#now when i look into a mirror i don’t recognize the reflection they’re a stranger to me

[lesbehonestsstuff]

Chapter 17

Summary: Alex and Casey are called to the precinct where they find Olivia trying to get a little girl to open up.

Warnings: Usual SVU things

Chapter 17/?

Alex walked into the precinct looking for Casey. She heard her wife’s case was going up in flames, so she wanted to check in on her. She could hear the squad arguing with Casey, their voices carrying through the room. As she walked into view, she saw Cragen move closer to her wife, giving her a stern look. Her wife had a tendency to internalize the weight of her cases, wearing her heart on her sleeve, so Alex knew it was only a matter of time before things went downhill. As she navigated through the busy squad room, she spotted Captain Cragen, his expression stern, moving closer to Casey. "Now, you wanna think about that for a second, or just keep playing your blame game?"

Alex’s breath hitched as she saw Casey's eyes glaze over. Anger and frustration etched deep lines on her face. "Is that what this is? A game?" Casey's voice shook with barely restrained emotion before she walked away from them.

Elliot made a move to follow her, but Cragen stopped him with a firm hand on his chest. "I got her," he sighed, rubbing his temple as he prepared to go after her. Recognizing her moment, Alex quickly interjected, making her presence known and turning everyone's heads in her direction. "No, let me." She walked past them, rolling her eyes when she heard a collective sigh of relief from the squad. They knew Alex was often the only one able to reach Casey when cases got to her head.

Entering Cragen's office, Alex found Casey standing by the two-way mirror, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Her hand gripped the frame of the mirror tightly, her knuckles turning white. "Baby," Alex called softly, her voice gentle in the heavy silence.

Casey didn’t turn around, but Alex saw her body tense. "I told Jason everything would be okay," she choked out, her voice breaking.

"Casey, you don’t know for sure that something did happen to him," Alex said, taking a cautious step closer. She knew some of the details of the case and could understand why it was eating Casey up. She didn't know what the squad had said to her, but it was clear to Alex that her wife was nearing her breaking point.

"He's missing, Alex. Something bad happened to him, and they’re doing nothing! He trusted me, and I let him down," Casey’s voice rose, the anger in her tone marking every word.

Choosing to step closer to her, Alex put her hand on Casey's lower back, standing next to her and meeting her eyes in the mirror's reflection. "Baby, beating yourself up and fighting with the squad isn’t going to help find him faster," Alex reasoned, her eyes never leaving Casey’s.

Casey stepped away from her, taking a few steps back and finally facing Alex. "Whatever happens to him is going to be on my hands," she whispered, her voice filled with self-loathing that made Alex’s heart clench.

"Casey—"

"I have to go tell the DA. I'll see you at home," Casey cut her off, her voice hollow and distant as she brushed past Alex.

---

The week that followed was a blur of sleepless nights and cold, empty mornings. Casey threw herself into the case, coming home long after Alex and Niki had fallen asleep and leaving early in the morning. Alex watched helplessly as her wife unraveled, the stress and guilt of the case consuming her. She was no stranger to it and knew firsthand what cases like the one Casey was dealing with could do to you, but it had been a while since she saw Casey so torn up about a case.

At the end of the week, when Olivia called with the news that Jason’s body had been found and the boys re-arrested for his murder, Alex felt a mix of relief and dread. She got off the phone with Olivia and grabbed her things, already knowing where she would probably find her wife. She walked down the block to the bar Casey and she frequented whenever they needed to forget about a case or get a break from the things they saw every day. The dim interior was a stark contrast to the bright afternoon outside. Casey was slumped over a drink at the far end of the bar, her posture radiating defeat.

"Casey," Alex called softly as she approached.

"Hmm, how did you find me?" Casey’s voice was slurred, her eyes bloodshot and weary.

"I figured you’d probably be here," Alex replied, sitting down beside her and placing a hand on her back.

"Niki?" Casey asked, her concern momentarily piercing through the fog of alcohol, remembering it was almost time for pickup.

"Kathy offered to pick her up and take her and the twins to see a movie," Alex reassured her, rubbing gentle circles on her back.

"I fucked up," Casey mumbled, staring into her drink.

"It’s not your fault, you did everything you could," Alex told her, even though she knew at this point it would fall on deaf ears.

Casey raised her eyebrow, letting out a humorless chuckle, gulping down most of her drink. "Tell that to Jason's parents," her voice cracked, the weight of her guilt pressing down on her.

When she went to order another drink, Alex waved the bartender off. "I think you’ve had enough, Case. Let's go home," Alex suggested gently, her hand moving to take the glass away from Casey’s grasp.

"Just leave, Alex. I don't want to go home," Casey snapped, her words sharp and angry, glaring at Alex.

Knowing it was the alcohol and lack of sleep that were making Casey snappy, Alex took a deep breath and grasped Casey’s hands. "Casey, you're a damn good lawyer. What happened to Jason was out of your control. I know you want to sit here and wallow and get drunk, but it won't help, and I’m not leaving," Alex told her firmly.

Casey looked at her almost like she was trying to test Alex’s determination. When she saw that her wife was really not going to leave her, she dropped her head into her hands. "I don't know how to keep doing this. Those parents lost their son because of me!” A sob broke out of her chest before she could stop it. She raised her head and looked for the first time since Alex walked in. “We have a daughter, Alex. Every time a case like this happens, I can't help but think... what if that was her?" Casey's voice broke, the emotions she had been trying to suppress to be able to do her job coming out.

"Casey, you can’t think like that," Alex tried but was interrupted once again.

"No, you know what? That's all I can think about. Every single morning when we take her to school, every night when we tuck her in. Most days I can push that down because we get justice, right? We help people and put bad guys away, and that should be enough. Enough to protect victims, enough to make me feel like I’m making the world safer for Niki. And yet I promised—I promised him and they killed him, so what’s the point?" Her words tumbled out one after the other before she could stop them, every single horror scenario, what-if, and possibility that she had been trying to suppress since Niki had come into their lives and changed the way she looked at cases running through her mind over and over again.

Alex knew what she meant, and she'd be lying if she said that cases didn’t hit harder and closer to home than before. She understood now why Casey had been falling apart the past week and wished that instead of bottling it up, they had talked about it before it reached this point. "The point is, you do make a difference. Every day, you fight to get justice for the ones who need it. You couldn’t save Jason, but you’ve saved and helped so many others, and I know that doesn’t change this case, but you can’t let it destroy you. I know this is hard, but you can still get justice for him and make sure his killers don’t hurt anyone else," Alex said, her voice gentle but resolute, her eyes filled with love and determination.

Casey looked at her, tears streaming down her face. "I’m just not sure if I can do this anymore," she whispered, her voice broken.

Alex cupped her cheek and placed a kiss on her forehead. "I know, love, but I know you're strong, and an amazing lawyer, and you won’t have to do it alone because you have a smart, beautiful wife to help you whenever you need.” She punctuated her words with another kiss, glad when she got a small, watery laugh from Casey. “Come home, baby," Alex urged, standing up and extending her hand for Casey to take.

Casey hesitated, then slowly reached out, her fingers intertwining with Alex’s. With a shaky breath, she nodded, standing unsteadily on her feet. "Okay."

Alex guided Casey gently out of the bar, her arm around her waist to support her wife’s unsteady steps. From what she had seen, Casey hadn’t drunk that much, but she knew her wife was exhausted and had a tendency to forget to eat when things were too stressful. All of that together resulted in a more tipsy-than-normal Casey. She successfully got them out of the bar and into a cab. The drive home was quiet, Casey leaning her head on Alex's shoulder, her green eyes heavy with sleep.

As they walked out of the elevator into their apartment, Alex guided Casey straight up the stairs to their bedroom. "Let's get you to bed," Alex said softly, taking Casey’s jacket off.

“It’s five in the afternoon,” Casey protested, though she sluggishly took off her pants and grabbed a pair of shorts from the dresser.

“Yes, and you need a nap. Don’t even try to pretend like you aren’t exhausted. I know you’ve barely slept this week.” Casey handed Alex her shirt and bra as she took them off. Alex put them in the laundry basket and watched Casey slip into Alex’s Harvard hoodie. “I’m not a child, you know,” Casey glared at her a bit while still settling herself under the covers Alex had pulled back.

Alex gave her a soft look, leaning down to kiss her wife, who was, despite her protests, having a hard time keeping her eyes open. “I know, love, but you’re tired and tipsy, so just sleep until Niki gets home,” she gave her another quick kiss, pulling the covers over Casey. “Besides, there’s only room for one person with bad sleeping habits in this marriage, and I’m afraid I have that spot taken.” That got a small laugh out of Casey, who finally closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax.

Alex sat on the edge of the bed, gently running her fingers through Casey's red hair, the repetitive motion soothing. "Just try to rest, okay?" she whispered, watching as Casey’s breathing evened out until she finally succumbed to sleep.

Once she was sure Casey was deeply asleep, Alex quietly slipped out of the room. She headed to the kitchen, grabbing the phone to order dinner, not even daring to attempt to cook after she had caught fire to Casey’s favorite pan the last time she tried. She chose Casey’s favorite place, knowing it was what she would need when she woke up, and placed the order.

She busied herself organizing things around the house while she waited for Kathy to bring Niki and for the food to arrive. She finally settled by the window with her book, taking in the afternoon sun. A little while later, her head snapped up to the elevator opening, her daughter followed by Kathy walking in.

“Hi, Mamma,” Niki greeted her as she dropped her backpack by the entrance and wrapped her arms around her mom.

Alex hugged her back tightly, saying hi to both her daughter and friend. “Did you have fun at the movies, sweetheart?”

Niki nodded enthusiastically against Alex. “Mommy’s home?” She asked hopefully, and Alex could see her daughter had spotted both her moms' briefcases sitting at the table.

“Yeah, she’s upstairs taking a nap. Why don’t you go up and wake her? Dinner’s almost here, and I’m sure she could use some extra cuddles,” Alex motioned up the stairs, knowing her daughter had missed Casey during the week.

Niki’s face lit up. “I can do that!” she declared, and Alex couldn’t help but smile.

“Go on then,” Alex encouraged. “I’ll be up in a second.”

Niki darted off, rushing up the stairs towards her mom’s room. Alex waited until she was up the stairs and turned to Kathy. "Thank you for picking her up and taking her to the movies. We really appreciate it."

Kathy waved a hand dismissively. "Anytime, she’s always a pleasure to have around. How’s Casey holding up? Elliot told me it was a hard case for her."

"She’s not doing great," Alex admitted. "But having Niki around will help. It always does."

Kathy nodded, very aware of how much their own children helped Elliot cope during the harder days. “Well, if you need anything else, just call.”

“Thanks, Kathy, and thank you again for today,” Alex told her, waving her off as she got in the elevator.

Alex walked up the stairs, pausing outside the door, watching how Niki had already snuggled close, laying her head on her mother’s chest. Casey, still half-asleep, instinctively had wrapped an arm around Niki, pulling her closer.

She walked in, sitting by them and rubbed her hand up and down Casey’s arm. Casey finally opened her eyes and blinked slowly. “Hi, bug,” she murmured, her expression and voice so much softer and more peaceful than earlier.

“Hi, Mommy,” Niki replied, shooting her a giant smile and snuggling even closer. “Mamma said you needed cuddles. Did you have a bad day?”

Casey placed her chin on top of her daughter’s head. “Yeah, bug, I had a bad couple of days.”

The three of them sat in silence for a few minutes, just happy to be with each other. “I missed you this week, Mommy. Bedtime isn’t as fun without you.”

“Are you saying that bedtime with me isn’t fun?” Alex asked, feigning a hurt expression.

Niki giggled, turning to look at Alex. “No, Mamma. But I like it when both of you do bedtime, 'cause Mommy does the funny voices for the book.”

Alex smiled. “Well, I suppose Mommy does make the stories more fun,” she said, reaching out to ruffle Niki’s hair.

Casey sighed, feeling a pang of guilt. “I’m sorry I’ve been working so much,” she said, her voice sincere and apologetic. “I’ll try not to miss bedtime again.”

“I know you and Mamma have an important job and you’re helping people who need you, Mommy. But I like it when you’re here,” Niki said, and Alex was thankful her daughter was reinforcing what she had tried to convince Casey of earlier.

Casey nodded and kissed Niki’s forehead again, trying not to get overwhelmed with emotion for what felt like the hundredth time that week.

Alex squeezed Casey’s arm, silently supporting her wife. "Dinner’s on its way. Just rest a little more, okay? We’ll eat when it gets here."

Casey nodded, her eyes already closing again as she held Niki tightly. "Thank you, Lex," she whispered, feeling more relaxed than she had in a while, grateful that she had a wife and daughter who loved her and wouldn’t give up on her.

#alex cabot #casey novak #calex #casey novak x alex cabot #law and order svu #she’s is Spain without the s

[aboyshapeddog]

WIP ⚠️

Staci “No Survival Instincts” Pratt’s Night Out

Relationships: Staci Pratt/Jacob Seed

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Dom/Sub dynamic, Smut, Alchohol Use, NonCult Au, Jacob is a Creep, Rough S*x, BDSM, Bondage, Biting, Age Difference (duh), Knives, Toys

Spending his off nights in the local bar had become more of a routine than an outing. Less getting dressed up, more finding the cleanest shirt left in his hamper not too threadbare to wear in public. One beer into his solo pregame, after catching his reflection in the admittedly dirty mirror, it struck him. Staci Pratt was too young for this shit, to be throwing his night away like he’s got nothing better to do. 

So he straightened out, showered, spritzed on a little too much cologne, and combed back his hair so it curled neatly behind his ears. Tonight the very off-duty Deputy would allow himself a real night out; a night in some thigh hugging jeans, and an appropriately too tight t-shirt, even if it meant Joey spending half the time ribbing him for it. So, he was back on track to the Spread Eagle, but decidedly not to mope and nurse a glass whatever they had on tap for the next hour. 

It was dingy and dark when he arrived, the air had a permanent heaviness from smoke, and the smell of stale beer. The nostalgia almost let him disregard the way his shoes would stick to the floor in some areas, from the copious amounts of spilled drinks that found their way to the old wood. Joey had somehow convinced the Junior Deputy, and Sharky Boshaw to come out with her for a night of real partying, perfect. Staci was three drinks in before he agreed to some old fashioned two stepping with his fellow deputies, four before the banda music started sounding like a personal call to action, and five before right now; feeling the rhythm beating in his chest, Staci attempted some kind of lasso move with the just as inebriated Deputy Hudson- then boom.

They were both slingshotted in opposite directions with enough momentum to send Joey into the loving drink-filled embraces of Rook and Sharky, and Staci into- Huh, that wall he bumped into was interestingly placed . . . and moving, oh man. Even swaying on his feet, Staci did his best to reflect the character of the friendly neighborhood Deputy, “Oh I’m real sorry, Sir I did not see you there”, his face was hot from the drinks and embarrassment, his drawl becoming much more pronounced with each.

This was new, there weren’t many people in the county that Officer Pratt wouldn’t immediately recognize, it just came with the territory of living and working in such a secluded area, and here was this big, big, man, fiery hair, thick beard to match, and ice cold eyes, this was a face he would’ve remembered. The Deputy lifted his hands in a no-harm-done gesture, drinking in the sight of the massive man now looming above him, who didn’t seem to react. The stranger stood still, looking the younger man up and down very slowly, before grunting an acknowledgement. Staci blinked a few times, deciding the interaction had indeed ended, turning back to his party. “Jesus Stace, next rodeo they’re hosting I’ll have to tell them to forget the bull and just call you.” Joey snickered, egging a round of laughter from the group. “Oh ha ha, Joey. While you’re on the phone, why don’t you call up Whitehorse and report the illegal construction of the Splash Zone you’re cultivating over here." The tense energy of the situation seemed to evaporate immediately, each of them feeding off the other’s excitement.

Alright, not gonna ruin his night! Well, it wouldn’t have if he wasn’t so damn clumsy. It had been close to another hour before Staci made the mistake of running into the stranger again, almost literally. A bit too much commitment to a save in the alcohol fueled “Hope County Sheriff’s Department Ping Pong Tournament” (with celeb serves from Sharky) sent him stumbling straight into the same guy as before, was this karma? 

Time seemed to move a second faster than his brain could catch up with. The man grabbed him by his shirt collar, large hot hands closing their distance fast, “Are you looking for a fight, kid?” he growled and it showed his sharp white teeth. For a second neither moved a muscle, piercing blue eyes locking on to his own; Staci could feel the other man's breath on his face, smell the alcohol, his cologne, and skin. Their noses could have touched, and the closeness made him shiver. Joey immediately made a move to step in, always the protector, before Staci waved her off with a quick nod and a sheepish smile. His heart was beating out of his chest, “No Sir, listen I’m real sorry about that-” he was interrupted “Yeah, you said that.” The man’s previously full whisky glass had found itself empty, dispersed between the bartop and his freshly soaked t-shirt. “Hey listen I don’t mean any trouble, really.” Staci reasoned, offering a charming grin as he pressed both hands to the man's wide chest for leverage. “You seem like a, uh, reasonable man. My place is five minutes from here, how about we grab you a new shirt, and-and I'll grab you another drink alright? Sounds square to me.”

The larger man considered it for a moment, visibly relaxing and releasing his hold, “Yeah. Alright.” he grunted. Thank God for small favors, and of course work mandated de-escalation training. Staci smiled again, this time with genuine ease “Alright alright, my cars on this side of the lot, Mr. . .” he paused, turning around to look at his soon to be house guest as he led them both to the door. “Jacob.” he said curtly, “And you’re not driving, even if you weren’t tripping over your own ass just a second ago.” Ouch. He scoffed “Well, we might as well walk then, I just saw you with a drink in your hand just a minute ago, didn’t I?”. Jacob was just as quick on his feet, “Well Columbo, due to some unforeseen circumstances I didn’t really get to drink it.” Oh. Right. Staci was red again.

The Deputy waved quickly and gestured toward the door for Rook, who gave him a comically serious salute, and went right back to riling up Hudson and Boshaw with more trash talk. Joey’s voice echoed through the bar as the two strangers made it through the door “You take that back you son of a bitch or this paddle’s going right up your-” They’d probably be going home together tonight.

 Staci had sobered up a little by now, thanks to the glasses of water Hudson had practically force fed him throughout their game, and the icy night air outside the bar. “Alright big guy, looks like you’re driving. I’ll just direct you, it's not too far down the main road.” Staci could see his breath when he talked. “Good.” Staci turned to look at the man- turned to look at Jacob and found his gaze already met, those shiny white teeth on display again. Something twisted warmly in his stomach, he smiled back and let out a short uneasy laugh. The Deputy couldn't help but feel like he caught a fox about to sneak into the hen house, “Yeah. Good, alright”.

 It was a short drive, but between the passing beams of headlights Staci still had enough time to think about how stupid it was to give big, violent, strangers armed with 6-inch hunting knives your home address. “Yeah and just a right down here.” Oh well. His house looked smaller from the windshield of the truck, glowing under the headlights’ beam like a beacon in the surrounding woods. “Here we are.” Staci chirped, hopping down and out of the vehicle. He took a few seconds with his keys, practiced hands maneuvering around his loaded key ring like a pianist. “Home sweet home” Staci said more to himself than his guest, “I wasn’t really expecting company so it’s uh- well it is what it is.” 

Jacob allowed himself to be silently herded through the entryway to the kitchen, taking in the organized chaos. “You’re welcome to anything in the fridge, drinks, um yeah. I’ll be right back with something that’ll fit you.” The host excused himself politely. He rummaged through his drawers as quickly as possible, he thought of Jacob’s curled arm holding him in place, his shoulders, biceps, everything were huge . . . Not exactly the point Staci back on track, what did he have with such forgiving sleeves? He walked out of his bedroom talking, “Sir or uh, Jacob, I hope you’re alright with this. I don’t think I’ve got much in your size.” His voice trailed off as he re-entered the kitchen, eyes landing on two faux crystal glasses sitting on the countertop and his cheap bottle of bourbon next to them. 

He didn’t have a minute to consider the offer before Jacob was removing his shirt; light cotton stretching over taut muscles and skin. Staci short-circuited. “Wa- hold on a minute-”, his pleas fell on deaf ears. He watched as the red-head finished removing his still damp t-shirt, and reached out for the fresh one; which Staci could have handed over if he wasn’t occupied charting the map of the other man’s torso. “See something you like?” Jacob teased sarcastically, but he was right. “I get it, most people haven’t seen scars this big before.” the older man reasoned, pulling a tight top from the Deputy’s loose grasp and over his chest. Staci stumbled to close his mouth and find his words again. “No. I mean, Ye- I don't mean, uh, I’m sorry it’s not polite to stare, you're just ripped.” Fuck his big mouth, he couldn’t play it casual if his life depended on it. There was a beat of silence and Staci contemplated leaving his own house out of embarrassment. Staci took a breath, “What I mean is-” Jacob interrupted him again, thank God “What you mean is, you invited me under false pretenses, Deputy.” Yes. Wait, No. What? “That’s alright sweetheart, you’re a pretty little thing I’m not bothered by it.” Jacob reasoned.

“Sidling up to me at the bar, inviting me back to yours to get my wet clothes off, I should’ve seen right through that good samaritan schtick.” The stranger needled at Pratt, watching him get more flustered with every word, he didn’t even remember telling this guy he was a deputy. “Now you hold on a minute, I was just trying to-” Jacob was right in his space again, looming over him, filling all of his senses, it made him shy under the scrutiny. “I just wanted to make up for giving you a hard time at the bar.” he said, creating just enough space between them to get a good look at Jacob, “Not that I’d mind sharing a drink with you.”. They were still close, barely a foot between them, the sound of each other's breaths becoming the loudest thing in the small house. 

The scent of Jacob’s cologne felt more intoxicating than anything Staci had sampled earlier, he stepped closer. “And uh, I’m a pretty little thing?” Staci preened a little under the praise that had been doted on him. “Oh sure.” Jacob took Staci’s chin in his hand, “Well, when you’re not spilling a drink on me, you’re so sweet you make sugar taste like salt.” Staci scoffed at that, and went to turn his head away. Jacob’s grip tightened slightly, holding Staci where he was, holding their eyes on one another’s, Staci let him. “Tell me, Is a drink all you wouldn’t mind sharing with me?” Jacob’s voice was so low in his throat it could’ve been a growl, and Staci’s body reacted like it was one; starting at the nape of his neck, every little hair oh him came to stand on end.

The younger man’s cheeks flushed, now he was trying to think of a single reason he should say no. In the place of an answer, Staci leaned in slowly, studying Jacob’s face some more before pressing a soft plush kiss to his lips. Then another, and another, slightly parting his lips as he moved to the corner of Jacob’s mouth. The older man stood still, staring down at Staci as he moved from peppering soft kisses to his cheek to his knuckles, then the inside of the palm of the hand that had just been pressed under his chin. Jacob struck then, like a viper; in one fluid motion removing his hand from Staci’s, and squeezing his cheeks between his thumb, middle, and index fingers.

Then, as quickly as Staci recognized their change of pace, he felt a hot tongue lick across his open mouth. “dios mio” he breathed. Jacob had already pulled back, admiring Staci’s flushed pink face and wet lips. He gripped the younger man tighter, “Is this what you want, I don’t play gentle, kid.” Staci felt faint, like he was falling under hypnosis “uh, y-yeah.” His heart pounded in his chest. “Good.”

Jacob was on him like a wild animal, biting into kisses, sucking his tongue, and the air from his lungs. Staci gripped Jacob’s (actually his own) t-shirt to keep him steady, nearly losing his balance as he was ravaged by the larger man before him.

His trance was only broken as Jacob pulled his wet lips away to focus on unbuckling his belt from his pants; as Jacob leaned back he watch a strand of saliva connecting their mouths snap in the air, it made him dizzy. Staci’s eagerness forced him to reach down to help undo the belt; his hands were batted away just as fast, and he was turned around. “I’m in charge, you wait.” Jacob’s voice brooked no argument.

So Staci had none when the belt made its way around his wrists, or when he was lovingly hostage walked down the hall to his bedroom with Jacob breathing down his neck.

“Bend Over.” the older man commanded, placidly, like he was saying ‘Hello’. Staci felt himself being pushed into position on his bed anyways, like a dog learning a command by force. With a firm hand Jacob then yanked down the deputy’s tight jeans, revealing lacy pink panties. “Oh, Staci. They must’ve sent you from heaven.” Jacob sighed, sliding a finger under the lace lined elastic and pulling it back to snap it against the skin, then moving to caress his ass like it was the world in his hands. “Ya know, kid,” Jacob started, groping the younger man as he spoke “I’m a little surprised you’d let a stranger tie you up like this.” His large hands moved around Staci’s waist, smoothing over the soft skin there and settling just above the brunette’s hips. “A big, mean, stranger.” The red head pulled the hips in his hands flush against his own, hard, smiling as Staci’s muscles flexed beneath him. The smaller man could no doubt feel the sizable bulge pressed between his cheeks. “I could do anything to you.” He growled.

The words processed in Staci’s mind a moment later, lost in the sensations, there was that hot, uneasy, feeling again. “Oh- oh yeah, and what are you gonna to do to me?” he asked, shifting his hips backwards against the larger man, and Jacob seemed to consider.

The silence hung heavy in the air between them, Staci waiting waiting waiting, listening to the rustling of clothes behind him. Then the skin of teeth pressing gently to the back of his neck, his body jerked at the contact, Jacob blew out a laugh. “I’m gonna..” a kiss was pressed to his neck, “Huff” kiss “And puff” kiss “And blow your house down.” Staci squirmed as the hot breath condensed on his neck, and belly laughed. “What the fuck man, you are so weird.” Jacob rumbled a laugh behind him, but when he tried to turn around, his head was pressed back into the mattress.

Jacob’s rough hands spread his legs, squeezing the bulge in his panties. Staci’s legs folded beneath him, moaning at the contact, God it had been a while. Luckily Jacob was holding him steady, moving to smooth the heel of his palm down over the expanse of Staci’s back. “But first.” Staci’s ears perked up at the sound of his voice, “I’m gonna eat you alive.” This guy was such a creep. Jacob rolled him over then, Staci’s brows were knitted but a smile sat lazily on his face.

Jacob held his eye contact, slowly kneeling in front of the smaller man, and slotting his bearded face between muscular thighs. He kissed there too, hot and open mouthed to Staci’s clothed dick, then chaste and delicate, focusing entirely on the smooth skin of his inner thighs. He covered them in hard sucking kisses, nips, then bites, and licks to soothe them over. Staci’s legs spasmed, pink and purple bruises blooming on the sensitive skin while all he could do was pant, whine, and shift his weight so he wasn’t crushing his own fingers. “Fuck Jacob” he panted, and bit his lips closed, embarrassed by how needy he sounded.

The older man didn’t seem to mind, taking some pity and pulling out his massive hunting knife. He caught Staci’s eye as he sliced through the thin fabric of his panties in one motion, exposing him to the cool air of the bedroom. Pratt panted harder, heart racing, and cock jumping as Jacob ran the cool flat end of the knife from his base to his tip. The reflective silver glinted in the moonlight, entrancing the deputy in the same manner as Jacob’s blue eyes and shiny white canines.

Jacob hummed, sliding the knife back into its sheath and taking one hand to slide Staci’s shirt up, his skin rough against the deputy’s soft belly. Then back down, slowly, slowly, to the tip of his cock. Jacob pressed two fingers against the wet head, hooking a thumb around him and rubbing hard over the precum forming delicate pearls on the tip. Staci keened loud, cutting himself off with a gasp, when Jacob gave a wet kiss to his member. Then he licked slowly up the length to suck on the tip, hard. “Jesus Christ, Jacob.” Staci allowed his head to fall back and mouth open, desperate noises flowing out of him with every movement. The larger man bobbed up and down, sucking and swallowing all the way. “Oh God.” Staci whined high in his throat, straining to lean upwards and watch Jacob as he worked. Jacob was the same, he drank in every twitchy noise, every shift of his hips for more, more. He fed on the helplessness of it, poor thing stuck on his back with tied hands, then he pulled off of Staci’s cock.

“You got any lube?” he asked, voice rough with wanting and use. “Uh- yeah yeah.” Staci stuttered out, breathing heavy and trying again to sit up before settling on his back, “It’s um, I have some on the nightstand over there.” He directed with his head. Jacob lumbered out of view, and the deputy craned his neck for a moment trying to keep him in a line of sight, before deciding he could wait. “You have any dildos?” Jacob asked, again rough, but almost deadpan like it was the most mundane question he’d asked all night. “Yeah, yes.” Staci paused, feeling exposed, embarrassed, and still achingly hard; now red and spit wet against his own stomach. “Uh it’s in the top left drawer of the dresser, but uh-” then Jacob was rustling through his drawers.

The older man let out a low whistle, holding up another pair of panties, even skimpier than the last; Staci hid his face in his shoulder, “Very nice, Staci.” Jacob mumbled to himself, bringing his spoils back to the edge of the bed. The larger man pumped some lubricant into his hand, warming it between his fingers, before inserting two. Staci moaned, arching his back off the bed, and spreading his pink bitten legs wide to accommodate the intrusion of such big fingers. “Fuck.” He sighed again, trying to relax himself into the slow rhythm of his partners fingers, as they sunk deeper knuckle by knuckle. After adjusting, the deputy began to slowly push back on the other man’s hand, forcing his thick fingers to rock deeper in and out of himself with every thrust. “Atta Boy” Jacob whispered, and Staci almost lost it in the obscene sounds of his generously lubricated fingers squelching in and out of his hole. “Please God, Jake-uh just fuck me.” Jacob moved slowly, twisting and curling his fingers in the tight heat, monitoring Staci’s every twitch and movement. He hummed “Whatever you say sweetheart.” Finally, pulling out his fingers and wiping them on Staci’s tender thighs.

The older man admired the sight in front of him as he lubed up Staci’s dildo “A little small isn’t it?” He asked. “N-not really?” Staci mumbled; if this was small what was he packing? It was a similar length to his own dick, matte black, thinner, but it got the job done. “Hm.” Jacob grunted, lining up with Staci’s hole and fucking him slowly, first pushing in through tight twitching muscle all the way to the hilt, and pulling out until just the tip was covered. “Look at you.” Jacob praised; free hand rubbing up and down Staci’s chest, massaging his exposed skin, and moving down to his neglected dick. He pumped both at once, building a rhythm and picking up speed as he slid up and down the deputy’s cock and twisted in and out of his ass. Staci’s body was singing, hips stuttering, and arms flexing tight against their bonds. “Please, Jay. Can you. Dios Mio. Faster.” Staci’s breaths were heaving, his stomach and hips moved involuntarily, contracting and relaxing, as he tried to piece together a sentence. “Hmm.” Jacob feigned consideration, furrowing his eyebrows as he continued to work Staci like he was weighing the pros and cons of some arduous dilemma, before clicking his tongue in a sort of tsk. “I don’t think so, Staci. l like the look of you like this veeery much.” He smiled. Bastard. Staci was layed out on his back; arms restricted and flexing under his flush and glistening body, writhing under Jacob’s every touch, it crossed his mind only then that that edge was exactly what Jacob wanted, it was torture. Jacob, equally sweaty; devoured every moment like a three course meal, eyes dark and hungry, thick veins protruding from his fingers to his elbows, straining under the perpetual motion. He kept Staci on the edge like that, so much stimulation, so much blinding pleasure but just enough to keep him on the precipice.

It felt like an eternity before Jacob pulled the dildo out of him again, running a rough thumb over his wet, gaping, hole. It made his body go limp. “Yeah you look ready for it. You’re ready for it aren’t you sweetheart?” Staci whimpered in response, he felt so tender everywhere, like he’d already cum and this man was just using his over sensitive body. Jacob continued to thumb his hole roughly, slipping in and out just to watch Staci swallow him up, and the younger man flex and twitch on his fingers. His other hand, unzipped and pulled himself out of his jeans, throbbing. He was still fully dressed down to his boots, and Staci’s t shirt, it was a lovely juxtaposition in his opinion. The larger man sucked in air through his teeth as he worked the cool lubricant up and down his hot cock.

“Now you’re gonna help me take care of this aren’t you, Peaches? .” Jacob prefaced his movements, and Staci nodded feverishly in agreement like he could do anything else at this point, but take exactly what he was given. Then his cock was flattened against his stomach, and legs pressed together and positioned against Jacob’s shoulder. The older man rubbed appreciatively down the length of his tanned legs, caressing his hands down the sides of the deputy’s thighs, and hooking them around his hips to position his body right over the edge of the bed.

Jacob lined himself up and slipped his head in with ease; Staci blew out a shaky breath through his teeth, even with the excessive prep Jacob was much larger than his dildo. He didn’t waste any time, pushing himself deeper and deeper until Staci was completely full, and then until their hips connected. “Fuck Jacob. You’re- hmm so big.” Staci babbled, he could feel the stretch inside himself, it burned and curled hot in his stomach. Jacob moved slow again at first, watching for Staci’s expressions as he moved minutely in and out, catching when his eyes seemed to go blank and he’d let out a brainless “Uhnn.” That was it. “That’s right Staci, just like that.” He picked up his pace, fucking harder and faster, rutting into Staci’s tight heat and stimulating his prostate. The younger man’s legs shook, even from where Jacob had them pinned, he knew exactly what he was doing. “Jake-Jacob I’m uhn.” He couldn’t take it, Jacob kept his pace, hitting that same sweet spot as Staci drooled onto his bedsheets. “Mierda. I’m gonna-” Jacob fucked his fist fast on Staci’s neglected dripping cock, “Good boy. That’s it, cum for me.” And it was instant, shooting sticky ropes over stomach and chest, coating Jacob’s fingers and the bottom of his t shirt. The older man milked every drop out of him, squeezing slowly from base to tip over and over as Staci begged for reprieve. “Oh God. It’s too much. Please it’s-uhn.” The last spurts coated them both, and Staci layed back boneless, still twitching with aftershocks.

“Sorry Darlin’ you’re not done yet.” Jacob almost sounded apologetic and he continued to fuck deep into the deputy’s used hole, stretching Pratt’s limp body wide over his thick cock like a sex doll. Every thrust pushed an abused whine out of Staci, still nailing his prostate and overstimulating his wrecked hole. Jacob pressed a delicate kiss to Staci’s calf on his shoulder, as he rolled his hips in to thrust deeper, another quiet apology. Then the older man was sliding one large hand up his chest, pushing his cum stained t shirt up with it to expose his heaving bust.

Jacob groped him while he fucked, wetting fingertips with his tongue to pinch his hard nipples. “Jacob, Please.” Staci begged, he didn’t know what he was begging for. “Oh honey, I told you I play rough. This too rough for you?” Jacob tutted condescendingly, before picking up his speed, and gripping both of the deputy’s hips. “Fuck you’re so tight. God damn.” He sighed between grunts. The wet slapping of their bodies and the deputy’s high moans grew louder and louder, Staci was worried his neighbors might hear. As if hearing his concerns, Jacob spoke up again, “Don’t worry, you’re almost- hmm finished. Now where-“ Jacob had to pause his chatter to catch his breath, pistoning in and out of the younger man like a machine, “Where do you want it.” It took Staci a second to comprehend the question. It was such a dirty question; dirty like a man tying you up and fucking you with a dildo, dirty like cumming from a stranger calling you a good boy.

“Cum in me, please.” So dirty. He sounded like a chick in a porno, but he couldn’t help it, he wanted Jacob to fuck him full of it. It had the same effect on his partner, his brows furrowing and eyes falling shut, moaning and grunting loud with every thrust. “Fucking cum in you.” Jacob whispered to himself half in disbelief, “Fuck. Yeah, yeah I’m gonna breed your little hole like I own you.” Staci’s cock jumped again, standing up to half mast between them and Jacob’s fist was around it like lightening. “Is that what you want, hmm?” Staci didn’t know what he was asking but he wanted it all. He nodded fast, biting his lips to quiet himself. The deputy could barely think straight, brain fuzzing around the edges.

“Yeah of course you do, you’re fucking perfect. Perfect, taking all that for me. Such a Good Boy for me huh?” Jacob lathered him in praises, grunting louder between every phrase, kissing up and down the deputy’s pointed legs. Staci whimpered every breath away. “So. Fuck-“ Jacob’s breathing became shallower, hips falling out of rhythm, “So fucking tight.” He moaned leaning over Staci, practically folding him in half. His thrusts became shallower as well, only pulling out enough to ram his tip against the deputy’s most sensitive nerves. Then “Fuck.” Staci’s hips were in a vice grip, bruising purple thumbprints into his tender flesh as he was held, Jacob as deep in him as possible. The older man’s mouth hung open, eyes closed as his cock twitched, spurting load after load of white hot semen inside of Staci.

They stayed there for a minute, Jacob balls deep and panting heavily onto Staci, before slowly, slowly pulling out to the tip. His cum dripped out with every inch, glazing Staci’s thighs as he finally popped out completely. The deputy whimpered at the loss, already aching and sore. “Shit, kid.” Jacob sighed, unceremoniously wiping himself and tucking himself back into his jeans. When he looked again, Staci’s brows were still furrowed. His stomach was tight and cock once again flush. “Greedy little thing aren’t you?” Jacob chastised, “That’s alright, I’ve got you.” Staci didn’t even want to think about it, so used and over sensitive, if he could even cum again. Jacob didn’t seem to think of it as a question. He moved onto the bed behind the younger man, sitting him up and untying the belt from his tender arms; Jacob smiled to himself, admiring his handiwork, that was gonna leave a mark.

