised. You were surprised just how often she had noticed someone that you mentioned the previous night. So far she had pointed out some drivers, a few of the team principals and the occasional mechanic or engineer.

When Hannah Schmidt had walked through though, Gianna had nearly fallen off her seat as she pointed and told you that she had recognised and remembered the iconic woman. Said woman had heard Gianna excitedly cry and she had smiled and waved at your niece as she walked to the Red Bull garage.

You smiled when you noticed that Hannah had waved at Gianna. Happy that this trip was definitely living up to what you had promised your niece. Seeing that the two of you had long since stopped eating, you packed away your rubbish and cleaned up the area you had been sitting.

“Should we walk around for a bit, Gigi? Stretch our legs a little?”

“Yes please, Zia.”

So you packed away your things and threw away your rubbish in a nearby bin. You held Gianna’s hand and walked around for a bit as you didn’t need to be in the garage for a little while still.

Walking around the paddock with your niece made sure to point out all the things she thought were interesting. You were giving her little tidbits of information throughout the whole walk, about a bunch of things that had to do with motorsport. Granted most of the information was directly about Ferrari but hey, you were trying to induct a brand new member of the Tifosi.

Unbeknownst to you, just as you were starting to tell Gianna about the extensive history of Ferrari, a member of the Scuderia Ferrari media team had strolled past you and had heard you speaking about Enzo Ferrari. They had quickly turned around and you found yourself being approached by a small media team no less than 2 minutes later.

“Hi, I’m Sophia. I’m part of Ferrari’s media team, I was just wondering if we could film you answering some Ferrari related questions for a youtube video?”

Having not expected this change of events at all, but also knowing you wouldn’t get another chance, you agreed to let them film you. So long, of course, that they didn’t get Gianna’s face in the shot. As they started to set their equipment, you gently kneeled next to your niece and asked her to stay within a few metres of you so that she wouldn’t get lost.

“Te lo prometto Zia!” [I promise Auntie!]

“Bene.” [Good.]

As you stood up they told you that they were ready to film when you were. Giving them the go ahead they pressed record and started asking you questions. First general questions about Formula One but soon they started to ask more obscure questions about Ferrari specifically. You smiled and gave as many answers as you could. Which was a lot. Later when the video would come out, a lot of people would comment that had you not introduced yourself at the beginning they’d’ve thought you were related to Enzo himself.

The questions had ended after almost twenty minutes. Sophia had apologised because she wasn’t aware how long that would take but you assured her it was no problem at all. You readjusted your shoulder bag and went to grab Gianna’s hand, only to not see her where she was supposed to be standing.

“Gianna?” you called, trying not to panic. She was right beside you, where could she have gone?

“Gigi?! Fiore, this isn’t funny!” you tried to call out again. “Zia’s getting really worried!”

Having already excused yourself from the media team next to you, disregarding their shocked and worried looks, you quickly started walking around trying to find your niece. Walking towards the end of the paddock you kept calling out for her, hoping that someone would take pity on you and help you look. Thankfully you had taken a “fit check” photo with her this morning, meaning that when you went up to people asking if they’d seen her, you could show them a picture of what she was wearing that day.

Too many people had said they’d not seen her at all for you to be comfortable. You were starting to get frantic when another 10 minutes had gone by. There was no way you were returning home without your niece. You’d turn into Liam Neeson if you found out that someone had taken her. Speed walking past the Ferrari garage, you finally heard the sound you had needed to hear.

Gianna’s giggles.

Letting her giggling lead you to her, you ended up in the garage where you needed to be for the beginning of the practise sessions. Looking around for Gianna, you noticed that one of the mechanics was crouching down but not facing the car at all. Walking closer you finally saw that the mechanic was entertaining you niece, whose face was lit up with the biggest smile you had ever seen.

Emotions washed over you like a tsunami. She hadn’t been taken. Tears welled up in your eyes at the utter relief you felt finally knowing that she had been safe the whole time.

Rushing over to her, you quickly scooped her up into a hug, wrapping your arms around her tightly.

“Gianna! Mia cara ragazza, non hai idea di quanto fossi preoccupato! I thought someone had taken you away and you were lost forever! Sono così felice che tu stia bene!” By now your tears had begun falling down your face. [My darling girl, you have no idea how worried I was!] [I’m so glad you’re okay!]

“Zia! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to break my promise but someone pushed into me and I fell and when I got up again I couldn’t see you and then I bumped into Alessandro and he asked me why I was crying and so I told him that I couldn’t see you and that we were supposed to go to the Ferrari garage for practise so he made sure I got here without anyone else pushing me!” She rushed to tell you everything that had led to this moment. You finally let go of her, moving your hands to stroke the hair away from her face. In the back of your mind you noted that she had bumped into Charles Leclerc’s head mechanic, but that could be focussed on later.

“It’s okay Principessa. You found help, I’m proud of you. I was just worried when I couldn’t see you, that's all.” You said, finally able to wipe your own tears off of your face. “Did you say thank you to Mr. Fusaro?”

Alessandro decided to cut in before Gianna could tell you that she had indeed said thank you. “Please, there’s no need for thank you’s. I didn’t want her to get more lost or upset.”

Standing up, you gently placed a hand on Gianna’s shoulder as you faced the man in front of you. “I must insist, you just saved me from a horrible phone call with my sister-in-law.”

You both chuckled a little as you spoke. He brushed you off again saying he loved hanging out with Ferrari’s biggest little fan.

“Zia, he has a tattoo! It’s so cool!” Seeing Alessandro get a bit bashful when your niece spoke made you curious, but you decided to not bring a lot of attention to that.

“Does he?” You said. Of course you already knew. Being part of the Tifosi for as long as you had, Alessandro’s Guido tattoo was common knowledge. Funnily enough it was one of the questions Sophia had asked you. Which ferrari mechanic has an iconic tattoo and what is the tattoo? It was your favourite question to answer as it allowed you to bring up your precious Fiat 500 that you had named Luigi after the Fiat from the Cars movie. It technically also allowed you to bring up your own tattoo which was, again, based on Luigi from Cars. Not that you did bring it up. You’d never hear the end of it from your father.

“Uhuh! It’s a red Guido from the same movie as yours!” Trust your innocent niece to blurt to all Ferrari that you also had a Cars themed tattoo.

Alessandro was now less bashful and more intrigued about your tattoo.

“The same movie as yours?” He asked.

You chuckled and continued to smooth out Gianna’s hair as you faced Alessandro. “Yeah, a few years ago, maybe a month before Gianna was born, I got a tattoo of Luigi from Cars. In a pale red instead of the usual yellow.”

Gianna nodded her head quickly and began to excitedly tell him all about how the first movie she had ever watched with you was Cars and how it had become your thing together.

All too quickly time caught up and it was soon time for Alessandro to go back to work. Gianna had deflated a little at the knowledge but she perked up again when Alessandro had said that he would try and talk to them again after both practise sessions had finished.

“After all,” he said, kneeling in front of her but looking up at you, “I’d love to get to know you better.”

I actually love this so much (When I get back home, I'll be making a new masterlist for the non-drivers that I'm gonna be writing for) ((also, while i’m away from my computer i’m gonna be typing up some dusty requests and maybe some drafts as well on my phone so please excuse any irregular formatting i’ll try and fix them before i post them))

this is also being posted a lot later than i initially thought it would be. i had planned for it to be posted before Monaco but 😅 (also something will be coming for the monaco race but i want it to be perfect so it might be a while before that comes to light)

#formula 1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 fluff #formula one #formula 1 #alessandro fusaro #alessandro fusaro x reader #alessandro fusaro x y/n #alessandro fusaro x you #alessandro fusaro fluff #ferrari #scuderia ferrari #ferrari mechanics #forza ferrari

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leporellian · 2 days

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i genuinely really think that, besides my “musicals are what you get if you make operas not autistic” theorem (another thing for another day), there is One massive thing that stands in the way of me liking (modern) musicals and it’s the relationship they have to their texts vs operas.

with an opera, it’s kind of established that part of the big game is that every production is a negotiation and not a reproduction. it’s a conversation. there is no one “canon” version of an opera and it’s the audience expectation that every production will differ somehow. this especially kicks in when we’re dealing with operas that have harmful ideas either explicitly (madama butterfly) or implicitly (die meistersinger von nurnberg) because you can turn those works into ruminations on themselves. you’re dissecting the animal but the animal is conscious and fully consenting and marvels at your work as you go.

with a musical, meanwhile, there is usually a dedicated version you are looking at and an insistence on a CANONICAL way things are Meant to be interpreted. there is One Accepted Concept and branching into reinterpretations counts as “headcanons” or another modern fan term. a musical is not seen as “sociological/anthropological record of multiple time periods” but as “Content”

musicals have two problems. 1) they don’t have the gap in time that allows for that kind of retrospective look (which is fair that’s not a them issue), and 2) they have a fandom cultivated around them and are seen as Content. they also are so “concurrent” with our time (and also very fast) that they don’t have a sense of Allowing for reinterpretation. sure, you’ll have your regional/student productions that’ll do some minor detail like a character acting slightly differently or a silent interaction included- but you aren’t going to have your deconstructed heathers that pulls apart how it’s kind of immediately fallen apart in a post-2018 world, or a lion king performed as if it was a brand new text without any regard for the details of either the original film or julie taymor’s stage treatment. god forbid you start deconstructing your musical! that’ll make the fans sad!

and until we get to the de-fandomization of musicals and acknowledge them as sociological texts and not Content(TM), we aren’t going to get there. but alas that culture is baked into musicals, especially as the shows see shorter and shorter long-term visions as the machine of broadway grows hungrier for money and so brand identity and imposition of ‘fandom culture’ grow stronger with it.

(this is also why i’m so fascinated with chess the musical, which is a musical that doesn’t work So Much that nearly every new production is some extensive revision or another (usually making it somehow more incomprehensible in the process). the idea of “musicals can be reinterpreted” is there! we’re getting there! but it’s Not Quite. and i find that Fascinating from a dramaturgical context.)

Anyway if i had my way every new musical revival would be like the daniel fish oklahoma over and over and over FOREVER!!!! YOUR BRAND IS DEAD AND BOW TO THE NEBULOUS CONCEPT OF REGIETHEATRE AS YOUR NEW KINGGGGG

#opera tag #rambles

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sunflowervoltwentyeight · 8 hours

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Happy 28th! Here is my May 2024 fic rec, organized by word count, from longest to shortest. You can view my other fic recs here. Enjoy!

We Were Such Fools by kiddle / @bluejeanlouis (98k)

Rule #1: The Rewind Machine cannot be used to change the past, only to experience it. History will reset itself to the original timeline every 24 hours.

On his fiftieth birthday, two things are consuming Harry’s mind: what he’s going to make the kids for dinner tonight, and the fact that his marriage is crumbling at his feet.

So, when his best friend gifts him the trip of a lifetime, Harry chooses to venture off to the summer that set his life on its course—all the way back in 1987, California.

It only took him one summer to fall in love with his husband the first time around. How hard could starting all over really be?

Once Bitten and Twice Shy Series by pinkcords / @pinkcords (60k)

once bitten and twice shy (19k) This time as his stomach rolls, there’s no doubt about it. He’s going to vomit. And if he does, it’ll be on Louis’ shoes, a nice little parting gift to go with the embarrassment he’s caused the both of them. “I’m gonna throw up,” he says just as Louis turns to look at him, blue eyes swimming with shock and confusion, and asks, “Is that true?” Or, in a rush of bravery only senior year can bring, Harry confesses his feelings in a letter to his neighbor and best friend, Louis, only for the entire school to hear it and laugh him out of their small town in Wisconsin. Ten years later, Harry's a successful lawyer at Columbia Records, coming home for Christmas for the first time since he departed for college. He plans to work his way through the trip, eat his mom's cooking, and avoid everyone from his past for as long as possible. The only problem is best laid plans hardly ever go as intended. These Stars Will Guide Us Home (41k) And then he’s gonre. Harry watches him take off his shoes, sort his belongings into bins, and keeps watching until he vanishes entirely, around the corner to his gate. Louis doesn’t look back and Harry can’t blame him, certain his expression, body language, entire being would implore him to stay. It would just make it more difficult on both of them. Louis’ always been intuitive like that, strong enough to make the hard decisions that protect both of them. Or Harry lives in New York and Louis lives in Wisconsin.

Cabin Fever by germericangirl / @germericangirl (46k)

“What the fuck is he doing here?“ He asked still looking at him, before he turned back to look at Niall for an answer.

Niall’s mouth fell open and he looked at him with wide eyes "He um changed his mind?“

Harry stared at Niall for a few seconds in silence, before grabbing a bag and walking towards a bedroom without looking at anyone else, slamming the door shut behind himself.

Liam flinched in front of Louis.

“Well I’m happy to see you too.“ Louis mumbled, some of the tension leaving his body. This wasn’t exactly how he thought their first meeting would go. It was quiet for a moment before Louis finally spoke up “Did you seriously not tell him I was coming?“

Or:

One cabin, one bed, two ex-boyfriends. What could possibly go wrong?

You, In Every Color by blueskiesrry / @blueskiesrry (38k)

But then he thinks of the soft curves and sharp angles he had imagined when he first drew up the sketches for the collection, the specific green of fabric he had picked with the thought of how they’d saturate green eyes, the glossy silks and soft velvets he had once pictured sitting delicately against milky skin.

“We’re drunk,” Louis decides on a sigh. “We shouldn’t make any drastic decisions now.”

or: fashion designer louis and his model bf harry have vowed to never work together again, but with the show for louis’ first solo line on the horizon, they decide to give it another shot

We'll Be Alright by ShatteredGlassHouse / @larryislove (36k)

"Lou, I know this-"

"Not plan? Of course, this wasn't planned. Harry, this can't be happening. We can't have a kid. We are not even supposed to be sleeping together."

Harry flinched at Louis' words. He was right, but Louis didn't need to be blunt about it.

"I'm not ready to have kids. I said that when we started this… Relationship," Louis stuttered the last word, trying to find the proper wording.

"Do you think I am? I'm not even twenty-four. You are almost twenty-nine! You're at the age where most people start a family."

"Doesn't mean I want to have one!" Louis snapped.

"Well, it's happening," Harry said, trying to keep his voice calm.

"Be serious, Harry. We can't have a baby. If people find out, you'll be fired."

