#also hi no inky post today again

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Why You Gotta Tempt My Trouble?

Of Oak and Ivy, Chapter 1

Series Masterlist           Next Chapter

pairing: Matt Murdock x fem!reader 

summary: In college, Matt Murdock had two best friends, Foggy Nelson and you. However, life had no intention of letting you graduate with him. When he reconnects with you in adulthood, he is troubled to see the hand God has dealt you and vows to use every tool at his disposal to save you from damnation.

warnings: swearing, sickly sweet fluff, get ready for some pining y'all.

a/n: Here's the first chapter of the college fic! The next one won't be posted until I've written a few more (which might be a while because I'm trying to make them longer and I'm only one chapter ahead at the moment.) Please let me know if you like it and want to see more or be added to the taglist! Words of Affirmation is my shit and life is really tearing me down right now. Also huge thank you to @firefly-graphics for the beautiful divider!

w/c: 5.3k

Digging the heels of your hands into your eyes, you resisted the urge to bang your head on the counter you sat at in an attempt to reboot the organ. This passage made no damn sense and you had mere days to understand it and conform to its ideals in order to do well in the class that it was assigned to. Biting your lip, you flipped back a few pages to start the chapter over for the third time when the sound of someone clearing their throat nearly startled you out of your seat. 

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, I didn’t see you!” Saving your place in the worn book, you looked up to find a young man standing before you. He was handsome, with fluffy, inky locks and a charming smile on his lips. 

“That’s alright, I, uh, can’t quite fault you there.” He smiled sideways at you, gesturing to the opaque rectangular frames on his nose. Your mouth formed an “O” shape before you tripped over your response. 

“I want to laugh but that feels wrong. Is it more rude to laugh or not laugh? Oh god, forget I said that, I—“ 

The boy in front of you chuckled. “It’s quite alright, and it was meant to be a joke.” 

“Right, well, sorry again. How can I help you?” You clasped your hands, tilting your head as you waited for his response. 

“I was wondering if you had braille copies of any of these textbooks?” As he posed the question, the handsome boy passed you a list of the textbooks he was looking for. 

Looking over the document, you pursed your lips. “That is a fantastic question that we will have to answer together. I wish I knew off the top of my head, but today's only my third day on the job.” You cringed, wishing your manager was here. 

“I imagine it’s not a common question, so I won’t hold it against you.” There was that charming smile again. Your insides felt like they were slowly melting under his grin. 

“That’s, um, very kind of you.” You stammered out, feeling heat flood your cheeks. 

“Matt.” He broke in. “Matt Murdock. And you are..?”

Offering your name, you dutifully turned back to the index, scanning the pages for any clue as to where braille copies would be stocked. 

“That’s a pretty name, it suits you.” Your fingers halted in their dance across the page, your eyes flitting back to the gorgeous customer. 

“As much as I appreciate that, turning up the charm won’t change the fact that it might take a minute for me to find these.” Your eyes narrowed as you became skeptical of his intentions. 

“Take your time. It’ll give me more time to get to know you.” The flirty grin never faltered on Matt’s face. 

“Oh you’re trouble.” You shook your head, thumbing through the pages of the file before you. “I’m starting to think I should search on my own.” 

Matt just laughed, leaning forward on his white cane and grinning at you. “Where should we start?”

“I have a couple ideas.” 

You and Matt searched far and wide for accessible copies of the textbooks he needed. While they—thankfully—did exist, they were scattered throughout the store haphazardly, not in either location the index had suggested. The lack of care and attention the volumes had gotten was making you progressively more irritated. There was absolutely no reason these books should’ve been treated with such disrespect, even if they weren’t commonly asked for. 

After finding all but one book on his list, it was barely past store closing. Locking the door with a huff, you clocked out before joining Matt where he was seated on the ground by the first shelf. 

“I hate to say this, but I think we might need to order you a new copy.” You remarked with a frown, scuffing your shoe along the faded carpet on the bookstore’s floor. 

Matt, whose pleasant personality hadn’t dimmed despite the lackluster findings, simply chuckled, knocking his shoulder into yours. 

“Well, we gave it the old college try, so to speak.” He waggled his eyebrows at you above his dark glasses. 

You groaned, but couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped your throat. Despite your intense introversion and social awkwardness, Matt put you at ease. 

“Sorry, my roommate is rubbing off on me.” He gave an exaggerated grimace. 

“Is he a law student too?” 

“Yep. Foggy Nelson. The three of us might actually have some classes together.” Matt’s face lit up with the idea. You’d confessed during your hunt that you had already purchased your own copies of many of the books on his list. Given that you were both first year law students, it made sense that you’d be in classes with one another, but you felt a weight lift off your chest nonetheless.

“Honestly, that makes me feel so much better. I’m incredibly nervous.” You confessed, focusing on a fraying patch of carpet underneath your sneaker. 

“I’m sure you’ll do great.” Matt leaned against you, focusing on you in a way that made your chest flutter. 

“See you say that not knowing how long it’s taking me to get through the first reading assignment for Legal Methods.” You dropped your head into your hands, remembering the cursed passage from earlier. 

“Foggy mentioned something about that book. It’s…outdated?” 

“That’s an understatement. The first chapter is about a famous eugenics case, Buck v Bell, and I might be reading it wrong but it seems like the author is suggesting that we don’t have ableism that resembles that of the case in current day? I was getting so frustrated reading it that I honestly couldn’t tell if it was confusing or just a stupid argument.” You explained. 

“It’s in the McKinnon book, right? If you want, we could read it together and try to figure it out? Unless you have somewhere else to get to…” Matt Murdock, the charming, unswayable man you’d met a few hours ago blushed at the question, making you grin. 

“I would love to hear your opinion on the text, Mr. Murdock. We can start an unofficial study group.” 

“I like the sound of that. Let’s crack open this shit show.” Matt let you pull him off the ground and over to your work station where he opened his own copy of the text and began to read. 

A few hours and more than a few boxes of takeout later, you and Matt were still working your way through the chapter, though you’d both decided with certainty that the text was more angering than confusing. 

“If the professor is as ableist as this author, I’ll never be able to pass this class.” You grumbled, shoving the hellish book away from you. “There’s no way I can pretend that eugenic ideals have disappeared, even for a better grade.”

“Seriously. I’m hoping it’s supposed to make us mad so we can argue about it? Though I seriously doubt everyone will be on our side, unfortunately.” Matt scowled. 

“Well, at least we have each other, right?” The man in front of you perked up with that comment, but you hurriedly corrected yourself. “And your roommate, of course.” 

Deflating slightly, Matt scratched the back of his neck. “Speaking of, I should probably get back so he doesn’t send out a search party. I’ll see you in class?” 

“See you then, trouble maker.” You murmured, smiling softly at him. 

“Have a good night, sweetheart. Get home safe.” 

“You too.” 

A few days later, your evening with the sweet law student had fallen to the back of your mind as nerves about your first semester of classes set in. Fidgeting with your outfit in the mirror, you inhaled a shaky breath. 

“Stop worrying, you’ll be fine!” The voice of your roommate, Jen, rang out across your shared loft making your brow furrow. 

“Easy for you to say! You’ve done this before.” You groused, still examining your reflection. Jen was an old friend of yours who had lived down the street from you growing up. The two of you had been practically inseparable since elementary school, despite the fact that she was two years older than you. 

“Jen’s right, you know.” Oscar, Jen’s long-term boyfriend and your unofficial second roommate, squeezed your shoulder on his way to the kitchen. “Everyone is going to be nervous, so they won’t have time to judge you.” 

“Yah, yah. I appreciate the votes of confidence but, unfortunately, my anxiety and I have to hit the road. I would rather not be late.” 