Staci’s relaxation was palpable, he groaned with appreciation, flexing his arms and wrists, and leaving backwards as Jacob supported his weight. “I’ve got you.” He repeated as he hooked his arms under Staci’s and went right for his cock. One hand held his freshly bruised thighs open, and the other pumped and twisted over the head, savoring the wet sounds it produced sliding through his fist. Staci’s moans were music to his ears, loud now, not caring about neighbors or dignity; Staci cried out in wanton, whiny, needy bursts, overtaken by the sensations, he could still feel Jacob dripping out of his hole. It didn’t take long to get him to the edge again, hips stuttering and jerking into Jacob’s fist, mouth hanging open near silently as the Staci hid his face in the older man’s neck. Then “Oh fuck fuck fuck.” He was shaking, shooting all over Jacob’s fist again, fucking through it as he lost control.

Jacob wiped his fingers on his (actually Staci’s) shirt, taking it off and cleaning down Staci’s stomach, and delicately down his cock. Jacob got up then, laying his partner down carefully as he made his way to the edge of the bed. He rubbed the cotton over Staci’s hole, gently again, then pushing down on the deputy’s stomach and forcing the semen inside of him to squirt out. Staci whined and covered his face, and Jacob wiped up the rest; staying another moment between his kiss bruised, cum shiny, thighs.

“Fucking- take a picture it’ll last longer.” Staci quipped, half annoyed and half turned on by this man’s odd infatuation with every part of him, “Can I?” Jacob asked, ignoring the joking tone, admiring the view. “Wh- fuck no.” Staci closed his legs, fully embarrassed, drawing himself up and pulling his rumpled t shirt back into place. The older man smiled up at him, “Fair enough.” He walked closer to where Staci’s head lay, breathing deeply and leaning down to hold the younger man’s chin “Ya know you’re really cute when you’re angry.” Staci’s eyes could’ve rolled out of his head, tearing his face away to push himself up out of his prone position, fuck he was sore. “Yeah yeah, I’m a catch all around. Where did you put my jeans.” Jacob laughed at that, finding the crumpled up denim hidden in a corner on the floor.

Jacob grabbed them and held them out to Staci, who stood up to meet him. When Staci grabbed ahold of them, the larger man yanked the crumpled fabric to his side closing their distance. “You sound pretty cocky kid, you wouldn’t be ready for a round 3 would you?” his voice was a low growl again, it made Staci flush all over. He could barely stand as it was, he felt himself shrink a little in shame, running a hand through his tussled hair, and leaning down to pull his jeans up “Uh no-not tonight, I don’t think.” Jacob laughed then, a belly laugh, and it embarrassed Staci further knowing it was a joke. “Well” Jacob smiled that smile that twisted his insides “I’ll just have to have you another night.” Staci tried not to let it shake his confidence this time, leading his guest back to the kitchen with pride like the guy hadn’t had him begging and drooling over himself minutes ago. “I guess you will.”

As they made it to the entrance, Jacob loomed over him, taking up the doorway. “How about your number so we can do this again?” Staci couldn’t help but feel charmed by him. “Sure.” He said, reaching for his phone and typing his number in a bit too fast to appear nonchalant. Then setting his first name to ‘Staci Pratt <3’ and his last to ‘Bar’. “Now you’re not trying to pawn me off with a wrong number here, are you?” Jacob teased. Staci pushed him out the door smiling, “Hell no. Now would you get to your damn truck, or do you need a chaperone?” Jacob smiled too, looking Staci up and down “I might.” God this guy. Staci grabbed his hand and walked him up to the truck, butterflies curled in his stomach and he felt like a schoolgirl, letting go as they got to the drivers side door “Goodnight Jacob.” he sing songed, and he felt a hand on slide up his shoulder. Jacob was mapping his face with his eyes, landing over and over on his lips, Staci did the same. Jacob leaned down then and kissed him, pulling him close and taking his breath away; then pulling away, leaving him reeling, and panting in the driveway. “Goodnight Staci.” GOD this guy.

Staci watched the truck pull away, bewitched. He carried himself back to his home, getting undressed once again, tidying up and taking a quick hot shower, too exhausted to preform any other steps of a nighttime routine. Staci curled up in his sheets, incredibly sore, and ready to feel worse the next day, when his phone buzzed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

Made it home. I may have a few things of yours.

UNKOWN NUMBER:

(a photo attachment of his stained t shirt Jacob had borrowed laying out on a bed, and another of his panties hanging from Jacob’s fingers)

Staci Pratt <3 Bar:

you stole my underwear ??

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

They must have slipped into my pocket. They’re very pretty, Staci.

Staci Pratt <3 Bar:

pervert.

Staci Pratt <3 Bar:

i’m free this friday if you want to bring them back

UNKNOWN NUMBER:

It’s a date.

#jacob x staci #jacob seed x staci pratt #staci/jacob #ns/fw #nsft #staci pratt #jacob seed #god i am exposing myself with this shit #like can you tell touch is one of my love languages or whatver #but THIS is the big oneeee i’ve been writing for a while #i hope it’s good i wanted to do more traditional fic writing + create a little au for staci to party in #and get fucked sideways but that’s baseline for me #is this something ?? #⚠️

[randomfoggytiger]

X-Files Collector's Edition: The Pilot, AUs (and References)

Pilot AUs and references in other episode time!

Loose chronological order below~

@wexleresque/hllsteeth’s

Unnamed

""Still, a Navy brat at heart, she can roll with the punches and adjust. So she holds up a finger to Mulder and closes the door in his face so she can quickly put on a sports bra and shove her feet into the running shoes she’s glad that she’d decided to bring. He’s still waiting outside when she pushes the door open with her foot while wrangling the rest of her hair into a ponytail.

He looks strangely boyish like this, baseball cap on backwards and doing a little jog in place. Wired indeed, she supposes. Without much preamble, they take off into the night.""

Scully takes up Mulder on his offer to go running.

lost time

""Scully flushes the toilet, rises, and crosses the small bathroom so she can rinse her mouth out at the sink while she ponders his question. “Until about two minutes ago, I was sleeping. In your bed.”

“Do you want to uh…connect the dots for me? I’m a little slow on the uptake right now, but if I think what happened is what actually happened, I think I’d remember it.”

Scully shakes her head, not even trying to parse the jumble of words that fall out of his mouth. Her attention is on her own reflection in the mirror, a stranger under whom she instantly recognizes herself.

Her hair is redder, vividly so against the chalky pallor of her face, the angles of which are sharper than they had been just yesterday. There are lines where there hadn’t been. Not many, but enough to draw her attention. She looks older.""

Requiem-- Mulder and Scully lose all of their memories post the brief Pilot abduction. They begin to piece their lives back together, with dead family members and a kid on the way.

@iwtbscully/@jewish-mulder/@anders-hawke/BananaChef‘s

Unnamed

""They’re both silent for a few moments, until: “So, uh, why’d you join the FBI?” Mulder tilts his head at an awkward angle to look up at her for a moment before his confidence falters. “You don’t have to answer, I was just—”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Scully sneaks a hand out of the blanket to tuck her slowly drying hair behind her ear. “I joined because, part of the way through med school, I realized that the life I had—and the one I was going to have—really didn’t interest me. I ended up getting into thanatology, the study of dead bodies, because I didn’t want to deal with real people....""

Mulder plays 20 Questions with Scully to soothe her embarrassment post Mosquito-Bite-Incident.

Nine Minutes?

""She fell to her knees, shaken to her very core. Nine minutes, she thought. Did I hallucinate all that in nine minutes?

“Scully?” He knelt down next to her, reaching out to her but pulling back at the last second. “Are you okay? Did you see something? Did you see them?""

Clyde Bruckman told Scully the truth-- her S11 death reset her timeline back to the nine minutes lost in the pilot. Mulder is shocked but resigned with her information.

FranTheWonderHorse/fran58's Late Night at the Hoover 01

""I read your report," Mulder said shortly. He reached for a nearby chair and drew it in front of her desk and straddled it.

Scully raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And I guess I should congratulate you. Somehow, you managed to put the salient details on paper without sounding like a nut." He picked up a pen from her desk and twirled it in his fingers. "Without making me sound like a nut.""

Ethan is a part of Scully's life, but Scully is currently more focused on figuring out her new partner.  

mad_martha/HelenWills's (Annex)

Pilot Flipped

""Mulder did as he was told, and settled himself comfortably in the chair in front of the wide desk to wait.  Inured to this situation by countless other meetings like it, he was made not uncomfortable by the interview-like atmosphere: he was an agent of several years' standing and knew, without vanity, his own value to the Bureau.

"So, Agent Mulder …."  Blevins rustled a few sheets of paper in a file briefly, then folded his hands on the desk in front of him and studied the younger man.  "Thank you for coming on such short notice.  You've been with the Bureau, what – five years now?"

"Near enough, Sir," Mulder agreed.  He was a little surprised by this approach, but did not betray it.""

Mulder is assigned to Scully. The dialogue is kept the same yet twisted in new, interesting ways.

9 Minutes

""Scully recoiled, horrified, for a second then steeled herself to take a closer look.  It was hard to tell through the thick glass, but it was a man and there seemed to be something wrong with him, as though his flesh was becoming as translucent as the glass he was encased in.  There was a tube feeding into his throat, but it was impossible to tell whether he was alive or dead.  Revolted, she walked a few steps down the walkway and scraped the ice off another bottle.  This time it looked like a woman, but she was in the same condition as the man.  Scully brushed more ice off the bottle to see if there was any other evidence of a life-support system inside.  There wasn't – but there did appear to be some other, unidentified organism sharing the container.  With a start, she realised that this organism was actually inside the woman's body, and its flesh was pulsing faintly. 

Stepping back, she had to fight nausea.  This entire corridor was like some grotesque giant's larder, stocked with huge pickle jars.  The unexpected comparison was enough to make her gag and look for an avenue out.""

Scully is flashed to the Fight the Future spaceship during those lost 9 minutes, keeping her discovery a secret.

Prelude to an X Part 1/ Part 2/

""He didn't tell me exactly why you were thrown out of the Bureau," Scully replied curtly. "He said there was an internal investigation, though."

"He didn't tell you because I wasn't thrown out: I resigned," Mulder replied. There was a tense pause while the waitress took their orders. When she was gone again, he looked at Scully, but she was avoiding his eyes. "Danny couldn't tell you much anyway," he continued quietly. "Most of the investigation was hushed up, and the details about my resignation are probably buried in my personnel file. I wasn't forced to leave, though - I went voluntarily."

"What difference does it make?" Scully demanded.

"Actually, it makes a lot of difference. But are you willing to listen?""

AU S1 Scully is a doctor-agent; and Mulder is a freelance journalist with a little son (from a terrible move on his ex-wife's part) in tow.

@katy-kt-katie's (Ao3)  A Rose Petal and a Fish Tank - Chapter 1

""She knew part of him was confused and hurt by what happened in Philadelphia and the fight over her desk.  He could have just as easily fled, pushing her away or ditching her for some new case, but here he was. That did make a difference to her.""  

Post Never Again-- Mulder invites Scully out to neutral ground where they discuss loneliness and not being alone since the Pilot. They work their way back.

dlynn’s Reflections of a Rainy Night

""How long have you been standing there?" he sighed, rising and facing the window again. He could hear her soft breaths coming from the doorway between their adjoining rooms.

He had, on a subconscious level, been aware of her presence for some time. Whether it had been a "feeling" or his brain's awareness of her delicate perfume, he had known she was there, standing just inside the threshold. He just hadn't been ready to recognize it yet.

"Awhile," she replied, moving farther into the room, far enough for her to be seen in the diffused light of the window but still distanced from him. It was as if she were afraid of getting too close.

"What do you see out there, Mulder?" Scully queried. "What holds you tonight and keeps you from sleep?""

Post the Red and the Black-- Mulder observes a family putzing about in the rain, waiting for Scully's arrival. He reveals how devastated he is in the face of the loss of their probable child.  

Maidenjedi’s Crushed to Ashes

""Scully had called to get the latest, and gently told him. "She's stabilized. It took some effort, and her blood pressure is still lower than they'd really like. But she can live through this, Mulder."

But will she recover, he thought. All the times he'd asked her to sacrifice her work, her passions, always demanding that whatever she believed take a backseat to his own wild ideas and theories and work. Diana had now taken a bullet for him.

Scully made a small noise, a sigh perhaps.... ...and walked to the window, setting her glass down on the desk and picking up the masking tape he kept there. She toyed with the torn edge. Light shone in from the street, casting her in a halo, and Mulder watched her, realizing.

Diana had sacrificed a lot for the work. For him. And she'd left....

Five years in, here stood Dana Scully.""

Post The End Mulder wants to return Scully's comfort... but can't. She finds their casefile from the Pilot.  

zulu’s Fight The Past

""Come with me, Mr. Mulder. You can make a life better than this. You can escape your past."

Mulder followed him out of the office. He allowed himself to be guided to a dark sedan parked on the street. The old man drove down the dark streets, then pulled into a parking lot.""

Post Requiem-- CSM offers Mulder the opportunity to stop the motel fire in the Pilot (which had been caused by Scully's candle.)

Would That I Could Travel Both

""What if aliens were real?

No, seriously. What if all the stories about abductions, missing time, even probing, were true? What if UFOs were alien spacecraft and not experimental military aircraft?

What if Fox Mulder was not crazy at all, not even a little bit, and you walked into his office knowing that? What if you agreed with him, because there was evidence, there was scientific proof?""

Different AUs for Requiem-- Mulder didn't get answers, but got Will; Scully saved Mulder in FTF; Scully leaves to be Emily's mother; they begin dating after Pusher; and a successful move in the Pilot.  

MoJo and Jori’s Ravaged by Years

""...Samantha kicks him in the shin so hard that he goes down into the dirt. Then she follows through with a well placed kick to his nuts.

Donny is on the ground, grabbing himself and trying not to cry when I hear 'the voice' behind me. Samantha's wide eyes are stuck open, unblinking, like the broken eyes of the old plastic doll in her small hands.

"Fox William Mulder! What do you think you are doing?" my mom asks, her high pitched voice enough to make my heart pound harder.""

Scully is shaken during her autopsy on Tena Mulder, pondering on this woman. Meanwhile Mulder morbidly reflects on the Samantha favoritism and his inability to right his self-imposed wrongs.

@lotsoforangesoutside/@lotzzoforangezoutside‘s (Ao3)

When They Were Young

""Mulder had ordered pancakes and eggs over-easy. He was engrossed in the local paper, his hair boyishly messy, his glasses riding low on his nose like an old man, and Scully let her mind drift. She did not want to think of the events that had lead to this—the motel fire, all the evidence gone, her brand-new laptop destroyed, and the two of them getting nearly no sleep whatsoever.

Two hours ago, she was at a cemetery. A cemetery. It was crazy how her heart was beating, pounding, yet she didn’t feel afraid because there was Mulder...

Mulder. There was Mulder, who hadn’t really been meeting her eyes this morning; he looked shy and bashful, and it was odd.""

Post The S11 Robot Episode-- Scully recalls eating in the diner after the events of the Pilot and feeling that she, finally, belonged.

@atths–twice​’s (Ao3, Alt. Ao3, FFN) Faith for the Future - Chapter 4

""Can I read it?” He smiled at her and stroked her face, another flash of lightning shining through the windows.

“Tomorrow,” he said with a smile. She nodded and put her head back on his chest. She did not speak for so long, he thought she had gone to sleep.

“What have you included in it so far?” she asked him, as the thunder rumbled closer. He smiled knowing the thought of it and needing to wait to read it would pique her interest.

“So many different cases,” he said teasingly, and she pinched his side, causing him to jump as she laughed and he swore. “Tomorrow you can read it, Scully, just be patient.”

“Mulder …” she whined.

“Okay,” he said, pulling her close."" 

Post Revival Mulder decides to write down the events of his and Scully's life for their daughter. He ends up extensively comparing notes on the Pilot with Scully. 

@swinging-stars-from-satellites/bravest_person_in_Wonderland's

Binary Star - Chapter 1 (Ao3)

""Young men in the prime of their lives with the lives they planned to lead stolen from them see a young, pretty woman with a crippled leg using a cane coming to treat their injuries and they have one of two reactions: they either look sidelong at her with scorn, or they start crying. All the doctors are healthy, said one boy, her younger brother’s age, and no one can understand each other. That’s the moment Dana knows she chose the right profession.""

WWII Scully may have been partially crippled by polio, but that doesn't stop her from becoming a brilliant doctor and teaming up with a precocious Mulder to explore the strange light in the woods.

Enjoy!

#txf #xf fanfic #x-files #fic #Collector's Edition #The Pilot #AUs #and References #mine #hllsteeth #wexleresque #iwtbscully #jewish-mulder #anders-hawke #BananaChef #FranTheWonderHorse #fran58 #mad_martha #HelenWills #dlynn #katy-kt-katie #Maidenjedi #zulu #MoJo #Jori #lotsoforangesoutside #lotzzoforangezoutside #atths–twice #swinging-stars-from-satellites #bravest_person_in_Wonderland

[messyhairdiaz]

Fuck It Friday

Tagged by @clusterbuck ! Gonna do something a lil different and post a wip I started last night that I was really excited about for the entire like twenty minutes I was writing it and then got bored with instantly because I’m terrible like that 😂 but I don’t know, if what I post here sparks anyone’s interest maybe my interest will like. I don’t know, re-pique? Anyway, it’s ROUGH and also a Quantum Leap au lmfao because that whole thing Ben and Addison have going on is very buddie shaped

Buck wakes up and he immediately knows something is wrong.

He’s in the driver’s seat of an old, unfamiliar van. He looks down at himself and he’s in old fashioned clothes he doesn’t recognize, and there’s just something off that he can’t place.

Until he looks in the rearview mirror and the face staring back at him is a stranger’s.

He’s leapt out of the van before his brain even really registers the what the fuckery of what just happened. He stands on the sidewalk, gaping down at himself. Now that he’s seen his not reflection he can catalogue the things that had seemed off before. His hands are a little smaller, his center of gravity a little lower. He touches his hair, it’s a little longer than he remembers his being, the texture different as well.

“What the fuck,” he whispers. He looks around, spotting a movie theatre across the street, the marquee promoting showings for the Goonies and St. Elmo’s Fire. A record store next door has a poster for Live Aid, July 13th, 1985. “What the fuck,” he repeats, louder.

“Oh thank god, we found you,” a voice says behind him. He spins and comes face to face with the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen. Fluffy dark hair on top of big soft brown eyes, a tight green Henley doing little to cover up what Buck is sure is a mouth-watering physique.

“Do I know you?” He asks, and he regrets it for the way the man reacts like Buck had slapped him.

“I—” the man says, clearly thrown off. “We—we knew memory loss could be a side effect of a leap, but I still didn’t really expect…You really don’t know me?”

He studies the man. He somehow doesn’t feel like a stranger, but that’s about all Buck’s got. Well…He’s looking up, just slightly at him, and he has the same feeling of wrongness about that as he had when he’d looked down at himself. He’d wager he’s normally the taller of the two.

“Crazy question, but, since you obviously know me, do I uh. Look different?”

“Not to me. As your guide, you just look like you.”

“My guide? And what did you mean about a leap?”

“Uh, ok. We can handle this. It’s a lot to explain, but that’s ok. I—” the man is interrupted when a loud alarm sounds. They both whip towards the source, just as a group bursts out the front of the bank the van he’d woken up in was parked in front of.

They all have ski masks and loaded duffel bags, and they’re running straight towards Buck and the van.

“Nick, what the fuck? Get in the damn van,” one of them shouts, pausing and gesturing wildly at him.

“Nick?” He questions.

“Fuck ok, no time for explanations,” the gorgeous man says. “Uh, so, trust me here. They think you’re Nick, their getaway driver. So, you better drive.” And then, the most surprising thing of all happens, which is that one of the people running from the bank they’ve apparently robbed runs straight through the guy. He fritzes out for a second before looking perfectly solid and normal. “Oh yeah,” he adds. “I’m not really here. Just a hologram only you can see.”

“Nick!” One of the robbers shouts again, and Buck finally unglues his feet from the pavement and races back to the van. He jumps in, starts it, and peals out onto the street. And then promptly realizes he has no clue where he’s going.

Tagging @megslovesbooks @fiona-fififi @gayhoediaz @pettyeddiediaz @sibylsleaves @elvensorceress whassup

#quantum leap au #GUESS ILL DO A TAG FOR IT IDK #What you see here is literally all I’ve got for it lmao

[choobelette]

sometimes i worry im a bad sibling. i recognize my toxic and abusive behavior. but recognizing it doesn’t mean anything when i still do it.

i wonder if my parents could see their mistakes even as the made them, can look back now and see where it all went wrong.

i havnt talked to my mom in months. i don’t want to. i couldn’t tell you why, i’ve tried to figure out why for so long. she’s like a stranger to me while also being like my own reflection in the mirror. i mourn my parents like i mourn my forgotten memories. will my siblings still talk to me when they’re older ? will they come ask me advice for high school or gossip about dating ? or are we all familiar reflections that we can never actually touch through the cold glass.

i don’t have any memory of hugging my family.

i talked to my brother today, initiated the conversation. he talked back. it was three sentences maybe. i cried after. i’m afraid, for myself, for them. i want to reach past the glass and embrace myself, tell them they’re doing great, tell them middle school is tough but they’ll get through it, they’ll grow into themselves.

#diary #family

[mandoinevarro]

NO APPOINTMENT, NO MEETING

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker: Chapter 4

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Words: 9.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: so ok descriptions of blood (it’s only one sentence and I don’t think it’s too bad but just in case), remembering trauma/triggering memories, angst. now for the fun part: SMUT, one (1) thigh spank, a sprinkle of dirty talk, a dash of praise kink, spitting, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, maybe cockwarming but for like two minutes

a/n: happy 2021!!! only one chapter left after this one so enjoy. for the hornies who only want fun and sexy times: scroll to the bottom and work your way up, smut is like 3/4 in.

……………

In the blue morning light, Nevarro is almost beautiful.

The deserted lava fields spread in flat terrain as far as the eye can see, bumps and dips where magma cooled creating waves like a black ocean. Among the tide, obsidian turtle shells shimmer like dark mirrors, where Din Djarin studies his face. It startled him when he crawled from the tent to take the pram inside; when he glanced at the ground and the ground glanced back. His face cloudy and warped by irregular volcanic rock, he barely recognized it. It’s not rare for his features to blur in his memory sometimes, especially when he’s out working for days at a time unable to catch a glimpse of himself. Vanity is not one of his many shortcomings—hiding your face for decades is a mighty vaccine against it.

But today something’s different. The reflection peering up at him belongs to a stranger. Relaxed eyebrows, a hooked nose (has the curved always been so pronounced?), lips that faintly curl up. Content brown eyes. His mirrored counterpart is a sentient being below him, plump with blood and oxygen. Alive.

He looks happy.

However, morning weighs heavily on Din, he can see it in the bags below his eyes. It stings like a hangover, like the only hangover he ever had, back when he was an eighteen-year-old idiot and used the credits of his first bounty to get a flask of spotchka from some seedy bar. He remembers sitting in his crammed quarters at the old Covert, chugging the bottle on his own, methodically forcing himself to swallow against the burn. Waiting. Waiting for the alchemy to kick in, for the magic toxins that flushed drunks’ faces, lubricant that oiled their scowls into easy smiles. Waiting to feel what everyone else felt, just for a moment.

Lifting his head, Din peers ahead. Shadows of the city’s buildings creep above the horizon like a bad omen. The opposite of a promised land. Hunchbacked buildings stain the blue-gray sky, abruptly interrupt the intricate lava patterns, Nevarro the planet versus Nevarro the city. Din’s stomach crumples. One, maybe two hours by foot. One, maybe two hours, and last night will fade into a distant memory, a collection of ghost sensations.

But not yet. Right now, last night is still real. You are still real.

Crawling back into the tent, he licks his lips for the millionth time today. He can still taste you: that thick, salty-bitter taste, so much better than he could’ve imagined. He hopes it stays on his lips for a long time; or, at least, that he can replace it soon.

Inside, you’re curled up with his cape, a blooming bruise above your shoulder peeking out, the baby’s pram hovering next to you. He sits down, careful not to awake either of you, and runs a finger down your shoulder, feels the skin prickle. He buries his nose on the back of your hair and inhales: rain and earth as usual, but his soap too, a part of him that clings to you. Lips on the crook of your neck, Din smells himself on you, wonders if you’ll want to wash his scent away, or if you’ll want it to stay on you. You stir, your soft exhales gain a rasp. Din smiles. You do snore, after all.

He’ll have to wake you soon. He knows. He knows. You need to talk about last night. You need to have the frank conversation that you’ve both been postponing for way too long, back when you floated in dead space, no deadlines, no rush at all to make decisions. But things have changed, and he knows what he wants now, and he knows it can’t wait. Yet every time his fingers brush your shoulder to nudge you awake, he pulls them back. He’s never seen you so peaceful, not moving except for your expanding and contracting chest, the light fluttering of your lashes. All the fight in your body gone, those tall bridges around you down and inviting. So different from when he met you.

If there’s one thing Din’s good at, it’s sniffing out trouble. He had to be, if he wanted to make it in the Fighting Corps. In the Bounty Hunter’s Guild. He can sweep a room with a mental black light, spot the people who flare up white and bright, the ones he needs to stay away from—or approach, depending on the situation. And that day at the cantina, the first time he laid eyes on you? You glowed with it. Talking big game in Karga’s booth, laughing with your pretty smile and shuffling cards, you beamed with trouble, bright as radiation and just as dangerous. What needed to happen was clear as day. The Mandalorian needed to turn on his heels immediately, strut out of that bounty hunter hive without a second look, and never, ever, ask about you.

He’d been there before.

Mandalorians, despite common belief, are not made of beskar. Not on the inside, at least. They’re all warm blooded organics, burdened with flesh and internal organs and skeletons; pain and pleasure receptors. Older Mandalorians cautioned younger ones when they came of age and finished their training, when they were ready to become providers. Tall stern warriors, his superiors, warned that there would be temptation, situations that would make him doubt the Way. “Even the briefest taste,” Din’s former Alor said with that cavernous voice he had, “can be the point of no return.” And he was right.

Outside the Covert, there was so much…stimuli. Voices and colors and movement, a twenty-four-hour beehive, the galaxy buzzed and vibrated to no end. It was equally wonderous and grotesque, like a circus. The strenuous noises that rattled his ribcage, the strong smells, the different food, his senses had never felt more exhausted. The faces…stars, the faces. How muscles stretched in a big smile, the glint of teeth, the deep creases between eyebrows that signaled anger. Always moving, always changing, Din hadn’t seen so many uncovered heads since he was a child. His first few weeks outside he’d stare at people for hours until they scurried away or tried to fight him. Tried.

Then, when the initial shock wore out, he noticed other details. The way children’s eyes filled with admiration when they’d look at their parents, how that dimpled girl in Alderaan would blush and stutter whenever he bought something from her stall. And Din would wonder, despite all warnings, what it’d feel like to be one of them. To share so much of himself with the outside world. With time, curiosity morphed into obsession, obsession into desperation, and soon enough he found himself with Rand and the others, running rampant in an already chaotic galaxy.

One war, two decades, and a thousand regrets later, the curiosity died down. The helmet helped him tune out the outside world, made it easier to retreat into his memories. The galaxy seemed duller by the day, emptier. Lonelier, though he didn’t dwell on it.

That is, until he met you.

Until his resolve circled the drain and he asked Karga who you were and where to find you, walked into your store without an idea of what he’d say. Behind the counter, eyes shining and that silky voice asking what you could do for him, you reset the galaxy for him. Every time he visited you felt like his first day outside all over again.

But last night—that was stronger, set in stone. It felt like commitment. Something was born last night, something burgeoned in his chest and took root. Din can feel the fullness in his body, like he grew an extra limb, similar to the swell that tangled in his insides when he went back for the kid. He doesn’t have a name for it yet, but it reminds him of the day he swore the Creed. The fresh sense of purpose, the carved-out path in front of him, knowing what needs to be done:

When the siege is over, he’ll take you with him.

“Are you watching me sleep?” you mumble, cotton mouthed. “Kinda creepy.”

Din chuckles, then remembers. Stars, his heart stops beating for a second. Dread and natural reflexes throw his palm whip fast over your closed eyes. Maker. What the hell was he thinking, sitting next to you without the helmet. Maker, one second too late and you could’ve opened your eyes and—

“Didn’t see anything. Promise,” you say with a smile and pull his cape over your face. “Cover up.”

He pats around for the helmet (where the hell did he drop it last night?), finds it abandoned by your feet. When he fits it around his head, the familiar padding hugging his skull, he swears it feels heavier than it did yesterday.

“You decent?”

“Yeah.”

You lower the pseudo blanket, sleepy eyes and easy smile. As if you purposefully want to make it harder for him to strike up a conversation. But do I really need to— Yes. Yes, he does. He has to know where you stand and ask the big question: If you’d be willing to leave with him once the siege is lifted. Stars, his hands are sweating. But he can’t imagine you’d say no. Not after last night.

“Listen…”

As if on cue, whimpers and sniffles float from the closed pram. Great timing, kid. The baby’s ears droop like wilting leaves when Din places him on the ground, and the little bundle waddles with his eyes cast down until he reaches your ankle.

“What is it, kiddo?” you ask softly, your voice gentler than Din’s ever heard, sitting up as you hug his cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“I think…” Din begins, watching the baby sniffle and hug your bandaged calf. “I think he’s apologizing.”

A pair of eight-ball eyes blink at you, shiny with unshed tears, and Din feels an ache deep in his chest. This sweet little kid, all he’s been put through…

“Oh, don’t worry,” you coo, as one of your hands wriggles out the cloak and cradles the baby’s cheek. Your thumb brushes away a fat tear. “I’m tougher than your dad.” You wink at Din: Just kidding. But it’s true. Living in this planet for so long, all on your own. “Tough” is a survival skill for you, not a choice.

Also…dad. He should probably correct you. Din is not the kid’s real father, even though he’s caught himself thinking about the baby as his son once or twice, when he’s not too aware of his inner monologue. But he can’t bring himself to tell you the truth. Actually, he belongs to a race of wizards that I’ve been quested to deliver him to. Can’t adopt him if I’ll eventually give him up. Not when the kid’s shedding quiet tears into your leg and you’re doing your best to soothe him. Nevarro’s not child friendly, and Din can’t imagine you’ve got much practice with baby stuff, but he can tell you’re doing your best. And that’s enough to spread warmth through his chest.

What a troop you must make: Mandalorian bounty hunter, black market dealer, magic green baby. You could set up a three-person circus and retire. Yet the image tugs at a memory tucked away in his mind, something familiar but blurred.

His rumination’s cut short when Din notices the kid’s pudgy hands extending strategically on either side of your right leg, his eyelids beginning to flicker. Shit, shit, shit.

“She forgives you,” he tells the kid hastily as he scoops him and lays him on the open pram. He doesn’t need to be the little womprat’s real father to tell he was about to whip out his favorite party trick: healing witch powers. So far it doesn’t look like it permanently harms him, but it does weaken him, and Din can’t take chances. Plus, he skipped the part about the baby having supernatural powers when he told you his story, and there’s not a hell of a lot of ways one can explain fresh wounds disappearing.

“So,” you say after the baby’s settled in his pod. “What are we going to do,” you start, and Din’s throat knots with dread and excitement, “about the jammer.”

Oh. Stars, straight to business

“You said you have one.”

“I said I might have one,” you answer, grabbing for your discarded skirts. You fumble with them under the cloak, one hand clasped tight around it. It’s funny—after everything you’ve shared, you won’t undress in front of him during the day. “I mean, jammers aren’t picky like motors, they’re more one-size-fits-all.”

“But we still have to rewire it,” Din completes, wiping dry drool from the kid’s cheek with his thumb.

“Right.” Holding the cloak with your chin while you clasp your tunic, you seem to slowly draw your way out of a maze. That restless abacus in your head adding and subtracting. Your brows relax, and Din knows you’ve figured it out. “But I’ve got my equipment in my workshop, and we’d save time not having to remove it from a ship. And, no offense, but the Crest’s jammer was an antique. Way more complicated than newer models.” You finish dressing and hand him the cloak. “Only problem is the potential trooper stakeout outside the store.”

“I’ll take care of troopers.” Din takes the cloak and hesitates. It’s day nine, that time bomb still ticks in his head. Could it be that easy? Could you really do all this in one day? “What if we don’t finish on time?”

“Then,” you say, “we’ll figure something out.”

We, Din thinks, and smiles. Somehow, that’s all the reassurance he needs.

≈

Nevarro couldn’t look more deserted if tumbleweed rolled in the streets. The city’s a populated ghost town, no man’s land that’s filled with men. Well, men is a strong word. How did Viszla put it that time? We live hidden like sand rats. Yes, rats seems more fitting. Packs of them, scurrying around the former Covert, stealing Mandalorian armor to be bartered for scraps. Karga didn’t have to spell it out when he told him about people finding the Covert. Mando is familiar with the ways of the Outer Rim: Anything unclaimed is up for the taking, and beskar’s too tempting to resist. Knowing doesn’t make his blood boil any less, though. If Din focuses, he can almost hear their squeaking echoing from the sewers, the scavengers of this gray rock serving themselves to the abandoned armor of his people.

Movement to the left. The Mandalorian draws his blaster and bars you with his forearm, to see…a tunic. A short tunic. Tiny red lights. A Jawa. He exhales and sheathes the blaster. Stars. With the vembrance turned off, he has to rely on bare eyesight to scan for danger.

The Jawa drags a sleigh behind him. On it lies a dead or unconscious trooper (it makes no difference to these creatures), its gloved fingers drawing traffic lines on the mud and ash of unpaved streets. Red stars below the cowl focus on you for half a second, the bounty hunter’s hand approaches his blaster, and…

…and the Jawa waves at you, says “hello” in its squeaky language. You wave back, smiling, and the lump of shadow continues on its way. A neighborly gesture that in this context is plain bizarre.

“Old friend of yours?” Mando asks, walking again.

“Associate,” you correct, running a finger along the kid’s left ear until it twitches and he giggles. “Jawas scavenge parts straight from the wreckage, eliminate the middle man. And they don’t report to the New Republic.”

You mean steal from the wreckage, Din almost says, but bites it back. He supposes he can’t judge you for trading with Jawas. Prospects on the Outer Rim are bleaker than ever, and everyone’s got to eat. Especially during a siege.

Maker, sometimes he can’t believe he convinced himself to leave you here. Marooned in the type of place Core World citizens only talk about with shaking heads and disapproving voices. The type of place that makes people feel better about their lives, because hey, it could be worse, at least I don’t live in Nevarro. Granted, Din didn’t know then there’d be a siege. After the fight, after he bid goodbye to Cara and Karga, he hovered on the atmosphere for longer than was safe, gazing down at your store’s roof from the Razor Crest’s cockpit. His head a seesaw, weighing his options and unable to make a decision. You were still so close. He could fly back down to the surface, knock on your door, and take you away with him like he did with the kid.

Would you say yes? Reject him?

But most importantly: what about his quest? What kind of life would you lead travelling with him, a fugitive of the Empire and the New Republic? Life for Din has been defined by survival. Every day he’s had to get up and fight; fight to an inch of his life, fight with concussions, frostbite, shattered ribs. Knife wounds, blaster wounds. Personal wounds. He didn’t want that for you. You’re young, clever, resourceful. After that day, maybe you’d decide Nevarro was too dangerous. Maybe you’d pay your passage on a cruiser and start over in the Core Worlds, make your luck own there. Find a good man, if that’s what you wanted.

So he started the thrusters—the same ones he bought from you so long ago—and jumped into hyperspace with a semi clear conscience. This was best for everyone. You probably wouldn’t have accepted his offer, anyway. For five months he lived with his decision. And then he learnt about the siege.

In the sky, a string of river pearls forms a pattern like a necklace. Imperial cruisers, tie fighters, every ship that Guideon commands, solemnly presiding over Nevarro, itching to shoot down runaways. They’re too far up in the atmosphere to make out anyone in the surface, but Mando grabs your arm and coaxes you behind him all the same, his grip on the pram tighter. The memory of that imp’s blaster on your forehead is still too fresh. The dried blood on your legs.

Din glances back at you briefly. You catch his eye and smile—not grin, not smirk—but smile, a pretty, kind smile that would put to shame any of the imaginary Naboo girls you were so worked up about two nights ago. He should know, he’s been to Naboo, and none of the women there had your kaleidoscopic face, those hints of life that send his pulse on a sprint. The Mandalorian wonders what else you could be hiding under that sharp tongue, behind those clever eyes.

“Mando,” you call and point at a blackened mass to your right. “Nursery’s this way.”

All buildings in Nevarro emerge from volcanic rock, pushing away from clumps of hardened magma. They’re half-manmade, half-volcano hybrids—it’s a useful layout that gives their structure grip against constant earthquakes. It also, however, makes the buildings look like tumors growing on the navel of an ill planet. Your store’s the only one that’s never looked malignant, more like a sprouting flower than a parasite.

And now, the cantina too. Burned to a crisp, blacker than night, the former Church of Nevarro seems to have been swallowed by its unwilling host: the volcanic rock it was built upon. It’d be near impossible to know there’s a cantina inside, if not for the wide window peering inside. And it’s far from impossible for you or Mando, who know by heart where all the doors stand. He pushes one open for you, and together you walk inside.

“Thumb on the bottom, middle and ring fingers on the top, index to the side,” instructs Cara from behind the cantina’s crisp black counter. “The other side.”