Harry subconsciously wrapped his arms around his middle. He suddenly felt small. He didn't expect Louis to be excited. This wasn't the best news for their situation, but he thought he'd be happy.

"I know, Louis."

Or Louis is the Captian of Liverpool FC and Harry is one of the team's physiotherapists. They have a secret relationship going but things become complicated when Harry finds out he's pregnant.

Host of a Name by Signofcomfort / @signofcomfort (35k)

Louis leaves the band in the middle of the tour and drops off the face of the earth. Five years later, they might have a chance to meet him. Harry can finally have some answers and tell the truth for the first time.

Cabin on the Bluff Series by juliusschmidt / @juliusschmidt (6k)

Beech Tree in Autumn (1k) Louis walks forward. Harry walks back. And back. And back. Off the two track, through the brush, until his heel bangs against the trunk of a tree. Louis presses further still. Without so much as a, 'hello,' he's kissing Harry, hard and hungry. Mosquito Bites and Cheap Beer (2k) Harry’s careful not to look at Louis as he plays. At least, he starts out that way. But then the sky behind Louis begins to shift, clouds morphing from piles of gold-tinged wool to scoops of pink and orange sherbet. And at some point, Harry forgets-- forgets not to watch. And when he catches himself, it’s fine. Louis’ watching him right back. Sandwiches on the Shady Shore (2k) “You don’t have to do this,” Louis says. It’s hot in the little kitchen, even with the windows open and a breeze blowing in. Harry feels a flush enfold him from the inside out. “I know,” he says. And then, because he’s already showed up embarrassingly early in the day and made Louis a cheese sandwich, he adds, “I wanted to.”

Trust Me to Take You Home by hattalove / @hattalove (4k)

“I made breakfast,” says Harry, and Louis can feel him smile where his face is smushed against Louis’s shoulder blade. “Full English. All for you.” Louis finally opens his eyes, and blinks. “What about the others?” “Asleep,” Harry whispers, “it’s five in the morning.”

or, a clichéd tale of two boys in love and their first valentine's day together.

#28th appreciation #may fic rec #monthly fic rec #larry fic rec #fic rec #hlcreators #read

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semi-goodbritian · 1 day

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First legitimate contribution to anything :D

OCTONAUTS HEADCANNONS!!!!

captain barnacles: claustrophobic and scared of heights due to falling into a crevis in his childhood, only really has his sister and mentor natquit (can't spell his name) as a sort of family outside of the octonauts, second oldest at around 35 (lost track abit), very protective of his crew and won't hesitate bit-h

Kwazii: fueled by anxiety and energy drinks, lil silly guy but honestly will panic if someone gets hurt, doesn't sleep enough and stress cleans everything despite having a messy room, plays harmless pranks on the others (minus barnacles), has known shellington since college, he's from North East England but his accent is a combo of geordie, cockney and pirate aspects.

Peso: is this close to just slapping the next person to get injured, will eventually force everyone to get therapy one way or another, close with dashi and kwazii because dashi is the most careful and kwazii always ends up in the med bay, somehow not the youngest at around 28, will stab you if you hurt his family.

Tweak: she and her dad would go camping in the Australian outback and she has befriended several cassowarys and emus despite the danger, will smite shellington for breaking the gups, ended up giving them AI to make them help their drivers in emergency, it worked but now the gups are alive, never interview her she will roast all whom she hates

Dashi: least chaotic, wants to love everyone and be the therapist, has a portfolio of everyone doing stupid things and uses it to cheer herself up, has a YT channel and a Twitch channel which she does live streams on, coincidentally her YT and Twitch streams end up being on the news whenever something goes wrong on the octopod, yes everyone knows this don't worry

Shellington: originally from Scotland bit moved to Sunderland/Newcastle at age 14, knows kwazii from 6th form/college since they took the same stuff, watches casual geographic to gain random animal facts, if the air is tense he WILL crack a "ducks have a spiral pènis" just to de-tense the air, that or he just rants about the most random sh-t.

(Not doing inkling sorry ;-;)

Added stuff!!!

Barnacles is Russian, specifically siberian, Kwazii is from Sunderland making his a makam, shelly (shellington) is Scottish, dashi is Canadian-american mix and from detroit, tweak is Australian, Peso is chillean (can't spell, he's from chile) or atleast from the Chilean part of the antarctic.

Barnacles is 35 ish, kwazii is around 25, shelly is 26, Peso is 28 ish, tweak is 30 and dashi is 27 ish.

Kwazii has ADHD and autism, shelly just autism, tweak ADHD and possible autism, dashi has non miraculously, barnacles has undiagnosed possible autism and peso might have both autism and ADHD or just autism he can't tell anymore.

All have phobias of something but that's a different post. Hope you enjoyed, sorry its so long and yes I gave up half way through ;-;

#octonauts #octonauts peso #octonauts kwazii #octonauts captain barnacles #octonauts tweak #octonauts dashi #kwazii #tweak #dashi #octonauts shellington #shellington #captain barnacles #peso #headcanon

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gomapda · 2 days

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sidewalks we crossed [side B: him.] (pt. 1)

this is broken into parts because tumblr has a limit of 1000 blocks.

side A found here!

author's note:

oh goodness. it's been a while.

i really did intend on posting this soon after i published the first part, but then life kind of got in the way. i graduated from grad school, moved to south korea, and have been here since. i'm still a carat, and i really do think about this fanfiction all the time, mainly because this story is truly me bearing my soul to the internet and my friends who have access to the original google doc.

this one is a lot less edited and looked over, but it's because this portion of the fic reminds me of something i'm still in deep grief for. so, for those of you who will read this, i was originally going to have a third installment, but i think i'll leave it at this two. it feels good and true to leave it here.

this was supposed to be published yesterday on seventeen's anni, but i was busy spending time with my korean host family who i've not been able to see that often since moving out :')

maybe i'll write short stories including these two because they are so special to me, but this main story has come to a close. the real final push was jihoon releasing "what kind of future?" officially, the very song that inspired this fic, in honor of his beautiful friend and human, moonbin. bin-ah, i hope you're sailing among the stars and looking over all of those who love you and who you love in return.

and to you, who may be reading this, thank you for being here.

✧⋆°｡☾☼꙳ ੭ * ‧ ⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ‧ ⨯ ς(>‿<.). ⁺ ✦ * . ˚ ⨯ ੭ * ‧☼☽⋆｡°✧

tagging @fiantomartell since you asked me to whenever i published this. it's been a long while, but.

pairing: lee jihoon/woozi (seventeen) x f!reader

genre: romance, fluff

summary: an accidental like, an off-chance comment, a purposeful message. you were in an unrequited love with your childhood best friend and decided to run away from him and your feelings and years later you find yourself in the same city with the same feelings when he stalks your instagram.

rating: 13+

length: 30k (bro WHAT LOL)

tags: idol!jihoon, childhood friend!reader, unrequited love (but not really), reconnection through instagram, this is just different scenes pieced together (including a ton of flashbacks), reader’s nicknames are all bug-themed, reader has depression and it manifests as suicidal ideation sometimes, this is basically real life (aka seventeen exists and debuted 150526), but the years are a little bit off for the trainee period, jihoon left busan later and trained for shorter for the sake of my story hehe, cursing, pining, mamamoo + ateez are the besties of reader, member x member pairings, jihoon and reader are both dumbasses, reader is extremely book smart but has one brain cell when it comes to romantic feelings, jihoon writes music like he’s been divorced 12x, word genius lee jihoon, idk how doctoral degrees work, i only got my masters and it was a non-thesis track lol, also idk how trainee auditions work either, miss communication is a lady we all know too well, super cute soft shit too tho tbh, no beta we die like men, i spent 5 hours trying to format this for tumblr and i’m still unsure

inspired by “drivers license” by olivia rodrigo and “what kind of future?” by woozi

inspo spotify playlist found here!

──────────────────

side b: him.

The rapid beating in his chest drowned out the slam of the door behind him as he rushed down the stairs of your home, desperate to just get away as soon as possible. Your parents weren’t home, so he didn’t have to worry about looking like an absolute fool in front of them.

You knew. You fucking knew.

You knew how much he was in love with you and this was your way of rejecting him.

He was stupid, so stupid. If he just put his feelings aside then you wouldn’t leave. You wouldn’t have to leave. But this was all his stupid hormones and brain chemistry and his fucking heart. He knew that it wouldn’t pan out. You never saw him as anything more than just a dear friend, a brother. You made that clear.

Since the beginning, your pinkies intertwined promised a forever, but you both had different ideas of what that was. And he was stupid to believe there was a chance.

He ran.

He ran so far and so hard that he couldn’t make sense of left or right or forward or backward. All he knew was that he needed to get away from you.

But he couldn’t.

He passed by Old Man Park’s home with a winding tree you were convinced held fae people that would only come out when the entire town was asleep (there was a 50km radius, you said).

He ran by the rusted bars of the playground you two snuck off to instead of going to cram school where you attempted a flip and promptly landed on the crown of your head, wood chips tangling themselves into your hair, tears mixed with laughter and pain streaming down your cheeks.

The library where you would spend more time in the children’s section than anywhere else because you would practice your ‘reading voice’ for your future children’s bedtime stories.

The baseball field where the realization that he was in love with you hit him harder than any fastball pitch ever could.

You were everywhere.

And he needed to get away.

He went to your house to share the news of passing the trainee audition, that was the whole purpose of seeing you.

However, that wasn’t the only thing he planned on confessing.

If you asked him to stay, he would have.

But instead, you rejected him before he even got one word out.

So, he packed his bags up for Seoul, a place untarnished by you. A city that not even your light could reach, no matter how radiant you were.

──────────────────

Years later.

“Jihoon-ah, aren’t you working too hard?”

He glanced up at Jeonghan who was probably let into the studio by Bumzu. Jihoon glanced at the clock to notice a bright 4:02am glaring back at him. “Ah, hyung. I didn’t even notice the time.”

“I figured. I brought you some food.”

Jihoon glanced down at the two bags in his hands. His eyes narrowed. “Hyung, I don’t eat as much as you think I do.”

“I’ve seen you eat three full meals in one sitting. Get away from your desk and we can eat.”

Jihoon sighed before he reluctantly left the seat he hardly moved from for over seven hours. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Jeonghan replied happily, snapping the wooden chopsticks into two. He started chewing on one of the danmuji, the sound of its crunch reverberating in the studio. “Oh. And also, the wi-fi’s down at the dorm, so.”

“So, you’re here to steal my bandwidth.”

“I brought you food. I paid my toll.”

Jihoon rolled his eyes. “Alright, sure.”

“So, are you in the composing stage or the writing lyrics stage?”

“...Lyrics.”

“Hm. What are you writing about? Or rather, who are you writing about?”

Jihoon stabbed the grilled fish. “...You know who.”

“She’s really got a grip on you, huh.”

Jihoon grunted in response. Obviously.

Jeonghan continued, “I saw that one of the local newsletters interviewed the group home that she volunteers at. She was voted as volunteer of the year. Again. She smiles with her entire body. Seems like a good person.”

The younger of the two picked away at the fish, not bringing it onto his makeshift plate. “Yeah.”

“Do you still stalk her on Instagram?”

Jihoon let out a loud sigh.

“That’s a yes, then.”

“You know it’s not as bad as it used to be. I used to check, like, every few weeks, but now it’s gone down to just a couple times a year.”

“She hasn’t blocked you yet?”

“Hah. I don’t think she even knows that my account is reactivated.”

“Well, you never needed to reactivate before. Her Instagram used to be public. The rest of the members and I used to scroll through wondering how a bright girl like her could be associated with such a deadpan guy like you.”

“Wow. Thanks, hyung.”

Jeonghan merely brushed off Jihoon’s sarcasm, already used to it. “She only made it private this last year, right? Since she complains about her program being out to kill her on her story. To be honest, I’m surprised she didn’t realize you’ve been watching her stories.”

“I don’t think she checks who watches her story since she has over a few thousand followers.”

“She attracts people, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah, she always has.”

“Can I see her profile again?”

“You’re not going to do something weird, right?”

“Ey, Jihoon-ah.”

“That makes me really not want to.”

“Ey.”

Jihoon rolled his eyes before pulling out his phone. He opened Instagram and clicked on the “Search” feature and saw your profile appear at the top without even needing to type anything. He signaled for Jeonghan to scoot down the couch so he could sit down and handle the phone in his own hands. Jeonghan peered over his shoulder as he scrolled through your profile.

“Oh, is that Japan?”

“Yeah.”

Jihoon clicked on your post.

But it wasn’t opening.

So, he clicked again. And then again.

And his phone decided to catch up with his thumb’s movements.

The once white heart was now red.

His grip loosened on the device of betrayal and it clattered to the ground. “Oh shit.”

Jeonghan bit his lip to stop himself from laughing. He placed his hand on Jihoon’s shoulder and squeezed slightly. “I’m sorry, but. This is karma for not letting me see her profile on my own.”

“Hyung. Hyung. What should I do?”

“Just unlike it? I’m pretty sure that Instagram doesn’t send a notification as long as you unlike it before she sees it.”

“How do you know?”

Jeonghan shrugged. “Jihoon. It’s not the end of the world if she happens to see it. If she blocks you, then you know, and you end up writing another heartbreak masterpiece—” Jihoon couldn’t even appreciate the comment. “—but. Who knows what’ll happen?”

“...”

“Uh. I’ll just… do it for you, then.”

Jeonghan picked up the phone, facing the screen towards Jihoon, the camera scanning his frozen features to unlock and Jeonghan tapped the red heart to empty it again. He placed the phone back on the younger man’s thigh, but Jihoon remained in the same position as earlier, eyes glazed.

“Jihoon-ah.”

“Hyung.”

“Let’s just wait, yeah? The food’s getting cold. So, let’s finish eating.”

“...Okay.”

──────────────────

Jihoon picked at the rice bowl in front of him, his mind light years away, chest filled with concern for the future. Was auditioning for a company worth it? Even if he started the process now, wouldn’t it still take a while to even hear back?

“Jihoonie.”

His heart constricted once he heard the voice of the person who made him unsure. He caught you blinking owlishly at him. “Y/N.”

“Hrmm. You seem quite a bit down, my friend. You’ve barely touched your first bowl of rice. It’s concerning.”

“Just thinking.”

“Oh, don’t do that. We know that usually ends badly for people.”