“Have fun!” Oscar called as you grabbed your bag.

“You’re gonna kill it!” Shouted Jen as you exited the apartment. 

You shook your head, hoping they were right, and set off for your first ever Columbia Law class. 

The trek across campus was pretty and the walk helped you calm your racing thoughts. The walkways were littered with other first year students who looked more clueless than you—including a blond boy with a kind face who was staring quizzically at a kiosk in front of him that was plastered with event flyers. 

He muttered to himself for a moment before reaching to the side of the kiosk obscured from your view and tugging on the arm of someone beside him. “Ok dude, according to this map we should be heading…” He paused, squinting at the paper he was reading before dramatically pointing left. “West!” 

“That’s East.” You chuckled, walking over to inspect the map for yourself. As you neared the misguided fellow, your eyes widened as you recognized his friend. “Matt?” 

Laughing brightly and greeting you, Matt tugged free of the other man’s grip and strode over to you. “Are you following me?” He narrowed his eyes at you but his tone remained playful. 

Shoving him, you scoffed. “You wish, Murdock. I was going to warn your friend here that the upperclassmen usually put up fake maps as a prank on the first day of classes.” 

“Thank god we have someone to warn us of their cruelty, or we’d be dead meat!” The blond spun around and bowed in front of you. “Franklin Nelson, at your service m’lady. You can call me Foggy” 

You giggled, introducing yourself. “It’s such a shitty prank. Thankfully, I have roommates who are in their third year and they showed me around weeks ago. Where are you headed?” 

“Greene Hall.” Matt informed you. 

“Oh, that’s where I’m headed too! Civil Procedure? With Professor McGuiness?”

“The very same! We’re damn lucky to have run into you.” Foggy sighed, shaking his head. 

“It’s this way, and we aren’t too far. We’ll probably get there early.” 

“That’s good because this one,” Foggy stuck a thumb at Matt, “Has this idea that we need to sit in the front if we don’t want to fail. I’d be perfectly fine sitting in the last row and never being called on once!” 

“Studies show that sitting in one of the first few rows increases retention!” Matt elbowed his roommate who just snorted. 

“Retention schmention. I say we sit by the cutest people in the class and have them tutor us when we inevitably fail.” Foggy winked at you and you laughed. 

Matt squeezed your arm, leaning closer to you. “I think that can be arranged regardless.” 

Heat rose in your cheeks as his flirtatious grin made a reappearance. “Oh shut up, trouble maker, or I’ll sit in the very last row just to spite you.” 

“We wouldn’t want that.” Matt held out an arm, “Mind walking me to class, sweetheart?”

Rolling your eyes, you turned to Foggy. “How do you put up with him? You’re a Saint, truly.” But you took Matt’s arm anyway, ensuring that you were keeping a steady pace and avoiding anything he might trip over. 

The walk to your first law class was, eventful, to say the least. Matt and Foggy were clearly soulmates of a sort, with their nonstop bantering and the way they balanced each other out. Foggy was a ray of sunshine, while Matt was more comfortable in the shadows, so to speak. The blond was all loud declarations and bright smiles, while Matt was more low toned flirting and quiet observations. They were both incredibly intelligent, overly sarcastic, and had a flair for the dramatic. You were ecstatic to have stumbled into their lives. 

Matt had successfully cajoled the both of you into sitting with him in the second row, a compromise which Foggy considered a huge win. As students filed in, you subconsciously fiddled with your shirt, suddenly feeling incredibly insecure about your presence in this classroom. A gentle hand grabbed your wrist, making you jump. 

“Relax,” Matt whispered. “You look fine, trust me.” 

“How do you know?” You murmured nervously. 

“Those boys a few rows behind us are staring.” Matt’s smile remained, but his voice held a tension you couldn’t quite place. “And the TA is trying very hard not to.” 

“How on earth can you tell that?” You raised an eyebrow at him, incredulous. 

“Matt is seriously like some sort of super powered being. He has the greatest intuition of anyone I’ve ever met. Best to trust him about these things.” Foggy nodded solemnly, clearly trying not to burst out laughing. 

You simply rolled your eyes, pulling your notebook from your bag. Opening it to the correct page, you stifled a giggle as Foggy leaned over Matt’s lap to whisper-yell at you. 

“Why do you already have notes written? Matt, why does she already have notes written?” 

“I like to come prepared. I took notes on the first few chapters of the book.”

“But we didn’t even have an assignment for this class!”

“Yah, but I was bored at work and I thought I’d get a head start.” You just shrugged but Foggy glared at you, shaking a finger in your face. 

“You’re gonna make the rest of us look like slackers! You, missy, have some apologizing to do.” 

“For doing my due diligence?” You laughed. 

“Yes! For being too proactive. I think you owe us a tutoring session or two.” Foggy crossed his arms with a huff. 

“You have no idea if I even know what I’m doing, these notes could be gibberish!” You chuckled, shaking your head. 

“Nope, it’s good material. I can tell. You owe us. Doesn’t she, Matt?” Foggy elbowed his roommate who smirked. 

“I think he might be right, sweetheart. What would you say to being the leader of our study group.” Matt tilted his head, focusing on you. 

“Do I have a choice?” You sighed. 

“No!” Foggy exclaimed at the same time Matt responded, “Not really.”

“Then I accept, but I want my objection noted.” 

“It’s all in the record, don’t worry.” Foggy waved a hand, turning his attention back to the front of the room as the Professor walked to the front. 

The rest of the week went similarly, as you had three of four classes at the same time as Matt and Foggy. They made great company, so you could hardly complain, but it was the first meeting of your “unofficial official study group” (as Foggy had dubbed it) and you were quite nervous. 

You were fairly confident that you knew what you were talking about, but the idea of being the backbone for two other grades besides your own was quite stressful. Not to mention the jittery feeling you got every time your brain reminded you that you’d been in Matt’s room with him for an extended period of time. You chided yourself, Matt��though he was incredibly flirty—was one of the best friends you’d ever had, and you’d be damned before you jeopardized that because you were touch-starved and more than a little thirsty. 

Taking a deep breath to keep your antsy libido in check, which was getting increasingly difficult given the fact that you were sitting atop Matt’s bed practically cuddled against him, you turned your focus to the space in front of you for a moment of redirection. 

The room was small, a standard dorm room with two long skinny bed frames that held stiff foam mattresses, two identical desks with chipped paint and lumpy rolling chairs, and a bolted-shut window. Although the room was dim and cramped, the view was gorgeous, overlooking a rectangular patch of grass framed with lush green trees and the distant Manhattan skyline, bright with yellow lights against the black of the atmosphere.  

Shifting your focus to the inside of the room, you smiled at the dichotomy on full display. While it was clear both boys had cleaned in preparation for your visit, Foggy’s side of the room was haphazardly straightened, with loose socks peeking out from underneath the bed and a handful of stray candy wrappers still visible atop his desk. Matt’s half of the space was meticulously organized, complete with braille labels. It was clear that everything had its place. 

A shoulder nudged yours and you choked on a breath in your haste to turn towards the presence beside you. Matt smirked, but a small crease was present between his brows. “You ok? You stopped reading…”

“Yup!” You squeaked, clearing your throat and trying again. “Yes, sorry. Got distracted by your view.” Which was mostly true... 

“Is it nice? Foggy’s never told me.” Matt grins sideways at you, furrow on his smooth skin fading. 

“It’s…stunning. There’s a lot of green up front, with the lawn and plants and whatnot, but the red brick buildings contrast beautifully. And behind campus you can see the rest of the city, like we’re in an urban valley almost. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen.” 

“It sounds pretty. You should describe more sights for me, sweetheart. You’re good at it.” 