Greef Karga sits on a stool opposite her, fumbling with a deck of cards. “Got it. Then what?”

“Then…” The veteran moves aside a flask of ardees and places a matching deck on the bar. “Pressure with your index, release the thumb.” She acts out her instructions and creates an arched ribbon spread on the surface. The Mandalorian can’t remember the last time he walked into the cantina and didn’t see the hypnotic patterns on cards, didn’t hear the wing-flapping noise of their shuffle. Although if he thinks about it, it makes sense that sabacc is the local sport around here. Dumb luck is the only god in the Outer Rim, where inhabitants gaze perpetually at their uncertain future and never look back. Tomorrow they’ll get a better hand, yesterday’s lost credits are forgotten. Everyone here seems to shed their past like snake skin.

“Nice spread, Dune,” you call. Greef and Cara follow your voice, realize they have visitors. “You should job hunt at Canto Bight.”

“Oh yeah?” replies the ex-shock trooper with an impish grin, both elbows on the counter and a rag over her shoulder, all bartender swagger. “What do you know about Canto Bight, hot stuff? Heard you’ve never been off this rock.” She spies a sly glance at Mando, enough to confirm that she’s annoying him on purpose, openly flirting with you. He squares his stance, rolls the helmet to pin her down with the visor, but (he really should know this by now) it does little to intimidate her.

“No trash talk before nightfall, ladies,” quips Karga, walking towards the pram. “And certainly not in front of babies. Hello, little one!” Said little one coos and lifts his skinny arms to be lifted by the Guild Leader, who sits back down delighted at having the baby’s favor, the little rascal on his lap. “He likes me!” Greef Karga smiles wide, flashing those white glinting teeth that’ve always reminded Din of a wolf’s. He’s not happy to leave the kid here, but he can’t take him if there’s a stakeout in your store. Beggars can’t be choosers and so on. But Cara’s here, and Din knows he can trust her with the baby. Though not with you, evidently.

“Tell you what, Mando,” Cara continues, apparently not done peacocking around you. “We arm wrestle, just like last time. Winner gets a flask of spotchka and the opportunity to take the lady to Canto Bight after you lift the siege.”

“Help us lift the siege and I’ll consider winning that flask.”

Dune lets out an long whistle, giving you a complicit look. “Big words.”

Your eyes rake along the Mandalorian’s armor slowly, boots to helmet, a dark tint in your eyes. Din flushes, the oppressive heat of his clothes suddenly thicker.

You shrug and answer, “Big man.” Your fingertips dance idly around the nape of your neck, which makes Mando think about last night, about his tongue on your neck and the purple bruises he sucked, the salty taste of flesh, the heady one between your legs. The memory steers blood into…into awkward places. Which, knowing you, was your intention. Maker, he needs to talk to you about teasing him in public.

“Help you how?” asks Greef, lifting the baby into the counter, whose six little claws hold on to two of his gloved fingers.

“Look after the kid, we won’t be more than a few hours.”

“Sure thing!” booms Karga, at the same time as Cara says, “Fuck no.”

You fold your arms at the veteran. “You scared of an infant, Dune? It’s only one of him, and…” you squint at the cantina’s black shell, like something’s out of place in its burned remains, “…two of you. Where’s—” you start, before glancing at Mando and swallowing the second half.

“Duma?” supplies Karga, tapping the corners of the deck on the counter. “Don’t know, probably boiling beskar to make broth. Rumor has it she’s running out of supplies, fast. Did you ever take her up on that deal?”

Your eyes shoot vibroblades at him, your mouth a flat line.

“What deal?” Mando asks.

“Nothing,” you reply, still glaring warnings at Karga, who sighs, shakes his head, and tickles the baby’s tummy. The kid giggles and kicks half the deck off the counter. “Nothing important. We should get going.”

Outside, you guide the Mandalorian through a maze of back alleys, the ugly underbelly of a planet that’s already the galaxy’s own underbelly. Mando glues a palm to his blaster’s grip, lifting it only as muscle memory to turn on the vembrance and activate the setting to scan footprints, frustrated when he remembers his own piece of equipment would immediately snitch on him. Yet you glade past dark corners that beg for their own knife-brandishing mugger with the grace of someone frolicking in D’Qar’s moorlands, postcard-calm.

Once in your store’s backdoor, the Mandalorian ventures a glance at the front street. Empty. Like the rest of the city, it’s like curfew was declared, not an imp in sight. Certainly not a stakeout in process. Behind him, you push the door open, the busted security panel no more than a prop to discourage robbers.

“What?” you ask when he doesn’t walk inside.

“There’s nobody here,” he answers, studying the connecting alleys like a web of arteries, waiting for a trooper squadron to materialize and ambush you.

“It’s quiet too quiet?” you tease with a lopsided grin. “Lay off the thrillers, Mando. Come on.”

You step inside, he hesitates. “Could be a trap.”

Hands on the doorframe, leaning forward, your face almost touches the helmet. “Then you’ll shoot them and we’ll be back to square one. Not much of a choice here, Mando.” Those pretty eyes, your shining, wet lips. It’s a siren’s call he knows he shouldn’t answer.

The Mandalorian follows you inside.

It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings.

Your store hibernates in the dark, stale air floating around its vault. Your store, which used to buzz with drills and neon lights and life around the clock, looms like a beast’s hollow belly, crypt-still. Lights off and furniture wrapped in sheets, it looks abandoned, the way all those family houses in deserted villages were hastily vacated during the war. He wonders how long you’ve been out of business because of the siege. Because of him.

You walk across the reception in tomb silence. In the reception signs hang next to the front desk—store policies that gave Mando more than one headache—dark and colorless, like they turned in their badges and no longer preside over this place. Only “NO IMPS” twitches, one or two agonizing flashes of neon green, before it shuts down like its colleagues. Six rules in total, although in Din’s opinion there’s a seventh that foregoes the need of a sign: “NO QUESTIONS”.

That’s a rule that everyone in Nevarro—bounty hunter or not—subscribes to. It’s the rule you followed when the Mandalorian walked into your store, still crafting some half-assed excuse about thrusters when he came face to face (helmet to face?) with you. You never asked about New Republic guidelines or what he wanted them for. Not even for his name. No questions when he came back two weeks later. No questions as weeks passed and then months, as tension thickened between you until his internal barometer cracked.

No questions when his thinning resolve broke one night. That night. He pushed you onto your workbench, you undid each other’s belts, pawed at each other’s sides. No questions when he slid into your wet heat, when he had to stop for a second to avoid a heart attack. No questions when he finished inside you, blood roaring in his ears, your sighs clouding his visor, your hand gently pushing him back.

And then, his question: “Where are you going?”

“Upstairs,” you answered, pulling your trousers back around your hips.

It dropped on his head like freezing water. Upstairs. Upstairs to your apartment, to rest. Alone. Meaning your encounter was a one-night stand, a shortcut to let off some steam. Stars, you were basically swinging the front door wide open for him, putting away a couple of wrenches and switching off the lights to signal the night was over. The Mandalorian didn’t need questions to know he’d overstayed his visit.

But…what if he’d spent the night anyway? Maybe the next morning he would’ve been upfront with you, confess he’d wanted you for so long and that he wanted it to evolve past one furtive encounter, that he wanted it to be real. No, he probably wouldn’t have. As a bounty hunter—as Mandalorian—there are things he simply can’t have. Things that are better off unspoken, better off—

“Tucked away,” you say behind him, making the Mandalorian jump.

“What?”

“The planner.” You walk behind the front desk. “I was saying I don’t remember leaving it here. I thought it was tucked away in some box.”

Oh.

It is strange. A light sheen of dust covers the counter, yet the planner is glossy clean, a painted depiction of the Manarai Mountains on its cover. A souvenir from Coruscant. He wonders who brought you that. It tugs at something sweet but sad in his chest, the fact that you have to rely on others’ cheap souvenirs to explore the galaxy. That’ll change as soon as this mess with the siege is settled.

You flip through the planner, empty for the most part but for a few scribbles on the first pages. It’s dated 5 ABY, four years ago. The Mandalorian knows from experience that your appointment rule works mostly to turn away unsavory clients. Or to get on his nerves.

“Look at that,” you murmur as if reading his mind, your finger pointing at nothing on a page. “You don’t have an appointment, Mando.”

“We don’t have time for this,” he answers, though he knows he’ll make time for it anyway. It used to drive him up the wall whenever you refused to see him using that stupid excuse. But, as with everything with you, it was more complicated than that. It took longer than he’s willing to admit to understand that it was a game. That you liked him riled up, after the push and pull, the hot and cold, the challenge. You had a taste for difficulty. Although it didn’t take as long to figure out that he liked it too. “Just let me in.”

“I don’t know,” you drawl, glancing at the dull signs on the wall. “Rules are rules.”

The Mandalorian has played this game with you enough to know what you want. He thinks of all those memories in this building. You, pinned between his armor and the doorframe; him, sitting on that battered couch upstairs with your hands on his knees. Even those calm nights, when you’d only sit and talk and make him laugh, and sometimes he’d get a laugh from you too, if he didn’t try too hard. All the sweating and the panting and the talking that these walls have witnessed. Maybe there’s time for one last memory before you both leave this planet for good. Not maybe—there’s definitely time. If this were an ambush, you’d be dodging blaster shots by now.

“So bend the rules,” he says slowly, gripping his edge of the counter and dropping his voice to the low register that gives you goosebumps. “For me.”

Your eyes twinkle like copper at the fact that he’s playing along. “And what do I get in return?”

This time, he doesn’t hesitate. “Whatever you want.” Perhaps he’s known for a while, in the back of his head where he could ignore it, but last night the idea rushed to his front lobe. He’ll give you anything you want.

“I want…” you begin, mischief shining in your eyes, before a shadow clouds them. Slowly, your face goes soft, a special kind of longing in your pupils. You swallow, your voice becomes throaty, and the words sound truer than anything Din’s ever heard: “I want you. I just want you.”

He almost trips on his feet when he rounds the counter, his head already swimming. The hunter crowds you with his body, backs you up against the counter until you’re caged and looking up at him, hooded eyes and parted lips. Hot stuff. Cara’s shallow pet name. When he heard it he thought it was inappropriate. But now. As your mouth nestles on his clothed neck and breathes hot, damp air through the fabric—a mild sensation for most people, he guesses, but almost a mating call for him—he realizes it’s not untrue. The name fits you like a glove, hot stuff. It’s just…incomplete. If he’s learnt anything these nine days is that there’s so much more to you, enough sailor knots of emotion and personality inside you to loop around the galaxy if unraveled.

“Touch me,” you breathe, rubbing up against him, searching friction. “Please, please, touch me. There’s nobody here, we—we have time.”

Gloved palms on your waist, down to your hips, lower to your ass, Din tries to fondle you as best he can. He pins you between the counter and his hips, your leg curls around his back and holds him closer. His erection starts to bulge against your belly, your breaths start quickening, your hearts start pumping faster. The tell-tale signs that indicate you’re both ready to go hit all their usual beats. But something’s missing. There’s a step you’re skipping, something…something he’s not doing right.

Tentatively, you press a small kiss on his covered neck, and he can only feel its frustrating whisper, a promise of more.

A lightbulb flicks on.

Mando holds your hips and spins you around, the desk’s edge on your waist. “Bend over,” he grouses next to your ear, his voice sand-coarse. “Don’t turn around.”

Gloves off first. One palm cradles the back of your neck, feels you shiver. His left hand runs down your back and around to your tummy, savoring all those warm, secret places on you, the way your body opens up to him on instinct. The power trip when he cups your heat through your skirts and you moan into the counter. You nestle your hips on his lap, and he stiffens on command, a tug between his legs that he knows is far too insistent for foreplay. Stars, it’s like he’s conditioned to get hard in this store.

“Don’t—” he chokes out “—not so fast. Or I—I won’t—”

“What?” you pant. Din hears the grin laced in your voice and knows it’s bad news for him. He drops to his knees and both hands walk up your bandaged calves, squeeze the tops of your thighs. “You…you don’t…” He throws your skirts over your back. You inhale sharply at the cold air—or at his hands pulling the soft flesh of your backside. When he removes the helmet, your pitch sounds broken up, more desperate. “You d-don’t want…”

It’s a small victory when he parts his lips against your clothed core and it’s you, for once, who chokes on words. Small victory, but he’ll take it, especially after the way his cock twitches in his pants when he smells you. He kisses you again, just a peck over your clit, and your legs shake. Fucking…stars. If this is how you feel when you tease him…well, he gets it. You mewl and push back on his face, but he hardly thinks you want it that easy.

“Stop moving,” he tells you sternly, with a voice he’d use on quarries.

A shiver runs down your spine. “But—” You break into a whine when his open palm slaps the side of your thigh. It’s probably the surprise rather than the sting that makes you inhale sharply, and a combination of both that dampens the cotton between your legs.

“Stop moving,” he repeats, mouth pressed against your core so you can feel the vibration; that, he learnt from you. “Or you don’t get my mouth.”

Above him, you let out a displeased little grunt, too throaty to mean much. But you open your legs wider and brace yourself on the front desk, grant him full access to you. His index hooks on your underwear, moves it aside, and he buries his lips deep into the softest part of you. Din barely hears you gasp. He circles both arms around your thighs and pulls you closer, until his tongue is buried between your folds and you just have to take it. Fuck, it’s just…decadent. The taste, the smell, how soaked you are already, your little purrs and whimpers when he sucks on your lips. They’re not things he ever thought he’d get to feel. He doesn’t deserve any of it.

“Mmm, stars, Mando,” you sob, sneakily rutting your hips like you just can’t help it. He allows it, but only because he’s so rock fucking hard he’s practically doing the same thing. His cock trapped down one pant leg, he squeezes his thighs to try and soothe the ache. “Move—move up a b-bit.”

“No,” he grunts, and licks a slow line from the spot right below your clit to the back of your slit. It wasn’t so long ago that it was your mouth on him, you teasing him mercilessly inside this very store, him moaning and grunting and losing his mind. That’s how he wants you: sloppy, desperate, begging.

“Maker, don’t t-tease,” you moan, but it only encourages him. His tongue slides deep inside you where you’re hotter than sin, enjoying how your walls swell and tighten around it. You’re so fucking wet, he could push into you right now and relieve the pressure building between his legs. But not yet.

“Beg me,” Din groans, mouthing at the inside of your thighs and sucking tiny bruises there. You moan above him, deep in your throat, and he wonders which one of you is more turned on right now. “Put—fuck—put that smart mouth to use. Beg me.”

For a moment all he can hear is your labored breathing, the wheels turning in your pretty head, laying out a plan to make him give in faster. Then, soft and sweet, you hum, “Mando.”

One word. Probably the word Din hears the most, so generic and impersonal that everyone from friends to strangers to enemies call him that. That word coming from your lips makes his heart sprint, his cock pulse and scream at him to hurry up. Stars, but if it was his name—his real name—on your lips, soft and purring like you pronounced his nickname, he knows he wouldn’t be able to hold back a second longer.

“You always make me feel so good,” you continue, arching your back a little to test the waters. “You’re so—so good with your mouth, stars. Want you to kiss me again—kiss me everywhere. Taste me like yesterday—” Your breath catches when he sucks on your inner lips again, closer to where you want him. Maker, if you keep talking like that… “Used to th-think about it all the time, how—mmm—how your—your tongue would feel. Never, ngh, never thought you’d use it th-there, though.” Din laps at your cunt, drinks from it. Fuck, he can’t remember the last time he got this hard. An airy laugh before you continue. “You can be so d-dirty sometimes. I’d let you do—do anything to me.”

Really, Din doesn’t know what pushes him to do it. He doesn’t know what makes him pull back and spread you open with his fingers, stare at your glistening, deliciously swollen folds, and spit at their very top. You moan raggedly above him, a complete mess of sobs and whimpers, as Din simply stares. He watches the trail of spit run down your slit, the lower it goes the more precum he feels sticking to his trousers. Half-drunk on your words and your slick, Din thinks: What did you do to me? Maker, you have him wrapped around your finger.

Saliva trails down until it teardrops on your clit, clings to it, and he doesn’t need another sign. His lips latch on to your bundle of nerves and suck. You sob and whine and cry, rocking your hips hard against his mouth, and he continues sucking through his teeth. Your knees give out, but he holds them before you can hit the ground, holds you in place as he feels you give him everything, your pussy clenching around nothing. Slick trails down his chin, all the way to his neck, and—shit. He’s going to burst in his pants just from feeling you cum in his mouth.

It takes every last ounce of self-control he has left to detach his lips from your cunt and stumble to his feet. You’re still shaking, still panting, but he can’t hold it back a minute longer. Fuck, not even a second longer, he needs to have you right now.

It’s a struggle to get a hold of his fly, fingers trembling and teeth grinding. When he finally pulls the zipper down, the sound snaps your head up.

“Are you—Mando, are you going to—”

“Yes,” he grunts, digging into his waistband for his cock, lining it up against your cunt. Stars, he’s so pent up, it hurts to touch it. “Is it—is it o-okay, can—can, I—”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” you mewl, pushing your hips so tightly against his groin the head of his cock catches against your entrance. Fuck. “Please, please, please, put it inside, let me feel your big, thick, co—”

One hard shove, deep enough that he feels himself poke your cervix, and he’s cumming—hard. His spine doubles over and he grunts and moans into your hair, giving you short, stunted thrusts as he fills you to the brim. You were already so swollen before, now you feel unbearably tight, squeezing his cock so harshly his eyes roll back on his skull. And his balls keep pulling up and giving you more of his load, his teeth grinding so hard they might crack. One last thrust, nice and deep so his cum stays inside you, and his palm presses down on your eyes. Din uses that hand as leverage to turn you around and tilt your head like you showed him, just enough so he can reach your lips. And he kisses you.

Your bodies spasm and throb against each other, you clench around him involuntarily and he flinches, too sensitive to handle the aftershocks of your orgasm. Still, he could stay like this for days. Gently sucking on your tongue, running his along the roof of your mouth, feeling how your lips curve against his in a smile. Then, an alarming thought. Maybe this is the only way to do it that feels right now—sex, he means. With the helmet off, his lips on yours, his nose on your hair. Bare hands drawing circles on your hips. Every sense devoted to you. Even the briefest taste can be a point of no return.

You peck his lips and flutter sweet, short kisses around his jaw, working your way up to his ear, where you whisper, “We’re running out of time.”

The jammer. Those words are quickly becoming the bane of his existence. “I know,” he whispers back, but presses one last, long kiss to your lips that feels inexplicably sad, like a kiss goodbye. Din shakes the thought off his head. He’s too pessimistic sometimes.

You both hiss when he pulls out, slowly so he won’t hurt you.

“Keep ‘em closed,” he tells you before removing his hand from your eyes. For all he knows you could open them right there, and there’d be nothing he could do about it. Somehow, however, he’s certain you won’t. His trust is rewarded when he pulls the hand back, and your eyes are screwed shut beneath it.

It takes an awkward choreography to straighten yourselves. You try to pull your own underwear back on, but in your position it’s near impossible. So Din kneels behind you once more, fishes his helmet from the floor, tucks himself back into his trousers, and lifts your panties until they hug your hips. You push your own skirts down before Din’s upright, which results in the long fabric covering him like your furniture. You share a quick laugh before standing straight and facing each other.

“You can open them.”

Now, he tells himself, watching your sated smile and blinking eyes. The words are on the tip of his tongue: When this is over, would you like to come with me—

“If there’s a jammer here,” you say, before he can get a word out, “it’s in the workshop.”

You walk around him and open a door behind the reception desk to reveal the staircase that leads to your apartment. Din’s still telling himself that he’ll just ask you later, when you climb one step—and stop. You turn around like you can sense he’s about to ask, for the second time in this store, where you’re going.

“Gotta get some stuff from upstairs, but I’ll be down in a second.” Your voice wobbles, your foot hesitates on the step. You’re nervous. “But if you find the jammer before I come back, don’t…don’t leave.”

“Of course not.” Maker, of course he wouldn’t leave without you. Do you really think he would?

The workshop is darker than the reception. A single window, currently boarded up, so he has to use the helmet’s light. The cone of white light creates a sinister effect, like creatures lurk everywhere it doesn’t touch. Rubber tubes hang from the ceiling like lianas, circuit boards glimmer green like leaves, and yellow sensors blink from several components. Your own little ecosystem watches him dig into boxes of clutter to search for a jammer. Stars, he’s never known how you manage to find anything here. It’s probably best if he waits outside; he wouldn’t be able to find his own ship in here without you.

He’s turning to the door when the helmet’s light catches on a dark glint, like it reflected on a mirror. It stops him on his tracks. Din’s not sure what prompts his feet to carry him toward your worktable, where the mystery item lays center-front. He sees himself reflected on the dark T-visor. It’s a helmet. It’s a blue Mandalorian helmet.

At first he’s confused. Surprised to see a Mandalorian helmet here—and is it even a Madalorian helmet? Yes, yes it is. His brain lags behind his eyes, goes through different scenarios, each less likely than the last.

Is there another Mandalorian here? Did the Alor bring this? Is the Alor a client?

And then, truth.

It falls abruptly on his back like atmospheric pressure, gravity that crushes. A hot rush of blood enveloping his head, poisoning his thoughts, a ringing in his ears so sharp he thinks he might pass out. A million thoughts in less than a second—convoluted, scrambled, furious. Then an image, so clear that the Maker himself might’ve played it for him like a holo: Thieves, scammers, criminals scurrying through the tunnels of the Covert, the empty halls where his people built a refuge, where they could feel safe. The pile of beskar armor unguarded—the high price that brave Mandalorians paid to help Din, help the child—served in a silver platter for these scavengers, these fucking honorless lowlifes.

His gloved fingers grip your worktable so hard his knuckles might crack—or the table. But the Mandalorian can’t feel the pain on his joints, not when his bloodstream’s turned to acid, when it feels like somebody jammed live wires into his head.

This fucking place. This planet with its fucking people, their fucking cynicism, this fucking landfill for hazardous waste, this piece of shit skughole—

Above, the Mandalorian hears footsteps. Your footsteps. You.

He looks down at the helmet, the empty T-visor limp and black, dead. You did this. Thinking of you clears the red cloud from his mind, trades it for a gray one. A headache creeps behind his eyes, his shoulders go slack. He feels hollowed out. Like a spoon reached inside his chest and scooped away everything essential, left him a carcass. Like something died here today.

You did this.

And then the helmet is not a helmet, but a severed head. A head with a pool of blood around it, guts sprayed all over, and there’s the corrupt smell of blaster residue coming from his neighbor’s house, the taste of copper after biting his tongue running, the durasteel giants shooting red death, the deafening explosions, his parents’ screams, his school going up in a cloud of smoke, his father holding him, whispering one last sentence that he can’t hear through the sounds of war and carnage, his mother’s cheeks stained with tears and dirt and blood, their blurring faces, the darkness, the fear.

Holding the helmet, Din feels tears sting in the corners of his eyes, then hot on his cheeks. Nobody understands, why can’t anybody understand? The warrior that owned this helmet is lost forever, condemned to live like a phantom, empty without the Creed, without the Way. It’s worse than death. It’s the curse that most of the Covert was forced to carry, to walk this galaxy like living dead, violently stripped of everything that mattered. And the relic of their sacrifice sits in your workshop next to the rest of your junk, ready to be sold off to the highest bidder, somebody who’ll want to hang it in their wall like game they hunted, and how could you do this to him, how could you, how could you do this—

“Find anything yet?”

When the Mandalorian turns, his helmet’s white light locks you in place like quarry. Like guilty quarry.

You squint and raise a palm to shut out the bright beam. “Stars, Mando,” you laugh. “Are you trying to blind me? Turn that off.”

Your words are muffled by the rushing blood that wraps around his ears, loud as a waterfall, but he can understand them. The Mandalorian grips the helmet tighter between his hands and keeps the light on so you can see what he found, what he knows about you. The ugly, festered truth about you.

Once your eyes adjust to the bright light and they’re able to stay open for more than three seconds, you give him a quizzical look. The visor gives you nothing, so you drop your gaze to the hard evidence between his hands.

And you have the nerve to look even more surprised. Furrowed eyebrows and everything to add to the performance.

“Where did you get that?” you ask.

A thousand responses climb into his head in a savage, foul clutter, like army ants. I should ask you the same, where do you think?, how much are they giving you?, was it worth it?, what’s wrong with you?, what’s wrong with this fucking planet? He opens his mouth, but they swarm in his throat all at once and tie a knot around his windpipe. More tears on his cheeks, another attempt at words—nothing.

Finally, quietly: “How could you do this to me?”

The crease between your brows digs deeper, and there’s genuine worry in your eyes. Of course you’re worried, he just caught you red fucking handed. “Mando, I really don’t understand—”

“Me neither,” he hisses through his teeth, “because this is a Mandalorian helmet, and you’re no Mandalorian.” The first insect out, the rest follow like a waterfall, crawling out his mouth. “How long did you wait after I left to steal this from the Covert? An hour? Five minutes?”

Trapped under the light, where you can no longer hide in shadows, you look stricken. The harsh light shines on circles under your eyes, creases where you frown. Bleak features he never noticed before.

Your voice is low and icy when you say, “I never stole anything from the Covert.”

“Scavenge, loot, I don’t care what you people like to call it.” How could you, after everything, how could you.

“Listen to me,” you say steadily, but your eyes are hot coals and your jaw is set, your own anger rising. Good. Masks off. He wants to see who’s been hiding under his noses these nine days. All those fucking months. “I didn’t take a thing from the Covert. I have no idea where that helmet came from.”

The Mandalorian is barely listening. He’s heard more than enough lies for two lifetimes, he sure as fuck doesn’t need yours. Instead, he focuses on the one thought that manages to float in the red sea of anger and despair. He holds on to it like an anchor, clutches it until his palms bleed, but truth hurts.

“Duma.” He doesn’t ask this time around—he tells you. He knows and there’s nothing you can do about it—nothing he can do about it. Greef Karga’s words shine painful light on fog. Boiling beskar…did you take her up on that deal? “You’re selling it to her.”

“Stars, of course not.” The stoniness of your features melts for an instant, hurt revealed underneath those layers. You look devastated, tired. Maker, you’re good. Those hours of sabacc are sure paying off. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“How can I believe you?” he snarls, his head suffocating in dark quicksand—grief, anger, betrayal all clogging his nostrils, making his head throb. How could you how could you how could you. “When I know what type of people sprout from this planet, I make a living hunting them. I know you—” his voice breaks, but the words keep flowing and he hardly hears them “—I know the kind of company you keep, I know you have no principles, I know you can’t commit to shit—”

“Commit?” you snap, face hardening cold and twisted like the magma outside, but he knows too well what lies beneath the surface. Lava, hot and bubbling, your anger as raw as his. Rawer. “You wanna talk about commitment? I waited for you for five months!” The light from the helmet no longer makes you squint, but it turns your eyes red and watery. “You left. You left me here to starve through a fucking siege that you caused—”

“I came back for you!”

That gives you pause. Then you shake your head. “No, you came back because that piece of shit official asked—”

“He asked to meet me in Belderone.” Belderone, same sector as Nevarro, not even ten minutes away in hyperspace. “Told me Nevarro wasn’t safe because there was a siege, so I insisted we meet here.” The memory drains him. How worried he was about you, the type of worried that stirs bile in the stomach. How guilty he felt. “To see you again. Make sure you were okay.” The Mandalorian looks down at the helmet in his hands, a strange mirror staring up at him. Harsher than the one from this morning. His ears ring, his mouth tastes sour, his rising headache plateaus into an unbearable, incessant throb. A ghost limb aches somewhere in his body, all over it. He wants to leave your store, your planet.

How could you?

Mando doesn’t raise his head to look at you when he walks out the workshop. You don’t stop him when he reaches the main door. You don’t stop him when he walks out to the street.

The sky is jaundice-yellow when he steps outside. Gone are this morning’s blue hues, suffocated by the sickly coughing of a million volcanos, by their fumaroles and their sparks. For all the Mandalorian cares, this planet can burn.

On his way to the cantina to pick up the kid, he stares at the marker that identifies the entrance to the city: that crooked, arthritis-ridden arch. Beyond it, he spots the outline of a ship. A sleek civilian shuttle, probably a rental. The official isn’t stupid enough to fly a Republic starship past siege lines, so if the tiny shuttle fooled Guideon’s platoon in the atmosphere, well, it’ll have to do it again. Tomorrow, they’ll just have to tempt fate and avoid tempting the batallion of Imperial cruisers. Or fly out in the Crest and hope they can jump into hyperspace before imps pulverize them. All he wants is to put as many lightyears between him and this planet.

Din’s head pounds when he walks inside the cantina. The only thought hammering against his skull: How could you.

…………

Edit: Chapter 5…’tis the end

Taglist: @rosetophighlander @hellomothermoon @newyorksins @leo-moon @benedrylcumbersnatch @corrupt-fvcker @seratoninforyouseratoninforme @multifandomlife22 @justanotherblonde23 @abysshaven @equalstrashflavoredtrash @16boyfriends-and-me @ihaveashield @dinispunk @bananaagurl @mstgsmy @absurdthirst @cowboy-kylo @roxypeanut @heyitmelexie @readsalot73 @krazykatkay456 @elusive-danger-noodle @lola-wolf @nikkiparthena @lifeisapitch15 @teaofpeach @auty-ren @anewrule @hyp-oh-critical​ @pascaliprincess​ @geannad​ @coaaster​ @frietiemeloen​ @yourbucky084​ @brynnstudies​ @elfwoodfae​

im pretty sure i forgot someone so please message me if i did!

#the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian x you #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #mando smut #mando x reader #mando x you #mywriting #rule maker rule breaker

[1plus1kiyoomi]

Chapter 22: How I Met Your Mother

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“Okay, listen up my children!” Kiyoomi announces in the middle of the living room, the kids all looking up to him. “Your mother won’t be around for 3 days-”

Kin starts crying because of his father’s words, taking Sakusa aback. His boy must love you so much since he’s the only who seems affected that you are away. The girls... don’t care.

“Don’t cry! Don’t cry! We are only 30 minutes in and you’re already crying,” Kiyoomi sighs, picking Kin up from the ground.

“You should not have mentioned mama,” Kia scolds him. Kia takes a seat on the couch which Mina and Mira follows. She is their leader, not Kiyoomi. If a hierarchy is made in your house it would turn out like this:

You

Kia

Mina

Mira

Kin

Kiyoomi

Yes. Sakusa Kiyoomi, the provider and the pillar of the house, is at the lowest ranking in your house, simply because he isn’t around all the time. He only goes home once or twice a month, leaving all the childcare and managing of the house to you. The wedding planning is only the side dish of what’s on your plate. He has so much respect for you that he’s willing to lower his pride and hurt his ego.

Kiyoomi is more than happy to take care of the kids for you. You get to rest and he gets to spend time with your children. It’s a win-win situation for the two of you.

“Mama!” Kin cries harder, and Sakusa bounces him on his arm, hoping it will stop him.

“If you stop crying we will go see the fish!” Kiyoomi cheers and Kin stops crying. “We will change now and then go see fish.”

“Really?” Kia questions her father, already old enough to be aware of Kiyoomi’s fear of crowds and germs. She knows that there is no way that their dad will bring the four of them in the aquarium. Especially since it’s a weekend, so it’ll be packed with people.

And Kia was right. Kiyoomi didn’t bring them to the aquarium, but to a small fish market. Kia is disappointed but not surprised. At least Kiyoomi tried, right? “Where’s the fish?” Kin asks, looking around as he sits in his stroller. The place only has a few people and small stalls, which Kiyoomi really likes.

They stop in front of a stall where fish are laid on trays of ice, shocking the twins. Kia just face palms, and Mina is just standing there but is also in disbelief. “What? It’s fish.” Kiyoomi defends himself, shrugging.

“It’s dead,” Mina remarks as she stares at the deceased sea creatures in front of her.

“A fish is a fish,” Kiyoomi argues. Kia scans through the surrounding and spots a small tank with king crabs in it. She points at it so they go to it. Kin and Mira are now out of their stroller and are almost glued to the glass tank. The owner of the shop comes out asks if they’re going to it at the store. Kiyoomi says yes, since the kids look so excited to be seeing crab for the first time.

What he didn’t take in account is that the kids will recognize that the crab they were staring at outside is now their food. Cue the loud crying from Kin and Mira. The number of times Kia has face palmed because of her father is uncountable. Mina is chill, playing with the claws of the cooked crab, making her younger siblings cry even more.

“Stop crying. Try it!” Mina puts a piece of meat in Mira’s mouth and she stops. Kin halts as well, confused why his twin stopped wailing. Kia feeds him the crab and he falls in love with it. Kiyoomi sighs in relief, very thankful that he has reliable daughters.

One task done.

Their lunch finally ends and they head to the toy store. Kiyoomi has already planned to buy kinetic sand for the twins since he can’t bring them to the beach. It’s a scary place. He might be the most cautious guy in the country, but he’s still like any clumsy father. The chances of him losing one kid at that place is high.

“Do you wanna walk?” Kiyoomi asks the twins, not wanting to carry a stroller around. The two nod so he takes out the safety harness and puts it on them. Mina and Kia are holding hands, walking obediently beside their father. The family of 5 enters the store and the kids become excited immediately.

“We can buy anything we want?” Kia asks in awe, which Kiyoomi just nods to. “Let’s go Mina!”

“Don’t go with strangers, okay?” Kiyoomi tells them as the two run off somewhere in the store. He picks up tubs of kinetic sand, clay, and slime. Then, he follows the twins around the store, picking up whatever they seemed interested in.

“You want that toy car?” Kiyoomi asks Mira, picking them up from the ground so they can see a clearer view of the toys. Kin points at a toy gun at another shelf. “I’m sorry, buddy, but you can’t use that yet, and maybe your mama will shoot me using that if she finds out I bought you one.”

As Kiyoomi and the twins are picking more stuffed animals, Kia and Mina come running towards him. “Papa! Papa! Can I buy a bike?” Kia pleads, tugging on Kiyoomi’s pants. He takes a deep breath in before agreeing to his eldest daughter.

“Where are your toys?” Kiyoomi asks them, seeing that the two girls are empty handed.

“I only want a bike and Mina wants a picture book,” Kia answers. Kiyoomi furrows his eyebrows in disappointment, but in his mind he’s actually really happy that the girls seem to be taking saving into consideration.

“Are you sure?” Kiyoomi raises an eyebrow at them.

“Can I buy a skateboard too...?” Kia shyly requests, doing a cute pose. Kiyoomi chuckles and agrees with her.

“How about you Minari?” Kiyoomi asks the younger girl.

“I want paint,” Kia nonchalantly says and Kiyoomi does a thumbs up to her. After that, they start to run to wherever they can get their wants. Kiyoomi walks after his kids, the twins already asleep in his arms, their heads on his shoulder. He spots Kia, scanning through the wide catalog of bikes, a small skateboard already tucked below her underarms.

“Can I get the blue one?” Kia tells the employee who is assisting her, pointing at the baby blue bike she wants.

“You don’t want the pink one?” The employee asks, presenting the pink bike. Kia looks at him in disgust.

“Do you think girls only like pink?” Kia remarks, taking the employee by surprise. Kiyoomi smiles under his mask, amused by his daughter’s words. He internally taps the his back because he’s pretty much the reason behind her attitude. He’s proud to say that he has raised his children not to believe in gender norms.

Kiyoomi feels someone tug on his pants, so he looks down and sees Mina holding a small cart filled with coloring materials, picture books and papers. “Is that all you want?” Mina nods and holds his hand.

After checking Kia’s bike they head to the cashier to pay. Kiyoomi then realizes that he has done the one thing you told him not to do. Spend money on the kids. But you won’t know right?

One task has been failed.

As they reach the house, all the kids immediately go to the bathroom to wash. Kiyoomi knows that they adapted this habit from him, and he feels happy that they’re understanding his personality even at a young age. Kia even sprays alcohol in her sibling’s hand every time they come back to the car. It’s the little things his little kids are doing for him that makes him love them even more.

The four of them falls asleep after the bath so Kiyoomi arranges the stuff they bought. As he is arranging Mina’s books, he notices the abundant number of books that included dogs. “Does she likes dogs?”

Kiyoomi is tired. He has never felt this tired after intense games or practices. Childcare is a whole new level of tired. Just when he thought he can rest, Mina walks out of her shared room with Kia. “Hi, baby. Did you sleep well?” Kiyoomi asks Mina which she doesn’t respond to. Instead, she comes close to him and hugs his leg. Surprisingly, Mina starts crying. “What’s wrong?”

“I missed you, papa,” Mina explains. Kiyoomi sits on the foamed floor of the living room, giving Mina a hug.

Mina has always been quiet. She always waits for her turn silently. She never begs for attention even if she wants it deeply. Mina only shows affection towards you and Kiyoomi when she’s alone with you, but with her siblings around, she gives way to them. Sometimes, Kiyoomi feels guilty because of this. Unlike Kia, Mina has never spent time with you and Kiyoomi on her own. Plus, she was then followed by the twins when she was still a baby. He’s afraid that Mina might start thinking that she is less important than her siblings.

“I missed you, too, Minari,” Kiyoomi says back. He puckers his lips so Mina gives him a short kiss. He hugs her once again, calming her down from her cry. She calms down so Kiyoomi takes this as a chance to trim her bangs. “Should we cut your hair?”