“Well, someone between the two of us has to have brain cells.”

“I pride myself in simultaneously never thinking and also being the top student of our school.”

“You work miracles, Y/N.”

“Hey, now I know you’re down because you didn’t call me a flipping nerd. Your best moods are usually accompanied by your worst words.”

“You make me seem like an asshole. You slander me to other people, don’t you?”

“Of course. I can’t have them know just how utterly wonderful and fantastic you are. I’d rather you have that butthole reputation if I get to keep my best friend all to myself. I’m a selfish lady, you know.”

Did you even know how much your words affected him?

“You’re neither selfish nor a lady.”

“Oh, but I am. I’m a selfish lady who’s only checking on you because I refuse to be wrought with worry for the rest of the day. So, come on, Jihoonie. Let’s go play darts.”

“Last time we played you almost stabbed my hand.”

“Your fault for reaching for the board when I was about to own you. Come on. Let’s go. I’ll make a pinky promise with you.”

Jihoon snorted. “Of what?”

“I promise to do whatever you want if you win.”

Jihoon scrunched up his nose in response. You were always so naive with him, trusting him wholly. But a part of him was grateful that you did. He merely sighed and stood up.

He might as well use your promise to his advantage.

──────────────────

“She didn’t block me.”

“Oh, really?” Jeonghan glanced up at Jihoon who suddenly broke the silence.

“Who’s she?” Soonyoung’s ears perked up.

“You know. His firefly,” Jeonghan replied.

“What? Why would she block you?” Seungkwan directed his question at Jihoon, who was simply trying to edit lyrics in his own studio, which was being occupied by several SEVENTEEN members.

“Jihoon accidentally liked one of her posts last night, but we unliked it. Oh, sorry. I unliked it because he was completely frozen.”

“The notification probably didn’t go through,” Seungkwan supplied. “I’m pretty sure unliking a post makes the notification go away.”

Jihoon had set his phone aside earlier in hopes of not constantly checking it. His mind may be unsteady, but he was always self-disciplined.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Soonyoung glance down at his own phone screen that buzzed a second prior.

“Oh. Jihoon-ah, she liked one of your posts.”

Before his mind could even catch up, Jihoon flung himself to his phone, his self-discipline be damned. He frantically clicked on the notification and it redirected him to his Instagram page, where he saw your name among the list of likers. He wasn’t sure whether his heart was racing or whether it stopped completely because the buzzing in his ears overtook all of his other senses.

He even ignored the boys’ laughter around him.

“Is… Is social media actually facilitating real connection right now? Are we about to prove all of the ahjussi and ahjumma wrong? Are we about to witness history?”

“Seungkwan-ah.”

“Sorry, Jeonghan-hyung.”

“She… She didn’t block me. She saw me. What is this? What do I do? Do I just ignore it? Or should I let her know I saw it?”

Soonyoung snorted. “Yah, I’ve never seen Jihoon this nervous for any performance ever.”

“His heart’s probably racing more than it did the Golden Disc Awards.”

“WHAT DO I DO.”

“Jihoon-hyung,” Seungkwan started. “I think the first thing you need to do is breathe.”

So, he did. In. Out. In. Out.

After what seemed like years, Soonyoung spoke up. “So… Are you gonna message her?”

Jihoon sat in contemplation for a moment before he decidedly shook his head. “No. It’s time to write a song.”

Soonyoung’s eyebrows rose at that. “You’re gonna go back to work after all of this?”

Jihoon bit his lip. “No. This is gonna be a solo song.”

The corners of Jeonghan’s lips curled up at his dongsaeng. “I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.”

Jihoon nodded almost mindlessly.

Everything about her usually is.

──────────────────

“Jihoonie~ Wake up~”

He groaned loudly under the bed covers.

He heard you snicker, the only warning before you landed with a loud thump as he let out an “oof!” from beneath you.

“Get off me. You weigh like a million pounds.”

Rather than listening, you spread your limbs and trapped the adolescent boy beneath you, nuzzling further into the outer casing of his cocoon. “Nope. Just yesterday you yelled at me for not eating enough when you flung me off of the couch by accident because I stole the remote. So.”

“I’m suffocating. You’re killing your best friend.”

“Oh, but to die with a beautiful girl on top of you, isn’t that the way to go?”

There was a moment of silence where Jihoon contemplated catapulting your entire being off of his bed before, “Pretty sure that’s your dream, you damn pervert,” came his muffled reply.

“Huh. You might be right there.”

“Get! Off!”

His hand easily found your weak point between your first and second rib and you cried out as you toppled down onto his bedroom floor. He emerged from the confines of his sheets with hair sticking up every which way.

You grinned lazily up at his disheveled state and he glared right back at you. “Why are you in my bedroom?”

“Because your mom said to come and get you! We’re going to Muju today, remember? In time for the Firefly Festival!”

“Right. It’s your yearly family reunion.”

“Yes, I will become one with the bugs. My fursona will arise again. Or is it bugsona?”

“Is a buggy better than a furry?”

“You’re asking me to choose between two evils, my dear Jihoonie. Come on, get up. I’m excited to spend an entire weekend with our family.”

It was way too early for his mind to whirr as fast as it did at the simple implication of ‘our’. “Alright, firefly. Get out of my room so I can get ready.”

“Okay! I’ll go help Mama downstairs.”

You were committed to calling Jihoon’s mom as Mama instead of Eomma, as the latter held a tone for you that was nothing less than stressful.

Jihoon smiled at your joy, but stopped when he noticed you freeze in place. “...What?”

You shifted the weight in your feet before speaking. “Mm. Just had a thought. With a smile like yours, who would ever need the summertime?”

You grinned at him while his heart stopped. You always spoke without a care in the world; never carefully crafting your thoughts before speaking them aloud. You were spontaneous. Wild, even. Sometimes it ended with you in some kind of trouble, while other times, like this one, ended with him in trouble instead.

You scurried out of his room before he could respond.

He released a dragged out sigh as he felt his cheeks warm.

Forget summertime.

He wondered whether the earth could be sustained through all of the seasons at the sheer brilliance of your smile.

But he ought to thank the summertime.

Because it meant, every year, without fail, he would wake up to you, he would smell the breakfast you helped his mother cook, he would hop on a plane to travel to a different province and see the night sky alight with hundreds of fireflies, your face aglow with soft awe and wonder.

Yeah.

He needed the summertime.

──────────────────

“What? Jihoon-hyung is talking to the girl that just upped and left him and fled the country?”

“Chan-ah, your wording needs work,” Seungcheol chastised. The other members that were near enough to hear nodded, while others were distracted by their own activities.

Jihoon buried his face in his hands. “Eugh, I don’t even know anymore. It’s not like we’re actually talking; she just reliked one of my posts. It’s like, she went back and let me know that she saw me. But is that supposed to be a warning? Is it supposed to be a white flag?”

The youngest member of SEVENTEEN shrugged. “Hyung, I think that you’re putting a lot of meaning behind something that was just a small gesture.”

“Nah, Chan,” Seungcheol interjected. “Jihoon has been in love with this girl since he was a kid. This is more than just a small gesture, after what she did to him.”

Wonwoo spoke up. “Hey, don’t forget Jihoon was the one who left Busan first.”

The accused groaned.

“Wonwoo, you’re just biased towards her because you think that she and Jihoon would make a good couple and you believe in an ideal love.”

“Hyung, I just think that if Jihoon can write what he writes about her, there’s something there.”

“You romanticist.”

Wonwoo shrugged. “Jihoon-ah, I think you’ve tried to reach her with your words time and time again, but maybe it was never made clear that she was the one it was for. You mentioned that she really thought you were in love with your noona—” Jihoon grimaced at the memory. “—so, maybe she’s just unaware.”

“She can’t be that oblivious,” Soonyoung interrupted. Jihoon knew Soonyoung was almost fiercely protective over him because he was the one who witnessed Jihoon’s aftermath firsthand. Soonyoung may be over-the-top some days, but whenever Jihoon needed it, he would help ground him.

Wonwoo’s eyes flicked between the two of his fellow 96ers. “We were all kids once, Soonyoung. We were all so focused on ourselves we couldn’t really see what was happening around us.”

Soonyoung pursed his lips. “...I guess. Jihoon, what do you think?”

Jihoon stared at his hands. “Does it matter whether she knew back then or not?”

They all collectively raised a brow.

“Whattaya mean?” Seungcheol asked.

“I can make a ton of assumptions about her. That she was actually in love with me and was scared. That she was rejecting me in her own cruel, yet kind, way. That she had no idea and the timing was just completely off. But all of that, I don’t actually know. All I do know is that… I want to see her. And not just from afar anymore. But part of me also hates her. But all of me misses her. I don’t know. I guess I’m just too stupid to figure this out.”

A heavy silence passed over the group.

Soonyoung broke it. “If you’re stupid, then I’m the biggest idiot on this planet.”

“That’s not comforting, that’s just a fact.”

“Hoon, you wound me.”

──────────────────

Award shows were weird.

At first, everything was an out-of-body experience for him and could barely process what was happening. He even couldn’t believe that he and his twelve members managed to earn their matching pinky rings and the right to produce and perform, let alone be nominated for an award. When they went on the stage, they did their best to be as refreshing of idols as they could be.

But it was much more daunting than they were used to.

Their debut year went by, and although there were many nominations, they remained only that.

In middle school, he would often tell you that you had a strange fixation on being number one in your graduating class. He said that he didn’t get it, that being in the top 5 was already something that was admirable.

He would never forget the look you gave him when you said, “One day, you’ll know what it’s like. You’ll know what it’s like to almost have something and then not. It’s the kind of feeling that eats away at you, Jihoon. The feeling of, ‘But what if I did more?’”

He merely rolled his eyes and called you dramatic.

That is, until he experienced it firsthand.

The first time ever was when he was doing a music competition for clarinet and compared himself to his bandmate, who received several achievements while Jihoon found that he simply didn’t have the body to be able to hold the same lung capacity.

Then he felt it: that driving force.

You both pushed yourselves further, to higher heights.

And it ended with him sick and bedridden.

And you, heartbroken and unsure of life.

The two of you would reprimand each other for trying too hard, but even with accountability, that envy, that desire for an indisputable win, that fear of failure, would still sneak its way into you both. You, with your academics. Him, with his musical endeavors.

For several years after their debut, at award shows, Jihoon would clap, the rhythmic beating of his hands echoing that in his chest, his smile lined with bitterness, his ears rang with the whispered voices.

‘Those people didn’t deserve it. You worked so much harder. These people don’t even produce their own music. Or maybe it’s because they have real producers and composers, unlike you. Who are you to think you deserve that award?’

One night, after another show of no wins, he collapsed onto his bed, unlocking his phone, intent on watching an anime episode before falling asleep. His members were discouraged and no one wanted to discuss what more they could even do.

Even if they did everything right, maybe it still would never be good enough.

When he opened up the YouTube app on his phone, he saw a recommended video. Your name written out in English caught his eye and he realized it was Part II of a podcast you had done with the channel before. It was a Korean-American podcast and you would share your experiences in the Korean language, connecting with your culture despite being in a foreign country.

Before he could think about what he was doing, he clicked on it, hoping to find comfort in a person he always had, in someone he probably always would.

Several minutes in and he realized just how thick that red string must be between the two of you.

“You know, I thought I undid a lot of my perfectionism before coming to college. Korea is the birthplace of comparison and pressure, I’m sure of it. It was ingrained into me from childhood. So, I did what I could. I got out. Learned to broaden my horizons. But when you attend a school like Yale, your environment really just kinda forces you to be perfect just so that you can survive. Because if you’re not, then you’re cut.”

He thought back to his trainee days.

To his current days.

How similar.

“I remember being at an event where we were being presented awards for our achievements. I remember that I was in the running for one of them, and I won’t say which one so this doesn’t come back to bite me. But at this one event, I remember no other guests were invited, only the nominees and peers in the same field. And when they announced the winner, everyone applauded, of course. However, I won’t ever forget the sight that I saw.”

You chewed on your lips, gazing upward trying to find the right words to say, a habit you’ve had for years.

“The winner had the biggest grin on their face, proud of themselves, as they are allowed to be. But when they turned back to the crowd? I think they saw something. I think they saw that our smiles were forced, that we were judging them, judging ourselves, trying to determine whether they actually deserved the recognition or whether we should have been the ones to win. And… their smile faltered. It was quick, but it was noticeable. And I think the only reason why it even faltered was because it was only those of us who were nominated or could have been. Like, it’s easy to cheer on someone for a prize that you didn’t want, but as soon as you have stakes in the game? Well. That’s a whole different story. But when they lost that smile, it felt like something shattered.”

Your eyes welled up with tears, but they didn’t fall.

“They say it’s lonely at the top. I haven’t been there in a long time, but. I don’t even know if that’s where I want to be. These people have done super cool things, and who’s to say that I would’ve gotten the same results if I had tried? And maybe, maybe they have enough competitors. Maybe they need someone who celebrates them. Someone who knows the hardships of working in this field. And maybe that’s what I can do. I just want to do what I love and what I love doing is social work. Celebrating other people. Learning their stories. Not saving the world, but trying to make it into one that might be worth saving. If I happen to get recognized because of doing those things and they give some kind of trophy for it, then alright. But that’s just a byproduct of the greatest award I’ve already given myself, which is just letting myself do what I love.”

And those were words he carried with him as he went to bed that night.

When they won their first award. Their first Bonsang. Their first Daesang.

Award shows were weird.

It was all about performance.

Performing on stage, prepped through sound-check, clean-cut choreography, and pre-recorded live vocals to grab the audience’s attention.

Performing when at their designated table, giving reactions at a timely rate for both the fancams and large screen cameras.

Performing when behind the stage, being the best hoobae or sunbae they needed to be, adapting to whatever situation they may be placed in.

He knew how to perform. He was good at it.

It was why he’s in this industry.

But there are some things that don’t warrant worrying about an audience.

As he watched the seven members of BTS walk towards the stage, reaching for their Daesang. He clapped to match the rhythm in his chest, sure and steady, at ease. His smile, genuine and wide. The voice in his head, not unlike yours mixed with his own, provided gentle comfort.

‘They deserved it. They worked hard, just like you did. Their ability to collaborate with other musicians is astounding. It would be an honor to work with them. And you, too, have won, you’ve given yourself the greatest award by continuing to do what you love.’