Heat ran up your face at the compliment, pulsing in your cheeks and the tips of your ears. Turning from the window, you found your chest settling calmly as you studied Matt’s face. You’d never been this close to him and it was startling how easily his innocuous expression stirred up emotions in you. 

He had the slightest shadow of stubble gracing his sharp jawline. As you ran your eyes along his face, you found yourself lingering on the beautiful hazel eyes, nearly blocked by his dark glasses. The blank, honey-bronze orbs held more emotion than you’d ever seen in someone’s expression. In the small time you’d known Matt, you found yourself constantly moved by his passion—for his city, for justice, for Foggy, even for you. 

“So can we get back to the precedent of Buck v. Bell or are you just gonna stare lovingly at Matt all night?” Foggy smiled sweetly at you but the glint in his eyes made it clear he was annoyed. 

“I wasn’t—I mean I—“ You sputtered, scootching farther away from Matt in an effort to conceal your obvious crush. 

“Whatever. It’s late and I’d like to finish soon. Precedent?” Foggy prompted, pointing to his textbook. 

“Well, the main point is that disabled and institutionalized individuals were no longer considered to have the same rights as other people.” Matt huffed, thumbing through his textured pages. 

“Right. And the opinion implies that losing rights through due process opens you up to losing rights in the future without another trial.” You added, squinting at a particular paragraph for clarity. 

“Which sucks, but checks out for 1927.” Foggy frowned. 

“If I’m interpreting the important parts correctly, this case is meant to highlight an important consequence of precedent, which is that one decision can impact the judicial system for decades, even over important things like due process.” You explained, turning to Matt. “Is that what you got from this?”

“That’s about what I interpreted, yah.” Matt nodded, giving Foggy a sly grin. “That enough of an explanation for ya, Nelson? Or do we need to break it down point by point.” 

“Shut up, Murdock.” Foggy grumbled. “I’d be better with this if I wasn’t dog-tired.” 

“You’re doing great, Foggy. Don’t listen to him. All we have left to do this week is read for Torts and then we are home free.” You smiled sympathetically. 

“Ugh!” Foggy flopped down onto his pillows, covering his face with his hands. 

“Not to be a pain, but I don’t have this text…” Matt shifted uncomfortably, biting his lip. 

“That’s alright, I can read mine aloud. If that’s ok with you, Foggy?” You looked to the half-asleep law student for confirmation who nodded tiredly. 

“If it allows me to close my eyes, I’d be more than happy to listen.” 

Matt chuckled, before tilting his head towards you. “Can I come closer? To make sure I don’t miss anything?” You could’ve sworn you saw Foggy roll his eyes, but you blinked and he remained still as a corpse against his pillows. 

“Of course, Matt. Here.” Shuffling closer to him, you lay the textbook across both of your laps, trying incredibly hard to not focus on how warm he was. “This ok?” 

Matt nodded, mouth parted slightly and your eyes followed his tongue as it darted out to wet his lips. For a moment, all you heard was static and the soft puffs of Matt’s breath. Coming back into your body, you shook your head to clear out the lovestruck cobwebs. 

“Ok, um, Introduction to American Civil Law: Chapter 1, Liability and Negligence…”

To tell the honest truth, Matt hadn’t taken in a word you’d spoken since you passed the introductory paragraph. Legal jargon washed over him like the water of a warm bath, spoken by a soothing dulcet voice and punctuated by the steady thump of your kind heart. Your thigh was resting against his and he could feel the tension in your neck as you desperately kept it mere inches from its desired landing place on his shoulder. Your soft t-shirt brushed over his arm with each expanse of your chest as you inhaled, rubbing more of your sweet lavender and vanilla scent over his skin. 

As you continued to be blissfully unaware of his lack of attention, or rather his abundance of attention, his body was fighting an internal battle to not sweep you into his arms and bury his face in your neck. 

Leaving St. Agnes had been a culture shock for the ages, but Matt was beginning to love it. The orphanage had been an overwhelmingly lonely place, which Matt attributed to his tendency to pick fights and his disability causing him to stand out. Meeting his new roommate had been nerve wracking, but Foggy was as easy to like as the first ray of sunshine in the spring, despite his grumpiness when he was exhausted. Sure he was messy and his snoring had kept Matt awake for hours, but he had a massive heart. Though he and Foggy had very different lifestyles, the other man fit perfectly into his life, as did you. Matt was more than aware of his tendency to form quick attachments, but his feelings toward you were an entirely different beast. 

The night he’d met you in the bookstore, an invitation to go on a date with him had been teetering on the edge of his tongue for hours. Flirting came naturally to him, one of the many reasons he didn’t get along with the other boys of Clinton Church, but given his less than standard childhood, he’d never had the opportunity to start a relationship. Every minute he spent with you made it more obvious that you deserved to be loved, not aimlessly thrown into a date or two, and Matt wasn’t sure he would be able to provide that. At least not now.

An ear-splitting snore sounded from the other side of the room, abruptly ending his daydream. Your arm left its place at his side as you stifled a laugh. “Guess I was more boring than I thought.” 

“Trust me, it’s not because of you. That man could fall asleep to the sound of a fire alarm if he tried hard enough.” Matt smirked, humor not quite reaching his eyes as his brain mourned the loss of your touch. Feeling you shift tensely next to him, he pondered for a moment. “If you’re worried about waking him, we could go somewhere else?”

“Where would we go at 2 in the morning on a Thursday?” You groaned, desperately aching to be done with school work for the week but simultaneously more than willing to spend all night with Matt. 

“I know a place. But we will probably want this blanket.” Matt grinned at you as your confusion peaked, but you threw the blanket over your shoulder and took his hand nonetheless. 

How your friend had discovered that the roof of Butler Library remained accessible after hours via a secluded maintenance stairwell, you’d never know—but you couldn’t help but thank the heavens for granting you this slice of paradise. 

The cement that compromised the roof was cold, a symptom of being deprived of the sun for hours now, but you and Matt lay huddled together on his bedspread, lounging in a pocket of warmth your closeness had created. You were practically snuggling, which was not helping soothe the part of your brain that was rabidly attracted to him, sharing your highs and lows from the week. 

As the two of you giggled about an incident with a pigeon that had decided to attend Civil Procedure, you found your eyes tracing over the moonlit form of the beautiful man before you, who seemed to notice your staring as his lips quirked up. “So, tell me, sweetheart, how’s a girl like you end up in a place like this?” 

With an exaggerated groan, you shoved him playfully. “You and your damn lines, Murdock.” 

With a chuckle, Matt’s expression turned from something entirely playful into one of genuine interest.  “Seriously, what brought you to Columbia?” Feeling your heart pound under his blank gaze, you blew out a breath. 

“That is a long, sad story that I’m sure you don’t really—“

“If you don’t want to tell me, I totally get it. But I’d like to know more about you.” Matt’s answer was honest and lacking his perpetually flirty edge that kept you at a safe distance, which sent a burst of heat to your stomach that you weren’t expecting. 

“Oh, well...” Sighing deeply, you considered your options. You’d had a hard time making friends in the past, and had a tendency to over share (or so you’d been told), but Matt had asked for the real answer. That meant he really wanted it, right?

Steeling yourself for the impending rejection, you confessed. “I’m originally from Connecticut. Small little town called Bridgewater, about an hour from New Haven. It’s just me and my mom, really. My dad lives in godknowswhere, Virginia with my two siblings and his girlfriend. He’s…kinda the worst, so we don’t talk much. My mom though, she’s amazing. I owe everything to her.” 

Matt smiled at you, nodding encouragingly when you hesitated. 