The two of them go to your shared bathroom as quiet as they can, not wanting to wake the other kids up. Kiyoomi sits Mina down on the sink, then takes a pair of scissors out of the drawers. “Don’t move, okay?” He starts to cut her bangs, thinking he’s doing a good job. But once he lets go of her hair, the room becomes silent.

Sakusa messed up. Big time.

Mina checks her reflection at the mirror and giggles. “Weird,” Mina says in between laughter, causing Kiyoomi to chuckle as well.

“Your mom will be so mad at me...” He cuts some more length off, but no matter how hard he tries, it’s just an uneven. He then decides to stop, not wanting his daughter to look like an unidentified animal.

“I like it, papa. Thank you.” She doesn’t like it, but she doesn’t want to break her father’s heart. Mina hugs Kiyoomi after taking a look at the mirror. Kiyoomi kisses her cheek, then laughs at the result.

“You’re still cute.”

Two tasks done.

As they return to the living room, they see Kia sitting on the living room couch, staring at the wall emptily. She sees Mina’s new hairstyle and grimaces. “You’re bad at cutting hair, papa,” Kia says, unfiltered. Unlike Mina who is considerate like you, Kia is as blunt as Kiyoomi. He doesn’t say anything back since she was right.

“Can you teach Mina the alphabet while I make dinner?” Kiyoomi requests and Kia nods in agreement. Mina goes to Kia while Kiyoomi goes to the kitchen to make dinner. He’s thankful that he has such a reliable daughter. He would probably not make it without Kia around.

Three tasks done. Somehow.

At first, Kia was teaching Mina the alphabet, but then she had to go to Kiyoomi’s bathroom to wash her hands, and that’s when she saw Kiyoomi’s ripped jeans that he wore a day before in the laundry basket. She hurriedly called Mina and ordered her to bring paper and glue.

“Is papa poor?” Mina gasps as Kia presents the ripped jeans to her. They sadly look at the piece of clothing and feel bad for buying so much at the toy store while their father was wearing clothes with holes in it.

The older girl flattens the pair of jeans on the floor and starts to glue the colored paper over the torn parts. Mina mimics Kia and does the same thing to the other leg of the pants. Kiyoomi, still in the kitchen, wonders why he suddenly can’t hear his children. It’s never good when they’re silent.

“Kia! Mina! Where are you?” Kiyoomi shouts and he hears small footsteps coming from his room. He checks over the counter and sees his pants are now covered in decorative paper. He almost drops the knife he is holding from the sudden transformation of his pants.

“We covered the holes in your pants papa! You might get cold!” Kia reasons as she shows off their little project. How can he get mad at them when they are just worried about him?

“Thank you, Kia, Mina,” he laughs and snaps a picture of them on his phone. Things that his kids do that don’t make sense but is damn adorable.

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“Just go to bed. I beg you,” Kiyoomi pleads to his children who are still jumping on the bed. “It’s already almost 12AM. Please sleep.”

Kiyoomi is damn tired. How do you handle the four of them on your own? He suddenly feels bad for leaving you alone with them. And he hasn’t heard a complain from you even once. His love for you has become deeper just from taking care of the kids in one day.

“Bedtime story!” Kia cheers, putting herself inside the blanket, which her siblings follow. Kiyoomi sighs in relief. Finally.

“What kind of story do you want?” Kiyoomi tucks the blankets properly on their bodies, making sure that the four of them are comfortable in his bed.

“How did you meet mama?” Kia asks, causing Kiyoomi to smile.

“How I met your mother, huh?” Kiyoomi hums, thinking about how you first met. His smile grows, remembering every detail of how you met.

The first time Sakusa had met you was in Itachiyama. You were outside the volleyball gym, and he was on his way to practice. For some odd reason, you were smelling the roses by the wall. He thought you were the weirdest person he had encountered and judged you right then and there. After that, he would notice how you came to the same spot to smell the roses every single day. He didn’t even understand what smelled so good about them. He may or may have not tried smelling them after practice just to check why you kept smelling them.

It went on for weeks, but Sakusa never thought of talking to you. He just didn’t see see a reason why he should. Until one day, it rained so heavily that he became so worried for unknown reasons. On his way to practice, he stopped by the usual spot where you would smell the flowers and he didn’t see you there. Of course you wouldn’t be there, it was raining so hard. He didn’t care about you.

He was sure he didn’t care until he found himself carrying a bouquet of roses one morning to give it to you. He couldn’t believe it himself. But he couldn’t contain his feelings anymore.

You were a virus that slowly corrupted his mind that all he could think of is you. Maybe it be in class, during practice, on his way home, before he sleeps, after he wakes and sometimes he even dreams about you. Your virus then slowly travelled to his heart. He couldn’t explain it but every time he saw you, his heart would pound so fast he felt like he would suffer from cardiac arrest.

But it was also you who soothed him. When he was feeling down, he thought of your smile after you smelled the roses and he’s back up again. The calm he felt when he passed by you in hallways was enough to encourage him to do great in practice and in games. He didn’t even know your name but he already has a mission of taking your last name and replacing it with his.

You were his illness and his cure.

His cousin, Komori, wasn’t surprised to see him standing by the school gates with flowers in his hands. As the libero saw the roses, he immediately knew Sakusa was waiting for you.

Sakusa was never quiet about his feelings judgement towards you. Everyday the spiker would complain to the libero about how weird you were. Each day, Sakusa had something new to complain about. You cut your hair? He would say it Komori. You painted your nails a new color? Komori would hear about it. You were wearing a different bag? Komori definitely knew about it from Sakusa.

Komori had concluded that Sakusa had developed a liking towards you but the latter hadn’t notice yet. So when it rained hard the day before and Sakusa’s plays were bad, Komori knew Sakusa would do something about it. Sakusa was an honest man, even to himself, especially to himself.

You were on your way to school, when you saw Sakusa standing by the gates. Of course you knew him. He was famous in your school despite his too blunt personality and germaphobic tendencies. You had a little crush on him, but you also were aware he’d never like you back. You’d go outside their gym everyday to smell on the flowers and see him. He was a happy a crush. So, seeing him with flowers outside your school broke your heart.

‘So he had a lover, huh?’

You walked past him, head lowered in defeat. You heard murmurs and whispers as you continued to walk but you ignore them, head full of sad thoughts. Suddenly, you felt a hand on your shoulder so you turned your head and saw Sakusa standing before you, handing you the bundle of flowers. Everyone else was staring at you and Komori was hiding somewhere, taking a picture of the commotion.

“I think you got the wrong person,” you chuckled awkwardly, not knowing what to do since other students were looking at the two of you. And Sakusa Kiyoomi, the ace of the volleyball team, your happy crush, the man of your dreams, was handing you a bouquet of roses.

“You’re the girl who smells the roses outside our gym every afternoon, right?” Sakusa said as he pulled his mask down.

You literally short circuited. He was much more taller and more gorgeous up close. He smelled good, too. But what surprised you the most was that he lowered his mask to talk to you. Maybe you saved the world once in your past life to be able to experience this.

You nodded unsurely, glancing around you in nervousness, not able to look him in the eye. “Forecast said it’ll rain later in the afternoon so you won’t be able to smell the flowers outside the gym. So take this.” Sakusa explained to you.

You couldn’t believe it. The boy who you had a secret crush on since the first day of school had noticed you. You didn’t expect anything at all. Considering how he was with people, you thought you didn’t have a chance so you never made a move aside from stealing glances and watching from a far. To say that your heart was beating fast and that you felt butterflies in your stomach was an understatement. One more word from him and you would probably burst.

“Is that so?” A smile slowly grew on your lips, finally making eye contact with him. You were trying so hard to play it cool, but your reddening cheeks were giving you off. “Thank you. I’m (Y/N) by the way.”

“You can call me Kiyoomi.”

“And from that day on, I would bring your mother a rose everyday,” Sakusa tells Kia, fondly looking his children, the products of your love.

“So you liked mama ever since you met her?” Kia asks, seeing her father smile foolishly. A small giggle leaves Kiyoomi’s mouth and Kia teases him. “Papa is a simp.”

“Where did you learn that?” Kiyoomi gasps.

“Momo,” Kia answers and Kiyoomi takes a mental note to smack his cousin when he sees him again. “Papa, do you love mama?”

“We wouldn’t have the four of you if I don’t,” Kiyoomi answers with a chuckle. He checks his other kids and they have already fallen asleep. “Now go to sleep.”

“Good night, papa,” Kia greets him before closing her eyes. “I love you and mama so much. I am happy you are our parents.”

“We love you more.” He kisses their forehead one by one, before settling on the edge of the bed. He takes his phone out and messages you, hoping you were still awake.

All tasks complete.

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[prev] [next]

Facts:

Kia is already 5 years old at this, while Mina is 2 and the twins are 1.

Mina thinks dogs are cute because Komori looks like one and he is her favorite uncle.

Mira is the quiet twin while Kin is the more vocal one.

Kin likes fish because the last time Hinata came over, he showed him a picture of his gold fish. Hinata is Kin’s favorite.

Bokuto is Kia’s new favorite uncle/boyfriend because Atsumu has children and Kita is married. She doesn’t want to get in trouble.

Mira is loyal to Kiyoomi.

Taglist:  @elianetsantana​​ @aoi-turtle @ptv-hades  @aquzairus @a-applepi  @justoneofthefangirlsarianna-r13 @morenabambinii @chaelysian @loser-keiji​​ @mxngy @ne-kuroon1fangirlsblog @d-efend @missalicebaskervillemarvelousbakugou @agaashesmilktea​ @bonkyandloki @kimi09 @ntimacy @mkazuyuh  @ushi-please @minty-mangos-world @dearest-kiyoomi​ @yeehawslap  @onlyshinji @obsessedwhxre @adrasteiaxandromedaa @abuliawrites @song-of-storms162 @tnu-ree @keichainn  @bunnybitesthedust @lililiynx  @maitenight @prettyinblack231  @hyoonx23

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu smau #haikyuu series #sakusa smau #sakusa fanfic #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi smau #sakusa kiyoomi fluff #sakusa imagines #haikyuu sakusa

[gukyi]

the heiress and the hotelier | ksj

summary: when you share a kiss with a mysterious but gorgeous stranger on the night of your unwanted, lavish masquerade birthday party, the last thing you expect is for him to vanish at midnight on the dot. but when, as punishment for always arguing with him, your father assigns you to oversee the company’s newest resort hotel, you begin to realize that the handsome stranger may be closer than you think.

{cinderella!au, heiress reader!au, hotelier seokjin!au}

pairing: kim seokjin x female reader genre: fluff, comedy word count: 21k warnings: alcohol consumption (nothing major), workaholic characters, face blindness, idiots to lovers a/n: hello and welcome to guyi is a nonstop writer!! that’s the fuck right !!!! thank you so much to @aurawatercolor​ for commissioning me for this (again!) and for being genuinely wonderful. happy birthday! oh--and i’ll be on a socially-distanced vacation this upcoming week, so i’ll be a little more inactive than usual, but here’s this fic to keep you occupied while i’m gone!

Your birthdays have never belonged to you.

Not when you were little, when your mother was always the most excited for you to open your presents and host your birthday party. Not when you were older, and your parents started using your age as a reason for you to start learning the inner workings of the family business under the understanding that you would one day inherit it. And certainly not when you’re an adult, when all your birthdays ever remind you of are the years gone by, blowing past you like dandelion wisps, glimpses of memories that are too nimble to catch between your fingertips. 

When people say that time goes by faster as you get older, they aren’t saying it because your life is getting exponentially more interesting with each day that passes. They aren’t saying it because you’re having more fun or doing more things, things that distract you to the point of looking out your window and realizing that it’s dark outside. 

They say it because the more years that you have lived, the more years you have to remember. And when you have to recall something as overwhelming as your life, your brain makes shortcuts. The days, weeks, and months blur together, leaving behind snippets from events that your memory deems worthy, events that have become less and less frequent with time. You can’t remember the last major celebration you had. Perhaps your university graduation?

The thing about birthdays is that you know that there will always be one next year. So why bother with celebrating now?

You would give anything to have everyone pretend that your birthday is just a normal day. 

Unfortunately for you, you are the only one in your family who seems to have adopted this mindset. 

Heaving out a sigh, you look at yourself in the mirror, reflection bathed in the white light of the bathroom, stark and unforgiving. In the merciless glow of the bathroom, you barely recognize yourself. Gone are the deep eye bags that you’ve so dearly acquainted yourself with, tired eyes covered with contacts to bring back the shimmer that has long been lost. You gaze into your eyes and they don’t even feel like they’re yours anymore. 

In your hand sits the masquerade mask you had ripped off the moment you entered the bathroom, having been desperate to take it off from the minute you arrived at the hotel. The feathers brush against your skin, soft and black, a custom-made accessory designed to match your gown, an ink black floor-length piece with onyx gems that sparkle silver in the light. 

Hoseok was going for a black swan theme—said that it would match your personality perfectly. You’re not exactly sure what he meant by that. 

Frantically, like there is a timer ticking down inside of you that you cannot turn off, you pull the mask back on, adjusting it over your eyes until it sits just right, resting atop the bridge of your nose. Hiding behind it, you can almost deceive yourself into thinking, if only for this one night, you are someone else. 

The door swings open next to you, revealing a guest that you don’t recognize, someone on the list of hundreds that your mother invited, none of whom you know very well and could certainly not identify beneath a masquerade mask. She smiles in that polite, awkward way as she rushes into a stall, deep maroon train trailing behind her, leaving you stuck between a rock and a hard place, having no desire to go back out into the fray but also not wanting to stay in the bathroom and listen to other people do their business. 

Thank God she didn’t recognize you. Your mother was insistent that you be recognized as the guest of honor despite the whole point of a masquerade party being the inability to correctly identify people, so you might as well be walking around in a t-shirt with your face on it. At least the mask is doing something. 

You blink at yourself, hoping that maybe if you close your eyes enough, when you open them you’ll be someone else. When that doesn’t seem to work, you take a breath and fix your mask one last time before heading back into the ballroom. 

Immediately, amongst the crowd of people, all of whom are only here to elevate their own statuses by being associated with an event hosted by your family, you spot the back of Jungkook’s head, deep brunette tufts of hair deftly styled by a whole team of people, a slicked back, Phantom of the Opera style. He’s got on a tuxedo and mask to match, but even with that on you could recognize him in your sleep. He is your brother, after all. 

He’s talking animatedly with the pianist, an old mutual friend of your family’s named Yoongi, who isn’t wearing a mask and is thus immediately identifiable. Not to mention the fact that your family has known his since before you learned to walk. As you get closer to them, you notice that his maskless-ness is because Jungkook’s got it snatched up in between his fingers, dangling it in front of Yoongi like the taunting claw of a rigged toy machine. You decide not to bother them. He’s always been closer with Jungkook, anyway.

You really wish your mother better understood what a masquerade-themed party meant. You can’t get more than three steps in before being stopped by someone you can hardly recognize, all smiles for the birthday girl. They wish you a happy birthday and give you a lifeless compliment that goes in one ear and out the other before going on their way, positively thrilled that they’ve been invited to an event as grand as this and determined to make the most of it. 

Eventually, after far too many interruptions, you make it to the catering table, helping yourself to a piece of the five-tiered, golden-iced cake your parents had ordered. At least they got your favorite flavor right—chocolate and vanilla swirl. You wait happily beside the rest of the catered food as you eat, hoping that you are just out of reach enough to go unnoticed. The least your birthday party guests could do is leave you alone. 

“Y/N!”

Never mind. 

You look up to the source of the sound and find only your father approaching, all dressed up in a crisp suit from the same tailors that made Jungkook’s. He isn’t wearing a mask and apparently doesn’t need one, since it is your birthday and not his. Not a good enough excuse, in your opinion. 

“Dad,” you say with a smile, wiping away the icing you feel sitting just off the corner of your lips. 

“Enjoying yourself?” He asks heartily, all smiles because he’s always felt rather at home surrounded by this sort of grandeur, almost as much as your mother. No wonder the two of them get along so well. 

“The cake is nice,” you dodge the question. 

“Ah, glad you like it,” he says, helping himself to his own piece. “We were going to get red velvet but then Jungkook reminded us your favorite flavor was the swirly one,” he laughs to himself, like it’s funny that they almost got it wrong. “Had to call the bakery last minute and change it.”

You purse your lips together in a tense smile, fork picking at the crumbs left on your plate. 

“Have you been chatting with your friends?” He asks. 

“Here and there,” you respond. Nobody here, except perhaps Jungkook and Yoongi, would be people you considered friends. Acquaintances at best. And besides, it’s not like you can even identify half of the attendees anyway. “You?” You always do much better when the topic of conversation is not your social life. 

“Ah, yes, of course, you know me,” he jokes, always the aristocrat. “I was just speaking with Mr. Oh about that corporate investment deal that I had been arranging with him.”

“Dad,” you say, exasperated, “You know that I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Y/N,” he says, already beginning to get frustrated. You and him have shared this conversation countless times already. “You aren’t the final decision maker. You know that.”

“Yes, but you value my input, don’t you?” You challenge. He nods tensely. “So listen to me. I don’t think this deal will be good for us. Even though the Oh’s have more money in their investments, they aren’t transparent with it. If you make this deal you won’t know where our money is going.”

“Nonsense,” your father rebukes. “Mr. Oh and I have known each other for years. I trust him. You’re just saying this because you don’t like their son.”

“Sehun has nothing to do with this,” you argue, even if it is true. Your mother had set you up on a blind date with him a couple of years ago and from the moment he walked through the door, you knew it would go south. He’s got the same conceited attitude his father has. “I don’t think it’s a wise business decision.”

“You mustn’t let personal grievances get in the way of your work and you know that,” your father commands sternly, eyebrows furrowed as he looks at you. “What will you do when you are the CEO of Jeon Group? Are you going to let pettiness get in the way of major advancements for the company?”

“No!” You insist, though you are far too gone for your father to believe you. 

“This deal is happening and that’s final, Y/N,” your father declares harshly, eyes narrowed at you. 

“But, Dad—”

“I don’t want to hear another word from you about this,” he directs. “You should know better than to argue with me about this sort of thing. Especially here. Your mother worked very hard on putting this party on for you, and you should be grateful.”

You exhale, incensed. “I am, Dad, but the business means more to me than—”

“Stop. You can’t change my mind.” Your father sets his finished plate down on a cart an arm’s length away, piled high with discarded dishes, glasses and utensils. “Go talk with your friends instead.” You frown at him, nose scrunched up in contempt. He gestures you away from him. “Go.”

Sighing, you wipe away the sweat that has gathered along your temples and go back out into the center of the ballroom, watching begrudgingly as your father steers you from him, having deemed your conversation over even if you weren’t finished talking. It’s obvious that there’s no more getting through to him. Unless all of the Ohs are suddenly arrested for embezzling funds or mail fraud, that deal is happening.

Standing in the middle of the room, you turn around once and you’re immediately lost amongst all of the guests, surrounded by people everywhere you look. You turn back to where your father was standing but he’s vanished, and when you turn the other way, Jungkook has disappeared from beside the grand piano as well. It feels like you’re outnumbered, like you’re trapped in a maze of people with no end in sight, like one wrong move and suddenly they will all turn to look at you, stare you down like camera lenses, relentless flashes of light. Nobody to talk to, nowhere to run. 

You’re stuck. 

Now that you think about it, you sort of always have been. 

The room gets blurrier.

“Hey, are you alright?” A voice asks. 

You feel like you spin around several times before your eyes focus in on the man it belongs to. 

“Here, come on, let’s get out of here.”

Your feet move against your mind’s better judgement, the man ushering you away from the center of the room and out of the crowd. You barely notice the direction he’s taking you in until you feel the cool late night air blow past you, tickling your skin and sending shivers down your spine. 

It’s the balcony.

The glass door shuts behind the two of you, sending a stream of wind against your back as it effectively removes all of the background noise of the party, containing it within the ballroom, leaving the both of you shrouded in the stars’ silence. 

Out here, you have a perfect view of the city. Even though it’s nearing midnight, the lights are still on, coating the town in a twinkling glow, yellow lights flickering on and off, as if someone were looking at the universe from far beyond it. Some parts of the city go to sleep when the sun sets. Others are just waking up. 

Next to you, the man removes his suit jacket and drops it ceremoniously on the floor at his feet, arms resting on the balcony’s railing as he gazes out into the distance. As you look out into the same deep navy sky, it’s almost as if the rest of the night has faded away. You don’t know who he is and you can only hope that he doesn’t know you either, hope that he has rescued you from the crowd to talk you down rather than talk you up. But you don’t miss the way he hasn’t said a word to you since you stepped foot outside, hasn’t dared to initiate contact just in case you were looking for a respite from all of it. 

At this angle, you can turn your head just enough to get a good look at him, at the way half of his face is enveloped in shadow while the other half is letting the moonlight do all of the talking. From here, the light from the full moon is faint, a barely-there silver glow, but it casts him in just enough light to make him seem as though he belongs in a dream. Like he isn’t even real. It highlights the sharpness of his jaw, the peaks of his cheekbones, his round button nose. But what it really makes gleam are his eyes, almost pitch black in the night. They reflect the sky like nothing else, glimmers of faint starlight in an ocean of ink.

Quite frankly, you wouldn’t mind staying like this for the rest of the night. 

“Thank you.” You breathe out the words and immediately feel his gaze jerk sharply towards you. “For getting me out of there.”

“Of course,” he says, and oh, goodness, his voice is thick and warm and comforting, like a fireplace on a cool night, like a blanket after a nightmare. “You just seemed like you needed a break.”

“You could say that,” you say, shrugging to yourself. You could use more than a break. A general pause on life is something you certainly wouldn’t object to—if only it was that easy. But hey, you take what is given to you and never miss an opportunity if you can help it. There’s a lot that you can (and do) complain about but even more than you should be grateful for. Your father was right. This party took a lot of planning on your mother’s part and you spent half of it in the bathroom wishing you were anywhere but here.

“A lot on your plate?” He asks with a smile, a real one, one that isn’t forced like everybody else. Almost like he’s smiling because he’s actually enjoying himself. 

“I feel like it’s endless,” you say, keeping it vague because, as it stands, this gorgeous man does not know who you are, and you would like to keep it that way.

“As is all of life,” he says sagely, almost as if it’s a reminder to himself as well. You wonder what he must have on his mind. You wonder if it’s worth sharing your life with a stranger. “It looked like you had a lot on your mind back in there.” He gestures weakly back towards the door. 

“I have a lot on my mind no matter where I am,” you correct, and you try to make it sound funny but instead it just comes out sounding sad. Normally you wouldn’t be cracking jokes at your expense in front of someone whose name you don’t even know, but you had a couple of drinks tonight and the taste is still fresh on your tongue, sitting alongside all of the words you want to say but don’t know how to. 

The man leaves it at that, not wanting to push any further, but you aren’t finished yet. Someone might as well know how you feel, since you bottle it up around everyone else. 

“Do you ever wish that you could just… I don’t know. Disappear?” You turn to look at him, heaving out a sigh. He doesn’t say anything, simply gazes back at you, like he’s willing you to carry on. It, in a way, worries you. “Ugh. I feel ridiculous saying it out loud.”

There’s a tense, pregnant pause between the two of you. It makes you feel like talking was a mistake. 

“It’s not ridiculous.” It almost sounds like the words are coming from someone else. Like this whole thing is just a figment of your imagination, created by your mind to keep you company because there’s no one else to turn to. 

He’s staring out over the balcony now, waiting for you to continue. 

“I don’t know,” you say, feeling utterly idiotic, like a fish out of water. “Sometimes I just wish that I could go somewhere else and be someone else and not have to worry about all of the things in my life. Things like my family, and my work. There are so many things that people expect of me. All the time. It feels like I’m living for them instead of myself.”

He nods along, holding back to see if you have anything else to say. You must sound like such an ungrateful little rich girl, you think to yourself. Complaining about this fabulous party and incredible life that you live, a life filled with wealth and grandeur and power, a life that most people dream of having. What will he think of you?

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. “I probably sound like such a spoiled brat.”

“You don’t,” he immediately assures you, taking a step to his right and closing the gap between you two. “It doesn’t sound like that at all.”

“Then what does it sound like?” You muse to yourself, forcing a laugh. 

“It sounds like you have a lot that you feel like you owe to other people,” he says organically. “You know, like you feel like you have to do all of these things because you can’t let other people down. I get it. I know that everyone nowadays is all, ‘You shouldn’t give a shit about what other people think of you, just do whatever you want,’ but it’s hard not to think about what other people think of you. And what other people expect from you. Letting them down sucks.”

You chuckle. Sounds about right. You may not be completely satisfied with your life right now but that doesn’t mean you’re going to fling your responsibilities onto the shoulders’ of other people. Your father works hard, your mother works hard, your brother works hard. The least you could do for them is offer up the same diligence.

“You’re quite the smooth talker,” you joke, looking him up and down and nodding your approval. He’s definitely figured you out, at least. 

“I’m just a people person,” the man admits. “I like talking with people.”

“And here I was, thinking that I’d be confessing my secrets to a brick wall,” you say, making him crack a smile, another real one. You like the look of them. A part of you wants to do it more often. 

“Secrets, huh?” He asks, sliding another inch closer, daringly so, teetering on the edge of territory that you haven’t touched in years. “I like the sound of that. Got any more for me?”

You smirk up at him, a grin playing on your lips. “Only if you have one for me in return. No freebies.”

He laughs, loud and clear, the sound ringing out in the nighttime air. “Alright,” he says, obliging. He leans in close, lips hovering above your ear. “I think you’re gorgeous.”

You’ve been listening to compliments all night but this one makes the heat rush to your cheeks like nothing else, a fire set alight in your veins. 

“That’s a secret, is it?” You ask, suddenly feeling shy, looking all around you just so you don’t have to look him in his eyes and feel your legs turn to jelly. 

“Not anymore,” he reminds you. “What about you? Anything else to share with me?” He’s standing dangerously close to you now, barely half a foot of space between your bodies as he leans into you, hands hovering above your waist. 

Slowly he begins to tilt his head towards you, and while you’ve never been one for dramatics, you have to admit that you haven’t felt this way since your schoolgirl crush days back when you were a teenager, giddy and electric and desperately craving more. 

You watch as his lips flutter above yours, feel transparent underneath his steel gaze, and you say, “I think you’re gorgeous, too.”

The fireworks thing had always been over the top for you. Like it was impossible for a kiss to feel that explosive to anyone, setting you alight over and over and over again. But his lips pressed against yours come pretty damn close. It makes your whole body go weak, like you can barely hold yourself up, hands clutching onto his sleeves just to make sure you don’t go topping off the balcony. He kisses you and you swear that you would never do this sort of thing normally—go about your romantic interests like a professional, a couple of dates and then perhaps a kiss on your doorstep—but goddamn, it feels like you might just give up everything for him. It feels like there are sparks running all across your skin, sending jolts of life into your heart. It feels like he is someone you are going to miss.

It lasts too long and ends too quickly all at once. You distantly hear the party celebrate the clock striking twelve indoors, cheers and screams and shouts as people rally themselves to continue long after the mark of a new day, and feel him pull away from you at the very same instant. Shamelessly, you instinctively reach up to try and meet his lips again, refusing to believe it’s over, but already he’s separating himself from you. 

“Hey, what’s wrong—?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, I promise,” the man says, the words barely registering in your kiss-drunk haze. He scoops up his jacket from the floor and immediately begins to head back inside. “I just have to go, really. It’s nothing.”

You freeze, mouth agape. “Wait, I don’t even know your—”

“It was really nice meeting you, I hope that we can see each other again!” He pulls open the door with one final grin, one beautiful, brilliant smile, and then suddenly, he’s gone. 

You feel the rush of wind blow against your skin, holding you hostage on the balcony as you stare at the closed door, almost like he had never been here at all. 

It wasn’t a dream. It couldn’t have been. He was real, and he was here, and then he was right in front of you, his hands were on your waist, his lips were on your lips. And still, it’s almost as if it never even happened. 

You blink back at the door, trying to convince yourself that you are still awake, that you haven’t gone mad with loneliness, when you feel yourself step on something. 

It’s his mask. A plain, black one with a couple of decorative touches. The string meant to secure it to his face is broken, having probably snapped in half in his rush to leave, leaving it as the only reminder that you didn’t dream up the entire ordeal to begin with. 

You reach down to pick it up, letting it rest between your fingertips, and you laugh. Here you are, having fallen for a man whose name you don’t know and whom you don’t think you’ll ever see again, the only piece left you have of him being a broken, forgotten masquerade mask. Like the worst rendition of Cinderella ever. 

Leaning back over the balcony, you sigh, resigning yourself to the fact that even if tonight was more eventful than you thought it would be, you will have to get up tomorrow morning and go to work, just the same. 

And you suppose that that really is what the man was talking about when he said life was endless. 

It’s not that it has no end. It’s just that it doesn’t really feel like you’re ever beginning something new. 

You wake up in a cold sweat and are convinced you dreamt of the whole thing until you see the mask sitting on your chest of drawers, grounding you back to reality. 

You wonder what it is about him, about last night, that so easily deceives you into thinking it never happened. Perhaps it was the time, or the alcohol on your tongue, or how storybook the whole thing felt, from the talking to the kissing to the disappearing into the night. Or perhaps it was the fact that you can’t remember the last time someone made you feel the way that he made you feel, can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like he did. Like your brain was convinced it would just never happen. 

At least you know that there’s still a little hope for you.

A part of you almost thinks that, for the rest of time, you won’t be able to think of anything but the mystery man and his excellent kissing skills. Even the morning after, the tingling feeling on your lips still lingers like lint on a blazer, like a scar that won’t fade. It feels like it won’t ever go away, dancing along your lips every time you look in a mirror. You hardly remember anything else about that night besides him, besides talking to him, besides his lips on yours. 

You continue to live in this post-kiss bliss for another ten minutes as you help yourself to breakfast and hum a mindless tune. Then your phone lights up. 

“Hey, Dad!” You say cheerfully, practically bouncing on your feet. 

“Y/N,” he says gruffly. “You haven’t left for work yet, have you?”

“Nope,” you say, stuffing a spoonful of Honey Nut Cheerios into your mouth. “Why? Do you need me to bring something?”

“Actually, Y/N, you won’t be coming to the office today.” His tone is stern and sharp, no-nonsense. The same way he speaks to interns who have fucked up. 

Oh, no. 

“What do you mean?” You ask, trying to keep your tone positive even though you already know you’re toast. 

“I’m assigning you to watch over the new resort hotel at the edge of the city.” Your father has never been known to beat around the bush. 

“What?” You gasp out, shocked. “Dad, you know that I—”

“You wanted more independence and more input in decision-making, didn’t you?” He says pointedly, a reminder of last night.

“Yes, but I—”

“Good,” he declares. “This resort is going to be your responsibility and I want to see that you are doing well with the tasks at hand.”

“Dad, that sounds good, but you know I much prefer more corporate responsibilities—”

“And at this resort, you will have that,” he informs you. “It’s high time you take on your own tasks instead of doing the ones that I hand down to you. I expect to see this resort flourish.” You don’t understand his logic. Isn’t he literally handing you an entire resort to oversee? A brand new one, too?

“But wouldn’t you rather manage such a new hotel? What if it starts to encounter deficits?” You plead, a final attempt to get him to take your name off of this project so you can go back to doing what you’re used to instead of being flung a brand new resort you definitely aren’t keen on overseeing. 

“Then I should hope to see you solve them quickly,” he clips, effectively dissolving any hope you had that he would change his mind. Normally, you love your father’s typical hands-off approach when it comes to business, usually because it allows you to gain working experience without him carrying you every step of the way, but right now, you just wish he was more of a selfish businessman. For once, it would actually work out quite well for you. 

“Dad—”

“I’ll be checking in.”

He hangs up. 

Standing in the middle of your kitchen, you huff, nose scrunched up and eyebrows furrow as you try to think your way out of this. Getting through to your father is impossible, getting through to your mother, even more so. She’s always preferred to stick to philanthropy, anyway, having zero interest in what you and your father do. You scowl to yourself, already beginning to run out of options. Is your list really that short? Who else in your family could help?

Suddenly, you smack your head, shocked at how forgetful you’ve been. You grab your phone from where it sits on the counter and dial his number. 

“Y/N?” Jungkook asks from the other end, voice still groggy. At least he gets to sleep in. 

“Hey, Jungkook,” you say, sighing out your hello to sound more casual. 

“What’s up?” He asks in between yawns. 

“Listen, Dad just assigned me to oversee that new resort hotel on the beach just outside of town,” you say economically. You’ve always gotten straight to the point with your brother. It’s the only reason the two of you aren’t constantly at each other’s necks anymore. 

“Really? That’s awesome!” Jungkook says excitedly, voice jumping up half an octave. 

“I mean…” You begin, because it’s really… not.

“This probably means that Dad’s going to retire soon, don’t you think? Since he’s giving you such a big responsibility, right?” Jungkook asks, a suggestion that nearly sends you into a coughing fit at the mere thought of it. Retirement?

“You think so?” You ask, a little terrified. 

“I don’t know,” Jungkook says, and you can hear his nonchalant shrug through the phone. “Maybe. He has been talking a lot recently about what’s going to happen when you take over the company.”

“Don’t you want that same responsibility, though?” Jungkook has never been treated as a business equal the same way you have, despite having the same expensive education as you and being much better with people. You’ve always wondered if that’s bothered him. 

“Not really,” Jungkook tells you, and you can hear the familiar log-in sound of his computer in the background. “I mean, I’ve always known you were going to inherit the company. This sort of thing just makes sense to me.”

You frown to yourself. “You don’t want to be involved with the business at all?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Jungkook says with a sigh, voice still groggy. “I’m happy that I’m getting the work experience and everything. But it’s just never something I’ve seen as part of my future.”

Mostly because it’s always been yours. 

The fact of the matter is that Jungkook, even if he is younger, and a little more rambunctious, and a little bit more impulsive, has always been the better candidate to take over the family business. He excels at task-driven jobs and has charmed the pants off of everyone he’s ever met, from Yoongi to your florist to the nice woman at the customer service counter at your local grocery store. He’s a quick decision-maker and never second-guesses himself. He also has zero problems with his love life and potential partners, something that your parents are desperate for you to figure out. He’s perfect for the position. 

So why are you the heir?

“What, are you just going to livestream video games for a living, then?” You ask snarkily, already knowing that he’s sat at his desk, ready for another match. 

“Probably. I could probably double the family’s fortune, you know,” he says, and he’s right. What he does is equally as profitable as what you do, and he gets bonus points because it’s something that he genuinely enjoys. 

“You better get started then, gamer boy,” you say, hearing his bubbly laugh echo through the phone before you hang up. 

Jungkook would take over the resort hotel management if you asked, and you know it. He’s got the experience and the expertise to do it flawlessly, no questions asked. But he won’t, because you won’t ask that of him. Because even if you don’t want to do it, it is better you than him. Someone in this family deserves to do what they love for a living. And nobody deserves that more than him. 

The Honey Nut Cheerios slosh around in the milk in the bowl in front of you. You aren’t very hungry anymore. 

Your father has always had an eye for design, a trait he never seemed to pass on to you. It’s no wonder why he’s the one the architectures and interior decorators run everything by while you manage the finances. It’s something your mother always says she loves about him. So, even if you are assigned to oversee a resort hotel that you have zero interest in whatsoever, at least it looks nice. 

“Whoa, this place is fancy,” Hoseok says, gasping as the two of you step out of the car beneath the golden awning that covers the hotel entrance. There are little lights lining the structure, something to bathe the canopy in a sparkling glow when the sun says goodbye for the day, light it up like stars in the night sky. 

“You’ve been to my house, this is nothing,” you say with a shrug, making him laugh as the doors open for you, carpet plush and hardly touched. From what you read in the file your father sent you, this place hasn’t been open for more than two weeks. 

It looks like it’s barely been occupied. 

The security guard, a gruff, stout man, nods a hello to you as you enter. 

“Uh, your house doesn’t have security guards,” Hoseok whispers into your ear as you pass him, pointing rather conspicuously to the man behind you. “Your dad really went all out on this one.”

You huff, gritting your teeth. Good thing it’s not an eyesore, otherwise you don’t think you’d last a week here. “Well, he’s always loved the beach.” 

“Why does that not surprise me,” Hoseok lilts, whistling as he gazes away from you, guilty. 

You smack him with the back of your hand in the middle of his torso. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he says, backing off even though he knows he’s the only person (well, besides Jungkook) who can get away with saying that sort of thing in front of you. “You two have always been polar opposites, I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, well, say it in your head,” you sulk, hitting him again so that he straightens up. You both have a duty to make a good first impression, though Hoseok’s red suit is doing half of the work for him. 

As you enter, all of the staff behind the desk scramble to get to their positions, hands together neatly in front of them as you peer over your wire-rimmed glasses to get a good look at the place. It’s clean, elegant, with touches of luxury here and there, a golden coffee table, an accent along the lining of the walls. It smells faintly of lemon and mostly of the ocean, a scent you are going to have to get used to. Everything seems to be in order. 

You stroll up the front desk, eyeing everything closely. Behind it, the three employees currently on front-desk duty wait patiently for you to speak. Their names are written in capital letters on gold-plated tags, pinned to the pockets of their blazers. You nod as you memorize their names. Irene, Seohyun, and Seokjin. 

Seokjin looks positively wide-eyed, flabbergasted to be seeing you, to be standing in front of you. There’s this faint sort of recognition on his face, like he’s just realized something life-altering, and he’s doing a rather poor job of hiding it. Perhaps he’s just starstruck.