──────────────────

Jihoon once again found himself at the recording studio, however, at a more reasonable time. He was trying to finalize all of the details on the songs for their comeback album, so he was spending his days in the recording studio and ending it in the dance studio, fully exhausted to where he would only have enough energy to shower and trudge back to his bedroom, just to pass out on his bed.

He heard the door to his room open but didn’t make an effort to turn around.

“How’s the song coming along?”

“The album is nearly complete—”

“No, the solo one.”

Jihoon finally glanced up at Seungcheol who now stood beside him. “I haven’t had as much time to work on it. Why?”

“No, I just wanted to check in with you.”

“You’re a good leader, hyung,” he said quietly.

Seungcheol clicked his tongue. “Of course, I am. But I’m mostly just curious because you’ve never written a song about her specifically that only had you singing it.”

“…that’s not true.”

“What? Which one?”

“The first song I ever wrote.”

“Oh what? What was it?”

Jihoon shook his head. “Don’t worry about it. It’s an old song that I think only I remember anyway, plus, I only had vocals at the time. No instruments or anything.”

“…huh. What was it about?”

──────────────────

You wiped your snot away from your face, unable to differentiate between mucus and tears. Your unrelenting sobs weakened to light shudders.

His voice carried from above you, his hand entangled in your messy knots as he rubbed soothing circles against your temple. You curled yourself further into the tear-stained pillow he so lovingly dubbed, “Y/N’s Breakdown Headrest” which also doubled as “Y/N’s Punching Bag” when your emotions were forged from fire and not a dam that couldn’t hold anymore of the taunts and cruelty from your own parents.

His thigh was a mere hair’s breadth away from grazing the top of your head. He had a tendency to bounce his leg, one you continuously called him out on, but he wouldn’t ever stop his bad habit.

That is, unless you needed him to.

And he always gave you what you needed.

So, he sang to you a song of hopes and dreams and the magic of forever and always. Lyrics of never-ending friendship and pinky promises.

──────────────────

Jihoon paused, wondering how you comforted yourself now, wondering if you now had a Breakdown Headrest 2.0, before he spoke again. “It’s about what all the songs I write are about. Love. Although, more lowkey, not as direct.”

“Love and her are synonymous to you, aren’t they?”

“She’s the one who taught me most of it,” Jihoon said nonchalantly. “A truly honest and genuine form of it.”

“Wow, how romantic of you,” Seungcheol laughed.

Jihoon rolled his eyes. “I’m letting you know I only have the patience to tolerate all of you guys because of her. She believes it’s her divine mission to be as annoying as possible.”

“She sounds terrifying.”

“Yeah, she’s taught me how to be patient and remain calm. But she was also incredibly patient with me. Honestly, it feels like all the things that make me likable are all from her.”

Seungcheol made a “oOooOooOOOooOOooo~” noise before Jihoon got fed up and kicked him out. Of course, his reprieve was short lived as more and more members flocked into his room, a constant moving traffic of his twelve brothers.

He imagined you meeting them.

With Seungcheol, you would probably tease him relentlessly, trying to come up with new names for the S. Coups game, while also thanking him for being so protective and steadfast, praising him for his taste in emo music and asking him to sing My Chemical Romance with you.

With Jeonghan, you both would sneak off to devise plans on how to create chaotic dynamics in between the members and cause more infighting while eating stolen snacks or spend hours just sitting around, doing fuck all, because why not.

With Jisoo, you both would speak in English (with you affectionately calling him by his English name “Joshua!”), sharing music as well as probably arguing between Los Angeles and New York, since that was a common feud topic Jisoo brought up.

With Jun, you would try to get as many reactions out of him as possible or get him to write down the list of all of the authentic Chinese restaurants around Korea or you would sit with him at a piano and watch as he played OSTs to Chinese dramas, applauding all the while starry-eyed.

With Soonyoung, you both would either be each other’s soulmates or the banes of each others’ existence, both fiery and passionate; however, you were always good at matching the energies of those around you, so you would let him ebb and flow while you merely followed, likely to call him, “Hoshingi,” just as Jeonghan does, and you would probably love caring for him the same way you did with elementary school students.

With Wonwoo, you would watch him play his PC games, probably in awe of his prowess or you would discuss lyricism and poetry, both exchanging flowery words for no reason as you would try to pick his brain as to what really lies beneath the surface, whether he truly is as straightforward as he seems, and be intensely satisfied that he simply is as he is.

With Seokmin, likely to sweetly call him “DK~”, you would ask him to sing for you since you loved Broadway style voices, and since you both were so generous with your kindness, there would be no doubt that the two of you would somehow manage to start up a non-profit that manages to eradicate all the bad in the world.

With Mingyu, you would discuss filming and the latest movies to watch and you would ask him how he finds the motivation to do many different hobbies at once especially when busy with being an idol; you would probably try to trick him into listening to you tell ghost stories as if they happened to you.

With Minghao, you would share your favorite poets and philosophical ideas, sharing the life lessons that you two have learned and realized you managed to hack life’s code at a younger age than most, you both realized the real importance of being alive: contentment and love.

With Seungkwan, you would probably be laughing so hard at his wit that you wouldn’t have much time to breathe, you would try to figure out how exactly he managed to memorize so much information surrounding K-Pop and why exactly he was so passionate about it or if neither of those, you would ask him if he could get you the plug for those Jeju hallabong oranges.

With Hansol, you would call him “Vernonz,” since you loved names that began with the letters V and Z, and ask him about his parents once you found out they were both artists, and you two would definitely discuss the effects of late-stage capitalism and social media on humanity.

With Chan, you would do your best not to baby him, but you hold a lot of fondness for those younger than you, you would try to figure out how he is so particular about his attention to detail and whether it is something that is pressuring him (and if there was some way you could alleviate it).

He imagined you there, integrated into his life again. He imagined you showing authentic interest in every one of his precious members, unlike most interviewers they would be forced to interact with every comeback. You would learn all of their names, find out their favorite foods, the best way to make everyone collectively laugh, and ultimately, how to help all of them feel comfortable around you and inevitably love you.

And once they did, he could say that his most beloved people were finally all together.

He fell in love with you, but you’re the one who taught him how to walk into it with his eyes wide open. So, he did it with his members. It took practice, having to actively choose them. With you, it may have always been a choice, but it was as natural as breathing, even if there were times he felt like he was being suffocated (or wanted to suffocate you).

He remembered the first time he became aware of it. Most people talk about how love comes, there was always talk about rose-tinted glasses and how it softened the world around them, unable to forget the brilliant smile on their face, but no. You always shattered expectations.

From anyone else’s standards, his realization came at an inopportune time. But it was so clear. It wasn’t as though you had sparkles around you as you emitted a warm glow, it wasn’t as though your hair was perfectly touched up with no strand out of place, it wasn’t as though you were perfectly dolled-up with eyes lined and lips colored. No. It was just… you.

And that's when he knew.

Because there was no filter to block the sheer clarity he was hit with when he finally accepted he was in love with you.

──────────────────

When Jihoon saw your crying form, a slurry of words filled with concern and instructions were the only thing leaving his mouth as he packed his things up. He only deviated once he gave a quick farewell to his noona who left with her dad.

Jihoon bit his lip. Would you be okay? Maybe he’ll just rush home now and shower then call you later at night. Or maybe he should go prepare his bedroom if you decide to visit. Yes. He should do that.

Jihoon turned on his heel to make his way back home, his newfound mission resounding in his mind.

However, your cousin’s voice reached his ears, “Wait—Jihoon, I can give you a ride.”

He looked back at him, saw the way your shoulders still trembled, and shook his head firmly. His fist clenched, the baseball preventing his nails from biting into his palms. He spun it once. Twice. And up into the air.

“Here, firefly.”

You caught it by instinct.

Your gaze met his.

He felt his heart ache at the sheer brokenness apparent in your eyes, rimmed with red and puffed skin. He grit his teeth. He hasn’t seen you cry this hard since the day your parents told you that your number two class ranking was nothing to be proud of and that they expected more from you.

His jaw clenched so hard, he heard an audible bite.

“Why are you giving me this?”

Your voice sounded so soft, like a child. A visceral instinct within him wanting to lull you into a peaceful rest with a lullaby.

But he wouldn’t do that.

Because that would be embarrassing.

(That was a future Jihoon problem.)

“It’s your win today.”

He much preferred the look of confusion on your face to the look of agony you held just a few moments ago.

“Huh?”

He swallowed thickly, his brain unable to keep up with the words tumbling from his mouth. “Even when you feel like you’ve lost, even when you feel like you have nothing to gain, just the fact that you’re still here, that’s a win. So. Scream. Cry. You can do what you want. It’s your win.”

Your gaze trailed down to the baseball, too large to wrap your fingers around entirely. It was probably much denser than you thought it would be, the weight foreign in your hands, unlike his.

You sniffled.

A soft smile formed on your lips.

And Jihoon realized he preferred that look on your face than any other he’s seen.

Pretty.

He rapidly turned on his heel before he even gave a second to try and unpack that thought.

The weight of his baseball gear was really doing a number on his heart, he realized belatedly.

That night, he didn’t prepare his room. He didn’t even call you.

(Not that you reached out.)

He merely stared up at his ceiling, his heart in a constant flux of rapidly beating or stopping completely.

He groaned loudly as he played through the day’s earlier events, thinking himself stupid for giving you a fucking baseball. You don’t even like sports. Did he think he sounded cool when he said all of that cringey stuff?

It’s your win?

But despite the feeling of wanting to curl in on himself, he couldn’t help but still agree with his earlier self.

You did win his heart, after all.

(He threw his pillow at the wall.)

──────────────────

“You’ve been liking her posts more easily.”

Jihoon merely grunted as he tapped away at his computer, Soonyoung on the couch beside him. “I decided to just… stop overthinking. Well, more like just stop thinking in general. I’m too tired to try and pretend I’m smarter than I actually am.”

Soonyoung raised an eyebrow. “You got it bad for her.”

Jihoon glared at him, who was scrolling through his (Jihoon’s) phone. “Be careful what you say. For the amount of songs that are about her, she covers basically 60% of your salary.”

Soonyoung laughed. “Guess I owe her a lot, huh? If she didn’t up and leave, you wouldn’t have come here and we would’ve never met. So, I guess I’m grateful to her. Plus. She’s cute.”

“She’s more than that.”

“Yeah. I can tell,” Soonyoung went quiet for a moment. “She… A part of me really doesn’t want to trust her. I keep remembering that day, you know. Where you just… didn’t seem like yourself. Barely there—” Jihoon cringed at the recalled memory. “—but she also just seems so genuine that it makes it hard. I want to be your bro, you know? Bro code and all—”

“I never asked you to do that.”

“—And I’m nothing if not a bro. But I don’t think you’re the type of person to be hung up on someone who’s not trustworthy. Like. You lose interest in people easily if you don’t see them on a regular basis. But her? It’s been years, bro.”

“Okay, bro.”

“Just letting you know I support you in your decisions,” Soonyoung stated, but there was an edge to his voice that sounded as though he was trying to convince himself more than Jihoon. “If she’s really who you say she is. If she’s the one who’s captured that stubborn heart of yours. Then I’ll do everything I can to help you out—Oh, she posted again. Wow. She posts often and yet still gets over a thousand likes. It hasn’t even been a day. Oh wow!”

Jihoon twitched but tried not to show his eagerness. “What?”

“They’re doing a donation drive for the group home that she works with. Ey, how can someone who does volunteer work to help kids and teens be a bad person? Jihoon, are you kidding me?”

“Young-ah, you’re the one who said it, not me—”

“So close-minded, Hoon.”

Jihoon rolled his computer chair over to Soonyoung, snatched his phone back, and smacked the annoying gnat’s hand in the process. Soonyoung yelped in pain, but laughed it off. He saw your post (noticed that Soonyoung ‘liked it for him’) and a figurative lightbulb lit up over his overworked head.

“This looks like something Bumzu-hyung would post on his story. Maybe I can ask him to share it. Oh, but this is her private page. Oh wait. She tagged the group home.”

“Thanks for the play-by-play.”

Jihoon ignored him and clicked the profile to see they had the exact same e-flyer post. But he knew that you’d probably notice there was an influx of donations (hardly anything got by you) and he didn’t want to bombard you with unsolicited help.

But it’s for a good cause!

But he might be trespassing on her territory.

Everyone cares about youth and kids!

This group home wouldn’t have even caught his eye had it not been for you.

He groaned inwardly. “I don’t know whether I should ask Bumzu to reshare or what—”

“Dude, just ask her if you can share it and then wait for her reply. It’s not like there’s only a one day donation thing.”

Jihoon blinked at Soonyoung. “You’re right.”

Soonyoung immediately sat up straighter, pulling out his own phone from his pocket. He opened up his voice memo app. “Say that again, I need to record that so I can set it as my ringtone.”

Soonyoung pressed the Record button, extended his phone receiver to Jihoon, who leaned in promptly and said:

“Fuck off, Kwon Soonyoung.”

──────────────────

“Kwon Soonyoung, what the hell are you doing?”

“What do you mean? It’s not like I planned this.”

Jihoon glared at the boy before him who was somehow wearing matching clothes again. He specifically came home after rehearsal to change into something different and yet, here he was, matching with this endless energy ball. Jihoon specifically changed out of his all-black garment to choose a long, plain blue button-down overshirt and ripped, dark jeans. Something different from his usual style of a t-shirt and shorts.

Yet, there Soonyoung was, in nearly the same outfit, minus the overshirt being a blue flannel.

“I think this just means that we’re soulmates, Jihoon-ah.”

Jihoon pulled back his fist as if to hit Soonyoung, but the latter didn’t flinch at all, only laughed at the expense of his friend. The other members were downstairs waiting for them so Jihoon didn’t have enough time to change out of the outfit. And it felt almost ridiculous to give this more attention than it deserves, as if he was losing by admitting that it bothered him to the point of needing to change clothes.

But Kwon Soonyoung, the man that he was, would not let him live it down.

“Wow, we look like a couple. We should go on dates, huh? Get some sushi or–ack!”

The shorter of the two pressed his foot against the back of the other’s knee and Soonyoung nearly came crashing down had it not been for his instincts to catch himself.

Jihoon huffed down the stairs, shaking his head at the situation and readying himself to be made fun of by his members. Once he got through that door, it was game over.

And he was right.