“Um, yah, so long story short, she was diagnosed with cancer when I was a kid. My dad has sort of always been a jackass but her prognosis…I don’t know, it was the last straw for him. I don’t remember much but they started arguing about money and then, he took everything. I didn’t realize it at the time, my mom is the nicest person on the planet and she would never blame my dad for her misfortune, but we lost our house, she lost her job, her assets, two of her kids—though they didn’t fight to stay like I did. The longer I lived, the more curious I became about everything and when I did some digging in high school, I found out my dad had claimed everything in the divorce. He and his attorney had argued that my mom was abusive and financially exploiting him and the judge gave him anything he asked for. I decided I wanted to be a lawyer so I could stop others from going through what my mom and I have.” 

The story poured out of you, relieving a pressure you’d been carrying for as long as you remembered. Matt simply listened intently, emotions passing over his face in small flashes as you described your past. Realizing all of the bullshit you’d just dumped on him, you cringed. 

“I’m sorry, that was a lot, I just…” Matt’s brow furrowed and his hand shot out to cup your elbow. 

“No! No, I’m just so sorry that happened. Your dad sounds like a piece of work.” He gave a disgusted grimace and you giggled. 

“He is. My mom still loves him though, bless her heart. We spend Christmas with him every year like he didn’t ruin her life.” The laugh that you have held no humor. “Anyway, that’s my backstory. What about you, trouble maker?” You leaned into the loose hold Matt kept on your arm, eager to learn more about him. 

“Well, I’m from New York. Hell’s Kitchen, born and raised just like Foggy. I, uh, I never knew my mom. Was close with my dad, though. He was a boxer, taught me a lot about fighting, persistence.” Matt’s face fell slightly as he paused. Intertwining your fingers with his, your smile softened. 

“He sounds like a good man.” 

Matt nodded. “Yah, he uh, he was. He died when I was 9.”

Eyes widening, a hasty apology spilled out of you. “Oh Matt, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize—“ A squeeze of your hand stopped you in your tracks. 

“It’s ok. I do miss him, though. After he died, I was taken in by an orphanage, raised by nuns. This is, really the first time I’ve lived without feeling like I’m being watched.” Matt chuckled awkwardly, removing his fingers from yours to push up his glasses. “Law interested me for a reason similar to yours, I suppose. My dad, uh, he was murdered. Organized crime hit. I tried to get someone, anyone really, to bring the group to justice and I…failed. Made me realize the justice system needs more devoted participants, I guess.” Taking his hand back into yours, you ran a thumb over his knuckles, allowing him to collect his thoughts before continuing the conversation. 

“So you’re interested in criminal law then?” Your heart flipped happily as Matt’s starlit face lit up again. 

“Honestly, I’m interested in most of it. But the more I learn about the world, the more I realize how important criminal defense is. My dad’s murder inspired this journey, but what I do with the degree, it’ll be in his memory. I’m starting to think that defense would be the best way to honor him.” 

How on Earth did you manage to find the sweetest boy on campus? “That’s…beautiful Matt. Really. He must be so proud of you already.” 

Matt’s lips twitched but he seemed unsure. “Maybe he should wait to see if I actually get this degree. Torts is already shaking up to be a nightmare.” 

“Ugh, that’s for damn sure.” You laughed breathily, shivering as a breeze pierced your thin shirt. 

Face twisting with concern, Matt ran his hand over your arm. “Are you cold? Sorry, I didn’t think it would get this chilly out.” 

“Oh, it’s ok! I’m not that cold.” You assured him, relishing in the soft brushes of his calloused fingertips over your arm. 

Raising a brow at you, Matt pulled off the crew neck he was wearing, handing it to you. “Humor me.” 

Rolling your eyes at his demanding tone, you slipped the garment over your head. The worn gray sweatshirt was soft and comfortably warm with Matt’s body heat. It was such a pleasant relief from the frigid cement that you had to bite back a groan. Breathing in the earthy, clean scent that always followed Matt, you sighed in relief. 

“Thank you.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.” Matt grinned. 

The night didn’t go on for too much longer after you spilled your guts to your new friend. At his insistence, you called Oscar and Jen to come pick you up rather than walking home. 

You fell asleep easily that night and, while it would be easy to blame the late hour, the fabric of Matt’s sweatshirt wrapped around you may have had something to do with it. 

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock #daredevil #marvel #matt murdock x you #charlie cox #human disaster matt murdock #matt murdock fanfic #matt murdock fic #matt murdock fanfiction #matthew murdock #marvel's daredevil #daredevil fanfic #marvel daredevil #daredevil mcu #daredevil x reader #daredevil x you #daredevil x female reader #matt murdock fluff #matt murdock x fem!reader #matt murdock x female reader #my writing #mm #ooai

[neoninky]

My phone has been blowing up all day with likes and reblogs on this spur of the moment joke post I made yesterday and honestly, it blows my mind and also amuses me to no end. Tumblr has informed me that, no doubt greatly due to the influx of activity on said post: I have achieved 1000 likes AND 100 reblogs...DAYUM. I'm finishing up a bigger, non-TWST related piece of art but today was one of those days and I wanted to pause and just do something to make myself - and hopefully others - laugh. So in honor of the mentioned post and everyone who has enjoyed it, behold:

My very first Twisted Wonderland fanart sort of and it's this lolololol congrats to Malleus Draconia for being the first TWST character I've ever drawn again sort of lol I'd like to think that instead of an actual Yuusona being isekai'd into the world of Twisted Wonderland, this is an AU where my Inky Bun mascot exists in Twisted Wonderland as a psuedo-magical rabbit creature. Somehow she ended up at Night Raven and the minute she did, Crowley saw an opportunity to potentially quell his rowdy students and keep them from going into a frenzy every five minutes...clearly it's going super well LOL. Thus the Therapy Rabbit AU is born. Also in this AU, she has Sora/Kingdom Hearts magic where her color and outfit change depending on which dorm she is currently visiting. So here in the picture above, we have a very terrified Diasomnia!Inky Bun godspeed bunbun Tagging my moots and others that have enjoyed my posts before cuz hi I hope y'all are well lol: @wysteriadelights @nuitthegoddess @iscarlettappel @aiimee9 @foxwitchaine @feldya @yunaemiya @1ndigowitch @victoria1676 @zstargalaxy

#neoninky #inky bun mascot #twisted wonderland #twst au therapy rabbit #malleus draconia #malleus OP AF draconia #twst overblot #dire crowley #why do I hear final boss music??? #trauma town here we come #no rabbits were harmed in the making of this sketch #crowley you're worthless #tomfoolery and shenanigans #diasomnia #dramasomnia #imma gonna DIE #ooo lawd

[crystallizedday]

Mkay, so I just woke up & I feel like spitting some facts today while I’m still in my BATDR hyperfix, especially since I’m pretty sure not a lot of people have this idea as well & I wanna get it out there somehow.

So…

The Ink Demon is like… written SO fucking well in this game, or at least as I interpret it.

& I figured this shit out like GRADUALLY.

The first tid bit that hit me like a fucking truck was how CANONICALLY the Ink Demon is in DESPERATE need of any kind of love and affection. While it’s hinted at a little bit in the games, the smoking gun comes from the VOICE ACTOR FOR INKY HIMSELF Sean Crisden.

Yes, I looked through his entire Twitter to find this again just to prove I’m not insane.

Like… even if Sean isn’t caught up entirely on the lore, there’s no reason he would say this only knowing the Ink Demon through his lines. After all, my guy has to be told about the character to voice him, so for him to address this pretty much makes it as close to being confirmed officially as we can.

The second thing that hit me like a truck was the YouTuber Pastra’s review video on the game, where he details how the Ink Demon’s mocking in the last chapter is towards HIMSELF, not Audrey, & he’s just projecting all HIS shit onto her.