“Well, we might as well get the introductions over with,” you declare, clapping your hands together. The sound makes the three of them jump. “If you didn’t know, I’m Y/N, and I’ll be overseeing this hotel for the foreseeable future. So let’s get along well together. For all of our sakes.”

They nod, polite smiles on their faces. 

“Which one of you is the hotelier?” You ask, looking between the three of them. Your father had written it down in that file somewhere but quite frankly, you were so exasperated that you had been assigned the hotel that you hadn’t really looked it over properly. 

“That would be me,” the man, Seokjin, says with a tense, small little grin, nodding his head when you turn to face him. He looks strikingly familiar, this sort of picturesque nostalgia that you can’t quite place, angles sharp in the bright light of the hotel. You wonder where you’ve seen it before. Possibly in some magazine or at an event. He certainly is worthy of being photographed. 

“Excellent,” you declare happily. “Then you’re on my staff, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I just received word about that last night,” he affirms. 

“Wonderful,” you say, fingers tapping against the granite countertops. “I can tell that this will all go smoothly, so long as we all make sure to stay on task. Sounds good?”

“Of course, Miss Jeon,” Seokjin says. 

“Please, call me Y/N. I do hate formalities,” you request. “So, shall we get started? I trust that you all know exactly what you’re doing. But I would like to receive a few updates here and there about the goings-on here. Mostly, I would like all total daily income numbers to be faxed to my office, transcripts of all of the customer service requests, and an updated menu. The pizza is far too cheap and the lobster just as expensive. How’s that for a starting list?”

“Would you like those numbers in an Excel sheet or graphed?” Irene asks, eyebrows raised. 

“Both,” you answer. She and Seohyun get right to work, leaving you feeling confident that this won’t be a complete train wreck. “Seokjin, you are with me.” You gesture for him to come out from behind the desk, and begin to walk around the lobby of the hotel, hoping to put some distance between you two and the other employees. He stays a solid two feet behind you the entire time, taking quick, short steps so he doesn’t dare start to catch up. 

“How can I help, Miss Jeon?” He asks, eyes wide.

You smile, shaking your head. “I told you that Y/N is fine. In any case, since you are the hotelier, I will need a little more from you.” He nods. “First, I need a summary of all expenses and income since you opened, preferably in Excel and formatted cleanly. I’ll also need a list of all of the employees, their respective positions, and their salaries. It would be great if we could begin to eliminate the part-time slots and allow the employees to become full-time so that they receive the same benefits as you and I. I’ll also need information on their schedules.” 

You notice he isn’t writing any of this down, simply bobbing his head as you lift off everything you want and a few things that you’re throwing in just so you don’t have to do them. 

“I assume that you don’t have constant contact with my father, but I don’t mind being the messenger in regards to hotel infrastructure and design. Any and all malfunctions should also be reported to me. It would also be great if we could maybe lose the curtains in the lobby. I think they close up the room. But, your choice.” You narrow your eyes, looking around to see if there’s anything else that needs urgent attention, when you see Hoseok already beginning to hunt through the concessions room, picking up bags of different themed Jelly Belly. “I think that should be enough for now. Update me whenever possible, please.”

“You got it,” Seokjin says, heading back to the desk as quickly as he had walked away from it, concentration washing over his features. It does, at least, bring you comfort that nobody seems particularly incompetent. 

Behind you, you can hear Hoseok muttering a few things at the front desk, most likely having to do with you and your attitude. But you don’t think it’s that big of a deal. You’ve always been work-oriented. It’s always been your biggest focus. Lingering in the lobby, you gaze out the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the entrance, the slick, newly-paved asphalt, the tropical flowers that surround it. You have always preferred a city to a beach, but at least the time might pass quicker here with people who know how to do their jobs.

Perhaps this might not be so bad after all. 

Then, your phone vibrates in your pants pocket. 

“Mom,” you greet, surprised that she’s calling you during work. “Hey, how are you?”

“Wonderful!” She shrieks, always the energizer. “Your father told me all about how he assigned you to oversee that new resort. I’m so proud of you!”

“Thanks,” you respond, lifeless. 

“You know, you have a lot of responsibility now,” she reminds you, as if you had already forgotten how much work goes into supervising something like this. “Directing a hotel and its staff is a big deal. I don’t want you to think that you can just slack off.”

“Mom, I’m not going to slack off,” you explain. “You know I care about this stuff, just like Dad.”

“I know, I know, I’m just making sure. We want to make sure the company is in good hands when your father retires. He doesn’t have too many years left, you know.”

“Well, whenever he’s ready, I’ll be too,” you assure her, a promise you have vowed to uphold, no matter what becomes of you or your social life. 

“Good.” The conversation ends there. Or, more takes a quick pause, which can only mean one thing. Your mother has something else she needs to tell you. “Speaking of seeing you off…”

“Yes—?”

“Your father and I both think it’s high time you start to settle down with someone. You know we don’t want to see you end up all alone,” she begins, the same argument that you’ve had with your parents time and time again. 

“Mom, you know that I’m not really interested in going out and finding people right now.” Or ever. 

“Yes,” she begins, sucking in her breath between her teeth. Oh, goodness, what’s she going to say now? “But luckily, you don’t have to. You’re so busy, we can’t expect you to just drop everything. So we did.”

“You what?”

“Your father and I have set you up on some dates—just a couple!—with some of his associates’ sons,” she explains, but you are already livid. “We just think that you should be taking more time to see—”

“See what?” You demand. “See his friends’ bratty sons tell me how much money they make? See their cars and their clothes and their stupid Italian leather shoes? See them tell me how I work too hard and that I should just stay at home while they go out and change the world? No thank you.” You can’t name a thing in this world less appealing. Except perhaps supervising a resort hotel against your will. But even that’s better, because the men here actually know what they’re doing.

“Honey, you just aren’t giving them the opportunity—”

“Mom, they don’t deserve an opportunity. I don’t need to be dating people right now. At all!” You exclaim. “Like you said, I’m busy. If Dad is going to retire soon then I need to be ready for it. I have other priorities.”

“Your happiness is our priority,” your mother insists, convinced she’s doing you a good deed by setting you up on blind dates with rich men who care more about their watches and Italian leather shoes than they would a woman. 

“Working makes me happy,” you say between gritted teeth. “I’m perfectly happy as I am.”

“Will you please just give them a try, honey? You never know,” she pleads, desperate to get you to agree with something.

“Fine,” you say, caving in just to get her to stop talking about it. “But don’t expect anything out of it.”

“Yay! That’s all I wanted to hear.” You can hear her relief through the phone. 

“Anything else?” You ask, rubbing at your temples, wishing desperately for this day to be over so you can just go home and take a nice, hot bath, and dream about the mystery man in his black masquerade mask. You’re not interested in dating, sure, but for him, you think you'd make an exception. If only you knew who he was. 

“That’s it. Love you, honey, congratulations on the new resort!” She hangs up in that same voice that she started with, bubbly and animated, and the moment you hear the line go dead, you throw your dignity to the dogs and groan to yourself. 

“God almighty,” you mutter angrily, shaking your head as you rest your head in your hands, fingers massaging at your forehead. Another blind date? How could you possibly have agreed to that? The more you think about the more you wish that this part of your life was the dream instead. Fairytales are overrated but quite frankly, you certainly wouldn’t mind if that man from the party waltzed right into your life and swept you off your feet. He certainly had no trouble doing it last night. You wonder what he’s up to, now—

“Miss Jeon?”

You jump at the voice, scaring both you and Seokjin as you turn, a little cry escaping your lips instinctively. “Oh my God, you frightened me. And please, Y/N is fine. Better, actually.”

Seokjin looks like a deer in headlights, terrified to even talk to you, let alone address you by your first name. You appreciate the professionalism but have never been too fond of the whole ‘Miss’ thing. As if you or your parents need any more reminding that you’re single. Your first name feels much more natural. He flounders twice, opening his mouth to say something before shutting it again, as though whatever he says will suddenly enrage you. 

“Do you… need anything, Seokjin?” You ask, prompting him since he doesn’t seem to be taking matters into his own hands. 

The sound of his name from your lips snaps him out of his daze. “Oh! Yes, I do, actually. I just wanted to ask if you wanted me to include personal expenses on the part of the hotelier in the Excel sheet.”

“Personal expenses? Did you receive a credit from my father?” You ask, an eyebrow raised in surprise. 

“Yes, it was mailed to me just last week. I’ve only used it for a couple of items, though—”

“Like what?” You ask, head tilted. 

He blushes red, cheeks rosy like cherries in summer. “The curtains in the lobby.”

You bark out a laugh, amused at how unexpected this whole thing is. The one thing Seokjin spends money on, you instruct him to take down. At the sound of your chortle, Seokjin backs away, like a cat scared of thunder claps. “Of course,” you say, looking up at the sky and exhaling. Fate. “Please include those.” He nods, already making to scurry back to the front desk, but another sentence from your mouth stops him in his tracks. “Oh, and if you think that the curtains look nice, then leave them. I was never good at interior design anyway.”

You crack a smile, hoping that Seokjin will at least recognize that you’re attempting to be funny and grin, validating you and your lacking sense of humor. He doesn’t, but he does nod once more, and you at least feel like the ice between you is beginning to crack. 

Seokjin rushes back towards the front desk, taking on the enormous list of tasks you’ve assigned him without so much blinking an eye. You watch as his eyebrows furrow in concentration, knitting themselves together above the scrunch of his nose, as his eyes zero in on his computer screen. It’s obvious that he knows exactly what he’s doing and has no issues regarding his work whatsoever. Good thing he’s the hotelier. 

From here, you can use supervision as a cover for the way that you are blatantly ogling him, his figure and his face, finding yourself rather impressed at the sight in front of you. Here, in this lavish, modern hotel, he looks like a prince rather than a manager, clean button-down shirt and fitted slacks, tailored to fit his short torso and long legs. His hair hangs in front of his face in strands, the same sort of hairstyle that the attractive male love interests get, messy and tousled but still fresh. It looks good on him. He certainly wears it well. 

You don’t think being here will be too bad, so long as you have him. 

“Hey.” You feel Hoseok wrap his arm around you, joining you as you stand by the windows. “You alright?”

“Yeah,�� you promise. “I am.”

Hoseok motions back towards them, where they work diligently behind the front desk as they wait for the next guests to arrive. Seokjin, thinking you aren’t looking, steps back from his computer for just a moment to take some breaths, catch some air. He stretches, arms above his head as his shirt is pulled out from where it’s tucked into his pants. Even from here, you can see the toned lines of his torso, his healthy, slim figure. 

Something about him is so familiar. Maybe you met him in a past life. 

“I think you’ll be fine, Y/N,” he promises, bright white smile gazing back at you, happy as always. “You don’t have anything to worry about. They all look like they know what they’re doing. Especially that Seokjin guy.”

Being here wasn’t your first choice. It wasn’t even your second. But you have people that you can’t let down, and responsibilities to uphold. Besides, you don’t think it’ll be that bad. At least, not with someone like Seokjin around. Perhaps there is always a silver lining. 

“Yeah,” you repeat again, exhaling. Hoseok turns to look at you, fondness lacing his features, and you smile to yourself. “I know.”

Very seldom are you shouted at by people that your family has employed. The fear of being fired due to disagreeing with your boss is enough to keep many people quiet. Submissive, even. 

But not Hoseok. 

“What is with these eye bags, Y/N?” He exclaims at you, exasperated as he picks up the color-correcting pot from his kit and turns around to face you. “I thought we agreed on eight hours of sleep per night. Getting less than that is a death sentence!”

“I’m fine, Hoseok,” you insist, even though the bags underneath your eyes are deeper than the Grand Canyon. You, admittedly, have not been sleeping as much as Hoseok has insisted upon. 

“No, you’re not, look at you! Earlier today you shoved your toothbrush into your ear when I called you while you were about to start brushing your teeth,” Hoseok reminds you, an embarrassing moment in your life that you would prefer to keep just between the two of you. Sometimes you just mix up what’s in your hands. It happens. 

You frown. “I thought we agreed not to mention that.”

“Your skin is looking dry, too,” Hoseok says, dabbing on the product underneath your eyes. “These are all signs that your body isn’t doing well.”

“Okay, Dr. Jung,” you say with a roll of your eyes, making Hoseok scowl playfully at you. “But I’m fine. I’m just working a little bit harder right now. That’s all.”

“That’s what you always say,” Hoseok points out, unimpressed with your measly excuse. “Every time I talk to you about how you aren’t taking care of yourself, you always go, ‘It’s because of work, I’m fine,’ or ‘Don’t worry about me, I just have a lot to do right now.’ It’s not healthy.”

“I don’t sound like that!” You object, offended at his mocking high-pitched impression of you. You don’t sound like Hoseok on helium. You refuse to accept that. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hoseok says, shrugging you off as he pulls out the concealer. “I’m serious, Y/N. You work yourself way too hard. This event is supposed to be a fun business gala and you’re probably going to spend the whole time checking your email.”

“I will not!” You will.

Hoseok frowns, seeing right through you. One of the many benefits of being your personal assistant is the fact that he can read you like a children’s book. He also knows that he can say whatever he wants to you without fear of getting fired—not that he cares about that, either, because he’s probably got enough money in his bank account to put three kids through college. If he ever wanted to have kids, that is. So this is how conversations like these usually go. 

“If I didn’t like your live text updates on the stupid things people wear to these things so much, I would make you leave your phone at home,” Hoseok tells you. “You really do need to take time for yourself.”

“I do take time for myself,” you rebuke with a pout, thinking about how you’ve started waking up five minutes later so you have more time to sleep in. It means that you don’t get to read the morning news like you used to, but sometimes putting off politics until after you’ve had coffee is a good thing. 

“A once-a-month ten-minute bath while you put on a rose face mask doesn’t count,” Hoseok tells you pointedly. “You need to be incorporating this sort of thing into your everyday life. By taking time off. All you ever do is work.”

“It’s not my fault,” you huff, closing your eyes so Hoseok can do some eyeshadow. “I have a whole hotel to oversee after my dad assigned it to me. There’s a lot that I have to manage. Plus, my mom is making me go on these stupid blind dates with their associates’ snobby sons who still think that the pay gap isn’t real.”

Hoseok tuts to himself, shaking his head as he brushes color onto your eyelids. “Your parents have such bad taste in men for you.”

“I know!” 

“This is even further proof that you need to relax more,” Hoseok says economically, brain immediately connecting your predicament to his agenda to get you to take more time off, as always. “Because men stress you out.”

“Just them, but yes,” you correct.

“What do you mean ‘Just them’? Is there someone you’re interested in that doesn’t stress you out?” Hoseok demands, tapping your cheek to get you to open your eyes. You do and the first thing you see is Hoseok’s face, two inches from yours, staring at you as he waits for an answer.

You sigh. You might as well tell him about the mystery man. Clearly, you underestimated his power, because it’s been a week and you’re still thinking about him. “Yes, but—”

“‘Yes’?” Hoseok asks, shocked. “What the fuck, when did you meet him? What does he look like? What’s his name? Job? Is he rich?”

“At my birthday party,” you say. You can picture the scene perfectly in your mind. The balcony, the stars, the mask. The feeling of his hands on your waist, his lips on yours. They’ve been etched into your brain. “We talked on the balcony for a little while and then we kissed.”

“You what?”

“Don’t overreact, it’s not that big of a deal,” you order. The mere recollection of it is already making your body restless and your cheeks burn.

“What do you mean? It’s a huge deal!”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” you interrupt, sighing to yourself, “because he ran off at midnight Cinderella-style and I don’t know his name, or his job, or even what he really looks like because he was wearing a mask the whole time.”

Hoseok stops dead in his tracks, the loose power leaving a puff of smoke in between the two of you as his words sink in. Yeah. That’s how you feel too. You finally develop an interest in somebody after years of going it solo and you don’t know a damn thing about him. Other than the fact that he is a fantastic kisser. Which is not an appropriate identifier. You suppose that you could use the mask, but you don’t even know half of the people your mother invited. How are you supposed to narrow down who was wearing a black mask and who wasn’t?

The fact is that unless a miracle happens, you don’t have any way of figuring out who that man is. Yet another thing that you have to dwell on while you worry about everything else going on in your life. 

Hoseok sits on his words for a few more moments, trying to figure out the right thing to say. Eventually, he settles on, “Damn. That sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you do anything to find him?”

You shake your head, resigning yourself to a life where the mystery man will forever remain a mystery. “No. I don’t even know who was on the guest list.”

“What if you ask Jungkook?” Hoseok poses. “Maybe he knows him.”

“Jungkook does not need to know about my barely-there love life,” you say with a self-deprecating chuckle. You and your brother typically keep your conversations far away from that realm of topics, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Jungkook is rather flush with admirers. Many of whom have gotten to know him a little bit… closer. “It’s no big deal, ‘Seok. I’m not really desperate to find love. I just need to focus on work, right now.”

“I wish you wouldn’t work yourself so hard, Y/N,” Hoseok says with a melancholic smile, knowing that no matter what he tells you, you’ll always be too determined for your own good. At least he tries. 

You purse your lips in understanding. Hoseok just wants what’s best for you, but what’s best for you right now is being ready for your father’s impending retirement. “There’s just too much that I have to do.”

“At least you’ll have help with the resort,” Hoseok offers, always looking on the bright side. “That Seokjin fellow seems like he really knows what he’s doing.”

You think back to your visits to the resort. Your longest stay was the first day you arrived, but you’ve been making frequent trips back to check in. And every time you arrive, Seokjin is waiting dutifully for your next orders, always getting your completed requests back to you on time, formatted perfectly. He listens to your every word and asks the right questions. He knows exactly what to do and he has no problems admitting when he doesn’t. He’s even started bringing you the occasional coffee.

He’s also terribly handsome, but you try to think about other things when you look at him. 

Hoseok’s right. At least you have Seokjin. His impeccable work ethic is half the reason you aren’t wearing yourself thin worrying about the resort. He was definitely meant to be a hotelier. 

“I guess you’re right.” You nod, letting Hoseok brush a deep maroon lipstick onto you as he finishes up with your makeup. “It could be worse.”

Hoseok mumbles in agreement, stepping back. “Let me look at you.”

You stand up, gown, heels, makeup, and all, letting Hoseok gaze at you to make sure that everything is flawless. You’ve never liked the events you have to attend, but getting dressed up is always something you rather enjoy. Especially when Hoseok is the one doing it. 

The dress drapes down your figure perfectly, hugging your sides as it gathers on the floor, leaving just enough space for the tips of your heels to peek out. Your necklace hangs low on your torso and your earrings dangle, soft golden strings with gems at the base. Your eyes sparkle with the help of the glitter that Hoseok has added, touches of shimmer on the high points of your face. You look into the mirror and for once, you feel satisfied.

“Wow,” Hoseok says, proud and beaming. “Look at you.”

There you are. 

Days at the resort hotel pass by faster now. 

Granted, no work day could ever top the speed at which the days passed when you were younger, playing outside with friends or running around in the yard during recess. But being here isn’t as terrible as you had first made it out to be. At least you don’t have your father constantly looking over your shoulder, even if he does call you every day to ask for updates. And at least the people here have integrity, more so than any of the usual executives you work with up in the central building in town. The people here aren’t brown-nosing you every minute of every day. 

And yes, getting to see Seokjin every day is also rather enjoyable. From a professional perspective. 

Hoseok says you need to take more time for yourself and relax more but quite frankly, being at the resort hotel is a vacation. It’s a respite from the hustle-and-bustle culture that your father has cultivated in his office building. It’s a break from the neverending business deals, the meetings, the agreements and bargains and contracts. And most importantly, it’s something that you can do without your father’s help. 

For once, it almost feels like a little taste of freedom. 

Of course, Hoseok would also tease you terribly about the fact that you consider overseeing a resort hotel a break, as opposed to an actual holiday where you take real time off. But he must know that that’s never going to happen. At least, not anytime soon. 

You hadn’t realized your father’s retirement was so close. The years pass by in a blur but you have always thought that your father has much too much to finish, tasks and projects, and events that will take another few years to come to fruition. Too many loose ends that he needs to tie up, deals he must close and finances he must track. You’ve been groomed to take over for him since you were young, even before you graduated, but retirement has always felt like a distant future. 

Not an imminent happening. 

Jungkook hadn’t even sounded surprised when you told him that you would be overseeing the new resort. 

You wonder if you’re the only one in your family who hadn’t expected your father to be planning his retirement so soon. The money and savings isn’t an issue—he will continue to invest long after he leaves his office—but the time is. Perhaps he has finished more than you thought he would. Accomplished more goals than you expected he’d do. 

Or perhaps, you just grew up too quickly. 

Time has always gone by much too fast for your liking. When you were little, when you were in school, when you graduated. You closed your eyes and suddenly all of your youth had whizzed by. You woke up and suddenly you were in and out of four years of college and two years of a Master’s in business. You blinked and suddenly you are about to inherit a company you thought you never would. 

The fear of everything ending is enough to keep you away. Away from that skyscraper in the center of the city, where your father’s office sits at the top floor, where he works nonstop to make sure that everything is ready for your arrival. Away from a future you thought you could avoid, until it reached you. 

Having this resort hotel, a brand new building in the beachy part of town, with efficient, competent staff and a gorgeous view, is enough to make you want to live in the past forever. 

Your phone screen lights up with your father’s contact for the third time today, the green ‘answer’ button and the red ‘decline’ button waiting patiently for your decision. Staring down at it, you frown. You normally aren’t one to purposely miss your father’s calls, but today is the day that the deal with the Ohs is finalized, something that you have zero desire to celebrate. 

After a few more moments, your phone stops vibrating in your hand, the screen going back. You roll your eyes and stuff it into the pocket of your pants, not wanting to wait for it to light up once more. You have a feeling that your mother will be phoning shortly to berate you for not answering your father’s calls, a call that you have every intention of ignoring just like the previous ones. You aren’t sure how to make clearer the fact that you think the deal is a bad idea. A terrible one, even. Mostly because the Ohs are horrible people.

Still, you cannot resist pulling your phone out when you feel it buzz against your side.

[Today, 12:27PM]

Jungkook: dude dad’s flipping out because you aren’t answering his calls

Ugh. Not Jungkook, too.

You: Tell him that I will congratulate him on the deal in person later. You: I’m busy right now.

Jungkook: he’s calling just to check in on the resort

You: I give him weekly updates and forward him any pressing news. He’ll manage.

Jungkook: just call him or mom’s gonna call you

You: Tell her that I will congratulate him on the deal in person. You: Later.

Jungkook: are you gonna be like this until dad retires?

You: Like what?

Jungkook: -_- Jungkook: don’t play stupid Jungkook: you’re being stubborn and you know it.

You: Dad already knows that I didn’t approve of him going through with the deal. I don’t imagine he’s expecting a party from me.

Jungkook: you can’t keep ignoring him just because you didn’t approve of one thing Jungkook: how is that professional???? Jungkook: you’re inheriting the business soon Y/N Jungkook: you need to start acting like it

You: Don’t tell me how to act when you aren’t the one busting your ass trying to make sure the business is ready for when he retires. You: You have your own life to lead and your own things to do. It’s not your place.

Jungkook: as a businessman, it isn’t Jungkook: as your brother, it is

You scowl at your screen. The brother card. Jungkook pulls it whenever he and you both know that you’re being unreasonable, and the worst part is that it always works. It always works because Jungkook only ever wants the best for you, wants to see you succeed as a businesswoman, as a future CEO, and as his sister. And who are you to deny him such a simple pleasure?

You: I just have a lot on my plate right now. Dad and I can talk later.

Jungkook: yknow Jungkook: like, occupationally, you are more than ready to inherit the company and you know it. Jungkook: you work so hard 24/7 and you never take breaks, you know exactly what you’re doing and you can command a room better than anyone i’ve ever met Jungkook: but Jungkook: oh idk

You: What?

An impromptu psychoanalysis from your wise-beyond-years younger brother is certainly not something you had been expecting today. But Jungkook always has and always will know you better than anyone else, something that is both a blessing and a curse.

Jungkook: you are so fucking ready to inherit the business Jungkook: i just wish you would realize it

Silence. You pause, watching the three dots appear and disappear over and over again, Jungkook typing and deleting what next he wants to say. Chuckling to yourself, you read his message over and over again. 

What’s Jungkook on about? Doesn’t he know what you do? The position you have? Just because you’ll eventually take over the business doesn’t mean you’re ready for it. Isn’t Jungkook aware of how much work you have to do? About how your father assigned you this resort hotel as punishment for disagreeing with him? 

You aren’t ready. 

You’re barely halfway. 

You: Yeah, right.

Jungkook: i’m serious Y/N Jungkook: can’t you see how prepared you are

You: I still have lots to do, Jungkook. Just because I’ve been given more responsibility doesn’t suddenly mean Dad’s going to retire tomorrow and that I’m ready to take over.

Jungkook: that’s not what i meant and you know it

You: I don’t feel like talking about this anymore. Tell Dad that I’ll talk to him about the deal later. 

Jungkook: … Jungkook: fine Jungkook: but don’t say i didn’t try to tell you

You angrily switch your phone off, fuming at the fact that the deal’s gone through, fuming at how Jungkook thinks that suddenly because you were given a resort hotel to oversee it means that you’re ready to take over from your father, and fuming at how, above all, there’s a part of you and a part of Jungkook that both know that he is, as usual, right. 

There’s a knock on the door to your makeshift office at the hotel and you lose it. 

“What?” 

You look up just in time to see Seokjin jump slightly at your shout, coffee sloshing around in the cups in his hand. Ah. You hadn’t meant to scare him like that. 

Exhaling, you rub at your temples as you set your phone down on the desk, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, Seokjin. I didn’t mean to snap at you. Please, come in.”

“Coffee?” He offers, a small smile on his face as he holds it out.

“You are a lifesaver,” you declare, taking the cup from him happily and having a sip. Perfectly scalding. Seokjin waits patiently behind your desk until you’re finished, swaying slightly. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head. “Just thought that I’d let you know that I’ve just got more files on the finances.”

“Oh, excellent,” you declare happily, accepting the small manila folder from underneath Seokjin’s arm. You open it just to browse, and everything seems to be in order. An easy thing to file away for future reference if necessary. And there’s no doubt in your mind that Seokjin’s already faxed you an electronic copy as well. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Seokjin nods. He turns to leave but seems to linger, noticing the tension in your shoulders and the irritation on your face, the way you drink up the boiling coffee like it’s nothing, relishing in the burn down your throat. He almost stops himself, opening his mouth slightly and then closing it, but then he just sighs, and he asks, “Are you alright?”

You sputter out the coffee all over the manila folder in front of you. “I’m sorry,” you say over coughs, the beverage going down the wrong pipe in all of the chaos. “What—what did you say?”

“You just seem more stressed than usual, is all,” Seokjin says, rocking back and forth on his feet with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his ink black slacks. 

“I’m sorry if I’ve been snappy recently,” you say, admitting it. “There’s just a lot I’m dealing with right now. Mostly to do with work.”

“I hope I’m helping, then?” He says hopefully, a hesitant grin on his face. 

You nod in agreement. Without him, you definitely wouldn’t be sleeping half as much as you do now (which is apparently still not enough, according to Hoseok). At least Seokjin’s there. “You definitely are. I don’t think I’d have made it without you,” you chuckle. 

Seokjin smiles. “If you need me to do more, I’d be happy to. Just ask.”

“Thank you, Seokjin. I really appreciate that,” you tell him. In the short time you’ve known him, Seokjin’s kindness has outshone even his stellar work ethic, a trait that you’ve come to admire in him, mostly because you know you can only dream of being as generous as he. “It means a lot.”

“Anytime,” he says, and he means it, too. “I’ll always be here for you.”

And standing here, in your makeshift office, with a matching cup of coffee in his hand, and a gorgeous, toothy smile on his face, you know that he means that, too. 

Sometimes, you can’t even believe a man like Seokjin exists. He’s practically flawless.

“I will bear that in mind,” you promise. “You really are a wonderful person, Seokjin. Really.”

Seokjin grins, the compliment going straight to him, blushing furiously as he exits your office, waving a tiny goodbye on his way out. You return it, watching fondly as he nearly crashes into the door frame, hand slamming onto it before he realizes. He laughs at his clumsiness and even from here you can see his cheeks get redder, heating up like the coffee in his hand. 

Work is hard. Being the unprepared heir to an enormous conglomerate even harder. But Seokjin’s right. 

At least you’ll always have him. 

You’ve never been one to develop friendships with your employees, but there is something about Seokjin that’s different. Something about him that makes him a confidant first and a hotelier second. Something about him that pulls you in, an electric, magnetic touch. 

You feel like you’ve known him longer than you feel. Feel like you’re closer than you really are. 

Some people are just like that, you suppose. Some people just make you wish that you had known them forever.

Quite frankly, you don’t think you could name a single thing wrong about Seokjin even if you tried. He gets your coffee order perfect (not that it’s hard, it’s just that you’ve never told him what it is), he does all of his work before you’ve even asked, and he runs the damn resort hotel better than you do. He’s obviously a people-person and can make others laugh without trying. He’s even figured out how to compliment you, a trait that not even grown businessmen have learned.

The days pass in a blur, made quicker by the ease of working with him. Of being around him. Seokjin lifts up your spirit and he doesn’t even have to try. His competence in the workplace is enough to have you coming by the resort daily instead of weekly, hourly instead of daily, just so you can spend time in a place that, for once, makes you feel relaxed. 

Hoseok would say that Seokjin is a miracle-worker. 

You would say that he’s just brilliant.

Honestly, sometimes you think that even Seokjin is more well-equipped to run your family’s business than you are. And you’re the heiress. 

The differences between Seokjin and all other men you’ve had the displeasure of interacting with (besides Jungkook, because he’s your brother, and Hoseok, because he’s the best) become abundantly clear after your second mother-mandated blind date. 

The first one that you went on a couple of weeks ago was alright. He wasn’t an asshole, but also he had the same amount of flavor as the plain white bread that you were served prior to the meal. But no points is better than negative points, right?

You mentioned to your mother that you probably wouldn’t be interested in a second date with him. She didn’t sound surprised. 

Unfortunately for you, your second blind date was not nearly as uneventful. 

The good part about your date was that it was a brunch arrangement, which is unabashedly your favorite meal of the day and also saves you the trouble of having to get all dressed up for a fancy dinner in the center of the city. But that is where the good parts end. 

You don’t know what your parents were thinking, setting you up with a man like Sangmin. Every single thing that you have ever complained to them about a man, Sangmin either did or was. The first red flag was how he showed up to your brunch meeting wearing a navy blue suit. It didn’t get any better from there. 

You know that your parents just want you to find someone and settle down, someone who can take the weight off of your shoulders and get you to stop working so hard, someone who will make you happy and who can keep you comfortable, someone who is something that you genuinely will want to spend time with, but you can’t explain why, with this knowledge of your preferences and dislikes, they still send you on dates with men like Sangmin. 

Men who boast about their money with every chance they get, checking the time just so they can flash their Rolex watch even though their phone is right there, telling you how many fancy cars they own that deserve a woman like you in the passenger seat. Men who try to explain economic practices that your family pioneered to you. Men whose eyes flash with dollar signs when they hear that you’re going to be inheriting your family’s company. 

Your parents want you to find someone who can take the weight off of your shoulders and keep you comfortable? They should let you pick. 

At one in the afternoon and not a moment later, you storm into your office, flinging your bag onto your chair as you groan aloud, staring out the window and fighting the urge to punch right through the Plexiglass. There’s no word for the way you’re feeling, the unintelligible growl that you let out. You just aren’t having a very good day. 

Your desire to interact with men is at an all time low, and yet, you can’t help but turn around when you hear his voice. 

“Knock, knock,” Seokjin says from the doorway, two cups of steaming coffee in his hand. He strolls up happily to you, placing the plastic cup in your outstretched hand. “How’d it go?”

“Bad,” you spit, not wanting to say anything else.

“Oh, no, really?” Seokjin asks, genuinely disappointed. At least someone was rooting for you. You don’t even think you had been rooting for yourself. “Worse than the first guy?”

“Say the first guy was just… slightly stale white bread, okay?” You begin to explain, because Seokjin doesn’t need the details and you don’t need to relive the experience. “Then this guy would be… how would you put it—?”

“Really stale white bread?” Seokjin offers.

“A rotten egg mayonnaise sandwich that’s been sitting in a dumpster for two weeks,” you correct. 

Seokjin winces. A perfect reaction, as always. 

“It was just bad. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” You decide once and for all, moving to your desk and slamming the coffee cup onto the wood. It sloshes over the edge and splashes around the side, leaving behind a ring that you know you’ll have to clean up later.

Seokjin goes to stand by the window, looking out into the back gardens of the resort, all tropical red flowers and vibrant green leaves. “You have a third one, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” you groan, the mere thought sending shivers down your spine. And not the good kind. The fact that the dates aren’t even over yet is enough to send you into a tailspin. “God, my parents are just desperate, at this point.”

“Why?” He asks, turning to face you, brown eyes wide and curious. “Are they worried about something?”

“Ugh,” you begin, on the verge of slamming your head onto the mahogany. The problem isn’t that your parents are worried you won’t find someone. It’s that your parents think that it’s their job to find someone for you. “I think they’re scared that I’m never going to marry, or that I work myself too hard and need someone to spend time with to calm down. I don’t understand. Even if I were to never marry, that’s not a bad thing. I can do what I want. I’m perfectly capable of running my family’s group without someone else.”

“Do you not want to get married?” Seokjin asks. The reason, you realize, that Seokjin is so refreshing, a respite from the rest of the executives that constantly surround you, is because he doesn’t expect anything of you. He doesn’t assume that you’ll eventually marry and become disparaging when you suggest otherwise. He doesn’t assume that you constantly need guidance on official matters that you alone have been tasked to handle. He doesn’t assume that you aren’t capable. 

(He did assume your preferred coffee order. And he is an excellent judge.) 

“I mean,” you begin, rubbing at your temples in a desperate attempt to relieve your body of the stress that sits upon it, “I suppose that eventually, it would be nice. But I’m in no rush if I haven’t met the right person, you know? Like, I’m not going to force myself to if the time isn’t right. There’s no deadline to get married.”

Seokjin nods in agreement, mouth shut. One of your favorite things about Seokjin is how, whenever you begin to speak, he begins to listen. 

“My parents are just putting all of this pressure on me to get married because they think that I’ll need someone’s help when I take over after my father retires. Or they just think that I’m sad and lonely. Which, maybe they’re right about the second part, but I just hate how they’re putting all of this pressure on me to go on dates and get married and work hard when there isn’t even a timeline for me to take over yet. I don’t even have real confirmation that my father is planning on retiring anytime soon. I just—ugh!” There really is no better way to put it than to just shriek and throw your hands up in the air. You sigh, dragging your hand down the side of your face. “Do you ever wish that you could just… I don’t know. Disappear?”

Seokjin’s eyes widen when he hears your words, like they’ve set something off in his brain. Even sitting on your tongue, they feel familiar to you. Where have you heard those before?

He seems to wait for another few moments, contemplating what he’s next going to say, like if he just opens his mouth and lets the words flow out he’ll say something wrong. Little does Seokjin know, in your eyes, nothing he could ever say would be wrong to you. 

“You aren’t sad and lonely,” he begins, a nice, comforting pep talk even though you sort of are both sad and lonely. You work nonstop and have three friends, two of which are employed by your family, the other one being your brother. “And you don’t need to rush into getting married if you don’t feel like it, no matter what your parents say. I mean, at least I think you don’t. You’re obviously much more focused on your career and how you want to succeed in the future, and that’s good. It’s something that means a lot to you.”

He takes a few steps towards you, setting his coffee cup on your desk. You look up to him from where you’re sitting in your office chair, letting his words carve themselves deep into your heart, rest within your soul. 

Sometimes, you don’t realize you’ve gotten yourself down until someone is trying to pick you back up. 

“You do have control over your life,” he tells you, and for once in your life you actually feel yourself believing it. “What you are doing, what you have been doing, is right. Things will come with time. You’ll learn and grow more as you keep living. And even if you aren’t looking for them right now—” he says, eyes wide and knowing and promising, looking at you so desperately because God, he just wants you to listen to him. To let his words mean something. “—there is someone out there who will love you.”

The sound of his voice dissipates into the air, sinking into the floor, dust after a storm. 

“You really think so?” You ask, hopeful. You never believed in soulmates but you have always believed in love. Believed that when the feeling was right, you would know. 

(That kiss still lingers in your mind, like morning dew after a rainy night. Like frost settling over the grass. Is it possible that you can feel like that again?)

Seokjin nods, firm and true. He does think that. He does. “I do,” he says. “I really do.”

The third date is forgettable. 

Or perhaps Seokjin has just enchanted you. So much so that your brain doesn’t even choose to remember interactions with other men. They just aren’t as memorable. 

You finish up this round of parent-mandated rich boy blind dates and get back to work, knowing that you might as well make the most of your now-unoccupied time before your mother decides once again that it’s time for you to go on dates again with men you have no interest in. Work, unlike so many other things in your life, will always be a constant. For better or for worse. 

Today, it’s barely even dawn before you arrive at the hotel. In recent days, the resort has become your hub for all of your work, even the work that doesn’t have anything to do with it. There’s just something calming about being here. Something that makes you feel more productive. That makes you want to work more. 

You slide into your office with ease, coffee in one hand and messenger bag in the other, surprisingly awake considering the sun is hardly over the horizon, soft orange rays peeking out from between the trees and skyscrapers. You don’t imagine there’s a lot of tasks of immediate priority waiting for you on your desk, but there’s always other work to be done. Administrative orders, emails to send, requests to be made. Even here, there’s no shortage of items on your never-ending to-do list. 