Seungkwan, Mingyu, and Dino were the ones who rallied the rest of the group to heckle, which only added insult to injury, as those three were the ones who had the longest rap sheet to make fun of. Jihoon kept his disgusted face on as Soonyoung wrapped his arms around his shoulders, announcing to (what seemed like) the world about how he’s ‘matching with his best friend.’

Jihoon came back with a slew of half-hearted insults at the rest of his members, but they unfortunately outnumbered him. He is rarely on the receiving end of this level of teasing, but he was dragged into it thanks to Soonyoung, who was eating it up.

Even in the midst of it all, Jihoon couldn’t help but feel thankful that he even had someone to accidentally match with who would wear it with such pride and not shy away from it. Sure, it might seem dumb and annoying, but it reminded him that he could have that kind of playful relationship with others outside of you. He had other friends in school or at baseball, sure, but none were as comfortable, as relentlessly fun. He thought there would never be another you.

And there never was, but that feeling of acceptance, of joy, of gratitude.

He was able to find it outside of you.

Which was a heartbreaking realization before, but now he only hopes you’ve done the same.

And mere hours after his own outfit debacle, Jihoon sees your instagram story to find you accidentally matching with Hyejin, her making the same face that he did not too long ago. But you had a shit-eating grin, no doubt proud of causing a disruption in your friend’s life.

Your caption read: “oh, you and your soulmate are tied by a single, red thread? that’s nothing compared to the matching threads we got on right now. eat your heart out, makoto shinkai.”

Beneath it in smaller letters: “if you can’t tell by her face, this was not planned at all, but man, am i really rolling with it.”

Jihoon snorted at the serendipity of it all.

Perhaps the string of fate really isn’t just a single thread.

──────────────────

It was a rare day in which Jihoon found himself at home.

Which meant he had a lot of time to think about you.

(You replied to him. He shouldn’t have been so surprised. But he was, pleasantly so. Of course, it included a thumbs up emoji which was the visual manifestation of the acquaintance zone, but he would take what he could get.)

Album preparations were underway, and although there is a part of him that feels as though he should be scrambling, especially as their anniversary date was literally tomorrow, he thought back to a voice from his youth.

Years ago, he laid in his childhood bed, struck with a nasty fever from pushing his immune system too far by attempting to balance school and various music competitions. There was a half-asleep you, exhausted by misplaced guilt, with your fingers intertwined with his, who said: Jihoonie, Koreans always say ‘fighting’. I told you that this morning, and I knew you weren’t feeling well. I could’ve stopped you. And now here you are. I said ‘fighting,’ but why? Why do we have to fight? Life isn’t a battle to win. You don’t have to overcome anything, okay? You can just lay here and be with me. Please don’t get sick again. Please remember to rest. Some days, it’s okay to just be.

So, here he was. Simply being.

Whenever massive events (like SEVENTEEN’s six year anniversary) happened, he made sure to spend the 24 hours prior doing nothing than just being, to gain enough energy to last the following day.

Otherwise, the nagging guilt would get to him.

You were always weaving stories with even the thinnest of threads. Your knack for adding dramatic flair, amping it up to eleven, was a nightmare sometimes. For example, when he got sick and you kept repeating that you should’ve said something instead of letting him go on stage only to nearly faint afterwards. You took on too much responsibility for things outside of your control, which only caused you to lose your grip on what you actually could.

His chest tightened at the thought of you losing your grip completely. There were very few things in life that terrified him, but you potentially ending yours was one that plagued him until he learned how to remain steady when you were feeling unsure, and even still, it tore him up inside. But he knew that it wasn’t his battle to face; he wasn’t meant to save you. You reminded him of that time and time again, so instead, he learned how to let you live the life you weren’t sure you wanted. He observed warily.

As a teenager, he knew just how bad these thoughts could get for people at that age. He knew how people fell prey to the lies that they were unworthy of life and love.

So, he simply tried to be as honest as possible. He would do his best to not invalidate your experience, but he refused to enable those insidious feelings. He would come off as abrasive, he was sure, but your ability to detect bullshit was like no other. Your parents had a big hand in that. So, instead, he was truthful in his own way, in his own language, one that you learned to understand.

A few years ago, you did a two-part YouTube podcast at Yale. The first one was released a couple of months prior to the second, and he’s sure at least one hundred of the views are from SEVENTEEN (not all him, his members also took away a lot from your words).

He listened to that podcast time and time again. He heard the life in your voice, the curiosity of the future outweighing the pain of the past. You said that life was, at first, a means to be with the people you loved. But you slowly came to believe that life was something that you would choose to love every single day, and so you did.

He hoped that you still did, but trusted that, if there were days that would come where you did not, you would reach out to someone to wait with you until the storm passed and you could choose to love again.

His chest filled with pride thinking about how far you’ve come.

But he couldn’t help but wish there were some things that remained from back then.

That glimmer of hope spurred him to become mindful of the object he was fiddling with in his hands. He held up a bracelet of years ago, hardly worn by time or by him. He wasn’t sure whether he was still allowed to. It was one-half of a pair, but if its partner no longer existed, then.

However, he never had the desire to throw it away.

The metal charms felt both foreign and at home in his hands as he fiddled with them, the faint clicking sound of the chain barely registering as his mind was in an entirely different place. His eyes focused once again on the charm of the sun caught between his fingers.

If only catching you was as simple, he mused.

Jihoon sighed and covered his eyes, desperately trying not to cringe at his internal monologue, habitually reaching for the Chopper plushie that you gifted him years ago, squeezing the body to diffuse the embarrassment he felt.

He remembered when he saw the charms at some random shop he heard about from others and thought you would enjoy, so he decided to scope it out in advance for the two of you. It was easy, on his way home after spending a few hours on his own to rehearse his clarinet, a regular occurrence.

Although there was no doubt the two of you gravitated towards each other, you both valued your independence and alone time.

──────────────────

“We’re giving us the chance to miss each other, Jihoonie.”

“Who said I’d ever miss you?”

“Well, gosh darn. Guess I’ll cover for you and miss you twice as much.”

“…You’re dumb.”

“Yes. Can I have some of your fries?”

──────────────────

He retaliated by taking the ketchup bottle and squeezing them all over the tray of fries and you immediately retracted, believing that fries should be dipped in its respective sauce (unless they were loaded fries, of course, which warranted using a utensil of sorts).

He chuckled to himself. Fifteen was one of the most turbulent years of his life, but there were plenty of moments (like fries drowning in ketchup) that reminded him it wasn’t all intense.

Your fifteenth year started off with that charm bracelet.

Two weeks before then, you were so moody that he nearly gave you your birthday gift earlier than he intended, just so he wouldn’t have to see you be so upset (for which, he has only a vague remembrance of what could have made you so upset). Of course, it might have been easier if he had simply brought up his concern and asked how you were, but he knew you would have brushed it off as nothing.

He paused.

Did he know that though?

Or did he just assume?

He clicked his tongue, annoyed at his own self-reflection.

Communication was easy in theory.

Application, however.

He often found it difficult, matching your pace.

You were always so quick.

Quick-witted.

Quick to anger.

Quick to assume.

Quick to run away.

He heard a soft knock at his bedroom door (which meant it wasn’t Mingyu or Soonyoung) and he grunted in response. The door slowly opened (that ruled out Seungcheol and Chan) and revealed who decided to greet him in such a manner.

Ah, he was right.

“Woozingi~”

“Jeonghan-hyung.”

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah.”

Jeonghan moved to sit at the edge of Jihoon’s bed, with his legs crossed. “The members are wanting to get dinner tonight altogether since we have a schedule tomorrow. The staff said they’ll pay since it’s our six years.”

This had Jihoon propping himself upright. “Barbecue?”

Jeonghan snickered. “Yeah, it’ll be good to get ready in a few hours. But I just wanted to stop by and tell you in person since I know you like to mute the group chat.”

“That’s because it’s constantly going off,” Jihoon grumbled.

“Yes, that happens when people are trying to have a conversation, Jihoon-ah. You should try it sometimes. Especially since it sounds like you have communication issues.”

Jihoon winced. “Hyung. Your timing is terrible.”

“No, it’s impeccable. Just not for you. Anyway, a word of advice.”

“Hm.”

“You don’t have to fear rejection anymore,” Jeonghan started, slowly, the words seeming almost foreign in his mouth. “Regardless of what happens with her, you have people in your life that care about you as you are. You don’t have to try and match her. I don’t want you to subconsciously fall back into a habit of appeasing her because you’re afraid of scaring her away again.”

Jihoon blinked slowly. “I wasn’t expecting actual advice, so I’m a little stunned right now.”

Jeonghan chuckled. “I’m gonna be honest. The other members told me to come talk to you because the rest are either too scared or don’t know what to say.”

“Hah, we’re back to our trainee days, huh?”

Jeonghan grinned, probably recalling the amount of times that he was the emotional support pillar of the boys before they each learned to open up to each other. “Speaking of, I remember when I first met you. You were a teen with a cold-hearted exterior and a lot of opinions as well as the weight of the world on your shoulders. You had the responsibility to carry the music of twelve other guys and you had just lost something that was precious to you. You threw yourself into your work and that became your identity.”

“I—”

“I know you’re not that way anymore, but I’m just reminding you that, no matter what happens with her, no matter how she may respond, you aren’t that cold teenager who had to bear the weight all on your own. You’ve grown and are surrounded by people who can help ease the load.” Jeonghan paused for a moment. “Also, if I could think of a member who laughs easily at anything, you are one of the first that comes to mind. So, it concerns me that you haven’t been laughing lately, even when Mingyu accidentally sneezed out his ramyeon noodles—“ Jihoon snorted at the memory from last night. “—and, if I can assume anything about her, I don’t think she’d be very honored to know that it’s because of her. So. Come back to us, Jihoon. If she’s really meant to be in your life, she can match your rhythm. Don’t leave us in the dust.”

“Is this a long-winded way of saying ‘bros before hoes’?”

Jeonghan burst into laughter. “Maybe so!”

──────────────────

“Our Jihoonie~”

The teenage boy grunted in response, shooting up a look at one of the older members. “Is there something that you need, hyung?”

“You speak so formally, it’s off-putting.”

“That’s because someone refuses to act his age.”

“What a tough Busan guy,” Jeonghan teased.

Jihoon’s face twitched.

“Bumzu-hyung is looking for you. Said he wanted to finish up some more lessons.”

“Agh. I knew he was going to have criticisms. I’m barely getting a grip on this music production stuff, so I don’t even know if what I’m making is good enough to sell. Everyone might hate it.”

“Even if everyone else hates your music, just know I’m one of your biggest fans.”

“...If my music is hated, then we won’t make any money, which means you’ll be poor. What? Is it your dream to become poor?”

Jihoon expected Jeonghan to laugh and tell him that he was right and that money mattered. But instead, Jeonghan replied, “Jihoon. Your music is good. And if we don’t make money because other people aren’t able to see it. Then what’s the point? You say that it’s your responsibility as to whether SEVENTEEN succeeds or not, but, we’re thirteen members. Three units. One team. We’re SEVENTEEN. Stop acting like it’s all about you. Maybe my dream used to be becoming rich. But now, it’s just doing this. With all of us.”

──────────────────

Jihoon stared at his hands, at the charm bracelet. “Is it selfish to want this life and her as well?”

“Maybe it is. But, so what if you’re selfish?”

“Isn’t being selfish supposed to be a bad thing?”

“Just hope that she’s as selfish as you are,” Jeonghan shrugged. “By wanting her in your life, does that mean you want to be with her romantically?”

Jihoon paused. “You know, I’m not sure. I think I would be over the moon if we could even just be a part of each other’s lives. To have that line of communication open. But as the people that we are now. I think I’d like to meet the new Y/N. She probably has more in common with the new Lee Jihoon than the old her anyway.”

“You two have grown apart, aren’t you worried?”

Jihoon went silent for a moment, trying to pick out the right words. “Rather than grown apart, it feels like we’ve simply grown in separate spaces, by taking different routes, but our lives seem too intertwined for our paths to never cross again. Plus, she’s one of the few people that I could really be myself around. It’d be nice to have another safe space like that outside of SEVENTEEN because who else can I complain about you all to, that wouldn’t cause conflict between us?”

“Ay. What is there to complain about?”

Jihoon gave his hyung a pointed look.

“Alright, alright,” Jeonghan started. “But be honest. Real talk. You really think she wouldn’t spread it to Dispatch?”

“She has always valued people’s stories more than anything, so it really annoyed her when other people would take out-of-context excerpts and twist them. So. That’s how I know she wouldn’t spread it. Also, if she was that kind of person, she would’ve done so by now. She has a ton of blackmail material on me.”

Jeonghan chuckled. “Interesting. You said she likes stories, so is she a writer like you?”

“Not in the traditional sense. She’s more of a speaker than a writer. In high school, of course, she had her awkward moments like everybody else did, but even then, she was a tier above the rest. I don’t know how to say this kindly, but she doesn’t really think before she talks, but she doesn’t usually have to because what comes out is almost always what she intended.”

“So, she must be eloquent then.”

Jihoon clicked his tongue. “Just because things come out as she intended doesn’t mean she wouldn’t intentionally be mean or annoying.”

──────────────────

“You like unnie, don’t you?”

Jihoon spluttered. Shit, shit, shit. He tried to gather his thoughts, but failed. He wasn’t good with spontaneous spoken words, that was always your realm of expertise. He needed time to think of the right thing to say, but you never waited for him. “F-Firefly, I—”

You barked out a laugh, and he nearly retaliated at the harshness. He wasn’t sure why exactly you were being so harsh. “Hey, it’s fine. I don’t blame you. She’s pretty high up there, above us mortals. From now on, I’ll do my best to help you out, yeah? That’s what best friends are for. Plus, you’re like family, like a brother to me, so.”

Jihoon sank back.

Family? Brother?

He wondered why that left a bitter taste in his mouth. But that didn’t make any sense. Wasn’t being called family the highest praise?

So why the hell did that piss him off?

Instead of speaking his actual thoughts, his mouth had a mind of its own. “I can handle myself, Y/N.”

You sneered at him.

God, you were so infuriating sometimes.

She wasn’t like that.

She was the soothing waves of Busan, ebb and flow, constant and expected. She was everything you weren’t. She was older, more experienced, graceful, calm, soothing.

She was beautiful.