Not even I caught this, since I always thought Inky was right about the “your life is a lie” thing due to her not being fully human.

But then Pastra emphasized the “mistake” bit. Audrey wasn’t a mistake, far from it. The Ink Demon, BENDY, was. HE was a mistake, born solely to be a living mascot to entertain, & when he came out WRONG, he was locked away, neglected, abandoned by the man who created him.

So he looks at Audrey, someone who was made by the same man who made him, someone who was treated so much better because of how she came out “perfect”, & tries to bring her down on the same level as he is by berating her.

& while this is stretching a bit, him comforting her at the end feels a bit like he’s trying to comfort himself, tricking himself to believe there is SOMEONE like him, someone who was ABANDONED & lied to, & thus giving Audrey the opportunity to live so he can indulge in that comfort.

It’s a BIG stretch, but god DAMN is it a gut puncher!

Like I’m sure he also did it to manipulate her & shit, but like… he can have MORE than one reason to do shit, & if he really did try to comfort himself like that, if that really is true… then I’m gonna fucking sob, man.

BUT THAT IS NOT FUCKING ALL!!

Cause I got ONE MORE mind blower I had, mainly (but not entirely) on my own after that one!!

& it has to do with Baby Bendy.

A LOT of people think Inky got his mind split in two when he was imprisoned as Baby Bendy due to how different he acts around Audrey.

But I beg to differ.

I think the Ink Demon is ABSOLUTELY still conscious & in control as Baby Bendy. He just couldn’t do shit to anyone before Audrey came about & accidentally freed him (cause I am ALSO subscribed to that theory Pastra addressed in his video), so he just minded his own business.

Perhaps his new emotional responses spoken of in the Keepers’ tapes come from him being more powerless & vulnerable where the only thing he COULD do was cry.

& the reason he acts so friendly towards Audrey once she meets up with him near the city? Because she was kind to him, she actually gave a shit about him. She apologized to him about hurting him & wanted to take care of him.

NEVER in Inky’s life has he EVER had someone genuinely care about him & his well being, something he always wanted from ANYONE but never got. So when he finally has that opportunity with Audrey, he jumps to it, going along with it, even if he desperately didn’t want to visit the Gent labs again.

More evidence of this is detailed in a post by @jupiter-jellies titled “Ink Demon VS Vesty” which I really like (I apologize for the tag, I don’t know if there’s an easier option to showcase the post itself, but I still wanna credit you nonetheless) as it makes sense of the sequences of events that happen from when Baby Bendy first joins your party to when he disappears & the Ink Demon comes to stop you from entering the Keepers’ area. Seriously, that shit blew my mind when I read it cause it explains WHY Baby Bendy went missing & why the Ink Demon would try to stop Audrey from going THERE in particular.

It just makes sense that the Ink Demon was still HIMSELF in both forms, he just acts differently to compensate for his lack of powers & to be given the love & affection he always wanted.

… But then it gets sad.

Cause the more I thought about it, the more fucked up it became. The ONLY time the Ink Demon EVER got someone to reach out to him & make him feel cared for… is when he’s in a “perfect” form. Only when he was cute & innocent & TRAPPED against his WILL could he be EVER loved, that if only he came out RIGHT in the first place, then he would DESERVE all the love that Audrey offers him.

If Joey & the others neglecting & abusing him when he came out wrong when he was JUST created didn’t solidify this idea in his head, Audrey treating him like a friend in his “perfect” form & an enemy in his true form DEFINITELY sealed the deal to him.

& it only gets worse.

I was re-listening to Joey talking to Audrey at the tail-end of the game to try & snap her out of the dark mindset Inky put her in when I realized something.

The Ink Demon was RIGHT THERE, listening to his abuser talk directly to AUDREY the ENTIRE TIME, telling her how she was loved & how she’s not this monster, that she was his pride & joy, his ONLY success…

& that PISSES Inky off.

In INKY’s point of view, only after Joey had a creation that WASN’T an abomination did he suddenly have a change of heart, that all it took was to get something he always wanted to be a better person as he completely ignores his biggest mistake that was RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM.

That… has GOT to sting, really bad, to feel abandoned AGAIN in favor of the “better sibling” that Audrey was.

I have a feeling that he didn’t crush Joey SOLELY so he couldn’t get through to Audrey. I think he also did it because he couldn’t take LISTENING to him talk like this anymore, to be reminded that he was a failure that didn’t deserve the love that Audrey got, & lashed out to shut Joey up.

This is ALL very headcanon-y, but… it really does paint the Ink Demon in a more complex & tragic light.

The Ink Demon was NEVER just a mindless monster that killed whatever it wanted on sight. He was capable of emotion, & he could’ve potentially been capable of being something so much more if only he got the proper care & reassurance he DESPERATELY needed.

& GOD I love his character for it, he’s my favorite character in the game BY FAR because of this, GOD I hope this is canon so I can give massive props to the writers for this game!!

#bendy and the dark revival #batdr #batdr spoilers #bendy and the dark revival spoilers #ink demon #ink bendy #bendy #baby bendy #audrey #batdr audrey #audrey drew #joey drew #sean crisden #ink demon character studies #day’s morning ramblings #thank you for reading my essay XDDD #I apologize for the shitty quality for the cutscenes #i just wanted to throw some images in here to spice up the rambling & compliment it a bit #hope ya don’t mind

[cowgurrrl]

Blueberry Pancakes

Pairing: rockstar!joel miller x actress!fem reader

Summary: The morning after [4.5k]

Author’s note: thank you for being patient also I was going to write more of the spicy spice but I got lazy so this is what you get lol fic named after this song

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, June putting her theatre minor and knowledge of NYC to work, Joel being needy, ✨opening up emotionally✨, smut (oral f receiving), we’re coming to the end of our time in NYC :(

Joel pressing kisses to your face is the first thing you feel when you wake up. You lazily reach for him, not even bothering to open your eyes, as you wrap your arms around his neck and hold him. "Good morning," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, and you hum. You smile and open your eyes to see him, messy hair and all, bathed in sunlight. Tattoos previously hidden by his shirt are now on full display, and your fingers drop to trace the inky lines. He kisses your nose and tucks some hair behind your ear. "I ordered us room service." 

"Did you get me a bagel?" 

"No, 'm a complete idiot," he says sarcastically, and you laugh. "What d'you have scheduled for today?"

"I have to make an appearance on the Tonight Show, but other than that, I'm free all day. Why?" You ask, and he smiles before ducking his head into your neck and kissing you more. Maybe it's because you never let yourself notice, or he didn't let you see, but Joel Miller is incredibly affectionate. You'd be an idiot not to let him worship you like you're the one who hung the moon and the stars.

"Because my sound mixing guy said he doesn't need me to come in, so I have," kiss. "The whole," kiss. "Day," kiss. "Off." He lifts his head to kiss your lips again but is interrupted by a knock at the door. He sighs, and you laugh, already pushing him off you so you can open the door. 

"I love how you're acting like you're not the one who ordered it," you say as you grab his Lakers shirt from the top of his suitcase, the hem of it hitting the tops of your thighs, and open the door to grab the two plates covered with a tin dish at your door. Joel sits up to watch you close the door behind you and set the dishes down on the table. "What?" You question his lingering eyes, and he shrugs.

"You look ridiculously hot wearin' my clothes." 

"You just like it because you know I'm not wearing any underwear." 

"I mean, that's not entirely wrong." He gets out of bed to pull on a pair of boxers from his bag and pads over to you, rubbing sleep from his eye. He's a sight to behold like this. All tan skin, hard muscle, and delicate black lines adorning his body. He wraps his arm around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder as you pull out your phone and take a picture of the beautiful breakfast spread. You post a vague Instagram story in which you can clearly see the two plates in front of you and the slightest peek of Joel's hand in the frame. "D'you like causin' chaos, or am I a bad influence?" 