Seokjin’s not due to clock in for another several hours, at least. But he works long days and longer nights, and he deserves at least the morning off. He should at least be afforded that small luxury. 

Sitting down in your office chair, you pull yourself into the desk, elbows resting on the hardwood, head in your palms. The smell of coffee wafts through the air, thick and potent, waking up your nerves, one by one, sending small waves through your brain. You close your eyes, almost drifting back to sleep, sighing happily. 

Today feels like a good day. 

The hours pass quickly when you’re here, the sun rising slowly in the sky as it always does, day in and day out. You rely on it as much as it relies on you, wakes up this little corner of the world, says hello to the people stepping out of their doors and onto the street. No matter what, you know that the sun will always be there to greet you when you wake and say goodbye before you sleep. Within thirty minutes your coffee is finished, within the hour your emails are answered. 

One by one, you check the tasks off your list, responding to a phone call or two, forwarding some files to your father, rejecting a business proposal and requesting changes to another. You don’t even notice the minutes blowing past you until the sun is high in the sky, and the clock is chiming twelve. Noon, already?

“Knock knock,” a voice from the doorway calls. 

You feel your body relax when you see Seokjin standing there, peeking his head into your office like he always does. He looks much more casual today, a sweater vest over a button-down shirt, looser beige pants in place of his usual tailored slacks, hair sitting in a tousled mess atop his head, forehead peeking through the strands that hang low over his face, brushing his eyelashes. Instinctively, you glance down to your usual pantsuit attire. Did you miss a memo?

“What, no coffee for me today?” You tease, an eyebrow raised as Seokjin enters, coffee cup-less.

“Not today, sorry,” he says with a guilty smile. “I thought that maybe we could get something else to eat.”

“Oh!” You exclaim happily. “Sure, we can order some delivery. What are you feeling? Sushi? A burger? Oh, I know this wonderful brunch place that’s just a few blocks away—”

Seokjin laughs, a hand reaching out to push your phone done. The mere sensation of his fingertips upon your skin are enough to have you looking back up at him, shellshocked, heart frozen in place. “I was thinking something a little different.”

“Like what?” There are plenty of options for the two of you to pick from.

“How about you and I take a break this afternoon?” He asks, eyes wide with ambition. 

You frown, nose scrunched up at the notion. “A break? You mean… leave?”

Seokjin nods. Oh, so you did hear him correctly. “You’re always working so hard. You should take some time off.”

“Ugh,” you respond, rolling your eyes, having had this conversation thousands of times before. “You sound like Hoseok.”

“Hoseok’s right, Miss Y/N,” Seokjin points out, much to your chagrin. “You’ve been working so much lately. Just a little break, alright? We can get out of here and do something fun.”

“Nice try, Seokjin,” you say with a scoff, turning back to the work in front of you. “Maybe some other time.” Which means never, so long as you can help it. 

“Oh, come on,” Seokjin says, a pleading lilt to his voice. He’s beginning to pout in front of you, lower lip turned outwards. “Just a couple of hours, please? We can go into the city and walk around for a little bit. Eat some food in the park, or something.”

You look up to him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. That does sound good… but you have work to do, items to cross off your list. This hotel isn’t going to manage itself, and neither is your life. “A couple of hours?” You clarify, interest piqued. 

“Just a couple,” Seokjin promises, fighting off the grin that’s etching its way across his face. “Please?”

You sigh. 

Twenty minutes and a Lyft ride later, you and Seokjin are standing in the middle of the city, along the streets known for their high-class fashion boutiques and expensive restaurants with afternoon tea. There’s a park a couple of blocks to the north. It’s a part of the city that you rarely get to spend time in, usually trapped in the business skyscraper sector a ten-minute subway ride away, but for that reason alone, it feels brand new. 

Seokjin buys you both a cup of expensive coffee despite your objections, and the two of you walk along the sidewalks side by side, sipping from your paper cups with plastic lids, letting the warmth wash down your throats. 

It’s nice, being out here. Away from anything that reminds you of work. With someone you’ve wanted to spend more time with for a while, now. 

Out here, you can almost pretend. Pretend that you aren’t the heiress to a major global conglomerate, pretend that you aren’t being groomed to marry up, pretend that life is just a little more normal. 

Out here, you can almost pretend that you and Seokjin are more than just friends. 

“Oh my God, Y/N, look at this shirt!” Seokjin gasps, stopping in his tracks in front of the window of one of the most expensive luxury boutiques you can name. You’re pretty sure that Jungkook shops here sometimes. 

The shirt in question is a satin white button-down with hand-stitched birds decorating the fabric, wispy little designs that seem to be fluttering off of the material itself. It stands front and center in the window, a masterpiece meant to have people stopping in the streets just to gaze up at it in awe. It’s doing its job rather well. 

“You wanna try it on?” You offer, motioning towards the door of the shop, a sleek, black one with metallic silver accents. 

“What?” He asks, turning to you with an eyebrow raised. 

You smile, pointing up at the shirt, eyes tracing the drape of the fabric. “Come on, just for fun.”

It doesn’t take much more convincing to have Seokjin marching up to the door and pulling it open, giddy like a child walking into a toy store. He spots what he’s looking for immediately, a single shirt on a silver rack, hanging from a simple wire hanger. Other than the one on the mannequin in the window, there seems to be no other option. 

“It even feels expensive,” Seokjin sighs happily, hand brushing over the satin fabric. He holds it out to you, and it’s so light and pliable that you can barely feel your fingertips touching the material. 

“There’s the fitting room,” you say, pointing to the back corner, black velvet held up by a rod, muted gray paint lining the walls. Seokjin grins excitedly at you before rushing off, disappearing behind the curtain with a flourish. 

Instinctively, your eyes trace the interior, jumping from the hangings on the walls to the decorative shelves, the pastel cashmere sweaters and shiny leather loafers, the silken white button downs and navy striped ties. Every item in this room practically screams Seokjin’s name, and even when he isn’t in front of you can you picture him wearing each piece, picture him in an oversized light pink sweater or a sleek white suit. 

It’s weird. You’ve never been able to imagine things like that. Not even on you. 

The clothes in here are some of the most gorgeous garments you’ve ever had the pleasure of laying your eyes on and yet there is something else in this room that outshines them all. 

“Ready?”

You turn back to the fitting room, watch as the curtain shifts slightly. “Ready,” you say.

A hand comes out to push the curtain to the side, satin sleeves covering his wrist, but not even that glimpse of skin could really prepare you for the sight before your eyes. 

Seokjin steps out of the fitting room and you almost gasp aloud at the sight. 

The funny part is that he isn’t wearing anything else designed to complete the look. His hair is loose and floppy, like he had brushed through it with his fingers once or twice before deciding it was good enough. His pants are a roomy beige, hardly even complimenting the monochromatic shirt, white with black accents. He’s wearing sneakers. 

And yet, he looks stunning. 

Standing in front of you, Seokjin looks like the kind of person that your parents would want to set you up with. Rich, well-dressed (not that he isn’t already), powerful, educated. But he looks like more than that, too. He looks like someone straight out of a painting, like a sculpture that belongs in a museum. He stands tall and mighty, the hero after defeating a villain, the love interest in an old-timey film. 

God, he looks amazing. Looks like he belongs in those clothes, belongs in this store. Belongs in the kind of life that the usual clientele of this store live in. Something about him is just so familiar. Like he has always fit into the crowd that your parents want you to associate with. Like you’ve seen him before, once upon a dream. 

“So,” he says, interrupting your thoughts with a smug smile. “How do I look?”

He must already know the answer to that. 

You’re speechless. “I—Wow, Seokjin. You look great.”

A hand comes up to rub at the nape of his neck. “You think so?”

“I know so,” you correct. “It fits you perfectly.”

The fabric shapes his shoulders but drapes over the rest of his torso, including his ridiculously small waist. It both hangs loosely and hugs all of the right places. Your family regularly gets clothing tailored and yet you still don’t think you’ve ever seen any item of clothing fitting someone as well as this one does him. It’s as if the damn thing was made for him. 

“It feels like I’m wearing a cloud and a blanket all at once,” he says dreamily, relishing in the feeling. “If only the price tag made me feel this way too.”

“How much is it?” 

Seokjin holds out the sleeve to which the tag is attached for you to inspect, and the moment you see a comma in the cost, you understand why. No wonder Jungkook’s fine with shopping here. To your family, that amount is pocket change.

“But you really like it, don’t you?” You ask, looking back up at him, closer now. Seokjin nods, lips pressed together in a thin line, wanting something that he knows he can’t have. You know that feeling, too. 

“I would get it if I didn’t mind taking out a loan for it,” he jokes, admiring the detail at the cuffs, the way it cinches in towards his wrist. 

“Then let me buy it for you,” you say before thinking twice, because you have more money than you realistically know what to do with and Seokjin deserves it. He looks gorgeous in it and more importantly, he feels gorgeous in it. He emerged from the fitting room and it was almost like there was this white glow surrounding him, this fluorescent halo that made it seem like the shirt was melting into his body. 

Seokjin’s eyes widen. “What? No, I can’t let you.”

“Please?” You plead, eyes gazing up to him. “You deserve it. Plus, you look amazing.”

“It’s so much money,” Seokjin reminds you, shaking his head. “I can’t. No.”

“Seokjin, do you even know who I am? I can afford it, don’t worry,” you assure him, already pulling him towards the register, his old sweater vest and button down still hanging on the rack inside the fitting room. 

“No, I can’t let you. It might not be a lot of money to you, but it is to me,” insists Seokjin, refusing to back down. 

You roll your eyes, figuring out the game that he’s playing. “Then consider it a thank you. For all of the things that you do for me. The least of which is bringing me coffee every day.”

“That’s just my job, Y/N—” He reaches out a hand to stop you from getting out your wallet, his enormous palm cupping yours as you stare at him, fighting over the shirt like two friends with a restaurant bill.

“No,” you tell Seokjin, because his job is to be a hotelier but he became a friend instead. And he didn’t do it just because he was told to. “You deserve it,” you say, placing your free hand on top of his. It makes him look at you, eyes glossy and big and beautiful. “You really do, Seokjin. This is the least I can do to say thank you for being there for me.”

“Ma’am?” 

The lady behind the counter catches you both off guard. “Will you be buying this shirt?”

Seokjin looks down at you in disbelief, almost like he doesn’t expect you to say yes. Like he doesn’t think he’s worthy of a shirt with such a high price tag.

But little does Seokjin know, if you could buy the whole universe for him, you would do it in a heartbeat. 

You walk out of the boutique with a light heart and a lighter credit card, with Seokjin by your side and his old clothes in a cardstock bag with ribbons for handles. Even if he had resisted at first, you’re happy that he caved. He looks stupidly handsome. You’re actually somewhat regretting agreeing that he should wear the shirt out instead. 

A block away from the park is a little macaron store with more available flavors than you can count on both of your hands and toes. Feeling insatiable, you buy a box of twenty-four and decide on the spot that you won’t be leaving the center of the city without having finished them all. The mere scent of the shop as you walked in was enough to send you into a tizzy. 

Seokjin scopes out an open spot on the grass, in the shade of a big Japanese maple tree, and the two of you immediately settle down in the park, the blades tickling your ankles as you set the box of macarons in between the two of you and get to work filling your stomachs. 

“All of my friends are going to think that you’re like, my sugar mommy for buying me this,” Seokjin says, taking a bite out of the lavender one. 

“If you’re really that embarrassed, you could always say that I just gave you a raise,” you offer, peering over into the box to pick your poison. The problem is that you just want to shove all twenty-three into your mouth. 

“No way,” says Seokjin over a mouthful of macaron. “A sugar mommy is way more exciting. I’m just lucky I have a boss with a bank account.”

“Well, unlike all of the other men that my parents have sent me on dates with, you actually deserve to have someone treat you once in a while,” you say happily, eventually deciding on a lemon flavored macaron and popping the entire thing into your mouth. “I’ve met very few men who are as charming as you, Seokjin. Charming and kind.”

“‘Very few’?” Seokjin repeats, interest piqued. “Who dares upstage me?”

You laugh at his brazenness, his attractive confidence. “Oh, no one,” you say with a shrug of your hand. “There was this one guy I met at my birthday party, but I didn’t even catch his name.”

“Too busy mingling to ask?” Seokjin teases, looking sufficiently less confident than he did ten seconds ago. Like someone you had just said caught him off guard. 

“Yes, actually. And you don’t really need to know this, but he was an excellent kisser, too. Really sent me into a tailspin,” you say, feeling the faint sensation dance across your lips, the ghost of his mouth on yours. “But he ran off at midnight like Cinderella and left only a mask behind to remind me that I didn’t dream up the whole thing.”

“Ah,” Seokjin says with a nod, a strangely succinct answer for a man as wordy as he. A silence settles over the two of you as you continue to eat, slowly emptying out the box of macarons between the two of you, a light snack to keep you occupied when your mouths aren’t running circles around each other. “My dog gave birth a few weeks ago,” he says randomly. “Want to see some photos?”

At your enthusiastic reply, Seokjin pulls his phone from his pocket and opens up his camera roll to reveal a gorgeous terrier with four equally adorable puppies nursing from her, and your heart nearly melts. Nearly all of his most recent photos are pictures of them as they’ve grown older, opened their eyes and learned how to walk, started play-fighting with each other and eventually tracking into new territory (the living room), but you don’t miss the couple of selfies you see here and there. Even with the warped iPhone camera does Seokjin still look positively flawless. 

“They’re adorable, Seokjin,” you tell him, heart soft. “I’m in love.”

“Me, too,” Seokjin says happily. “Two of the puppies have future homes but I think I want to keep one of them. I just love them too much to let them all go.”

“You’ll make a great dog dad,” you assure him, sighing contentedly. “God, don’t you even know how perfect you are, Seokjin?”

He is silent. 

“Like, you bring me coffee every day and do all of your work and never talk down to me or assume that I don’t know what I’m doing. You’ve raised a family of dogs and have shown them more love than anything else. You even got me to leave the office for once even though you knew that I’d be really annoying about it,” you declare, partially to him, partially to you, and partially to the world, who deserves to know that there is someone out there like Seokjin that is equal parts wonderful and generous and kind and handsome and funny and lovable. 

It’s not just the fact that most of your interactions with men your age go sour. It’s the fact that Seokjin is good just because he is, not because he tries to be. It’s the fact that he cares so deeply and loves so much. It’s the fact that for once, there is someone out there who really does understand you. 

“You deserve a break,” Seokjin points out. “You work too hard.”

“Hoseok will be so angry that you accomplished what he’s been trying to get me to do for months, now,” you say. You’ve already missed three phone calls and seven texts from him within the last couple of hours. 

“It’s my charm,” Seokjin teases, a soft watermelon macaron grin on his face. 

“It really is,” you agree, feeling the gap between you close, inch by inch. “There’s just something about you, Kim Seokjin.”

“Mmm, do tell,” Seokjin murmurs, beginning to lean in, your bodies moving of their own accord. Your mouth tastes like lemon and sugar and coffee, but you can’t find it in yourself to care any less. “Because there’s something about you too, Miss Y/N.”

Slowly, you feel your eyes begin to drift shut, craving more than what you already have, itching to feel his lips press against yours, to feel that same fire in your feins. Of course, the next time you kiss someone would be here, underneath a giant Japanese maple in the middle of a city park, the furthest cry from a hotel balcony beneath a starry sky. But something about this is distinctly familiar in a way that you can taste, in a way that you will know once his lips press against yours. Beside you, Seokjin is barely an inch apart from you, pink lips with macaron crumbs hovering over yours. God, he’s so close. 

You want him to be closer. 

And then—

“Aw, what the—?”

The two of you jerk apart to find a giant stain on Seokjin’s shoulder, courtesy of an unknown flying park visitor who has long disguised themselves amongst the leaves of the maple, waiting for the right time to do its business. 

“Seriously?” Seokjin groans, looking down at the white and brown stain that now rests squarely on the fabric of his brand new shirt, an unpleasant splat front and center. “Thank you, bird,” he declares, throwing his hands up in the air. 

You fight the urge to laugh at how uncanny all of this is. “I’ll pay for dry cleaning.”

“No, it’s alright,” Seokjin says, grabbing a couple of the napkins from the macaron shop to dab on the stain. “A little soap and laundry detergent will be enough. No big deal.”

“I just feel bad,” you tell him. 

“Me, too,” Seokjin agrees, pressing gently against the fabric. “Great timing, too.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, dejected. 

Perhaps, if you were a little bit bolder or a little less fearful, you would try again. You would throw caution to the wind and press his lips against his, bird business and all, and never look back. You would relish in the sensation of his mouth on yours, of his hands on your waist, itching to feel that same feeling again. Itching to know that there really is someone out there who will love you. 

But you aren’t, and the moment is over. And you can’t, because you just don’t know how to. And you ponder if you will forever wonder what he tastes like, what he feels like. 

The clock strikes three. 

Some days you come in early, and some days you stay in late. 

Later than usual, that is, because you regularly stay past eight in the evening without blinking an eye. 

But some nights, you just don’t feel like going home. At least, not yet, you do. Some nights, you would rather stay here.

Home is where you’re supposed to feel at ease, where you’re supposed to relax and unwind, take off your heels and jacket, pour yourself a cup of tea. And that is what your home is to you, a place that you try to keep as free of your work life as possible. 

But sometimes, you would rather just work. 

Rather work and feel productive and get home a little bit later than go home and feel like you still have so much to do. Rather work than dwell on all of the other parts of your life that don’t involve work, things like marriage and retirement and your family. Things that you feel like you have no say in, no control over. You go home and waiting for you is another phone call from your mother telling you that you need to find someone. You go home and your father drops by to hand you a pile of late-night tasks reminiscent of how hard he’s been working lately. You go home and even if you’re all by yourself, your thoughts take control over your mind. Your worries and fears are magnified. 

So some nights, you would rather just work. 

Peering out the window of your office, you notice that the stars are just a little bit brighter out here, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Not nearly as clear as they were on your birthday, at a hotel overlooking the town from afar, but clearer. There isn’t a cloud in the sky as the stars twinkle above you, waving hello from millions of light years away. 

Nights like these are too rare to spend indoors, huddled over your computer as you draft another email. Just because you’re still at work doesn’t mean you still have work to do. Well, you do, but you’re trying to be kinder to yourself. Trying to cut yourself a few more corners of slack. 

The rooftop is not off limits to guests. But you know a couple of secret places that can afford you the privacy you want, the space to lie back against the cement and feel the breeze tickle your skin.

When you arrive, there’s already someone there. A familiar tuft of brown hair, an oversized pink sweater. You wonder how long he’s been out here. 

“Knock knock.” Your sounds like a whisper but feels like a shout, the wind carrying the words from your lips to his ears as he turns around, hardly surprised to see you here. 

Seokjin laughs when he sees you, this fond, wonderful smile as you stroll up beside him, where he’s sat with his legs crossed on the rooftop’s edge, looking out over the distant city, the waterfront. “Didn’t think you’d still be here,” he says. 

“I could say the same for you,” you retort easily, setting down beside him. If you were any braver, you’d rest your head on his shoulder. 

You’re not. 

“You must know by now that I practically live here,” Seokjin jokes.

“Well, I’m starting to pay rent as well, so you better get used to it, don’t you think?” You tease back, looking out into the same city, illuminated by the same moon. 

Seokjin narrows his eyes. “I thought that you were going to start taking it easy on yourself,” he reminds you pointedly, one of the lasting lessons you had learned from the day out on the town. The other being not to sit underneath Japanese maple trees. 

“What can I say, I just love to work,” you say, and even though you try to make it sound like a joke both you and Seokjin know you’re not kidding. Work always has and always will be your biggest priority. Never have you lived in a world where anything else comes first. Never have you cultivated that sort of life for yourself. 

“How’s your family?” He asks, a broad question with a loaded answer. 

You don’t even feel yourself letting out a sigh until the groan leaves your lips, settling like dust. “The same as always,” you say, not even attempting to sound cheerful or happy about it. “They work me hard because they want me to succeed. And I want that, too.”

“But don't you ever want something more?” Seokjin asks, but it’s not the sort of question where he wants you to give him a yes or a no. It’s the sort of question where he already knows that you want to say yes, that there is a whisper deep inside of you that wants to have a life outside of your job, your workaholic family. But you can’t. Because your family is counting on you. 

“I just can’t let them down,” you say instead, because you and Seokjin both already knew how you were going to respond anyway. “There’s so much that they expect of me. What kind of heiress—no, what kind of daughter am I if I don’t at least try?”

“It sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot,” Seokjin muses. 

You force a chuckle. Obviously you have. Whenever you aren’t working, you’re thinking about what next you must do, what next is on your list. You’re thinking about how your family is counting on you to succeed. And how you want to do it for them. “I’ve had my moments.”

“Do a lot of people know how you feel?” He poses, looking at you curiously. 

You shrug. “Not really. My parents, no. Jungkook, sort of. Hoseok, yes. And I suppose you, now, too.”

Seokjin cracks a small smile, this lopsided grin that makes you feel like you’re missing something. “So I guess they’re secrets, aren’t they?”

“Secrets?” You respond naively, an eyebrow raised in bewilderment. 

“Secrets, huh?” He asks, sliding another inch closer, daringly so, teetering on the edge of territory that you haven’t touched in years. “I like the sound of that. Got any more for me?”

You smirk up at him, a grin playing on your lips. “Only if you have one for me in return. No freebies.”

He laughs, loud and clear, the sound ringing out in the nighttime air. “Alright,” he says, obliging. He leans in close, lips hovering above your ear. “I think you’re gorgeous.”

“Oh my God,” you say aloud, dumbfounded. “Oh my fucking God. It’s you?”

Seokjin laughs out loud at that, clapping his hands together at your positively shocked face, mouth agape like a fish out of water. He seems very amused by this, for some reason. A reason you can’t ascertain, mostly because you had no idea. “Honestly, I’m surprised you even figured it out from that. It took you forever to realize.”

You’re so scandalized you don’t even have the right words to respond. “What do you mean, ‘it took forever for me to realize’? Why didn’t you say something?” You demand. 

Seokjin’s still fighting off the remnants of his laughter, hiccups escaping from his parted lips every few seconds. “Because it was obvious you didn’t recognize me at first! And I had no idea it was you until you showed up at the hotel that first day anyway. And I didn’t want to bring it up, because I was worried it would have made things weird.”

“Look at us now!” You cry, positively mortified. Seokjin knew it was you the moment you stepped through the sliding glass doors and you still hadn’t figured it out, not even after weeks of knowing him, of getting to spend time with him. “God, I just—I can’t believe this.”

“The funny part is how I knew you had no idea who I was and yet I fell for you anyway,” Seokjin says, but his words aren’t making you laugh whatsoever. 

Your heart freezes in place as they sink in, etching themselves into your thoughts. “You—you what?”

“You befriended me without knowing that I was the man you kissed on the balcony that night, let me bring you coffee and confided in me and bought me the most expensive item of clothing that I currently own,” Seokjin says, a list of things that you loved him for all the same, “and I realized that it didn’t take that kiss to get me to fall for you. It took knowing you. Learning who you are. Who you want to be.”

You feel your heart getting lighter with every syllable that leaves his mouth, every breath that he takes. 

The truth is that no man had ever made you feel the way that the mystery man did when you kissed that night. But no man had ever loved you the way that Seokjin did. Treated you the way that Seokjin did. The kiss was a spark. 

The friendship was the fire. 

“All this time you were right here,” you muse, looking at him. Here in the moonlight you finally understand why he looked so familiar, why the light hit his skin in all the right places, why the sound of his voice had always struck a chord within you. He glows silver in the moonlight and yellow from the halo above his head, he sits beneath the navy sky and lets the starlight decorate his irises, sparkles in a deep brown ocean. “All this time, and I had no idea.”

“I’m sort of glad you didn’t know,” Seokjin admins sheepishly. “We got to fall in love another way.”

Love?

Could it be?

You’ve never truly been in love. Not the way that your parents are, or the sneaky way you see Yoongi looking at Jungkook sometimes when he’s not looking. But if it feels anything like this, anything like electricity beneath your skin and embers inside your chest, then you think you might be on your way. 

“You’re in love with me?” You ask. 

“Kinda, yeah,” Seokjin admits crudely. 

You feel your cheeks heating up, your heart bubbling within you. You lean in close, watching faintly as he does the same, eyes trained on your lips. “Do you have any other secrets for me?” You murmur, the words hot and heavy on your tongue. 

He inches closer to you, lips hovering above your own, this soft, contented smile on his face as he gazes down at you, at the way that you are beginning to love him back, at the way that you already do. 

“This.”

The words barely leave his lips before he’s pressing them against yours, and the moment you touch him you know, you know that it’s him, that it’s Seokjin, that he is the man that you have been waiting for. Immediately your body lights up, electric shocks tearing through your veins, blood set alight. He is so familiar, smells and tastes and feels so familiar, like you have known him for a thousand years and you’ll know him for a thousand more. You get the same sensation you had when you last kissed him, all those nights ago, your body going weak, your skin turning to flames, but there’s something else, too. 

A burst in your chest. A puff of smoke in your heart. 

A fireplace. A little room in your heart, just for the two of you. For you. For your love. 

You think you could get used to this. 

He pulls away after a few moments and immediately you feel dizzy, like his lips were the only thing keeping you stable, closing your eyes as you burn the feeling into your brain, memorize how his mouth presses against yours. 

When you finally open them, there Seokjin sits, kiss-drunk and in love, this goofy, wonderful smile on his face. 

“I’m still angry at you for not telling me. You could have saved us so much time,” you declare, not wanting the moment to last too long for fear that you’ll become obsessed.

Seokjin laughs, pressing a quick kiss to your nose. “Even if you forgot who I was tomorrow, I wouldn’t tell you,” he says, this stupid perfect grin on his face, this gorgeous, brilliant grin, “because I would happily fall in love with you all over again.”

God, he is so beautiful. A dream come true. A happy ever after.

The following morning your father saves you the trouble of having to awkwardly explain why you don’t feel comfortable continuing to oversee the resort hotel by letting you know that you’re welcome back in the central building in town and that he’ll have another executive replace you. Thank God, because that would have been one strange phone call. 

Luckily, when your parents do eventually meet Seokjin, they are pleased to see that he’s been a loyal hotelier to your family’s conglomerate for several years now, and that he excels at his job. You also think that your mother’s just gotten softer over the years, wishing more for you to be happy than for you to be married to someone you hate. 

It’s a good thing Seokjin’s charming. Otherwise, you have no idea what could have happened. But he’s here, and he’s with you, and your parents are happy and so are you. What more could you ask for?

“Your mom really didn’t have to throw this whole party just for me,” Seokjin whispers into your ear as the music plays on inside, this soft classical sound that Yoongi had composed not too long ago. 

You turn around to look back in through the window, watching all of the guests waltzing along to the song. Jungkook’s in the back corner, behind the grand piano, and you can see him throwing winks Yoongi’s way every now and then. The sound of the party is barely audible from out here, in the stars’ silence, in the faint way the night whispers, this distant white noise.

“Throwing parties is her thing,” you explain helplessly. “Besides, you’re part of the family now, aren’t you?”

“Hey now, we aren’t married just yet,” he reminds you pointedly. “Unless you—?”

“Only after my father’s retirement next month,” you tell him for the umpteenth time. It’s not that you don’t want to be married. It’s that you don’t have time. You’re about to inherit an entire empire. You would prefer not to be juggling two major life events at once, if you can help it. “Besides, you don’t even have a ring.”

“How do you know that?” He asks innocently.

You smack him in the torso with your satin-gloved hand, shocked. “What?”

“I never said anything,” he teases, looking off to the side far too guiltily for your liking. 

You place your hands on your hips and turn firmly to face him. “Kim Seokjin, do you want to marry me?” You demand. 

Seokjin laughs, twirling you around before pressing a kiss to your lips, the two of you giggling. “Always!” He declares to the world. “I think about marrying you every day of my life.”

You grin. “Then we will. Then let’s get married. After my father’s retirement, of course.”

“Of course,” Seokjin agrees. 

“What do you think the theme should be?” You ask, racking your brain for potential options. You like the idea of a rustic, cottage-y wedding. Or perhaps a more celestial one. Or maybe, if you wanted to go full circle, a masquerade.

Seokjin smiles. It’s clear he already has his answer. 

“How about Cinderella?”

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!

#bts x reader #jin x reader #bts fic #jin fic #seokjin x reader #seokjin fic #seokjin fluff #seokjin angst #jin fluff #jin angst #bts fluff #bts angst #seokjin scenario #jin scenario #bts scenario #bts au #seokjin imagine #jin imagine #bts imagine #w: the heiress and the hotelier #AND NOW I TAKE MY LEAVE #aka go on vacation and finally relax for once

[the-scandalorian]

Tempered Glass: Chapter 2

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: M (will become explicit in later chapters) Word Count: 4.3k Warnings: slow burn, canon-typical violence, non-graphic description of wounds, cursing, sexy thoughts, pining Summary: Chance brought you and the Mandalorian together on Nevarro. Now, on his ship, you have to broker a careful trust with him, despite both his and your instincts to distrust others. Notes: I’ll be loosely following the events of the first season and see what happens from there. Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! Taglist:  @bbdoyouloveme​ @beskarhearts​ @dincrypt​ @honey-hi​ @just-me-and-my-obsessions00​ @red-leaders​ @zoemariefit​ 

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Image from The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Before you could decide what to say to him, the Mandalorian rushed across the hull in two long strides and grabbed your shoulders forcefully, lifting you from your seated position and pushing you up against the wall. You exclaimed in surprise as a strong forearm came up to hold your chest in place, restricting the expansion of your lungs in a painful way. Your hands automatically scrabbled against his arms, trying to break his grip, but his hold was iron. He was leaning all his weight into you, crushing you into the wall, and even bracing your legs against his armored thighs didn’t budge him.

“Who sent you?” he yelled, his helmet inches from your face. The depth and rasp of his voice through the modulator made your stomach drop, and your fight instincts kicked into high gear.

Here’s the Mandalorian I was expecting.

Your upper arms were trapped against your sides, but you could lash out just enough to dig your fingers into his injured side, exploiting his weakness. He grunted and faltered, loosening his hold, and you took the chance to shove him off of you while pulling the long knife from your belt and whipping it up to his neck. At this same time, he recovered and yanked his blaster out of his holster to press the barrel into your stomach. His left hand had a vice-like hold on your bicep.

“No one! No one sent me!” you panted. Your right hand pressed your knife against the fabric at his throat, and your left gripped the back of his neck so he couldn’t move away from the blade. Your finger hovered over the activation switch on the hilt.

In this position, you had to tilt your head up to look into the t-shaped visor of his helmet. You tried to make out his eyes, but all you could see was your own reflection in the inky black surface. You were sweaty and out of breath. His breath was fast and loud through the modulator, chest heaving just inches from yours. This is not an opportune time to be turned on.

“Why were you following me this morning?” he demanded. So he had known.

“Why were you watching me in the cantina a few weeks ago?” you countered.

He tensed, surprised by the question, and cocked his head to the side, considering. “...You looked familiar,” he offered.

Maybe he really had recognized me from my bounty puck, like the bounty hunter in the alley today.

As you contemplated this possibility, the threat you each posed to the other became almost palpable.

He was worried that you were after him or the child—both of whom were clearly high-value targets. And if you had really run into him by chance and didn’t know that before, then you obviously knew how much they were both worth now. You could easily take advantage of that. You, on the other hand, suspected that he knew you yourself had a bounty on your head—and here you were, on his ship, mostly at his mercy. However, you’d say the stakes were higher for him. He had more than just himself to worry about. He clearly cared about whoever this child was.

“I wasn’t following you today. I wouldn’t have been so obvious if I was tracking you. Is that how you would follow a bounty? I was trying to talk to you,” you admitted.

He seemed unsure of whether or not he should believe you. His grip on your arm loosened almost imperceptibly. You reciprocated by easing the pressure of your hold on his neck.

Perhaps, the fact that you were both so vulnerable meant you could come to an understanding.

“Can we just talk? I’m not after you or the kid. I don’t even know why they’re after you. I saw you the other day in the cantina, and I was curious about why you were watching me, so I followed you to talk today. Then I got caught in the fray when I ran into you in the alley. That’s it. It sounds ridiculous, but that’s it. Let’s lower these and just talk.”

You hoped you could earn back the fragile trust you’d had between you just minutes ago on Nevarro, but you had no reason real reason to trust each other. It was clear that neither of you was used to trusting others.

Trust was a bad habit you’d had to unlearn to survive, and the same was true for bounty hunters. His was also a brutal, solitary profession.

But, there was also no explicit reason you had to be enemies.

He hesitated. “You first.” His voice rasped in the modulator.

You continued to hold him where he was, close to you, for another moment as you considered what to do. You didn’t want to hurt him, and it seemed like his instinct was to protect rather than attack.

You slowly released your grip on his neck and dropped your blade.

He lowered his blaster and replaced it in the holster at his side, still standing just inches from you. You knew that he was only open to this truce because there were several ways he could overpower you if he needed to. You hadn’t forgotten the fire that had erupted from his vambrace. He likely had a myriad of other deadly tricks up his sleeve—literally.

After a tense moment, you both stepped back.

“Why did you help me?” he asked.

“I didn’t have much of a choice. Why did you help me?”

“I... don’t know. It made sense at the time.”

“Why’d you let me on your ship?”

“I wasn’t going to let them kill you,” he shrugged, like that was obvious.

“Well, I appreciate that,” you laughed. He cocked his head in surprise. The tension thawed slightly.

You sat down on opposite sides of the hull, a safe distance apart, watching each other warily.

“Are you Guild?”

“I’m not a hunter.” He seemed skeptical but didn’t press the issue.

You reached for your bag, and he tensed.

“Just getting water.” You yanked your water bottle out of your bag and drank.

He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “What weapons do you have?”

“Blaster, knife, spare blaster. Not quite the arsenal you have,” you motioned to where his weapons closet was partially open, displaying an impressive array of firearms, explosives, and knives.

He nodded and explained, “Weapons are part of my religion.”

“Right,” you muttered, not really sure what that meant. You met his visor briefly then looked away again. Having his attention trained solely on you felt like sitting under a spotlight. And it wasn’t just the threat of danger that made you squirm.

You flicked your eyes back up to him when he shifted. You followed his movements as he pulled the blaster from his holster and stood to put it on its hook in the closet, then did the same with his rifle and vibroblade. He clicked a button on the wall, and the weapons closet clanged shut. You were still acutely aware that his whole body was a weapon, so this gesture of peace was largely symbolic.

Nonetheless, you responded in kind by placing your large vibroblade and both your blasters on a crate out of your reach.

You sat in awkward silence for a moment. You weren’t really sure if these empty gestures meant anything real... or were just that—empty. How likely was it that you were going to progress from strangers to two people who actually trusted each other in the confines of this tiny ship within the span of minutes? Not very.

“I’m going to use the refresher,” you announced. He nodded.

His searing gaze followed you the short distance to the door, and you suddenly forgot what you usually did with your arms when you walked.

It was a relief to close the door behind you and be alone for a moment. When you washed your hands, you noted the generous amount of the Mandalorian’s blood drying on your fingers, smeared there from when you made contact with his blaster injury. From the looks of it, his injury was worse than yours.

You scrubbed your hands clean and leaned down to splash water on your face, wiping away the sweat and dirt on your brow. Then, you rested your palms on the edge of the sink and took a few steadying breaths, studying your face in the small mirror before you.

I’ve been in tighter spots than this.

And this time, like every one of those other times, you steeled yourself and concentrated on the next immediate step you could take to improve your situation. You let your anxiety fall away as you narrowed your focus to a tangible action: treating your thigh wound. If you let yourself consider more than that, spiral in uncertainty and linger on every unknown and variable in this situation, you’d feel overwhelmed.

One step at a time.

When you returned to the hull, you opened your bag to pull out your med pack, sat back on your crate, and got to work cleaning the graze wound through the hole the blaster shot had left in your pants. 

The Mandalorian reached into a container and pulled out his own much larger med pack. With precise movements, he removed his cape, his bandolier, and the top half of his armor. He turned away to pull up his shirt and inspect his wound. He was careful to stay angled in a way so you couldn’t see any of his exposed skin—you weren’t sure if he didn’t want you to know the extent of his injury or if he wasn’t allowed to reveal any of his skin to you.

From the way he was contorting awkwardly, it was clear that he was struggling to reach the extent of the wound.

“Do you want help?” you offered, knowing he’d refuse. You felt compelled to try anyways.

He snapped his helmet up to look at you, like he was surprised you were there. You waited for his answer. Several moments delayed, he jerked his head slightly, like he’d rediscovered a lost train of thought, and muttered: “I’m fine.”

You shrugged and finished tending to your own wound. When you had finished tying a clean bandage around your thigh, you noticed he was squeezing a tiny amount of bacta from an almost empty tube.

“Do you need this?” You held your full tube out to him.

He looked up. Again, he seemed to have forgotten you were there, or perhaps, was so caught off guard by your question, that his answer came after a long stretch of silence. It seemed like a weird reaction to such benign questions.

“Thank you,” he replied, dropping his shirt to walk toward you.

He reached for the bacta, but instead of taking the tube, he grabbed your wrist, twisting it hard. You cried out in pain as the bacta clattered to the floor. His free hand whipped behind his back to grab a pair of cuffs from his belt. Despite your struggling and flailing, he wrenched your arm over and cuffed your hand to a rung of the ladder that was just a few inches to your left.