But she didn’t have that burning fire you did. Didn’t have him reacting the way you managed to every time you opened your damn mouth or rolled your eyes—there you went again!

What the hell was wrong with you?

Rapid escalation, raised voices. You, accusing him of not trusting your judgment and hiding his crush from you, saying that you wished he trusted you. Him, arguing that he didn’t need to share every little thing, that it wasn’t about his trust for you at all, and that God, he did! He did trust you! Of course, he did!

So, why didn’t he tell you about the stupid crush?

It wasn’t that deep, but you were convinced it was, and he was too tired to even try and correct you. So, sure, he could be “in love” with his noona, like you believed. Because then he wouldn’t have to untangle the mess in his chest. He could shove it under the rug like he always had, always would.

You slammed your fists down onto the table before you walked away from him, in a rampage. Like a damn wildfire trying to clear everything in sight.

You were a volatile thing, explosive, even.

But.

You fizzled out just as fast.

He awoke around midnight to the soft knocking at his window, your silhouette perched on the thickest branch the tree outside his childhood home had to offer. He had half a mind to not open the glass pane but he saw you shiver and his body leaped out of bed without a second thought.

“I’m sorry, Jihoonie,” you said, a few moments after you clambered into his room.

“Okay.”

“I’m an idiot.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for being friends with me anyway.”

“Sure.”

So, he wrapped your favorite blanket around you, the one he kept in his room for nights like this. Color slowly returned to your face and he saw the stains of tears on your cheek in the moonlight. You muttered words of apologies and told him about your day, not having the chance to earlier.

You were better like this, quiet, but not silent. Like a crackling fireplace beckoning all to come and listen, to be enveloped in warmth and light.

He never once called you his family.

But he’d be damned if you weren’t his home.

──────────────────

“Funny enough, despite the fact that she’s more of a speaker than a writer, even more than that, she’s a listener. She listens to more stories than she tells them. I think that’s helped with her pride. If she knew she messed up, she would always apologize, even if she hated doing it.”

“Well, that’s one lesson you haven’t learned from her yet.”

Jihoon pulled a face and Jeonghan laughed in response. The older of the two snatched away the Chopper on the opposite end and started throwing the doll up and down.

“Alright, lover boy. What I got from this conversation is that you’re still in love with her, but you gotta make sure she’s worthy of your love, alright? Heed my warning, don’t be afraid of being rejected by her. It’s already happened anyway, and here you are: world-star idol with twelve bros behind you no matter what.”

Jihoon cracked a smile. “You’re right. I got lucky.”

Jeonghan tossed Chopper back in his original vicinity. “I think Dokyeomie wanted to ask something from you too, but I don’t remember what it was, so maybe you can go get ready and he’ll come find you.”

“What a useless messenger.”

“Your luck can’t be perfect, Jihoon-ah,�� Jeonghan quipped. He turned to leave the room but stopped in his tracks. “I hope to hear her story one day. Hear her side of things.”

“…Me too, hyung.”

──────────────────

“How much is the corn dog?”

“Hmm… Tell me your favorite color and how it makes you feel.”

Jihoon mustered as much displeasure as he could hold in his six-year-old body. “Y/N, you can’t pay with stories, that’s stupid.”

“It’s my shop!”

“Jihoon, we’re just playing pretend,” your cousin added, his eyes darting between the two of you, likely worried about needing to do damage control.

“Hyung, her idea is dumb!”

“Why!” You whined. “People pay with money all the time, but you can get money whenever! I don’t get to hear stories! I like stories! My parents don’t read to me every night like yours do, Jihoon!”

Jihoon stomped out of the playroom in annoyance, ears grated by the sound of your crying and your cousin’s failed attempts to console you. Stories couldn’t buy the new toy race car that he got. Stories couldn’t buy him candy at the corner market near the kindergarten. Stories couldn’t buy a GameBoy.

Stories didn’t matter.

Money mattered.

Still, nearly a decade later, you never failed to ask for your unconventional form of payment every time he took a portion of your lunch. He knew you packed more for him anyway. And he knew you would always ask for a story in return.

And he intentionally packed smaller meals so he could tell you about how the History teacher had botched up his classmate’s test and accidentally graded off by one, about how the clarinet solo he was learning required a finger pattern he wasn’t used to, about how that one guy—oh, the tennis player?—no, no, the flautist—isn’t it flutist?—it doesn’t matter—yes, it does, Jihoon—anyway, he asked out a girl—the senior?—yes—oh wow, how bold.

And you would smile in return, sliding your food choice of the day within his reach.

He learned that you hated money; it was the one and only thing your parents ever gave you consistently. Simply, it was the manifestation of their love (or lack of) for you.

So, he paid you with recountings of the mundane. You never complained, even when he felt as though his storytelling skills were lackluster. He held your rapt attention; your eyes wide with wonder, voice laced with curiosity.

Eventually, he asked you why.

Why stories?

“Because without them, I wouldn’t have learned that you love the X-Men series because of Hugh Jackman, that you prefer winter over summer, that the first ever K-Pop group you listened to was Brown Eyed Girls, that when you tell me a funny story, you wait until I react before you start laughing.”

And you gave him that smile that made his heart stutter.

“Money is everywhere, Jihoon. But there’s only one you. That’s all there is to it. People, at the core of it all, are just stories. So. That’s why. People will always matter more than profit.”

──────────────────

After Jihoon readied himself for the group dinner, he plopped himself down onto the communal couch and found himself scrolling through Instagram. He stopped at your latest post, a candid shot of you reading a children’s book to several six-year-olds, your face aglow with excitement, a high chance the photographer captured you mid-way through some silly voice attributed to the character on the page.

“Hey, hyung.”

“Hm?”

“Can I borrow your microphone for the day?”

Jihoon didn’t even have the chance to think twice before the words left his mouth, “Tell me your favorite color and how it makes you feel.”

An uncomfortable silence blanketed the room.

“Is… Is this a hidden-camera?”

“...never mind. Just put it back when you’re done.”

“It’s blue, by the way.”

“I don’t care—”

“It makes me feel happy because it’s the color of the sky and of the ocean, which means it can be super calm or super exciting. It’s also one of the colors of our Caratdeul.”

“Okay, Dokyeom-ssi. Get out.”

“Yes, hyung. Thank you.”

Jihoon thought about how, if given the chance, you would ask Seokmin if he liked the paleness of 9am or the depth of 6pm? If he liked the gentleness of serenity or the vibrancy of cerulean? Or if he appreciated all that the shades encompassed before fading into greens and indigos?

But he wasn’t you.

You were the inspiration; the muse.

You were the reason to write.

He was just a storyteller.

──────────────────

“THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO IS HERE. THANK YOU TO THE PLEDIS STAFF, OUR MANAGERS, OUR CHOREOGRAPHERS, OUR MUSIC TEAM, OUR DANCERS, OUR STYLISTS, OUR CAMERA WORKERS, OUR FAMILIES, AND OUR SEVENTEEN MEMBERS! HAPPY SIX YEARS. HERE’S TO MORE!”

Everyone in the rented out restaurant cheered before drinking together. Even the sound barrier breaking screams of Soonyoung wasn’t enough to dampen Jihoon’s pride and spirit over how far they’ve come as a team. He looked around at his table, several members already seemingly drunk, and couldn’t help but smile to himself.

“Jihoon-ah, make an exception for tonight and drink!”

He shook his head fervently. “There’s going to be several of you who are going to regret drinking when we have our V LIVE tomorrow. You’re going to look super puffy.”

“I can already feel it,” Seungcheol laughed, his eyes slightly glazed. “But the food and the beer are too good to pass up.”

Speaking of, Jihoon made sure to snatch a piece of kalbi to put onto his plate before Mingyu could. The younger one gave him the stink-eye while Jihoon merely smirked and tilted his head back, challenging him. Mingyu decided to change his target and grab at Seungkwan’s piece, who promptly smacked his hand with a “Kim Mingyu!”

Laughter went around the table as they reflected on the last six years, the amount of embarrassing moments that were brought up were positively correlated with the amount of shots that were taken.

Jihoon grit his teeth as he tried not to fold in on himself, remembering how they threw him up as a cheer and nearly ended his life by creating a Jihoon-shaped hole in the ceiling. He was so much smaller back then, easier to launch without thinking.

They laughed about the incident where Mingyu was nearly beaten to death by Jihoon with a guitar, which Jihoon argued that he still believed he was in the right. They discussed one of their first performances as a team, where they performed NU’EST’s “Hello” and they all had helmet hair. They poked fun at Seungkwan for his revolutionary English skills when he said, “are you kimbap kidding?”

They’ve grown so much.

International interviews with BuzzFeed, Seventeen the magazine, and others. GOING SEVENTEEN as a show has grown alongside them, more than just showing Carats the behind-the-scenes, but has now turned to variety that garnered the new fanbase of Cubics, and has been an honest highlight to Jihoon’s career, where they can just go wild and laugh with each other, just as they always do.

They talked about how they used to sneak in food, how they used to help each other get ready for school, how they still have the same playful spirit as they did back then, but with more trust that has formed between them (although, less for Jeonghan since his cheating at games has only gotten worse).

Jihoon leaned back, full of food and laughter and gratitude.

He wouldn’t trade his life with his team for anything.

(Not even you.)

However, that didn’t mean Jihoon didn’t want you to be a part of his already complete life.

He was a selfish human being.

He hoped you would be one too.

──────────────────

May 26th.

Six years ago, “Adore U” came out, marking the beginning of the journey of a thirteen member boy idol group named SEVENTEEN.

Now, here he was, trying to not be bullied into drinking another shot of soju after already consuming several in a short period.

Their anniversary V LIVE ended not too long ago and they did not have a schedule the following day, so the team decided to celebrate on their own, playing Mafia and messing around. A few hours ago, Jihoon would’ve hardly been able to tolerate the noise level, but since his hearing has been compromised due to his heart beating so loudly in his ears from the alcohol, he was plenty fine.

He shooed away his members and retreated back into the corner of the room, pulling out his cellphone and ignoring Mingyu making stupid kissy faces and noises. Jihoon shot him a look of disgust, but Mingyu merely laughed it off and went to go bother his next victim, who seemed to be Boo Seungkwan, a prime choice indeed.

As soon as he refreshed his Instagram app, there you were (with a highlighted gradient ring around your profile picture, your head tilted back with a soft smile grazing your features as you took in the endless sky above you).

He clicked on the circle and saw you and your friends there, a dimmed photo but your collective smiles large and wide. He recognized Hyejin and Wheein easily (the former with a disgusted look apparent on her face and the latter with a deep dimple), as they were two friends who were a common occurrence on your feed.

And there you were.

alexa, play congratulations by post malone ft. quavo 🥳🎓 #PHinisheD

The corner of his lip quirked up at the cleverness in your caption.

Perhaps it was because of the alcohol in his system, he swiped up to send a message:

i figured u would be a day6 or eric nam kind of fan

His brain short-circuited.

Shit. Fuck. Shit. Shit. Fuck.

Who was he to think he could directly message you like this? Also, who the hell was he to figure anything about you? He hasn’t even spoken to you. Jesus Christ, what has he done?

Before he could stop himself though, his thumbs decided to speak his thoughts.

sorry that was dumb of me to assume

of course u would like post malone considering u could rap the entirety of eminems album

What the hell, dude.

You were going to freak out and call him a creep and then block him.

You’ve literally never done that.

He tried to calm his heart.

However, not even ten minutes later, he realized he couldn’t take that risk.

sorry that was stupid

ignore me

congrats y/n

He felt nearly every goosebump that crawled along his skin, creeping up to his neck, threatening to choke him out. He breathed in deeply through his nose, hoping no one bears witness to him.

“Yah, Jihoon-ah.”

His eyes trailed up to see Soonyoung with a look of concern, mixed with a twinge of panic and anger.

Ah, it would be him.

“What did she do?”

──────────────────

For people who didn’t know him, Kwon Soonyoung comes off as, well, not-so-bright.

But that wasn’t (entirely) true.

Kwon Soonyoung was aware.

He knew how to read a room, but oftentimes, he would purposely choose to simply do what he wanted anyway. Hardly did he ever prioritize another person’s comfort and complacency over his expression of his individuality. He knew what it took to be a performer, and he never denied himself the opportunity to be one.

So, him simply staring at his friend in silence with eyes that alone could have earned him his moniker of “Tiger’s Gaze,” was a major indicator that something was amiss.

Also, the fact that his friend was shrouded in near darkness, eyes rimmed with red, only a corner lamp illuminating his pale features.

“She went to America. She’s never fucking coming back.”

Soonyoung tried not to wince at his friend’s broken tone. Jihoon cursed like a sailor when they were trainees, but it was a habit that he slowly lost since he would often be reprimanded for his speech. He had to do the work to censor himself.

Well, the K-Pop industry was not a stranger to censorship, he mused.

“Wasn’t she already at an international school, though?”

“Yeah, but I just… I thought she would come back after graduating from that boarding school, you know? She wanted to go to Seoul National University, but. Fuck, dude. What if I’m the reason she stopped? What if she stopped following her dreams because of me? What if I–”

“She made her choice, Jihoon.”

“This is all my fault.”

“How?”

Soonyoung saw confusion flit across Jihoon’s face, but it quickly settled with a shake of his head. “It just is, alright?”

“Jihoon–”

“I’ll never be good enough for her. Fuck, I just thought if I tried, then maybe I could be, and– God, who do I think I am? Of course she’d never want someone like me–”

“Dude! Shut the fuck up, will you?”

Jihoon sat there in stunned silence.

“This might not even have anything to do with you. And if she really went to America because she’s trying to avoid you, then she’s a massive bitch–”

“Don’t fucking call her that–”

“I can do whatever the hell I want. Just like she’s doing whatever the hell she wants.” Soonyoung’s anger was slowly morphing into rage. Who was this person in front of him? He was so used to the sure, secure Lee Jihoon who would never truly get riled up.

But one mention of you and suddenly he would spiral.

Who the hell did you think you were?

Leaving this man who loved you so fucking wildly, to the point where he was just one moment away from begging on his knees for your return.

Soonyoung felt disgusted, but it was more of a ringing concern in his ears.

“Jihoon, you’re acting crazy right now. So what if she doesn’t come back to Korea? Are you gonna wait like a fucking sad dog out in the rain? Hoping that she’ll come pick you up again? You’re missing your own fucking life here.”