"It's a little fun to watch them freak out." You admit, and he laughs. He presses a quick kiss to your jaw before releasing you to pull your chair out for you. You sit down and flip your phone face down on the table as Melanie texts you a screenshot of your post with a thumbs-up emoji. She can wait.

You and Joel eat the breakfast he ordered for you and talk. You tell him about coordinating with the cast of Red Dirt Girl for the premiere and show him a picture of you and Lilly together on set. He explains how sound mixing works and why he wanted to come all the way out to New York to work with this one guy when there are plenty of other sound mixers in Los Angeles. "I've worked with him a long time," he tells you. "I don't trust anyone else." You talk about wanting to visit the places you loved when you lived in the city. It's been years since you've been able to come back and just have fun. You're secretly really excited to show him your old stomping grounds.

"Can I ask you somethin'?" Joel asks as you take a sip of coffee.

"Go for it."

"Before last night, when's the last time you had sex with someone?" There's no malice or amusement in his voice. He's genuinely curious. You sigh and stare into your mug.

"A year ago. Maybe longer."

"Wow."

"What?"

"Nothin'. I just can't believe that."

"Why? It's not like I've been dating since I came to LA. I work all the time. I'm never home, and when I am, it's not like I'm doing anything exciting." You say, and he shrugs.

"You're a beautiful woman. Smart. Funny. Not to mention rich and famous," he says, and you laugh. "I thought men would be climbin' over each other to be with you."

"Men are also intimidated by a woman who makes more money or works more than they do."

"Why do you work so much?" He asks. "People obviously like you if they keep hirin' you. Realistically, you could take a year-long break and just relax for the first time in God knows how long."

"I've always worked a lot. In college, I worked two different jobs, and when I graduated, I took almost every role or position I was offered because I couldn't afford not to. I think it was a way to keep me moving, keep my mind off of my family back home or the lives my friends were starting without me. Because I was in the city and so far away, it felt easy for them to forget about me. But they can't forget about me if I'm making new movies or shows or doing interviews."

"Is that somethin' you're afraid of? Being forgotten?" He asks, and you nod. You're not sure why you're divulging this much information to him so early in the day. You blame the way he looks at you.

"It's why I bite my tongue or play into the celebrity antics or sign a contract to date a rockstar," you say, and he smiles. "If I'm always giving them something to talk about, they can't throw me away." He reaches for your hand across the table, and a little shock passes from his fingers to yours.

"Well, you, my dear, are anythin' but forgettable,"

"Thanks," 

"'M serious. Those people would be fuckin' idiots to let you pass 'em by, and I'm sorry nobody's told you that." He says, squeezing your hand like he's trying to press the words into your skin. You bite the inside of your cheek as your brain catches up to what he's saying, tears pricking in your eyes embarrassingly fast. You stand, cross to his chair, and straddle him, wrapping your arms around his neck. His hands rest on your bare thighs, his thumbs tracing patterns there. 

"Where've you been hiding this whole time?" You ask quietly, like if you say it too loud, the reverie will break, and everything will go back to the way it was before you came to New York. 

"Could ask you the same thing." He whispers, and you smile. You lean down and kiss him, slow in your movements. You play with the curls at the nape of his neck and just relish in the feeling of his lips on yours. It's dizzying how his stubble scratches against your skin, the hair already coming back in even though he just shaved the other day. He trails his hands upwards until he barely grazes your inner thighs, and you put your hands on his wrists to stop him.

"As much as I would love to do that again," you say against his lips. "I've got a list of places to visit today, and we can't do that if you keep getting handsy." 

"A list? You're so official." He asks, and you hum as you slide off his lap. You plant your feet and move toward the bathroom, but he snags your hand before you can get far and keeps you close for another second before letting it go. You can't suppress the giddy smile on your face as you start your skincare routine and plan an outfit in your head. The hotel room is quiet, and both of you are comfortable enough to slip into domestic silence as you get ready for the day. Or, at least, you would've been if you hadn't moved closer to the mirror to put sunscreen on and noticed the mark on your neck. 

"Joel Miller!" You shout. He appears in the doorway a second later with a confused look on his face. "Are you a fucking teenager? Look at this!" You point at the hickey bruising your skin, and he smirks.

"I don't remember you tryna stop me." 

"You're a menace."

"Yeah, yeah." He says as he reaches around you to grab something, smacking your ass and running before you can get payback, and you laugh. You call a ceasefire long enough to get dressed, but you do steal one of his white button-ups and pair it with jeans. When you come out of the bathroom with the tiniest bit of makeup on, wearing his shirt, he plays at his knees, giving out. 

"You're gonna kill me," he groans. You laugh and shove him out of the way to grab your bag. 

"You're dramatic," you say as he kisses your cheek. You grab his hand and all but drag him out of the hotel room, sneakily leaving money on the nightstand for the poor housekeeping staff who has to wash the sheets while you're out. You expect him to drop your hand once you're out on the streets, but he doesn't; if anything, he walks closer to you and wraps his arm around your neck to kiss your temple while you wait at a crosswalk. One of the things you love about New York is how easy it is to blend in among the massive amounts of people rushing from one place to another. Nobody gives you or Joel a second glance, and if they do, you're already several steps ahead of them, and it's too late for them to say anything.

"Did you live around here?" Joel asks as you turn down 2nd Avenue, and you laugh.

"I was way too broke to live anywhere near the Upper East Side. I lived in a three-story walk-up in Hell's Kitchen with four other girls from NYU."

"How far's that?" 

"Hell's Kitchen?"

"Yeah." He says, and you look up at the street signs to figure out where you are. 

"Well, we're on 2nd and 83rd, and I lived on 9th and 51st, so a really long walk from here, but we could cut through Central Park or take the subway. Or, if you really want to be LA about it, we could get an Uber," you say, and he nods. "What do you wanna do?"

"It's been a really long time since I was in Central Park," he says, looking down at you and squeezing your hand. "Wanna give me a tour?" You smile and begin guiding him through the familiar route. You tell him little bits of history that you remember from the various times you went on sight-seeing tours with friends and family, pointing out the roof of the Dakota and telling him that Yoko Ono still lives there once it comes into view. Joel tells you what Sarah and Ellie are up to today as you cross the street into Central Park. Apparently, Sarah and Ellie are spending a girl's day at the Los Angeles Zoo and then getting dinner with Joel's brother later. He lights up and shows you a picture of the girls smiling together in front of the zoo signage. He shoots back a picture of the park, and you watch him type out a dorky dad message about making good decisions.

Central Park is gorgeous this time of year. The flowers are starting to sprout into a rainbow of colors as the last bits of bitter cold finally disappear. Somebody's playing music at Strawberry Fields like they always are, but Joel being Joel, stops and listens to the young guitarist with tattoos painting her arms. You lean on him, holding his bicep, as you stand there and listen to him hum along to the song. You stay there for as long as possible, ignoring sideways glances and growing whispers, and clap when she finishes singing. Joel drops two hundred dollar bills in her open case before disappearing with you down the path, away from lingering eyes and tilted iPhone cameras. 

You take him on a bit of detour but, thankfully, find the path emptier and quieter than most. The birds chirp and swoop low over your head as they gather materials for their nests. The sun shines through the trees the way the movies make it seem like it always does, and it just feels easy. Joel slides his hand into your back pocket as you listen to him ramble about how important it is to support young artists because they get so discouraged. You think he could probably talk about this exact subject for hours until you stumble out of the path and into the decades-old theatre. He pauses, taking in the sight of all the seats and the skyline peeking out behind the trees, and you smile at his reaction. You walk him down to the front of the stage and turn him around to look at the entire theatre. Even though you've been here hundreds of times and seen pictures of your friends here, the magnitude of Delacorte Theatre never ceases to take your breath away.