You kicked out a foot to trip him, but he evaded it. You reached for him with your unrestrained hand, but he jumped back.

Shit. You cursed yourself for placing your weapons out of reach. The small blade strapped to your ankle wouldn’t be of much help at the moment. You let out a frustrated huff of anger. You were better than this, smarter than this.

“I’m sorry. I have to,” he insisted. He started to pace back and forth.

“You really don’t,” you argued, as you slouched against the wall in defeat. He’d cuffed you part way up the ladder, so your arm stretched uncomfortably above your head when you sank to the floor. You rubbed your free hand over your face, thinking.

“I can’t risk it,” he continued, almost apologetic in tone. He seemed to be convincing himself as much as he was convincing you.

“What are you going to do with me?”

He tilted his helmet down at you: “Nothing?”

“I mean, what’s the long term plan here?”

“I’ll leave you somewhere nearby—you can choose the planet—but I need to sleep before I can do anything else. And well...” he gestured vaguely to you then to the compartment where the kid was sleeping.

You watched him resume his circuit of the tiny hull and weighed your options. There weren’t many, and the fact that he was so worried about what you’d do to him or to the kid made you feel less threatened by him. He was spending his time thinking about how you might hurt him, not about how he could take advantage of you. At least, you hoped that was the case.

“I understand,” you relented, letting out a heavy sigh. At least he didn’t freeze me in carbonite.

He froze midstride to stare down at you.

As annoyed as you were by the restraints, you couldn’t really blame him. Honestly, you’d do the same exact thing if you were in his position. You’d already started thinking about the safest way to get some sleep in his presence—your next clear course of action—knowing that your temporary truce was fragile.

He regarded you silently, as if waiting for the catch.

“You could have just asked. I probably would have tried to talk you out of it, but I really do get it. I don’t know you. You don’t know me.”

He stood, looking down at you, incredulous.

It was strange, but not unfamiliar, to have to read someone in full armor, to take all cues from body language and tone. And in the Mandalorian’s case, even his tone was somewhat obscured. You stared back up into his blank helmet but felt sure you were reading him pretty well.

You glanced up at the handcuffs and were comforted by the knowledge that you could pick the mechanism fairly easily with some combination of your small vibroblade, the bobby pin in your hair (which was only there for this express purpose), and—if it came to it—the underwire of your bra. You’d done it before.

He doesn’t need to know that.

It seemed like, as someone who regularly restrained people, he should assume you could pick locks, but you weren’t about to bring that to his attention. You were going to let him think you were completely at his mercy because clearly that’s what he needed to feel safe. Plus, you didn’t want him to resort to a more extreme means of restraining you.

“Could you at least cuff me to something so I can lie down?” You wiggled the arm that was stretched awkwardly over your head.

He tucked his thumbs into his belt and cocked his head as if trying to decide whether or not this was a trick. He sighed quietly though the modulator.

“Don’t try anything,” he warned, striding forward to unlock the cuffs. You held your hands up in surrender. He led you toward a spot along the wall where a pipe ran a few inches off the floor and gestured for you to sit by it.

When he leaned over your body to snap the cuffs to the pipe, you caught a glimpse of his neck, where a sliver of skin was exposed between his cowl and his helmet. His skin was golden brown—definitely not green like the child, definitely human. It was less than an inch of skin, but you couldn’t help but feel that you’d witnessed something scandalous or intimate, like you’d accidentally walked in on someone changing. You also couldn’t help but notice that he smelled good under the faint odor of metal and blaster residue.

He wasn’t rough when he secured your hand in the cuffs this time.

Walking around the hull, he collected a ration pack and a thick blanket from two different crates and grabbed your water bottle from where you’d left it by your bag. He tossed the items to you one at a time.

Thoughtful.

He picked up your bacta from where it had fallen to the floor and sat back down to finish tending to his own wound.

You pulled the blanket under you so you weren’t sitting on the cold, hard floor of the ship and leaned back against the wall.

You opened the ration pack, picking at the contents, and considered the man before you.

You had a million questions for him but somehow couldn’t think of one thing to say. Nothing seemed particularly pressing as the stress and exertion of the day were beginning to catch up with you. He wasn’t a particularly chatty guy and didn’t seem interested in conversation beyond determining whether or not you were trying to abduct his child—and the jury was clearly still out on that front as far as he was concerned.

Eventually, he finished treating his wound and replaced his upper armor. He disappeared into the refresher for a few minutes then returned to what you had assumed was a storage bay, where he had placed the child. After shifting the child gently, he climbed—in full armor—into the smallest, most ridiculous bunk you’d ever seen before closing the door and disappearing from view. Doesn’t he have a room?

You finished the ration pack, kicked off your boots, and curled up in the blanket to lie down. You were grateful that your physical exhaustion was absolute. Otherwise, you were sure your mental chatter would have kept you awake. You needed rest before you could decide your next move. Telling yourself that you’d just doze, not sleep deeply, your eyelids drifted shut almost unwillingly.

***

The next morning, you woke to the Mandalorian leaning over you to release your wrist from the cuffs. You started at his unexpected closeness, jerking back, and he looked down. Clearly, you’d fallen into a deep sleep for several hours. Whoops.

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You still weren’t used to that rich, raspy voice. Does it ever not sound seductive? It didn’t help that you could smell him again when he was leaned over you like that. You closed your eyes, waiting for him to move away.

“That’s okay.”

He stood, clipping the cuffs to the back of his belt. You sat up, leaning against the wall, and rubbed your eyes.

He sat on a crate across from you, with the baby on his lap, feeding him little pieces of something gross looking. The kid was perched happily on his knee, wiggling his giant ears in satisfaction as he chewed and watching you with unguarded interest.

“Who is that?” you asked.

The baby was alert and cheery, periodically letting out joyful little chirps, a marked difference from their subdued temperament the night before.

“He was a bounty,” the Mandalorian stated simply, as if that explained the whole situation.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at his non-answer and didn’t respond. Obviously, there was more to the story, but he didn’t want to share it. That was fine. You didn’t owe each other anything (except maybe your lives, but in that regard, you figured you were even).

You watched the Mandalorian. He was sweet with the child—patient, too—but awkward and unsure. You didn’t have all that much experience with children either, but you knew holding a baby out in front of you with straight arms, as you’d seen him do for a moment yesterday, was not normal. He seemed caring and invested but inexperienced.

How long has he had this baby?

“I think we can help each other.” The Mandalorian spoke slowly, interrupting your train of thought.

This development surprised you, especially considering he’d made you sleep cuffed to a pipe.

From the moment you set eyes on the armored warrior, you had expected him to be cold, withholding: a lone wolf. In some ways, he was—the armor alone was enough to make him seem hostile and untouchable—but in other ways... He was almost... kind? He’d protected you, a stranger, without hesitation. The fact that he was caring for a wanted child was another piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

“How’s that?” You fidgeted with the edge of the blanket in your hands.

You hadn’t had the chance to formulate a full plan for yourself, but you didn’t really need to. You’d do what you’d always done: disappear. You’d lay low for a few weeks, then return to one of the three places you had hidden supplies: namely, new identification and credits. And then you’d disappear again. Maybe change your hair. Find a temporary job somewhere. Same old routine.

“The same people are after both of us.”

You snapped your head up to look at him.

“They saw you holding the kid and board the Crest. They know you’re with me,” he continued.

The same set of questions played in your head: Did he recognize me as a bounty that day in the cantina? Or did he notice the moment when the bounty hunter had recognized me in the alley yesterday? Or does he really just think I’m caught up in this with him because of pure chance?

He took your silence as an invitation to proceed.

“I can drop you off on a nearby planet. We can go our separate ways, but I think they’ll be looking for you too. It might be best to stay together for the moment.” He spoke carefully, like he knew he was out on a limb, and he didn’t expect you to agree. This was the most you’d heard him say at once. When you really considered it, he was right. Based on they way the fight went down, with you and the Mandalorian protecting each other, everyone would conclude that you were a team. That’s how the word would spread. Hunters would come after you both. If they found you separately, they’d assumed you knew where the other one was.

Between bites, the kid let out the cutest, tiniest sneeze you’d ever heard. The Mandalorian wiped his nose gently with the edge of his cape, and the softness of the gesture made your heart squeeze. You looked away briefly to hide the smile on your face.

You turned back to him, expression neutral, meeting his inscrutable gaze once again. “We’d be harder to find if we went our separate ways. We could lead them in two different directions,” you reasoned, trying to parse out all the options.

“I... feel bad that they’d come after you for no other reason than you happened to run into me in an alley.”

Again, his thoughtfulness surprised you.

For now, it seems safe to assume he doesn’t know about my bounty.

And you weren’t ready to share that yet...even though you knew hiding it was unfair to him and to the child. They were both already at risk. If you decided to stay with him for the moment, you’d eventually need to admit that you were a liability all on your own.

Not yet though.

“What’s your plan?”

“Head somewhere deserted. Lay low for a couple weeks, then go from there.”

That’s what you would be doing alone anyways. He’d already proven his skill in battle. Would it be so bad to have someone looking out for you for once?

It would be a relief, if you were being totally honest with yourself.

“Okay,” you agreed hesitantly. “For now, this makes sense,” you gestured between you two.

He nodded once.

You posed the question that was plaguing you: “What made you change your mind about me? Why are you trusting me all of a sudden?”

“You stayed cuffed.”

You raised your eyebrows at him. Apparently, it had been a test, and you had passed. I guess he was being smart, not underestimating me. 

He seemed satisfied to leave the conversation there, but your curiosity got the better of you. You took the chance to build on this blossoming trust.

“So, does the helmet stay on all the time?”

He met your gaze for a moment before looking down at the kid and saying, “No living being has seen my face since I was a child. This is the way.”

Well, that’s super sad.

You thought back to the exchange between him and that huge blue Mandalorian. They’d both said the same thing then too.

Mandalorians have a catchphrase?

You wondered what this helmet rule meant in practice: for instance, does that mean he could be helmetless around someone if they couldn’t see his face... Like, were blindfolds or very dark rooms on the table? And what about the rest of the armor? Can he take that off? How bad should I feel that I’d seen a sliver of his neck? You wanted to know the answers to all these questions but obviously couldn’t ask.

Instead, you nodded and said, “What’s your name?”

“Mando is fine.” Impersonal. Business-like. It’s what Karga had called him.

His proposal to stay together for the time being had felt like an opening, but clearly peeling away all his layers of metaphorical armor would take a long time. He was so guarded, but it seemed like he didn’t really want to be. You related to that on a deep level.

“Mando?” You voiced the question that had popped into your head when Karga called him Mando the first time: “Isn’t Mandalorian spelled m-a-n-d-A-l-o-r-i-a-n?”

“...yes?” he confirmed tentatively, unsure of your point. His hand, which was in the process of feeding the child another bite, paused midair as he watched you. The kid made impatient whiny sounds and reached for his hand.

“So shouldn’t your nickname be Mand-a?”

He scoffed, making a sound somewhere between amusement and annoyance, and resumed feeding the child, who let out a contented coo as he chewed.

There was an awkward beat of silence while you waited for him to ask for your name. When he asked, you’d share your fake name, as always. 

He didn’t ask.

***

Chapter 3

#my writing #tempered glass #the mandalorian fanfic #the mandalorian x you #din djarin x you #the mandalorian x f!reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin fic #mature #the mandalorian reader insert #din djarin reader insert

[hb-writes]

Pretty in Pink

1923

Clara never enjoyed shopping and clothes quite the same way she knew some other women did. She wasn’t particularly fussed to be donning the latest fashions, comfortable enough most days in Ada’s old hand-me-downs or the few items she had picked out for herself. She figured there was little point when she spent most time in her silly school uniform anyway. 

But now that the family business was successful, and mostly legal, there were different expectations. There were dinners and balls and events at which Clara’s favorite cardigans and most comfortable old boots simply wouldn’t do because evidently, in certain circles, appearances truly did matter, even the appearances of relatively insignificant little sisters.

“Do you need some help?” 

Ada’s voice floated in through the curtain, casual though Clara had kept her sister waiting outside the fitting room for several minutes longer than was customary. 

“No, I just—"

“Well, let’s just see then.” 

“No, I—“

Ada pushed the curtain aside and revealed Clara fully dressed in the gown, the girl staring at herself in the mirror, her hands moving nervously across her stomach and thighs. Ada offered a smile as she looked at her little sister’s reflection. 

“Clara, it’s lovely.” 

Ada took Clara’s hands and pulled her from the fitting room, guiding her to the raised platform which sat centered in front of three larger mirrors, each placed at a different angle to offer a more complete view. 

“It’s very… pink,” Clara said, flouncing the skirts, “and not very practical.” 

“It’s a charity dinner. There’s no need to be—”

“What’ll you be wearing?” Clara interrupted, turning to her sister.

“We’re not here to discuss what I’ll be wearing.”

Ada always wore black to these types of things. Black, practical dresses with low heeled shoes. She rarely even bothered with coloring her lips or nails or doing anything other than pinning up her hair. 

“Something sensible, no doubt,” Clara answered as she turned back to the mirror. “Not some flashy, pink—”

“It looks good on you,” Ada interrupted. 

“I don’t know.” Clara lifted the skirt. “It’s very long and—”

“It’s very long only because you’re very short,” Ada said, reaching behind her to grab a pair of heeled shoes. “But that’s a problem easily solved. I picked these for you. They’re a perfect match.” 

They were lovely shoes and they did match the dress perfectly, something Clara would have to be daft to deny. Ada smirked as Clara nodded once, huffing as she muttered a defeated, “fine.” 

Ada helped Clara into the shoes and then stood back, admiring her sister’s completed look as her hands settled on her hips. “Well, our boys will absolutely hate it, but you do look lovely.”

Lovely wasn’t a term that often came to Clara’s mind when describing herself. She had never really felt confident in that particular compliment despite the frequency with which she had heard it. As a child she had been called every version of the word by her family and by strangers who liked to point out what a sweet little thing she was. 

The words had always brought a heat to Clara’s cheeks and the tips of her ears and she’d often find herself hiding her face from whoever paid her the compliment, ducking behind the legs or into the chest of whichever family member was closest, mumbling an embarrassed thank you only when prompted. 

It was worse now though because something had changed over the past year and Clara felt the furthest from lovely that she had ever felt. Her weight and the distribution of it had shifted in such a way that she no longer recognized the girl, or young woman, she saw when she looked in the mirror. 

For all her life, Clara Shelby had been a bit small, always assumed to be a few years younger than Finn by those who didn’t know well enough that the two youngest Shelby’s were twins. Because she’d always been thin, Clara expected she’d one day end up with a body similar to Ada’s. She imagined she would gain a few extra inches of height allowing her to stand eye to eye with Ada, but Clara expected the rest of her body to remain mostly the same, a frame of relatively straight lines. 

Ada still stood half a head above Clara though, and the rest of Clara’s body seemed keen to betray her, feeling heavy and awkward as the knobby-kneed body of her childhood became something decidedly different. 

It seemed like it occurred overnight, Clara’s body shifting to a collection of limbs and flesh she didn’t recognize, a frame which didn’t slip so easily through the tightly placed desks at the shop, her old clothing stretching across parts of her body where it had once hung loose. It was partly why Clara had become so insistent on sweaters. She was always cold, so no one question it, but the long cardigans also covered up all the parts she felt unsure of. 

There was no hiding while standing on the platform in the fitted pink gown though, set in front of a collection of mirrors and her older sister’s discerning eyes. 

“Clara?” 

Clara’s eyes shifted from her own reflection to find Ada’s gaze in the mirror. 

“I think you’re beautiful,” Ada said, rubbing her hand up and down Clara’s arm, “but if you don’t like it, we’ll find you something else. Something sensible.”  

Clara smiled a bit at her sister’s mocking and Ada took a step back, watching as Clara absently twirled back and forth, swishing the bottom edge of the dress as she did so. 

“It is a rather nice shade of pink...” Clara mused, meeting Ada’s eye in the mirror once more, a mischievous glint coming through as the girls’ eyes locked. “Are you absolutely certain they’ll hate it?”

Ada snorted. “Well, I can’t imagine them being happy, though I hope that’s not the only reason you’re considering it. Whether or not you like it is more important than what anyone else thinks.”

Clara shrugged, her eyes focused again on the hem of the skirt as it swished in the mirror. “I can consider both at the same time,” Clara said as she turned and offered her sister a small smile, “but really Ada, imagine their faces—all of them the same shade as this dress. And John, he’ll—”

“You enjoy their distress far too much,” Ada said.

“I’m no worse than you ever were,” Clara answered, “walking around Birmingham in five-inch heels and sneaking around Tommy’s best—Ow! Christ, Ada!” Clara shouted as Ada pinched her. 

Clara stumbled off the platform as she stepped away from her sister, rubbing the offended spot on her side. 

Ada settled her arms over her chest. “There’s more where that came from if you don’t start remembering where your loyalties lie, little sister.”

“You’re the one who started—”

“You’re either aligned with the boys or you’re aligned with me,” Ada answered. “And I can’t imagine an alliance with them will last very long once they see you dressed up like that.” Ada stepped forward, placing her hands on Clara’s shoulders and turning her towards the mirror once again. “You’ll need the Shelby ladies on your side if you and your beautiful dress are to make it through the night.”

[The dress]

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

#peaky blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #shelby!sister #shelby sister #ada shelby #ada thorne #clara shelby #little lady blinder #I love you prompts #300 follower celebration

[touyasdoll]

Complicated - Chapter Two

Chapter One: Here

Pairing: Dabi/Touya Todoroki x reader

Warnings: self-degradation/self-doubt

Word count: 2.2k

A/n: Gonna rework this and ditch the first person POV, jsyk.

A/n pt. 2: This story does contain spoilers for the show/manga. The dates/ages of characters are going to be shifted around a bit.

------------------

It's been two days. Is he gonna call? Text? Completely forget I exist?

I sigh, trying to expel the anxiety balled up in the pit of my stomach.

Why would he call? We talked for, what, five minutes? He seemed older too. You were in your damn school uniform, idiot. He's obviously got more important shit to do than chat up a schoolgirl who can't mind her own fucking business.

"Ugh," I groan to no one but myself in my apartment. "I'm really just the biggest fucking jackass, aren't I?"

Flopping down on my bed, I let out another weighty sigh and bury my face in the plethora of pillows piled beneath me.

Relax. Maybe he'll text. Maybe he won't. And if he doesn't he's just sparing you the embarrassment that you would inevitably bring upon yourself.

A yawn escapes my lips as I feel a wave of drowsiness wash over me. Glancing at the clock, I could see it was hardly 5 PM.

Fucked up sleep schedule, here I come.

The familiar comfort of my bed allows me to quiet my thoughts enough to fall into a shallow sleep, until I'm startled awake by a vibrating sensation coming from underneath my chin.

I blink against the harsh light emitting from my phone, squinting to see who was disturbing me.

What the--oh shit!

It was an unknown number. Recognizing that it could be him, I sit up faster than I have ever managed to after a nap and fumble the phone into my palm, eagerly sliding my thumb across the screen to accept the call.

"Hello?"

My breath hitches and I bite my lip in anticipation as I wait, eager to hear his deep, silky voice on the other end.

But the pause on the other side of the line seems just a little too long. Something is off.

Is this him? Is it..just some creep? A prank? What the hell?

"We've been trying to reach you about your car's extended warranty."

My eyes slam shut, a shake reverberating through my spine as a cocktail of anger and embarrassment wash over me.

That's it. Hope is off limits from now on.

"Fucking great."

I tap the end button, half ready to throw my phone out the window.

Instead, I decide to check and see if I missed anything else while I was out.

Hope is off limits.

I shake my head, trying to erase the little embers of hope that persist, praying that maybe he did reach out.

To my surprise, there's a text from an unrecognized number.

Unknown: You free tonight, doll?

Holy shit.

Looking above the message, I see: Today 6:58 PM. I wince as I dare to look at the clock, which mercifully reads 7:26 PM.

Tapping the text box, I don't give myself the chance to overthink this opportunity.

Me: For you? Sure thing.

Tossing my phone onto the bed, I nod my head, processing the sudden burst of confidence I seem to have found.

I'm not like this. What is it about this guy? He's just that--a guy. One that I don't know. And now I'm just gonna meet up with him?

He's literally a stranger. Who the hell do I think I am?? Is my vagina just running things now? Gonna run out and meet up with some strange dude, because he's pretty and charming?

You know who else was pretty and charming?? Ted Bundy.

That's right, you said it. This is dumb, logically. This is everything everyone’s ever warned you about.

My phone buzzes and my heart rate spikes in response, tearing me from my spiraling doubts.

Unknown: Our spot. 30 minutes. See you there.

A noise that I've certainly never made before eeks past my lips as I process his instructions.

Fuck it. The possibility of this guy being a serial killer has been assessed. I'm going, risks be damned.

You're an idiot. You're an idiot. You're an idiot.

I sigh for the umpteenth time today, waging war in my own mind.

I don't know what it is about him, but I have to see him again. Nothing bad is going to happen. It'll be fine.

That's what I tell myself as I exhale, until I catch my reflection.

My hair is disheveled, my mascara askew. I didn't even bother to take off my uniform before I passed out.

As if I weren't flustered enough, now I gotta make myself looking somewhere near presentable and get down there in time.

Here goes nothing.

Fifteen minutes fly by and I think I've managed it as I step back to look myself over in the mirror once more.

The shortest pair of high-waisted shorts I own, paired with a low-cut black crop top and my favorite slip-ons. My make-up doesn't look perfect and there's not much of it, but it's touched up, and my hair is at least brushed.

Okay, no turning back now.

Grabbing my keys, I tuck my phone in my back pocket and make my way to the meeting place.

+++++++++++++++

Our spot. The man is smooth and I think that he knows it.

I re-read the last message he sent for probably the thirteenth time in the past five minutes.

The clock in the corner of the screen reads 8:02.

Maybe he won’t show. Maybe this is a joke. He and his buddies with come around a corner and laugh as they speed off.

Damn, can I chill? No. He’s going to be here. And I’m going to act like a human fucking being. A normal girl. Someone he could like; I’m capable of that.

Aren’t I?

Scanning my surroundings yet again, I take in the scenery. I never really get out at night, but the city looks so pretty this way. There’s not too much traffic, especially considering that it’s a Friday night, but there are some people milling about up and down the sidewalk. Some look like they’re on their way home. Some look like they’re on their way out for a night on the town.

“Hey there.”

My eyes are quick to follow the sound of his voice. I look up and he’s strolling up to the bench where I’m seated, the same one where I bandaged his arm the other day.

His hands are shoved in his front pockets, thumbs pushed through the belt loops of the tight, black jeans he’s sporting. His white t-shirt dangles off of his frame in a way that suits him, offering a glimpse of his muscular chest. A black coat completes his ensemble and he certainly looks the part of the typical bad boy.

But, damn, does it look so good on him.

“Hey, there. How’s the arm?”

I scoot over a bit, allowing for ample space between us if he were to take a seat. To my surprise, he sits towards the middle of the bench, so that his thigh brushes against mine as he settles.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, glancing down and covering the noise I want to make with a quiet clearing of my throat.

“It’s good. You do make a pretty decent nurse, sweetheart.”

He grins and pulls his coat sleeve back, revealing the still bandaged wound.

“Wait, have you changed that?”

You’re such a mom. You better hope he’s into MILFs, because otherwise this ain’t gonna get you where you wanna go, girl.

His brow furrows in an expression that tells me all I need to know before he even speaks.

“What do you mean? Changed what?”

A quiet sigh leaves my lungs as I hold out my hand.

“May I?”

His puzzled expression doesn’t falter, but he shrugs and offers his forearm up for inspection.

Carefully, I pull back the tape holding the bandages together and slowly begin to unwrap them.

That is, until the smell hits me. I barely catch of glimpse of the reddened skin before my nostrils detect the scent of burned flesh and excess viscera.

“Oh, dear. Have you even unwrapped this thing?”

Trying not to agitate anything further, I delicately wrap the bandages back around his arm, taping them down once again.

“No, should I have?”

I look up and my gaze meets his, a sense of true ignorance evident in his expression; I try not to laugh. I really try, but a soft giggle escapes nonetheless.

“Yes! I mean, if it doesn’t hurt, I’m sure it’s not that bad right now, but you should be cleaning and redressing a wound like that once every 12 hours at the very least. It’s been what, like, at least 50 at this point?”

His good arm reaches for the back of his neck, scratching at it as he dons an apologetic half smile.

“Sorry, I’m not exactly nurturing by nature, doll. I don’t know the first fucking thing about this kind shit.”

I cock a sympathetic smile as I look at him, sitting there looking almost helpless. I guess he is, in a sense. It’s actually kinda cute how he doesn’t seem to have an inkling of how to properly care for himself.

Because that’s absolutely what you want in a potential relationship. Someone to fix, how fun! Why not open up a shop for broken boys? Girl, when will you learnnn??

“Well, I don’t have anything on me right now, but if you don’t mind coming back to my place, I could clean it up there? And I’ll teach you how to keep up with it this time.”

I guess not today, motherfucker.

“Coming to my rescue again. You must be in a hero course, huh, doll?”

His smile is so naturally disarming as he stands and offers his hand out before me.

“I don’t mind, if you’re sure you don’t. I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable and I don’t wanna be a burden. I didn’t ask you out tonight for you to have to play doctor on me again.”

He seems so sweet, so genuine. Maybe he is broken, but everyone deserves kindness. He looks like he hasn’t seen much of that. And as cliché as it is, maybe I can help him. Maybe he can help me.

I slip my hand in his, smiling as flirtatiously as I can manage as he pulls me to my feet.

“I don’t mind. I was kind of hoping I might get to play doctor on you again anyway. Maybe you could even return the favor.”

I brush my fingers against his as our hands disconnect, taking a page from his own book and watching his expression as my skin glides against his.

Or maybe we could just do this. This works too. No muss, no fuss. But oh my goodness what if what I just did was weird and he’s not even interested??

His eyebrows rise for just a moment as he chuckles and glances down, still grinning as he puts his hands in his coat pockets.

“Well, sweetheart, I don’t know much about medicine, but I do know how to give a pretty thorough physical exam.”

Something twitched deep inside my belly as my breath caught in my throat and I damn near tripped over my own two feet as we started walking.

Thankfully, his reflexes were quicker than my inate ability to fuck things up and his good arm reached out to steady my frame as he stepped in front of me.

The delicious scent of his cologne mingling with remnant cigarette smoke nearly made me dizzy as my hands connected with his chest, now completely unable to ignore the muscles just beneath his thin shirt.

“You all right there, doll?”

Long, slender fingers find their way under my chin. His thumb just barely brushing the edge of my bottom lip as he strokes it over my chin.

His eyes are practically piercing mine as he carefully lifts my face to his. Who knew being in such close proximity to someone so beautiful could be this paralyzing.

Holy fuck. Forget fixing me. He can break me and I’ll probably thank him for it.

The strong hand on the small of my back threatens to rob me of my breath all over again and I have to fight to keep any semblance of composure in his arms.

“Yeah.” I tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear and will myself to break eye contact. “You always have girls falling for you this quickly?”

I pity laugh at my own joke, wishing my quirk was something that would allow me to disappear.

But then he’s chuckling too. It’s melodious at first, but then it morphs into a deep reverberation that sends all the right chills down my spine as I level my eyes with his again.

He looks like an enigma personified. His eyes look so gentle and warm, but his smile reads so sad. The words that leave his lips sound like both a warning and an invitation to my flushe red ears.

“Trust me, princess. You don’t wanna fall for me. I’m no good for you.”

Oh, but it’s too late for that.

#dabi #dabi imagine #dabi fanfic #touya #touya imagine #touya fanfic #touya x reader #dabi fluff #touya fluff #touya todoroki #touya todoroki x reader #bnha x reader #mha dabi #my hero x reader #boku no hero #my hero academia #quirk ideas #todoroki #mha spoilers #bnha spoilers #dabi x reader

[machinegunbun]

Deserved It+

Word count:871

Req?: No

TW?: Don’t think so

A/N: This isn’t the aforementioned freaky fic, but I decided to post this one first bc I j love it ugh. Tell me if you want a part 2

                                                         ~*~*~

Your bland reflection stared back at you as you began to wonder if it was time to cut or dye your hair,

The thought was quickly cut short, a face appearing behind your own in the mirror tearing you away from your thoughts. While you weren’t particularly happy to see your ex standing in your doorway, you were still grateful for the distraction. Masking your dread, you turn around in your seat, giving him a polite smile.

“Hey, how have you been? It’s been awhile.”

“I’ve been good. It has, hasn’t it?” You said, taking a moment to fully register the time that had passed for the first time.

“Haven’t seen you since-” His sentence cut itself short, acknowledging the awkwardness of the situation.

“Since you cheated on me with Camila…” You say, finishing his sentence for him, not yet ready to let him forget what he had done to you.

“Yeah… I just came by to say hi,” a brief silence as you wonder why he's still here if that’s all he needed to say “So, how are you and Peter?”

“Pete. We’re good.”

“Oh, good. That’s good.” another brief silence “what’s up with you and guys named Peter huh?” He said, referring to his middle name, his joke falling flat. You hummed a small smile in response, not wanting it to be awkward.

“Eh, Aaliyah got a boyfriend.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, s’weird. She still talks about you sometimes. They all do, really.” He continued, taking a seat on the brown leather couch that took up the majority of the room in the corner to your left. You didn’t understand why they’d placed it in here, or why it’s short legs caused it to be so low to the ground, or why your ex was sitting on it and reminding you of all the people you thought had stopped caring about you when he did.

No, that wasn’t a fair argument to make. You figured he had stopped caring about you long before you swept up what was left of your pride, packed your things and left him and everyone he knew. You could barely believe that the people not two years ago you considered some of your closest friends were now practically complete strangers, including the boy sat on the couch beside you.

“Wow… seriously? I never would’ve guessed. They seemed to be taking pretty well to Camila, considering.” There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, followed by a nod.

“Yeah. I mean, they’re my family, what were they supposed to do?” You shook your head in response, pushing yourself up off your chair to take a seat next to him on the couch. It was silent for a moment, your eyes meeting one another. You couldn’t help but stare deeply into them, it had been so long since you had the chance to admire how far on they seemed to go. His eyes had always been one of your favorite things about him, coming in second to that beautiful head of hair. He had grown it out quite a bit since the last time you saw him, the overgrown curls partially covering his face. There was an involuntary yearning in your chest as your eyes swept over his tattooed hands, memories of the past flooding your mind, his lips on yours, a hand on his strong jaw.

The door swinging open knocked you out of your daze, your eyes flicking away from his lips and focusing on the cause of the abrupt noise, immediately recognizing the tall blonde as your boyfriend's best friend, machine gun kelly. You looked back to Shawn momentarily, panic filling your mind as the realisation of what Colson had just walked in on sunk in. When you looked back, he was gone, the only thing left being the subtle sound of his footsteps disappearing down the long hallway outside your door.

There was a moment filled with panic and confusion before you were on your feet, chasing him down the hallway.

“Colson?” A hum in response “Nothing happened.” You stated, tears brimming your eyes.

“Didn’t say anything did.”

“He just came in to catch up and tell me about his mom and his sister.”

“Okay.”

Another brief silence, today felt full of those.

“Colson? What are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything?” He says, his long legs allowing him to effortlessly stride ahead of you

“What are you gonna tell Pete?”

“I’m not telling Pete anything,” He said simply, stopping in his tracks “you are.”

“But… nothing happened.”

“Yeah, and you can tell Pete that. Or, I’ll tell him what I saw. Which was that you were sitting on the couch alone with your ex – in your dressing room – and you were staring at eachother like you were about to kiss if I hadn't walked in, and when I walked away you felt the need to chase after me and tell me nothing had happened. I suggest you tell him your version, cause mine isn’t looking so good.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Oh, it’s a promise, and for your sake I really hope it was nothing, ‘cause that’s my boy.” Colson says, looking you up and down before walking away.

#Pete davidson #pete davidson fanfiction #pete davidson angst #pete davidson x reader #pete davidson fic #mgk #mgk fanfiction #mgk angst #mgk fic #machinegunkelly fic #machinegunkelly #machinegunkelly fanfiction #machinegunkelly angst #colson baker #colson baker fic #colson baker fanfiction #colson baker angst #shawn mendes #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes angst #shawn mendes x reader #shawn mendes fanfiction

[grumpyhedgehogs]

this tired old elegy

Summary: CC-5052 and a company of other clones bound for decommissioning are instead auctioned off to slavers on Tatooine. Or they would be, if someone mysterious didn't intervene. The resulting chaos stirs up memories Bly craves; CC-5052 thinks they might be best forgotten. Or: In which Bly is This Close to breaking out of the chip's control by himself and Obi-Wan shows up to give him that extra push. AO3.

Notes:  A scene that's been kicking around in my head for a while, of two ships passing in the night. Hinted Codywan and Blyla.

Warnings: Mild violence, seizures, slavery, mind control, grief. 

The clones of Kamino are dying out.

They’ve known this for a long time now. The Empire used them, wiped out the last of the Old Republic with them, and shunted them off, thrown out with yesterday’s trash when they weren’t useful anymore. CC-5052 has heard the horror stories, the ones the admirals always shut down if they heard them spreading among the ranks. Clones decommissioned before their time. Clones going missing, or going against orders in the field. Clones found with a single blaster shot to the head and no explanation for their deaths given. Clones pushed from active duty, given menial jobs or guard posts. CC-5052 heard CC-2224 has a teaching position now.

Disgrace is a clone’s lot, and it tastes sour in the mouth.

This though? CC-5052’s stomach turns over when the doors to the spaceport he and three of his brothers three other clones have been held in for days on end finally open. The air that buffets him is arid, dry and hot against his skin. Sand flings itself, clawing, searching, into his eyes, and CC-5052 coughs against the assault. It does little to help. He never thought for a second that he’d come to this end. It’s poetic in a way his Jedi the Traitor he served under would have found poignant once upon a time. Enslavement is how the clones of Kamino came into this world, so enslavement should be the way they go out, shouldn’t it?

Tatooine is a wretched planet, CC-5052 decides as he and his vode his family the rest of his company are led onto the calling block. The Empire has no use for him, and so it sends him to a useless place.

“One hundred credits,” the auctioneer offers, gesturing at one of the three other clones to CC-5052’s left. A hand raises in the air before them, and the auctioneer dispassionately raises the price by another hundred credits. And so it begins. Is this all there is for him?

I’m going to die on this dust-ball.

The crowd around them is sparse; the midday suns beat down on them all, slave and free sentient alike, and no one is immune to their rays. Most attendants are covered from head to toe in brown, black or white fabrics, wrapped up like mummified remains. Sunlight reflects off of any and all surfaces. A mother carrying a child’s metal cradle passes by on the edge of the crowded marketplace, and the shine off of the basket pierces directly into CC-5052’s brain. He hisses, air whistling between his teeth, eyes clenching. The pain rockets through his skull--it seems to be doing that a lot lately, random headaches plaguing his sleep. Migraines are not uncommon in the vode the clones, but he doesn’t want to examine what they mean. They’re far too often accompanied by a wave of grief that threatens to swallow CC-5052 whole.

His attention has wandered too far; the price has gone up five times since he last checked, and the auctioneer is getting excited now. They bounce on their toes, rattling off higher and higher numbers with a growing grin. As if this is just a good day at the market for them. As if it simply does not matter. As if they don’t matter.

What he thinks now is treason, of course. They are Empire property, were Republic property before that. If the Emperor saw fit to sell him off, who is CC-5052 to argue?

I hate him.

The thought nearly rattles every bone in CC-5052’s body with its intensity--but there is no time for him to examine its implications, because three things happen in very rapid succession.

First, an explosion goes off somewhere nearby and behind CC-5052; debris and sand sail through the air, pelting down on the crowd before the slave auction. The ground rolls beneath their feet, and CC-5052 has to stumble to keep his balance. The auctioneer does not have his luck, and trips right off of the platform, facedown in the dust. It startles a laugh out of CC-5052--Bly--but then he inhales more ash and coughs instead.

Second, the chains around his wrists loosen unexpectedly before falling away completely. His arms aren’t quite as burly as they used to be, from inactivity before the auction and from years of being shoved to the sidelines before that, so Bly’s CC-5052’s wrists slip easily between his manacles. Above the roar of growing fires and screaming citizens, he can just make out three identical thumps as the clones beside him rub raw skin that mirrors his own.

Third, through the confusion and panic setting into the crowd, the fleeing forms and those who have fallen prone and lain still, through the smoke and fire and noise, CC--Bly looks up and sees a hooded person beckoning to him. He can’t see their eyes, can’t see anything but brown fabric and smoke and a hand lifted in greeting, which turns its palm away after a second and crooks its fingers. There’s a tickle at the back of his mind, and, his migraine raging so badly that his vision wavers as he jumps down, Bly follows. His brothers are right behind him.

The stranger ducks and weaves through the enraged crowds, avoiding fire and danger deftly. There’s something almost comforting about slipping into their shadow, something familiar and warm that Bly almost doesn’t recognize. For a moment, Bly thinks wildly that the stranger probably has blue skin, but the thought evades him when he tries to examine it more closely.

They are outside of the city limits within fifteen minutes. The figure stops and waits for the clones to approach, never turning to look at them. Bly CC-5052 (Bly?) stops a few feet away, outside of arm’s reach. Just in case. Their head turns, but the hood obscures anything defining.