“I just–”

“Yeah, yeah, you love her. I get it. But… If she were to see you right now, do you think she would even want this kind of love? This obsessive, insecure kind?”

Jihoon’s face was now contorted in pain and Soonyoung tried so terribly hard to keep his face neutral. Soonyoung was plenty capable of being a soothing person, especially to his fellow members, but he was so riddled with frustration that he knew that he would come off as disingenuous if he even tried to pretend to be.

“Let her go. If she comes back, then she will. But don’t let her come back to someone who is incapable of even picking himself off of the floor.”

“...Okay.”

Kwon Soonyoung was aware.

Aware of how much Lee Jihoon was in love with you.

Painfully so.

──────────────────

“I just–”

“You just what?” Soonyoung’s eyes bore into his friend’s face.

Jihoon recoiled at his tone. “I replied to her Instagram story and it was some dumb comment, but what if she thinks I’m being too much and she backs off and–?”

“Jihoon-ah.”

“...Soonyoung-ah.”

“She’s human, right?”

Jihoon raised an eyebrow at that. “Yeah, no shit.”

“Then why are you acting like she’s this untouchable goddess? Who cares if she thinks you’re being too much? You’re putting her on a pedestal she probably doesn’t even want, dude.”

──────────────────

“Why’d you reject the guy?”

You glanced up at her best friend. “What’re you talking about?”

Jihoon cocked his head to the side. Was it already so quickly forgotten by you? It happened at lunch and it was kind of rowdy. Poor dude. “The guy who asked you out to the dance. You said you thought he was cute before and that he was good at tutoring math.”

“Yeah, I might know him, but he doesn’t know me.”

Jihoon raised an eyebrow. “I thought you guys tutored together.”

You clicked your tongue. “Yeah, we do, but. He doesn’t know me. I know him because I ask him questions. I ask him about himself. But he never once asked me a question about me. If he did, he would know that I hate public gestures. He would know that I don’t like receiving flowers. He didn’t even care to ask any of my friends about what I liked. The main reason as to why he asked me to go to the dance is probably because I made him feel good about himself. I might know him, but he doesn’t know me, and that’s one of the most annoying things.”

“What, that people don’t know you?”

“No. That people assume they know me.”

Jihoon paused for a moment.

“People think that I’m this super wholesome good kid who gets perfect grades.”

“Well, one of those things is true.”

You cracked a smile at that. “Yeah, well. The more people assume I’m on a different level from them, the lonelier it is. I just… I don’t want to be lonely, Jihoon.”

“It’s alright. I’ll make sure you aren’t.”

It was chilling, how your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, as if you knew a secret he didn’t, as if you already prophesied a future that rendered his words empty. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Lee Jihoon.”

──────────────────

Jihoon nearly bit his tongue.

Ever since he no longer had the security of having you be by his side, he became exactly like one of them, forcing assumptions onto you.

You were out of sight and he was out of his mind.

He told you that you could always be yourself around him, and here he was, creating a caricature of you in his head that he knew didn’t exist. To push forth the narrative he wrote. One born of insecurity. “...I don’t understand how you’ve been so right lately?”

“I really do wish I had my phone around to record you when you say that,” Soonyoung said off-handedly. “So, you’re not going to try to unsend those messages?”

“You can unsend messages?”

“Uh–”

Jihoon immediately unlocked his phone to go to his messages. There, he saw your chat. He long-pressed the message without much thought and his thumb hovered over it.

But he hesitated.

“...Just watching from afar isn’t enough for you anymore, is it?”

Jihoon stared up at his friend, who had a look of (almost) pity etched across his features. Jihoon swallowed the lump in his throat. “...No. I don’t think it is.”

“Well, if she rejects you in any kind of way, I can comfort you.”

“No thanks.”

“Yeah, thought you’d say that.”

──────────────────

Almost exactly sixty minutes later, Jihoon witnessed a miracle.

“...She replied.”

Seungkwan glanced up at Jihoon. “Who?”

Jihoon turned his screen to his younger member, who leaned forward to read his screen. Only to audibly gasp and cover his mouth with his hands. “You messaged her?!”

“Yeah, like an hour ago. Keep up.”

“Hyung, you didn’t tell me–”

“Ah, Boo Seungkwan.”

The corner of Seungkwan’s mouth twitched and Jihoon merely smirked. He turned his attention back to your messages, smiling fondly at your usage of 🥳 after greeting him a happy anniversary.

Oh shit, wait. You knew SEVENTEEN?

And he portrayed that sentiment exactly when messaging you.

(With some typing errors.)

(He may or may not have taken one, two, several shots once the anxiety settled back into him.)

(His alcohol tolerance was nonexistent.)

The messages were now rapid-fire. He found out that you were a Carat and that you favored Yoon Jeonghan.

He snorted at that, of course you would.

A lightbulb lit up over his head. Ah. He could do something for you.

He jumped up from his seat on the couch, away from Seungkwan who was watching over his shoulder the entire time who chose to remain silent because he knew he would be kicked out if he said anything compromising. “Jeonghan-hyung.”

“Woozi Woozi~?”

“Can you do something for me?”

Jeonghan stared at him, frozen. Then after a moment to process what exactly Jihoon said, the older one crossed his arms over his chest, a scandalized look in his wide eyes. “Depends on what you’re asking for.”

“YAH.”

“Lee Jihoon, don’t yell at someone you’re trying to ask a favor from. You’re lucky I’m a nice guy.”

Jihoon held his tongue, but his expression must have given it away because Jeonghan laughed and said that he would rather not die, and asked Jihoon to continue with what he was saying. “Y/N just graduated and she basically said that you’re her favorite SEVENTEEN member–”

“WOW! I like her already.”

“Hyung.”

“Okay, what do you want me to do for both my cute fan and my even cuter dongsaeng?”

“Just a video to congratulate her.”

“My videos are rare, it’s not easy to get something like this, you know.”

“Hyung, please.”

Jeonghan cackled, but quickly acquiesced. “Alright, alright.”

Soon enough, he found himself in a rhythm speaking to you. It was so easy, there was no residual awkwardness (on his end, at least) and it felt so natural. The banter was still there and so were your emoticons, escalating from the “:)” of your childhood to the iPhone emojis. You seemed so close, within reach, attainable.

That felt dangerous.

He could feel it. He could feel that desire to spill out everything he could. He spent years coming up with the words he wished he could’ve told you, some of them now award-winning songs, and it feels almost euphoric to know that he could tell you it all.

But.

He wasn’t sure, still. How receptive you would be. Would you run away like you did in the past whenever things became too much, too overwhelming? He always reminded you that you could never be that, but he wasn’t sure whether he was of the same capacity.

He wants you in his life. There is no doubt about that, especially not now.

But what if you leave again?

He cannot mess this up. He can’t.

So, he kept things light between you, jokes and jabs.

But that didn’t stop him from pushing for more, disguised in a (not-so) innocent attempt at ensuring that he would be able to have open contact with you in the future.

And that’s all he needed. A future with you in it.

That wasn’t too much to ask for, right?

──────────────────

Yes. Yes, it was.

After a few days of no response from your end on KakaoTalk, your Shikamaru profile picture almost mocking him with his permanent deadpan look, the answer was resounding.

But Jihoon’s entire identity was based on his stubbornness.

So, he decided to take a chance and message you on Instagram.

Only to retract immediately saying you didn’t have to reply.

Stupid.

Thankfully, though, you responded within 30 minutes, admitting that @narutofanfreak123 was not exactly a username you wanted to share with anyone above the age of twelve. You both quickly resolved the miscommunication (wow, Jihoon thought, imagine if we had this before).

He chuckled at your choice of KKT username, @MadameFirefly, oddly touched that his nickname for you still held enough weight to be your moniker for a messaging app.

He did his best to casually ask what you were planning on doing in the future (not like he wanted to see if he could somehow fit into it, or whatever).

Jihoon was left staring at his phone screen, the weight of his phone now burdened by the weight of your choices. Seoul? Or New York City?

──────────────────

“You didn’t have to miss the dance just because I got a B on an exam, you know.”

“Your parents are insane for grounding you to the library for a B on an exam, you know? And for a hagwon that’s way above our grade level.”

You shook your head, not willing to admit out loud that you agreed. “What I mean is that you don’t have to keep me company while I study when you could go off and meet cute girls and sweep them off their feet.”

“Why would I do that when I can watch you and your snot-nosed face trying to do college level calculus?”

“It’s all so that I can get into Seoul National.”

“Firefly, you could get into any school, even outside Korea.”

“Maybe I’ll do just that,” you laughed. “Finally get out of here.”

“Just let me know and I’ll stow myself into your suitcase.”

“Oh please. You’ll probably be the one traveling internationally doing whatever you do. A world-renowned musician.”

“Alright, you can be in my suitcase instead then.”

“Okay, can you leave breathing holes for me?”

“No, get better lung capacity.”

You clicked your tongue at him and he laughed. “Seriously, though, Jihoonie. You could be spending your teen years the way the movies do it. You could be ‘swearing you’re infinite’ while a slow-mo cam focuses on you as you dance, surrounded by beautiful people definitely too old to be cast as teenagers.”

“No thanks.”

You put your forehead down onto the table. “Please. Do it for me. Get a girlfriend because I can’t.”

“You know, you’re probably why I can’t get a girlfriend.”

No. You definitely were.

You shot him an annoyed look. “You could easily go and find someone who’d be smitten with you. But instead you’re about to watch me get a nosebleed over how hard I’m working my brain here.”

“Maybe I’m a sadist and want to watch that happen.”

You threw your eraser at him, but easily missed, the rubber object bouncing off of the table and onto the carpeted floor. You whined at the idea of having to leave your seat and Jihoon just rolled his eyes and picked it up for you.

Sure, he could be dancing with his friends, with cute girls, with whoever. He could be surrounded by endless snacks and overly sweet punch, the dance no doubt smelling like youth and pride and reckless decisions. He would see that there are plenty of people in his life outside of you.

But, no.

If he did, you would be left here, in this almost deserted library on a Friday, pouring blood, sweat, and tears into what your parents have convinced you matters more than your health.

You gave him a large grin as he passed you your eraser before you went back to focusing on your work.

Yeah, he’d much rather see this instead.

──────────────────

Later that evening, he found himself again in his recording studio.

Our past that didn’t line up,

If I could go back in time,

Rather than roughly, but warmly,

Would I be able to let you go?

He stared at the lyrics he wrote, feeling discontent. He wanted to be the kind of person who didn’t feel any kind of residual emotions towards you. Who would be able to meet you where you were and wish you well, no matter where you decided to go.

One of his biggest regrets was storming out of your childhood home the way that he did. He could’ve had answers but instead he was left with hostile emotions and questions.

He could only hope he would’ve done something different.

But now that he is faced with letting you go, he’s not sure how easily he would yield.

He took a moment to bury his face in his hands and tried to think about this from your perspective (something he had to practice while living with twelve other boys). He breathed in deeply and thought about the you that you are now, about how the person he fell in love with could easily be gone, and you were nothing but a shadow of what remained.

But that didn’t feel right either. It seems as though the person that you’ve grown into, that you’ve flourished into, is someone he would’ve wanted to get to know regardless of whether you had history or not.

Perhaps that is because of the artifice of social media, or perhaps it’s because you carry an air of authenticity with you that has now been given the opportunity to bloom instead of stifled in the environment you were raised in. Whether or not you were mere remnants of his past, it does not mean that the person you are now is any less lovely.

He groaned loudly.

Emotional labor is hard.

How is this something you enjoy doing?

──────────────────

“You really want to become a social worker, huh?”

You shrugged. “I mean, yeah. It feels like the best use of my skills. I like being able to potentially help people like me and well, there are a lot of people like me, you know. I don’t know whether I want to become a private practice therapist, but that seems like a solid option for now until I know more about what else is out there in the field.”

He would disagree, but he decided not to. “I just can’t deal with all of those emotions.”

You gave him a raised eyebrow. “What are you talking about? You’re one of the most sensitive people that I know.”

Jihoon felt ruffled by that. “What? What are you talking about?”

You quickly put your hands up in mock defense. “I’m not saying that being sensitive is a bad thing. I’m saying that there’s no way you would be my friend if you couldn’t handle emotions. I have way too many of them, I’m not that blind to that. Also, I’ve read your poetry and heard your music and that’s some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. Like, even the way you hold your clarinet is emotional.”

“I think that’s you projecting yourself onto me.”

“Say what you want, Jihoon. You’re a sensitive soul, but I wouldn’t want you any other way.”

“Yeah, well, sensitivity isn’t what gets you awards, you know. Skill does.”

You huffed in response. “Yeah, well, once you build up the second, the first is what will create a legacy that will be one to remember for ages to come. I’m speaking it into existence now. And I lay claim to the title of being your first fan. I will support you the entire way, no matter what you do. Music, baseball, comedy. Whatever!”

Jihoon snorted. He wouldn’t dare become a comedian, but it made him feel good that you thought that was a viable prospect for him. “Whatever industry I’m in, I’ll probably have to protect you from all of the bad people. You’re too soft. Even just last week, I mean…”

“What? You mean, when Nahyun made fun of me during my presentation in front of everyone?”

Irritation washed over Jihoon.

The self-proclaimed It Girl decided to try and belittle you while in the middle of your presentation, as you were explaining the measurements that you used in your findings, she asked whether you had ‘measured’ your weight recently because ‘you really ought to’.

He never wanted to get into a fight more than then, especially when your other classmates laughed along. It was a subpar, typical, low-class mean girl line, but it filled him with rage.

You were completely unphased by it, continuing on with your presentation, not even choosing to spare a glance in her direction.

Luckily, the teacher, not being a prick himself, called out Nahyun and pulled her aside after class to apologize to you. (Jihoon would’ve preferred a public execution apology.)

Jihoon stood just a few feet away as you accepted her half-assed effort. You paused for a moment and muttered something to her, something that only she could hear. Nahyun merely pursed her lips afterwards before walking away. Irritation rushed through him again.

“Seriously, though. You’re too soft, firefly.”

“Hm. I don’t think so.”

“No?”

“No. I just think everyone else is too hard on themselves. And each other.”

“...You’re gonna be a great therapist.”

“Thanks. Hire me.”