"I used to do Shakespeare in the Park here." You say, running your hand over the smooth surface of the stage. 

"Really?" He asks, and you hum. "You like it?"

"Loved it. I remember every second."

"I never did understand what those plays were about."

"Didn't you read Shakespeare in school?" You ask, and he laughs, shaking his head.

"I'm from Texas, and I had a baby before a degree. Do you think I read Shakespeare?" He says, humor in his tone, and you have to fight the instinct to ask about Sarah and how he ended up a single father at twenty-two.

"You should try it. It's really not that hard once you understand the rhythm and everything." You say instead, and he furrows his eyebrows at you.

"What d'you mean?"

"It's kinda like a song. You speak the words in iambic pentameter and give them meaning as you say them. Every sentence should be a revelation like you've never had the thought before, even if you've read it a million times."

"Iambic what?" He asks, and you laugh. 

"Here," you say, facing him. You put his hand over your heart, your own hand resting on his wrist, and give him a second to adjust to the beating. "Feel it?" You ask, and he nods. "That ba bum ba bum ba bum is how you stress the syllables." You take a deep breath and recall an old monologue from the depths of your brain. Then, surrounded by the ghosts of your past and the thousands of people who've ever walked the stage, you fill Delacorte with words older than the city itself. You keep yourself in time with the steady pulse in Joel's wrist and do your best to make every breath count. After years of auditions and callbacks and no after no after no, this, performing for him, is the scariest thing you've ever done. He stares at you once you're done repeating Helena's lines from A Midsummer Night's Dream, and his jaw moves as he thinks. 

"What's it mean to you? Not what the books tell you it should mean." He asks quietly. 

"It's her admitting her faults. She's saying, "I know I fucked up, and I'm sorry. I can't take back what I've done, and I hurt you, but I love you, and because I love you, I'm letting you go." She's trying to say goodbye. Give their friendship meaning even when Hermia is furious at her," you say, and he nods. "The last person I dated was in that show with me. He played Oberon and was a complete asshole, but he broke my heart. Said I'd never make it in the industry. He actually broke up with me on closing night. This is the first time I've been back since." You say. He doesn't ask why you're telling him this or question the story. He just pulls you close and hugs you. He rubs your back and presses his lips to the crown of your head, and for just a second, New York City quiets down. 

"Fuck that guy," Joel says against your hair, and you laugh as you look up at him. 

"Yeah, fuck that guy." You agree. Then, just as quickly as the smile took over his face, he turns pensive again.

"Thank you for showin' me this."

"You're welcome."

You linger in the theatre for a few more minutes, reflecting on the journey your career has taken, before continuing your trek through Central Park. You walk past the children's playground where yuppie moms or their nannies watch over the screaming kids climbing the jungle gyms. Joel tells you about the time Ellie broke her arm because she was dared to climb as high as she could on the play structure. She was ten. 

"Cried the whole way to the hospital." He shakes his head.

"You or Ellie?"

"Are you kiddin'? Of course, it was me," he says, and you have to stop in the middle of the sidewalk from laughing so hard. "I can't believe you're laughin' at me! My baby girl was hurt!"

"Aw, you're tearing up now!" You say as you swipe your thumbs underneath his eyes. "Oh, honey." You giggle as you kiss his cheek, resting your hands on his face.

"Yeah, you should feel bad for makin' me cry." 

"You're just a big softie."

"For them? Always." He says like it's the easiest thing in the world. It stops you in your tracks. You know countless men with children who never tell their kids how much they love them or even show up for them. But here's Joel Miller crying about an accident that happened four years ago because of how much he loves his daughters. 

"Sarah and Ellie are really lucky to have you as their dad." You tell him, and you swear, more tears glisten in his eyes for just a moment. He clears his throat and turns to kiss the inside of your wrist.

"Thank you." He says, and you nod. He tucks you under his arm, and you guys finally cross the street out of Central Park.

Once you're close enough, you take Joel to your favorite pizza place in Hell's Kitchen, where you can still get a slice bigger than your head for a dollar. He's only slightly surprised at how fast the man behind the counter talks, but you chalk it up to him being in California for so long, where every syllable has to last three seconds longer. You miss New York, you realize, as you walk through the streets with him. It's an ache so deep in your heart that it makes you wonder why you ever left. But then you pass the building where you auditioned for an off off off off Broadway play and got called back, but when you showed up, the casting director just looked up and went, "Who are you?" That's enough to make you remember. 

Still, as you take him by your old apartment building, the restaurant you waitressed at until the day before you left for Los Angeles, and the subway station where you jumped the turnstiles too many times to count because you didn't have enough money for the train fare, you think you want to retrace every step you've ever taken on this earth just to make new memories with him. With Joel, everything is made fresh and exciting again because you've never gotten to experience these things with him by your side. 

A dangerous and stupid thought wiggles its way into your brain as you take the subway back to the Upper East Side, his body stabilizing yours as the car jolts forward and shakes, even though you're way more accustomed to the train's movements than him. You shoo it away before it becomes anything more, chalking it up to nostalgia and vulnerability. But when the subway emerges from the depths of the dirty, underground station and chugs its way through the elevated track, sunshine beaming into the cars and making Joel's eyes look like halos, it returns.

"What?" He asks, and you shake your head. "You're starin'."

"Maybe I just like looking at you."

"Weirdo." 

"Weirdo." You copy his deep tone, and he gives you a look. The subway doors open at your stop, and you and Joel tumble out of the car. He trusts you to guide him through the crowd and out of the station, holding his hand as he walks behind you. Traffic has picked up now that the work day is over, and you and Joel have to run between cars to make it to the hotel resulting in getting tagged in a picture of you and Joel running through the street with the caption, "What the fuck just happened!!!" As you approach the hotel doors, a group of young girls' eyes widen when they see you and Joel together. Joel notices and offers a very quick hello before ducking inside the hotel lobby, a chorus of excited voices echoing behind you. 

When you make it up to your hotel room, you sigh and fight the urge to crawl back into bed, your walk through the many neighborhoods finally catching up with you. A garment bag hangs in the open closet, and you unzip it to find the Cinderella blue dress your stylist got for you to wear tonight. It's short and has little flowers embroidered in the skirt, and you smile at how cute it is. "What time d'you have to be at the studio?" Joel asks, basically reading your mind as he comes up behind you to look at the dress.

"Couple hours. I need to take a shower and get ready soon." You say, turning to face him, and he smirks.

"Want some company?"

"Sure." 

"Wait, really?" He asks, and you laugh as you move into the bathroom, kicking your shoes and socks off by the sink. You turn on the shower and start unbuttoning your shirt when you notice him still standing by the closet.  

"Oh, my God, you're like a teenage boy. Yes, but hurry up!" You say, and he almost immediately pulls his shirt over his head and rushes into the bathroom with you. He's on you in a second, his hands flying to the button of your jeans, and you smile against him. "I really did mean just shower." You're half-joking, and he seems to realize it because he hums and pushes your pants down.

"Course, let me just help you outta these," he says, dropping to his knees in front of you. Your breath hitches in your throat at the sight of him before you, guiding your legs out of the denim, but when he presses gentle kisses up your knee, you know you're done for. He takes his time, nipping and licking at the skin of your thighs like nothing else matters. He carefully guides your leg over his shoulder as he traces the fabric of your panties, his lips ghosting over you. Your hand lands in his hair as you stare down at him, his big hands reaching back and palming at your ass. He presses a gentle kiss to your clit, and you let out a shaky breath. "Still wanna take a shower instead?"