“Who are you?”

They shake their head. Fair enough.

Why did you save us?”

His brothers--clones--brothers shift on their feet behind him, anxious for the answer. The figure shakes their head again.

“Will you answer any of my questions?” Their shoulders hitch minutely and he gets the distinct feeling he’s being laughed at. For once, it doesn’t seem malicious. It’s refreshing, even if it does intensify the stinging behind Bly’s eyes. “Fine. What do we do now?”

At this, the figure finally reacts. They turn and point into the distance; Bly raises his eyes to the horizon, where a tiny homestead sits beyond the wavy hot air. Then the figure jerks their fingers towards the spaceport that lies in ruin behind them, then points to the sky, and clenches their fist, bringing it to rest in their flat palm. Then they flatten their fist and mime a ship's take-off.

“Lay low out in the Wastes and come back to steal a ship later.” Bly translates. The stranger nods.

Good enough for Bly.

~

The stranger lets them into what can be generously described as a hovel. There are four rooms in total, and the larder underground is nearly empty. It’s completely bare when he and his brothers are finished with it. There are no beds, only a slab of rock in the corner of one room with a threadbare blanket on it. It makes CC-5052’s heart twist in his chest. It makes Bly’s migraine even worse, so bad he has to sit down or trip over his own feet. Grief overwhelms him. He comes to with the stranger’s hand on his shoulder, and a clone--his name was Gardener, he was a Coruscant Guard, he was just a shiny when they blew it all to pieces--counting his breaths for him.

One thing at a time.

“You got anything to hunt with out here?” Bly asks when his lungs don’t feel like they’re the size of straws. The stranger hands him what amounts to a wooden spear.

~

Killing womprats takes all day and into the evening. Bly and his brothers--Gardener and Ink and Database, he knew them once--prowl back through the early twilight and drop them at the stranger’s doorstep. He tries not to feel like a cat bringing home a trophy.

~

“Body heat would keep you warmer than those rags,” Bly says as they settle in for the night. The stranger, who has not dropped one ounce of cloth from their figure the entire time, shakes their head and turns away. They leave the blanket for Ink to use.

The wind howls around them the entire night.

~

Taking the ship is easy; it’s small, privately owned. The slaver driving it won’t be missed. Bly wonders where the auctioneer got off to and how long it might take to find him.

CC-5052 wonders if he shouldn’t report back to the Empire for decommissioning. Bly rejects it. The migraine gets worse, howling in his mind like the wind does out in the Wastes.

The stranger freezes beside him where they’ve been keeping an eye out for any more crew the clones need to take down. A soft palm clasps Bly’s shoulder and the pain recedes.

He tries not to shake them off too harshly, but the last time someone did that, touched him like that--

She’s not here anymore.

Bly resolves not to go back. There’s nothing left in the Empire for him anyway.

They killed everything I ever loved.

He gets sick from the pain in his head. He wonders how long he’ll last on the outside. Something tells him, not long.

~

“We’re taking off soon.”

The stranger nods. Their shoulders are a stiff, hard line against the backdrop of the Tatooine horizon. Bly finds himself at a loss for words, and filled with a sudden desperation to speak.

He finds his voice, choking, hoarse. As the wind howls across the dunes, he has to raise his volume to be heard. “You could come with us.”

It has the opposite effect than he wants; they jerk back, settling into a more defensive posture. Bly raises his hands in submission, but can’t help taking a step forward. “We’re not going back to the Empire, if you’re worried. We--things happened to us there. Because of the Empire--we’re not who we used to be. But we’re free now, and we wouldn’t hurt--”

Sandstorms and windstorms happen quickly on this planet, and a huge gust nearly takes them both off their feet. Sand flies into his face for the second time in as many days, and, coughing, Bly reaches out and blindly finds his savior’s hand. He tugs relentlessly, fumbling his way through the sudden gusts and dust to the overhang where they’ve stashed the ship. He’s thankful his brothers are already on the ship; no one else needs to be caught up in this mess.

“Are you alright?” His gloves are covered in grime and it takes three or four swipes at his eyes before Bly gets his sight clear. He reaches out, catching hold of the stranger's arm as they cough and bend to spit out dirt a few feet away, face hidden by the low light here. Their headscarf has fallen from the wind, their hood flipped down for the first time. His hand brushes their shoulder, fingertips catching against the only exposed skin they have at the base of their throat, and the stranger flinches back instinctively--and then they turn to look at him.

Obi-Wan Kenobi looks older now. His voice is softer. “Commander Bly?”

“Jedi.” The death sentence falls from Bly’s lips without his knowledge and his vision wavers again. The next time the black spots clear away, Bly’s hands are wrapped around Kenobi’s throat and squeezing. The Jedi’s eyes bulge grotesquely, but then Bly’s hands loosen without his consent, flying down to pin themselves by his sides. He topples over and only Kenobi’s quick reflexes stop him from burning his face against the sun warmed sand beneath their feet. The force holding his hands down relents, as if surprised, and Bly scrambles back, his head pounding. CC-5052, who had been receding for days, weeks, maybe even years, surges against him and Bly retches as he lunges again.

Kenobi was always known for his keen battle sense, though, so Bly is hardly surprised when he’s sidestepped. He throws his weight towards the Traitor (Jedi-General-friend) again only to have his outstretched arm caught and folded around his own back. Kenobi lets CC-5052’s weight fall against his own chest, allowing them both to fold gently to the ground. Another arm wraps firmly across CC-5052’s chest, pinning his other arm to his side. Spittle and froth foam at his lips, choking him, but Kenobi does not let go.

It feels as if a rusted spike has been driven through CC-5052’s skull. Adrenaline is making him shake, as if he’ll fall apart.

“No, my friend,” Kenobi says, almost too quiet over the animal sounds caught in CC-5052’s throat. “You’re having a seizure. You’re ill. Whatever has been done to you--it’s breaking down.”

Bly jerks and spits and gasps his way out from under CC-5052’s influence in fits and starts.

“I--I didn’t--I didn’t mean to attack--”

“I can sense that, Commander.” When Bly fails to strain against his hold any longer, Kenobi’s fingers raise to tentatively touch his temple. “You’ve got pain, here, all the time. It intensified when you attacked, and your presence slipped away. Faded, like a radio signal from far off. Like--like Cody’s did.”

Bly doesn’t have to ask what Kenobi means.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and then something snaps and he can’t seem to stop. Years of torment, too built up to be pushed back. “I’m--I’m so sorry. I--I never wanted--we never meant to--I’m sorry.”

“You need not apologize, Bly.” Kenobi’s touch is soothing, as much as it prompts his migraine to rekindle.  “You need not be sorry. It was not you.”

Her face drifts before his eyes, overlapping Kenobi’s when he meets the man’s eyes. She loved Bly, he knows she did. Bly loved her too. Suddenly, it’s all-important to tell Kenobi of this, for someone to know, for a Jedi to know.

“I loved her.”

“She knew.”

It feels like absolution.

“We loved you all.” Bly says, the final, most agonizing confession. “We loved the Jedi.”

“We loved the Vode.” Kenobi assures gently. Then his fingers find Bly’s temple again and the world goes a pleasant, fuzzy white. “We loved you all too.”

It feels like a gift.

~

Bly wakes up with three of his brothers, a stolen ship, and only the memory of a stranger with a fading smile to account for his time on Tatooine.

#blyla #bly x aayla #codywan #obi-wan kenobi #obi-wan #obi-wan fanfiction #star wars fanfiction #my writing #star wars #sw #tcw #star wars the original trilogy #star wars the clone wars #order 66 #tw seizures #tw violence #tw grief #grief/mourning #commander bly #commander cody #aayla secura #tw slavery #post order 66

[linkspooky]

hi, do you have any thoughts on itadori and mahito? specifically why mahito tell him that they are the same?

A. Yuji and Mahito is the Same... 

Except they’re not. Not really. Yuji saves people without thinking, and Mahito kills people without thinking but there’s a clearly a difference between saving people and killing people. One of them is a whole lot less murdery. Rather than saying that they’re exactly the same, I think the narrative is setting up the idea that they are supposed opposites who have uncanny similarities to each other. 

"I will say at once that both courses lead to the same result: the “uncanny” is that class of the terrifying which leads back to something long known to us, once very familiar."

The uncanny is the psychological experience of something as strangely familiar, rather than simply mysterious. Described as Freud omething that is both at the same time resembling a human, and clearly not human. The term comes from his 1919 essay Das Unheimliche, which explores the eeriness of dolls and waxworks. Why are humans creeped out by something that resembles them? 

Freud offers his hypothesis about the uncanny: it something we have forgotten or repressed that is now coming to light against our will. The uncanny unsettles us because it reminds us of ourselves. The uncanny is a concept used repeatedly in psyhological horror, the concept of the doppelganger, dolls, mirrored images things which are human and remind us of ourselves can also subconsciously remind us of the fear of ourselves, so Freud says. 

1. Baby Boy, Baby. 

Mahito is, specifically the fear that humans have for each other. In that way he embodies the uncanny perfectly. He even looks uncanny. He’s the most human looking of the curses, but at the same time he looks like a stitched up Frankenstein’s Monster. There are many ways his behaviors are just plain wrong and contradict each other, he can talk with other humans, he’s polite, well mannered, always smiling, and then he can kill someone and laugh it off like it’s nothing. Mahito resembles a human, but his every single action is there to remind us that he is inhuman.

Mahito is also the mirror to humanity. Reflections are, things that appear human but are not. Reflections in the mirror look exactly like you, but they’re two dimmensional shallow images and they don’t move of their own accord. Reflections are another brand of doppelgangers. However at the same time, a mirror doesn’t lie, it just reflects. A mirror is just showing what is looking into it. 

There’s a story by HP. Lovecraft. (Wow, first Freud and now HP Lovecraft, I’m sorry for citing all of these terrible, terrible men), called the Outsider. A human who is locked away in a castle its entire life finally escapes, and tries to join a party of other people they see from the outside window, only to see them all run off in terror. The last line of the story, after seeing a horrible monster, the monster realizes it was just looking at a mirrored surface and he himself was the monster that everyone was running from. The fear the story preys upon is the fear of oneself, and the fear of the ugliness in oneself that the mirror might show. 

For although nepenthe has calmed me, I know always that I am an outsider; a stranger in this century and among those who are still men. This I have known ever since I stretched out my fingers to the abomination within that great gilded frame; stretched out my fingers and touched a cold and unyielding surface of polished glass.

Mahito is a mirror that reflects Yuji, but only his bad traits. Mahito reminds Yuji of everything he dislikes about himself. Which is why Yuji sees Mahito as an enemy he can’t step forward without killing. So, what is this great similarity between them? I think the main one is that they’re both children. 

Part of the foiling in the Young Fish and Reverse Punisment arc is that both Mahito, and Yuji are people that Nanami identifies as children. A cursed spirit who is still learning to be a cursed spirit, a child who is still learning to be a sorcerer.

Early on the arc makes it pretty clear how much Yuji loathes being seen as a child. It’s not that he thinks he deserves special treatment, it’s that Yuji hates powerlessness, he hates the lack of agency, he hates not being able to choose. He doesn’t like being strong enough, because that means he’s not in control of the situation, and he has no choice but to watch as his friends get hurt. Yuji nearly killed Megumi the last time he was powerless and gets things get out of control. Yuji hates being weak like a child, and not being able to be weak like a child, and the result of this is Yuji turns into a pretty self loathing person. 

Yuji’s mistakes usually have big consequences. He lets Mahito get near Junpei, because he forgot about Nanami’s careful instructions to watch out and run away if he saw a cursed spirit with a patchwork face. It makes sense that Yuji would forget that in the moment, he’s just a child, it’s forgivable but Yuji never forgives himself for those mistakes. That’s where his self loathing comes from. 

It’s the same when Yuji lets Sukuna rampage on Shibuya. It’s not Yuji’s direct fault, however it’s his mistake in losing the fight that enabled Sukuna to rampage so Yuji takes responsiblity and takes all the blame on his shoulders. The way Yuji sees it, it’s his fault for being weak in the moment, he hates his weak naive self, he hates how much he still acts like a child. 

Yuji’s response to this however is to not think. To try to shut out those feelings of self loathing, to keep moving, to keep fighting, to fgiht against them so he doesn’t have to feel that way. 

2. Evil. 

Mahito is the uncanny foil to Yuji, Yuji doesn’t want to recognize anything at all about himself in Mahito, because Mahito embodies everything Yuji doesn’t like about himself. 

Mahito’s written to be the foil to Yuji in all the ways that deeply unsettles him. Yuji is always thinking about what a natural death means, whereas Mahito is always killing people in the most unnatural and unnerving ways possible, warping them until they no longer look human. 

Yuji is a strong and brave shonen hero, who is even willing to lay his life down for others. In fact he always agrees to risk his life a little bit too easily, like he’s just waiting for a cause to martyr himself on. Yuji is willing at almost any moment to die in the line of duty, Mahito is a coward who always runs away from his life and not only that a proud coward at that. Mahito considers his cowardice and his craftiness a good thing. 

However, as Nanami says at the end of Reverse Fish and Young Punishment people don’t exist in these simple black and white categories. Junpei wasn’t just an innocent suffering victim, he also went Carrie and tried to burn the whole school down in addition to the people who bullied him. He tried to hurt Yuji, just for getting in the way. 

Yuji sees people in categories of good and evil, but people don’t exist in those categories. Which is why Mahito is there to make him question himself. The uncanny similarity, because Yuji can act like Mahito without even realizing it. Not because Yuji is a good or bad person, but because he’s a collection of good and bad traits. Yuji is extremely caring person, but he also gets angry when people get hurt. Yuji is a very loving person to others, but also deeply self loathing. 

Yuji wants to believe he’s selfless and good, and to an extent he is, but then he looks in the mirror and sees a monster, he sees Mahito who is so openly self involved and uncaring and he’s scared am I like that? 

Yuji is someone who can become violent, angry, and obsessed with destroying someone too. At the moment killing a curse and killing a person aren’t really the same thing. However, there are two dangerous qualities about Yuji. One, he’s a foil to Geto. Geto is also, a rule abiding good boy, who just tried his best to save everyone around him. However, his definition of “everyone” changed. 

That’s the comparison they’re making with Yuji when Mahito says “You kill curses without thinking.” Curses are becoming more and more human like. There’s Choso who is literally a human half breed, who like isn’t really responsible for his existence. It’s bad of course that Choso kills humans, he’s willing to kill innocents for his own survival, but he’s also like... a fetus who was kept in a jar for a hundred years. The boundary line between curses and humans are blurring, and at the same time Yuji once again sees the world in strict and rigid black and whites. 

And Yuji’s response to this is usually “I don’t want to think about it.” Yuji wants to reject Mahito, his uncanny reflection in the mirror, and all the unnerving similarities between them. And it’s not really hating Mahito but loathing himself. Yuji hates himself, and wants to reject the possibility he can be in any way like Mahito because then that what he fears about himself might have been true all along. Yuji is, desperately self loathing, and also desperately trying to avoid having to look at himself. 

And it’s once again because Yuji himself can’t fit into his own black and white definitions of good and evil. Yuji can’t forgive himself for his mistakes. Yuji just decides to accept, because he let Sukuna rampage, because he made that mistake he’s responsible for it, he’s a murderer now. Mahito isn’t really Yuji, but he’s a good reflection of how Yuji sees himself, and he also shows us why Yuji is so dead set on helping people. Because if he doesn’t move forward. If he doesn’t help people. Then he’s just a murderer. If he can’t save people, then why is he even alive? 

#Anonymous #itadori yuji #yuji itadori #mahito #jjk meta #metasks #jujutsu kaisen theory #jujutsu kaisen meta #jujutsu kaisen daily #jujutsu kaisen #jjk daily #jjk theory #yuji mahito

[chalkrevelations]

Moving on to Episode 4 of Word of Honor, and y’all.

Wait, first: If you’re new or just visiting, this is a re-watch, so there are SPOILERS not just for this ep but for the ENTIRE SHOW. Maybe a lot of them. Scroll away and come back later if you haven’t seen all 36.5 eps and want to watch it unspoiled. (They’re all gonna be tagged “word of honor episode reax”)

A couple of big things, first:

So, right up front, I don’t know for sure that this is the first time we’ve heard the word, but it’s the first time I’ve twigged to it in this re-watch. As Zhou Zishu and Chengling are leaving the inn in the morning, at the very beginning of the ep, Wen Kexing asks why ZZS continues to call him gongzi and wants to know if he’s still too much of an outsider for a less formal form of address. He uses the word 外人 (wairen) (at 2:30) for “outsider,” which is how the subs translate it here. Anybody who’s been around for these flailing reactions since the first time I watched the show might remember that I made a deal about this somewhere around in the late 20s of the episodes, based on a post from someone that I scrolled quickly past while avoiding spoilers and that I have NEVER FOUND AGAIN and am STILL LOOKING FOR, that alerted me to the use of this word and its nuances in ep 25. There’s a conversation there about WKX possibly taking over some of Chengling’s training at Siji Manor, and WKX demurs, calling himself “外人.” Youku translated it there as “someone else,” as in having “someone else” train your disciple, and ZZS responds with “And you’re 外人?” again translated as “someone else.” This actually seems to mean “stranger,” or “outsider,” as they do actually translate it here in Ep 4 - presumably someone who’s from outside your sect, at least in the Ep 25 instance, in which WKX is labeling himself that while he’s in the midst of his upcoming crisis, trying to keep his emotional distance from ZZS and Siji Manor. It’s used again in Ep 26, when ZZS finds WKX giving training advice to Chengling, and it’s one of the ways they have WKX and A-Xiang reflect each other, when she uses it in Ep 29, and rejects it as a description of herself, in order to claim a place in Cao Weining’s sect/family (which, now, knowing … GOD. My HEART). Anyway, I found it super-interesting that WKX is using this word here in Ep 4 to push against ZZS’s boundaries, in contrast to the way he’ll use it later, to try to fortify his own walls against ZZS and Siji Manor. I begin to suspect that he doesn’t want to tell ZZS who he actually is because, maybe, just a little bit, he wants ZZS to figure it out, to recognize him, to truly know him (zhiji) without him having to spell it out. We kind of travel back around to this idea near the end of the ep, when WKX is questioning ZZS about the Baiyi sword, and ZZS tells him that their relationship is like the fish that ZZS unsuccessfully tried to cook and threw on the ground – raw (i.e., unacquainted) – to explain why he keeps shutting out and shutting down WKX. Only we know now that isn’t entirely true, and WKX certainly suspects it isn’t entirely true. (Also, just an observation, ZZS says in that later scene that he’s not interested in who WKX is. DON’T TELL HIM THAT, my dude, now it’s going to be 3,246 episodes before he’ll give you any personal info.)

Also, just a note – I think we make the switch from Zhou-xiong to A-Xu in this ep. (ETA: No! I have been reliably informed by @janedrewfinally that this switch happened back at the end of Ep 3 (at 41:18), and it seems to be part of what precipitates the Completely Reasonable, Not At All Flirtatious, Utterly Heterosexual No Really, Like Bros way that ZZS takes WKX's wine jar. You know the incident we mean.)

The second thing that I really started turning over in my head here is the developing relationship between WKX and Chengling, and this is one of the things that took me so long on this one, because I wanted to go back and look at those two, specifically, in the previous eps again, and revisit their interactions both with and without the mediating factor of ZZS. The first time WXK sees Chengling is in the marketplace at the end of Ep 1 when Chengling ends up giving his token to ZZS. But I think the first time WKX sees Chengling is maybe when WKX’s sitting in the cutout window with his drinkie during the massacre of Mirror Lake and ZZS draws the Baiyi sword to protect Boatman Li and Chengling, just before they make it to the boat and float away back to the mainland. I don’t know how much of the beginning of the fight in the abandoned temple WKX then sees before A-Xiang makes her entrance, but there’s a lot of Chengling flinging himself in front of Boatman Li and ZZS in a way that’s not entirely dissimilar to the way Zhen Yan will fling himself at his parents’ bodies in flashback in a later episode, and then WKX definitely sees dying Boatman Li charge ZZS with Chengling’s care, then make Chengling bow, in a parallel to the scene we’ll get later when Qin Huaizhang accepts Zhen Yan as a Siji Manor shidi. In Ep 3, there’s a lot of weird sympathetic looks from WKX as A-Xiang berates Chengling over dinner (she doesn’t quite have this jiejie thing down yet, and she’s probably never had someone younger than her to take care of) for not taking care of himself so he can be strong and get his revenge for his family’s deaths. This time out, Ep 4, we start with the beggar gangs coming after Chengling, which has some resonance with the former Ghost Valley Master and his Ten Devils standing around the bodies of Zhen Yan’s parents and debating what they’re going to do with this kid before they steal him away. You can see WKX’s eyes start to narrow as the lead beggar dude talks, and he eventually even asks them, “What are you going to do if he doesn’t want to go, take him away by force?” We get a LOT of cutting to WKX in this conversation, even though he ostensibly has nothing to do with this, it’s really a convo between Beggar Guy, ZZS and Chengling. WKX pulls focus, and he eventually provokes that fight, and sure, he wants to see ZZS fighting and hopefully get a look at the Baiyi sword, and he even may think that’s the extent of his ulterior motives, but I’m not sure that actually is the full extent of his motives, there. This episode is also when we really see WKX start to encourage Chengling to continue to press at ZZS about taking him as a disciple, including the first use of the infamous “Tough women can’t resist clingy men” saying. Chengling comments that he was just supposed to be Son #3 who stayed home and took care of the old people, and WKX comes back with the Extremely Significant Comment that “When the children want to fulfill their filial piety, the parents have died,” which is not only Extremely Significant, but also sounds like it may be a quote from a poem or other literature? Anyway, a lot of this is just to say, KINDLY AU ANON WHO WAS THINKING ABOUT WRITING THE STORY IN WHICH WKX GETS CUSTODY OF CHENGLING BECAUSE ZZS IS NOT AT MIRROR LAKE, ARE YOU STILL OUT THERE? Hopefully you are hard at work, writing, because I have been having thoughts about this relationship.

What else? Kind of chronologically:

First of all, it continues to physically pain me to have to look at that horrifying facial hair, ZZS. I cannot WAIT to hit Ep 6.

We open this ep on WKX rolling walnuts in his hand in a way that is reminiscent of SOMEONE who we’ve seen do that before – multiple times, given they put that shot of Ghost Valley Master in the opening credits. Nevertheless, I didn’t catch this right away on my first time through. It took me a few episodes, and then I FINALLY noticed the opening credits shot right in front of my face. Point to you, show. Once you know, this ep practically shoves it in your face, recreating not only the walnut rolling, but a dude getting held up in the air and choked out (which we’ve seen before, in Ep 1 (and will see again)) before being slammed down on the ground with WKX crouched over him (which we’ve seen before, in Ep 1). Later, WKX is concerned about his manicure (which we’ve seen before, in Ep 1). It’s actually a little bit funny that both he and ZZS - a master assassin and a guy who literally skinned another dude (and maybe ate him?) to take his throne – are both so prissy about actual, literal blood. Anyway, is it significant or a coincidence that WKX waits until ZZS and Chengling are out of sight before actually going wild-eyed? You know the look I mean.

OH MY GOD, it’s Lovelace. I had blocked this dude from my mind. Eurgh. Nevertheless, there are a number of things I love about his scene, and all of them are related to A-Xiang, my feral beloved - from the way she clomps into the room, completely unworried about stepping the least bit gracefully while making her presence known and stomping (lit. and fig.) all over his dramatic little bit, to the way she berates him, threatens him with “Aunt Luo,” bares her teeth at him, and makes the eye-gouging motion at him. She is the best, and I adore her. I also love how she literally laughs in WKX’s face at his comment that maybe he just wants to be friends with ZZS, OK, is that alright?

The fight with the beggar gangs in this ep may be the first time we see something similar to the cage of spears maneuver in Prince Jin’s throne room all the way up in Ep … what? 30? … although it won’t be the last time we see it, and each time we see ZZS is perfectly capable of avoiding it or escaping it, making me suspect that Tian Chuang only “trapped” him in it because he let them, just like he only got taken back to Prince Jin in chains, in the first place, because he let it happen. We see it at 5:30 with the beggar gang’s staffs, when ZZS breaks it up by literally flinging another dude into the middle of it. We see it at 5:41, when he kicks his way out of the formation. And we see it at 8:15, when the sheaths have come off the swords, and he feints under them to break his way out. Just noticing.

When WKX is talking about the Baiyi sword as they all sit around ZZS’ sad little raw fish in the dirt by the lakeside, he mentions that Rong Changqing created three master works – the White Cloth sword, the Dragonback, and the “Great Wild Land,” per Youku’s translation. ZZS has the Baiyi sword, I assume the Dragonback is Ye Baiyi’s sword. Is the Great Wild Land actually the Ghost Valley? Given what we learn from Ye Baiyi in the back nine about Rong Changqing and his plans for Ghost Valley? Anyway, then we get some magic pipa playing, and ZZS (trying to, apparently) play WKX’s xiao in musical self-defense, and even though he leaves his opponent bleeding, WKX takes the opportunity to make suggestive comments about teaching him how to blow properly, just in case WKX’s been slacking on his act as a cheesy pick-up artist and anyone’s beginning to see through him. ZZS yells at Chengling for his lack of martial skill, then yells at him for crying, because that always works, particularly with traumatized teenagers who have had their entire family and sect massacred like, two nights ago. As a shifu, I’m not sure how you manage to inspire such devotion, my dude. WKX plays the indulgent parent, but also reassures Chengling that ZZS has good reasons for yelling at a traumatized, newly orphaned kid. I suppose he is getting him ready for all the yelling that’s going to go down once they get to Five Lakes Alliance and Chengling has to deal with Gao Chong and Shenshen. Chengling’s response, with WKX’s encouragement, is to ask to be ZZS’s disciple again. Was Han Ying (who I guess we’ve yet to actually meet at this point (EDIT TO ADD: NO WAIT, he was in Ep 1)) this much of a little dumbass to 24-year-old ZZS when Han Ying was 14? (EDIT 2 TO ADD: And who is writing this story, omg.) Although, ugh, that makes me realize that part of ZZS’s bad mood is that Chengling asking to be a disciple must be bringing up a shit-ton of bad stuff for ZZS about how he got all the other Siji Manor disciples killed. (Wen Kexing sees himself in Chengling, making his bow to Qin Huaizhang, one of the few good things that ever happened in his life, while ZZS sees all those red flowers on the mural back in his rooms in Prince Jin’s palace.) A final lakeside observation – A-Xiang pokes at ZZS’s uselessness as a cook here, and WKX will later ask him why he’s so utilitarian about food and drink, when they’re the greatest pleasures of life. (Really, WKX? THE greatest pleasures? Although that’s certainly an interesting comment given where we end up, in the end.) And it makes me begin to wonder – is ZZS so bad at cooking, and does he continue to avoid it, at least partially because he’s already losing his senses enough so that it interferes with preparing a tasty meal?

Also, we meet the Four Scorpion Assassins, and Pretty Arhat and Evil Bodhisattva have some pretty bold names, but now I’m back on my thing about the women in this show, and wondering what kind of enlightenment or release these two feel like they’ve had, and how it may or may not resemble the mindset of the women of the Department of the Unfaithful in Ghost Valley. I’m not well-versed in Buddhism, though, and am maybe not the person to take on how that religious symbolism is or is not used as a metaphor for female freedom in this show.

This is getting kind of long, so one last observation for now, and I think I may have mentioned this before: WKX has color-coded ZZS and Chengling as a unit in the robes he bought for them when he also rented out the entire inn. He’s not in the same color, but he is in a complementary shade and tone, which I find interesting. Also, his sash is sort of salmon, not the red of his Ghost Valley getup, but not completely divorced from it, either.

#wen kexing #zhou zishu #zhang chengling #gu xiang #word of honor #word of honor episode reax

[shirtlesssammy]

4x17: It's a Terrible Life

How have we not recapped this yet? Man, this one holds a special place in Boris’s heart -- even if it’s a Cas-less episode. (Natasha: I LITERALLY said the same thing.)

Then:

This is just gratuitous

Now:

Okay, by this point we know the premise of this episode. I’m just going to list all the Well Respected Man things Dean Smith does. 

He wakes up at 6:00am to an iPod. 

He steams his rice milk.

He wears suspenders and cufflinks. 

He drives a Prius.

He turns off the hard rock for NPR. 

Dean Smith is the Director of Sales and Marketing at Sandover Bridge and Iron. 

He types memos in Word.

He uses a headset to talk on the phone. 

He plays office mini-golf while schmoozing on said headset. 

He watches Project Runway (Ok, Dean Winchester totally watches that too, lbr.)

HE EATS SALAD.

He says the word ‘vis-a-vis’.

His boss Mr. Adler is very impressed with him. Good stuff!

He works late.

He is thinking of doing the Master Cleanse. 

He leaves at 5:30 (or really a couple minutes before, rebel!)

On the elevator ride out of the building, another passenger asks if he knows Dean. Dean, focused on his Blackberry, does not recognize the dude. The other dude won’t let it go and Dean tells him to “save it for the health club” before leaving. 

Sam Wesson works in the Tech Support section of Sandover. He mainly tells people to turn it off and back on again. Works every time! Sam and another buddy, Ian, head for coffee. They ask Paul, another worker, if he wants to join them. He’s busy working! Okay, okay, wait one moment. Paul got caught surfing porn on company computers and he still has a job!? WOW. 

Ian grabs some office pencils in the break room. (And we get a nice little intro shot from within the microwave….very nice easter egg for us second (and beyond) viewers.) He then asks Sam about the dreams he’s been having. Sam tells Ian that he dreamed that he saved a grim reaper named Tessa from demons. Ian finds that HILARIOUS. 

At his clown car sized cubicle later, Sam drifts off, only to have vivid visions of murder and monsters --and Dean’s in them. He bolts awake, and looks around disconcerted. 

Sam takes a walk and ends up in the same elevator as Dean again. They eye each other warily. Sam asks Dean what he thinks of ghosts. TOTALLY NORMAL ELEVATOR TALK. Dean hasn’t really given them much thought. Vampires either. Sam decides now is a good time to corner a perfect stranger and tell him about his CRAZY dreams. That’s what a journal is for, Sam! Dean dismisses this crazy man and exits the elevator. 

Sam starts researching (AW BABY) the monsters he’s been dreaming about. Ian interrupts him and tells him that he got an email telling him to report to HR. He’s not too worried as he heads off to his fate. Sam then hears Paul freaking out because he just lost a whole day’s work. 

Paul stays way past closing time trying to find his lost files to no avail. His breath puffs. They must turn the temp down after hours at Sandover. He heads to the breakroom, sticks a plastic fork in the door of the microwave and sticks his head in the microwave, and hits cook. GOOD STUFF. 

The next day, as Paul’s body gets carted away, the entire office looks on, including Sam Wesson and Dean Smith. Dean thinks there’s something weird going on. He looks up Paul’s personnel file (um, like whoa, how did he get access to that?) and learns that he was set to retire in two weeks. Curious. 

Sam is curious as well, but Ian is too busy working to engage. Dean calls Ian up to his office. Dean points out that there were just a few errors in a form he filled out yesterday. Ian is very remorseful. Dean doesn’t think it’s that big of a deal. He just wants him to fix the errors. Very un-Ian-like, Ian starts freaking out over his mistakes. Ian runs to the bathroom and Dean follows. He finds Ian staring at himself in the mirror. His breath frosts just before all the water and soap turn on. He insists Ian leave with him. Ian turns to look at Dean, and stabs himself with a pencil. GUH. Dean sees the reflection of an old man in the bathroom stall door as Ian dies. Dean calls for help. 

Dean is relaying the events to the authorities when he sees Sam looking on. Later, he calls Sam to his office. 

For Thirst Science:

Sam and Dean learn that they both started working at Sandover three weeks prior. (Dean! You picked a hell of a week to start the Master Cleanse!) Sam asks Dean if he saw something when Ian died. Dean doesn’t quite admit it but he saw a ghost! Sam wonders about the suicides. “What if these suicides aren't suicides? I mean, what if they're something not natural?” 

Sam brings up his dreams again. “So you're telling me that your dreams are special visions and you're some kind of psychic?” Lololololol. No, OF COURSE NOT. Sam shows Dean emails that Ian and Paul got that sent them to HR on the 14th floor --the HR office is on the 7th floor. Hmm. They decide to head to the 14th floor and room 1444. 

Mr. Blandface McBlanderson heads there first. It’s an old storage room. The air gets frosty, electronics buzz on. Sam and Dean rush down the hallway after hearing the man’s cries. The door is locked but Sam Fucking Wesson just busts it open. Dean is duly impressed. Sam is too. 

The ghost old man attacks Sam and Dean but Dean smashes him away with a wrench (an IRON wrench).

Decompressing back at Dean’s place, Sam longs for beer. “I’m on a cleanse,” Dean explains as he gets him a water. “I got rid of all the carbs in the house.” Oh DEAN.

At the end of this cleanse you chalk a pentagram on the floor, light a black candle, and barter your soul to get rid of those last five pounds

They compliment each other on their ghost fighting prowess. Sam “Boy Wonder” Wesson briefly tells Dean about how he feels out of place in his life. That’s SO MUCH oversharing, Sam! They decide to hit the research track. Dean finds………..the GHOSTFACERS. 

We montage our way through Smith & Wesson’s research, interspersed with Ghostfacer tips. A guy named Sandover turns out to be the ghost - a workaholic who lived for his company. Turns out he’ll kill for it too. They trace a number of historical deaths to Sandover employees. It turns out that the room with the ghost attack was Sandover’s office. 

The Ghostfacers continue to educate Sam and Dean on the finer points of ghost hunting: SALT. IRON. GUN.

Dean absorbs this, then wonders where one might even purchase a gun. Isn’t there a waiting period? Oh, sweet summer child. This here is the United States of America and it’s far too easy to get a gun. The Ghostfacers lesson continues...

Ed: The aforementioned super-annoying Winchester douchenozzles also taught us this one other thing. You have to burn the remains.

Harry: Okay, this next part gets a little gross. Sometimes you might have to dig up the body. Sorry.

Ed: It's illegal in some states.

Harry: All states.

Ed: Possibly all states.

Smith and Wesson return to the office to search for pieces of non-cremated Sandover. Sam gets cornered by a baby-faced security guard, leaving Dean alone to continue the hunt. In Sam’s elevator, electronics start to glitch. It’s probably nothing! The guard pries open the elevator door and crawls out onto the next floor.

The elevator slips and the guard falls victim to the blood cannon. Sam adds this incident to his list of Terrible Things That Happen in Elevators.

Sam and Dean reconnect by a historical display which includes Sandover’s gloves. Those gloves seem like likely candidates for remnant DNA...and in short order the ghost proves them right. Old Man Sandover zaps in as they break the glass. They fight!

Sandover looks like he’s got the upper hand, lowering his brain-zapping fingers to Dean, when Sam lights the gloves on fire. Sandover goes up like a torch.

Smith and Wesson are amped up after the fight! Sam wants to hunt ghosts full time. Dean scoffs at this. “How would we get by? Stolen credit cards, eating diner food drenched in saturated fats, sharing a crap motel room every night...You don’t want to go fighting ghosts without any health insurance!” Wise words. 

For Look at this Well-Prepared Sunshine Science:

Sam confesses that his hunting dreams featured Dean as well. “What if that’s who we really are?” Sam wonders. 

Dean defends the reality of his life. HE WENT TO STANFORD. His father’s name is Bob, his mother’s name is Ellen, and his sister is Jo. Excuse me. I’m just going to….stand outside my door and HOWL MOURNFULLY about this with the local coyotes. 

“We’re supposed to be someone else.” Sam tells Dean that he started at Sandover because he broke up with Madison - but now her number leads to an animal hospital. (I swear to god, I’m gonna chew off my own arm at this show.) Sam says that Dean’s more than just a corporate suit. Dean shoos Sam from his office. 

The next morning, Sam’s back at the daily grind. He steps back from his phone and then swings a crowbar at it, Office Space style. 

Upstairs, Zachariah smarms his way into Dean’s office and clucks that he looks tired. He’s heard good things about Dean and offers him a generous bonus.

Zachariah hints that a big promotion could happen in 8-10 short years of constant work and sacrifice. The joy in Dean’s eyes fades. Dean turns it down and tells Zachariah that he plans to quit. “I have some other work I have to do,” Dean tells him. “This - it’s not who I’m supposed to be.” Zachariah smiles and zaps Dean’s brain. The camera desaturates.

“My god am I hungry,” a confused Dean observes as Zachariah chuckles. (Stop reading Goop, Dean! Get off that cleanse!) Zachariah explains that he’s Castiel’s boss, and he’s on Earth to ensure that the Winchesters fulfill their destiny - as hunters! 

“You’re a hunter,” Zachariah explains. It’s in Dean’s blood. (I hiss at this.) And if Dean works hard enough, he’ll do everything he’s “destined to do. All of it.” GUH. Zachariah urges Dean to embrace his life. It could be worse, after all!

Semi-quote Kinda Life, Baby:

Good stuff

Did you try turning it off and then on? 

Look, man, I don't know you, okay? But I'm gonna do a public service and let you know that you overshare

How the hell did you know that ghosts are scared of wrenches?

I don’t believe in destiny. I believe in dealing with what’s right in front of us 

Most folks live and die without moving anything more than the dirt it takes to bury them. You get to change things

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#spn recap #dean winchester #sam winchester #spn 4x17 #It's A Terrible Life #zachariah #supernatural season 4