──────────────────

Jihoon had his own fair share of meetings with professional counselors (especially in the midst of living such a hectic life as an idol), but he was worried whether you would be as cut and dry as they were, whittled down by years of academia. It seemed almost like they were reading out of a textbook, using vocabulary words like ‘empathy’ and ‘self-care,’ so he never saw it fit to return if it wasn’t necessary.

However, the places you’ve poured your time into left only glowing reviews for your passion and compassion for the field that you were in.

Jihoon was roused from his thoughts at his phone ringing on his desk. He looked at the Caller ID and saw a name he has been in and out of contact with for over a decade, it was your cousin. He picked it up. “Yo, hyung. What’s up?”

“Are you busy right now, Jihoon?”

“No. It’s a slower day today. Do you need something?”

“Yeah, just wanted to let you know that I’ll be in Seoul in a few weeks. Your noona and I are planning on celebrating saying goodbye to our single days by drinking way too much within the span of 12 or so hours. I wanted to see if you were down to join.”

“I probably won’t drink, but if it’s for you, hyung, I’ll go.”

“Nice. And you can feel free to leave after the dinner, we’ll just be at an apartment we’re renting out in Gangnam, since I don’t trust those fools to walk around the streets of Hongdae.”

“I’ll probably do that, I don't want to accidentally be caught by Dispatch.”

“Right, right. We wouldn’t want to sully the name of the best producer in all of K-Pop.”

“That’s a title I don’t think I’ll ever get.”

Your cousin laughed. “You never know, you might get that award sooner than you think, kiddo. Alright, I’ll keep you updated on our schedule. But uh…”

Jihoon knew his hyung well. He was about to bring you up again. “What about her?”

“I just wanted to ask whether you’d be interested in a meet-up with her. Not that we’ve asked her or anything, but I know we’ll probably meet up with her at some point, and I know it’ll feel weird if we’re not all together, you know? The four of us.”

“Yeah… I want to say that I’m courteous enough to wait for her response, but I just know that I’m willing to meet with her, if anything. Even just one last time.”

“That… sounds kinda sad, but. I guess I’ll take it. If you’re down, we could even make it a surprise on her end.”

He imagined your deer in headlights look but couldn’t think further than that. “Sounds like we’d really be putting her on the spot, if that was the case.”

“Hey, she’s rarely played it safe. Same with you. Might as well keep the flow going. And if anything, I’ll take the brunt of it all. She can’t stay mad at me for too long.”

“We both know that’s literally not true.”

“Okay, fine. Your noona can take the blame.”

“Wow, very excited to see how this marriage will go.”

His hyung laughed. “Amazingly, I’m sure.”

A thought occurred to Jihoon and he realized it was strange that he was mentioning it as an afterthought, as if it was something to be expected, something natural and normal. “Oh, hyung. By the way, I’m talking to Y/N again.”

Jihoon heard the undeniable ‘beep beep beep’ of being hung up and he stared confused at his phone screen until he saw another phone call from your cousin. He picked up with a, “Hello?”

Your cousin sounded much more flustered than he did just seconds ago. “Sorry. I hung up because I dropped my phone by accident. Say that again. You’re what?”

“I’m talking to her again. Kind of. I guess. Like, Instagram DMing went to KakaoTalk.”

“Jesus Christ, you slid into her DMs?”

“Can you not say it like that?”

“Can you say that that didn’t happen?”

Jihoon relayed the entire experience to him, only now realizing he didn’t even share all of the details with his members because it would’ve been too much teasing fodder from them. But your cousin, his hyung, was the kind of fellow that wouldn’t do that, even given the opportunity.

──────────────────

“Hyung,” Jihoon started one day, across from said person in a local Busan restaurant. “I don’t get how you’re single.”

“Why, you wanna date me?”

Jihoon’s eye twitched and your cousin laughed. Jihoon bit on his straw, the family style meal between the two young men long since devoured. “People compare us, you know.”

He quirked an eyebrow. “What’s there to compare?”

“I don’t know. So many people around us know how cool you are. You’re good at sports, you’re smart, you have a lot of friends, you’re handsome. Everyone always says you’re one of the best listeners they’ve ever met.”

“The trick is to not pay attention sometimes and just nod.”

“I’m gonna tell Y/N you said that.”

“I’m sure she knows,” he laughed. “Well, I'm honored that you think all of those things, but those are all traits you have too. You do realize that, right?”

Jihoon grunted. “Not… really.”

“Well, just because you don’t see it doesn’t mean others don’t. My cousin definitely does. She’s a good kid and has a good heart. Same with you. If you ever decide to do anything about those feelings of yours, just know that I approve.”

Jihoon nearly choked on his drink. “Wh–?”

“Oh, it was a secret?”

“Hyung!”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I didn’t say anything to her, don’t worry. And if you ask me, I’d say that you’re the only one on this planet that even has a chance. Well, except that girl from the cake shop.”

Jihoon sneered.

Fucking Woo Soyeon.

With her shiny hair and long eyelashes and doe eyes and tanned skin from her beach volleyball playing.

Giving out discounts to you like nobody’s business. Calling you cute and flirting nonstop while twirling a lock of her hair. Saying you’re her favorite customer. He could swear Woo Soyeon would throw a knowing smirk at him every time you stuttered a little too long when saying thank you.

That damned girl behind the counter, the one whose beauty and voice (“It’s just so velvety, you know? Like the chocolate cherry cakes.”) he knew you were smitten by.

She was even taller than him, especially in her heels.

At the ripe age of 15, Jihoon understood what jealousy was.

Because of fucking Woo Soyeon.

“Watch out, Jihoon. I can hear your thoughts all the way from over here.”

“Sorry.”

Your cousin laughed. “Trust me, you mean a lot more to her than cake counter girl. My cousin wanted all of us to go see the Christmas lights in the city together. You don’t see her inviting that cake counter girl, do you?”

Jihoon felt a weird sense of pride well up in his chest. Then immediately deflated. It felt stupid to feel like he won against a person who’s just trying to sell cakes to a loyal customer. “Hyung, how do you do it? You’d never let yourself get angry or jealous over stuff like this.”

The older of the two cocked an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”

“You wouldn’t get jealous over a cake counter girl.”

“Says who? I get jealous. It’s normal, you know. Jealousy isn’t inherently a bad thing. It’s just what you do with it, right? Like, just because you’re jealous of cake counter girl, does that mean you stop Y/N from going to that shop?”

“What? Why would I do that? She loves that shop.”

“Exactly. Emotional maturity doesn’t mean you stop yourself from feeling the emotion, it just means you learn how to handle it as it comes. And once you practice it enough, it becomes easier and easier.”

“You make it sound easy, but it’s not.”

“Hey, I’m not anything big and special myself.”

Jihoon shook his head. “Hyung, you’re a superhuman.”

“No, I’m just human and letting myself be that,” he corrected. “Trust me, there’s plenty of good people out there. A lot of them just aren’t making the decision to do so. It’s easier to be cruel, but. I want to prove that you can be kind and still be a man. We get to define what that means. If I decided to be cruel, to become what society says is ‘a man,’ then I have no doubt Y/N would lose trust in me, and probably, all men.”

Jihoon noticed that his hyung stared at him for a second.

“Actually, maybe not all men.”

Jihoon felt embarrassed, but also honored, at the implication. “Thanks, hyung. You know, for not making fun of me. And for admitting that you also feel those kinds of things.”

“Absolutely, I’m glad I could help.”

“I’m seriously still surprised that you’re single.”

“Yeah, well. That might not always be the case if I can figure out what to do.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well… you know your noona?”

──────────────────

Jihoon couldn’t help but shake his head at the way the events unfolded. Your cousin told him about his feelings for his future wife, but it still took a few years for anything to come out of that. He wondered whether being childhood friends had anything to do with it, as if the longer and deeper the bond, the riskier the chasm was to try to jump across.

However, your cousin still managed to do it.

“How did you do it, hyung?”

“Hm? What’s up?”

“Just… how did you manage to tell noona how you felt?”

The older man laughed. “You really think that it was me who confessed? No, no. It was her. I think she was tired of the back and forth that was happening between us. I mean, so was I, but I was a coward, but thankfully, she wasn’t. Now because of her saying that she loved me first, I get to be the one who says it last. Then we start again. It’s a dialogue, you see. It doesn’t matter who starts the line, as long as it continues.”

“Oh…”

“Am I proud that I was a coward? No. I sometimes wish it was me who said it first so she wouldn’t have any room for doubt. But we can’t go back and change the past, only commit to a better future. All of this to say, though, Jihoon, it’s been long enough of not saying anything between the two of you. I don’t think you want to wait any longer.”

“…yeah. I agree.”

That night, hours after preparing for the album, Jihoon’s fingers tapped away on his Notes app.

This waiting, it’s not easy to endure.

It was past 4am now.

But he didn’t want to wait any longer.

So, he switched apps and instead of a blank Note, he began typing into a message box.

i know its late. rehearsal never ends until 3am and i know that when u get texts you wake up even if ur phone is on silent bc the vibration wakes u up so im trying to type this all in one message so that it doesnt wake u up (hopefully) but i didnt want it to seem like i left u on read because i was upset or something. but i didnt want to message until i had the time to have a full conversation but i dont think thats happening any time soon anyway. when you see this i hope it makes sense im not sure if i am

A response from you was the last thing he expected, but you always managed to surprise him.

The first time he heard your voice directly in his ears, he thought he was going to spontaneously combust. But he tried to keep his voice level as he asked you about where you were leaning towards for your career.

The relief that rushed through him.

The hope that ignited in him.

That was the spark needed for him to explode.

And so he did, into words.

“I’m proud of you, you know?”

He heard your throaty stutter, one that only came out whenever you were really caught off guard. “Uh—what?”

“You got a whole ass PhD. From the best university in Korea,” Jihoon still couldn’t believe the two of you went to the same school. “You got offered a job at a super big school in America. One that’s super big in the field that you studied. You graduated from an even school for undergrad, a school that even I know the name of. And just… I know that people expect you to achieve because you’ve always been a genius, always so brilliant, but. You also work really hard. So I’m proud of you.”

He could barely hear your, “It’s not that big of a deal—” over the pounding in his ears.

“But it is, firefly.”

And suddenly he was brought back to all the years before. Where he spent more years in love with you than not. How that nickname encapsulated exactly as he saw you: inspiration, guidance, hope.

“I mean, I just—”

Your flustered response only encouraged him to continue. “You don’t have to believe me. But that won’t stop me from feeling it.”

“Jihoon, I—”

He didn’t realize just how much he’s missed hearing you say his name. But more than that, “I’ve missed you.”

There was a pause on your end, but he was done with his.

“I’ve missed you a stupid amount. Like us stealing your dad’s car to drive to McDonald��s at 3am and then running a red light on the way there. And then somehow almost hitting an entire flock of seagulls—” which he would never admit to being the reason he never wants to get behind the wheel again. “And then going to some random, deserted parking lot. And then realizing we didn’t know the way home, so we drove aimlessly, for, like, 45 minutes. And then panicking when we kept seeing the gas needle going down. That kind of stupid.”

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly why he was naming a memory that you no doubt remember as well, it was near traumatizing. But there was something in him that didn’t want you to forget. He didn’t want himself to forget. Because…

If I forget someday, as if nothing is wrong,

Our future will be empty and sad.

It’s not that I want to forget you.

Ah, he made a mental note to switch to his Notes app later.

“I… I missed you too.”

Jihoon couldn’t stop the grin spreading across his cheeks, almost to the point of straining them. It was already so late and he still had enough function in his brain to know he ought to cut this short now. Otherwise, he’d be on the phone with you for an ungodly amount of time. “I have to sleep now, but. I just. I couldn’t not tell you. That’s all.”

“Okay.” Your voice sounded so small, he had to press his phone closer to his ear to ensure he didn’t miss anything.

“Get some sleep, firefly. Or should I call you, Dr. Firefly now?”

“That sounds like a cartoon villain.”

He laughed hard at that. You would say that. “Alright, we’ll just go with firefly then.”

‘We’ felt good on his tongue.

“Night, night, Jihoonie.”

“Sleep well, firefly.”

He told you he needed to sleep, but with the way that he was running on sheer endorphins from finally releasing some of that pressure inside of him, sleep was the furthest thing on his mind. Instead, he imagined you getting some well-deserved rest, wondering what kind of dreams you hoped to have.

You were falling asleep, he was falling in love.

──────────────────

In less than 24 hours, he was going to see you in person for the first time in years, no more needing to find YouTube videos or podcasts or news articles or social media posts.

Tomorrow, he’ll be face to face with you.

And the dorm was in chaos.

“He should wear the white button down!”

“No, he should wear something funky, with cool patterns!”

“What? Absolutely not, hyung! Jihoon-hyung looks best in plain clothing, his skin shines that way!”

“Well, he’s been avoiding his skincare, so that might not be the best route to go down.”

“Hoon is handsome no matter what!”

Jihoon was exhausted. Why were his members more invested in this than he was?

Even Soonyoung was getting giddy. And that was a problem. When it came to you, Soonyoung was his voice of reason, but after he relayed the phone call he had with you, Soonyoung was easily won over by your: ‘I missed you too.’

“I knew it!” The tiger had exclaimed.

(Jihoon wasn’t sure whether he did.)

Junhui was thriving off of the chaos and was now leaping across the wooden floor, with Jeonghan quickly on his tail, trying to coerce him into stopping and failing miserably. Seokmin was still trying to convince Seungkwan that a funky pattern was like how, in nature, peacocks showed off to their mates—“he’s not a bird, hyung!”—while Soonyoung kept interjecting saying that Jihoon was attractive no matter what so he could just wear a plastic bag (which earned him a gentle slap by Seokmin). Mingyu disappeared for a moment after Wonwoo’s off-handed comment about Jihoon’s skin, only to return with his skincare products that Jihoon knew were going to be slapped on him soon enough. Seungcheol kept repeating in an exasperated tone, “Stop fighting, we already got a noise complaint this week,” while Jisoo and Minghao were probably off in Jihoon’s closet trying to establish an outfit for him without his consent. Hansol was on his phone, noise-canceling earphones on, completely uninvolved in what was going on. Chan was only goading on whoever was the loudest in the moment (currently, Junhui).

Jihoon piped up. “Do I get an opinion on this?”

In near perfect synchronization (including the boys in his room), everyone responded with a, “No!”

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

God, tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

[continue reading here]

44 notes · View notes