"You're an asshole." You say, and he hums smugly against your pussy, smirking as he finally tugs your underwear down and slides one deft finger through your wetness. You're dripping from his teasing, and you don't even have the heart to be embarrassed about it.  

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you like it when I'm an asshole," he says. For half a second, you think he'll make you beg like he did last night, but then, without warning, he leans forward and licks hungrily into you. His mouth is hot and slow as he tastes you for the first time, all but moaning as you coat his tongue. He licks broad stripes through you, his nose bumping against your clit every time, and you shiver despite the sweat forming on the back of your neck. You grip his hair between your fingers and gasp when he slips two fingers into your pussy. You're still a little sore, but he gives you a second to adjust, focusing all his attention on devouring you like a man starved. "You taste so fuckin' good, baby. Been thinkin' 'bout this since you stole that fuckin' cigarette from me." He mumbles, his stubble scraping the inside of your thighs perfectly. 

"I thought, oh fuck," you moan as he starts moving his fingers inside of you, the drag of them making you see stars. "Thought you hated me."

"I thought you hated me," he says, moving to kiss your inner thigh and look up at you. The muscles in his forearms flex as his fingers curl, and you whine. His mouth is back on you, drawing tight circles into your clit with his tongue, and dark eyes hold your gaze. Everything around you melts, the water hitting the tile behind you becoming nothing more than white noise as pleasure swims through your veins. "But we just had to figure each other out. Huh, pretty girl?" You clench around his fingers, and he chuckles lowly. "I knew you liked it when I called you that. Did you go home and touch yourself after I dropped you off? I would've come inside to help you, you poor thing." He makes a sympathetic sound, the vibration making you buck your hips. 

You can't even formulate a response as his fingers stroke at your walls, grazing that spongy part inside you enough to make you throw your head back. He sucks your clit between his lips and hums against you again. You moan his name over and over again, the sound of your voice echoing around you. Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, and you hold onto him for dear life. "If you let me fall, I will never fucking forgive you." You manage, and he laughs. 

"I've got you, sweetheart." He says as he wraps his other hand around your waist, pressing you closer to his mouth. His fingers pump in and out of you steadily, and he licks at your clit again, the slightest scrape of his teeth making you shout as you come. He doesn't let up. The filthy sound of his fingers fucking you through your orgasm mix with your shaky moans, and you have to literally pull him away by his hair for him to stop.  

"You're gonna kill me." You breathe as he stands and kisses you.

"You're dramatic." 

#one for the money two for the show #rockstar!joel miller #the last of us au #the last of us x reader #the last of us fluff #the last of us smut #joel the last of us #joel tlou #tlou x reader #tlou smut #tlou fluff #tlou au #joel miller x reader #joel miller fluff #joel miller x female reader

[ravenstargames]

✦ Lost in Limbo Devlog #4 | 07.31.23

Ahá! What is this?! Ravenstar Games' fourth devlog?! More likely than you think!

Before we start, we want to apologize once again for the inactivity and thank you for your patience. Our master degree has ended as of today, but September 15th is the day on which we must hand in everything we have done during the year. That means that technically, we still have to work until then—BUT we are back on track with Lost in Limbo and our plans for the game, and we are beyond excited!

Without further ado, let's jump right into it! 💜

So of course our most important milestone has been finishing our first key art! Yaaay! 🎉

We'll use this piece as a header for our socials, as well as an overall banner for steam, itch.io, etc. Raquel did an amazing job as always with this piece, and I had the pleasure to assist her with a few details and post-editing! We are so so happy to finally have this in our hands, it has made us feel like FINALLY we can work on our game again! :')

There's also of course the Barbie artwork, which was in the making for a long, long time. It was a silly little thing we wanted to do since Barbie was announced, and Kayden worked super hard to finish it right on time!

<<The Midnight Tower. It was there before our kind took its first breath, and it will be there after the last one is long gone.>>

Not really a background, but not a CG either—let's say this is a small sneak-peak of the demo! This is one of the first things you'll see while playing, and a core part of LiL's adventure; the Midnight Tower, a mysterious entity that seems to be somehow connected to you.

I'm already working on animating this piece; the inky fragments will float around, the fog will move, and you'll be able to join this little raven on his journey to the top! Special thanks to Kayden who was in charge of this one!

You can also see the tower in our key art, if you haven't noticed. It's great to see how LiL's lore and story is evolving and seeing the light slowly but surely! 💜

This month we are happy to show you the provisional main title screen for Lost in Limbo!! 💜 As per usual, I will animate the stained glass wheel to make it spin (like the logo in our webpage, hehe), and the fog will dance around with some nice particles!

All the screens for the game are done and we are waiting for our UI artist to send the files over so we can start programming and do some screenshots. We would have liked to do this during May, June and July (the months we knew would be packed with school work) but this has not been possible as the files have not been sent over to us yet. We hope we can get them soon enough!

These past months have been a rollercoaster thanks to our master degree, but we can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Things have been mentally draining for us all because we wanted to work on our game, and there was always the fear of people "forgetting" about our project, (or worse, thinking we had suddenly vanished to never come back), but we had to focus on our grades.

When we started two years ago, we knew this would be difficult, but I think none of us expected the hardships to be this way. To avoid writing a wall of text, let's just say that when you create something, you want to protect it; you want people to see it bathed in the sunlight you see it under, and the fear of it being disappointing or not enough is something that has hit us hard recently because of our inability to work on it. BUT THAT'S OVER!

To end this on a happy note, we have to give our endless thanks not only to you all, for still being here ready to welcome us back, but specially to @crescencestudio (and I, Seyl, am incredibly grateful to them) for being one of our biggest supports during the past few months! We have been struggling besties and talking to them has been one of the few things keeping us sane. SO THANK YOU!!! 💜

#lost in limbo #indiedev #visual novel #otome #devlog

[callsigndragon]

A Rebel In My Soul | Chapter 2: The Instructor

Pairing: Jake "Hangman" Seresin x Fem!Mitchell!Reader

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: swearing, brief mentions of death, Hangman being an asshole (again), Rooster being the best friend we all deserve (i think that needs a warning), enemies to lovers, slow burn.

Summary: Y/N "Rebel" Mitchell is one of the best aviators of her generation. She grew up hearing the adventures and stories of Maverick, her father, that he used as bedtime stories. She became an aviator with her best friend Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw and now both of them have to come back to the Top Gun Academy for an important mission. Only the best of the best is called for this mission, including the southern idiot called Jake "Hangman" Seresin. Both of you had hated each other since day one. Now, having to work together once more, you count the days for this mission to be over, not only to never see Hangman again, but to also cut all connections again with your father.  

Taglist: @theprettytragic @thatoneweirdhorsegirl913 @shrimping-for-all @inky-sun

(If you want to be added to the taglist comment here or send me a message!)

A/N: Y'ALL??!!! I posted the first part yesterday thinking that no one would read this and it got 96 notes in less than 24 hours? I love y'all I swear. So, today is bank holiday in my country and I decided to write another chapter. I have to say that this is going to be a slow burn, I like the idea of exploring Rebel and Hangman's relationship slowly. There is no much interaction between our two fav aviators in this chapter BUT things will escalate from here. I have a loooot of ideas for this fic and I hope you like them!

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You stay with Phoenix and the guys for a while, playing pool, until the music stops playing and Rooster begins to play the piano. Great Balls of Fire. You know that this is a special song, as he told you that his father used to sing it all the time. You look around the place, watching as Hangman and Payback take Maverick by the arms to getting him out of the bar for not paying. Instead of walking away, he stays there, listening and watching through the window how Goose’s son becomes more like his friend by the day.   

You wish you could hate him with all your entire being, but a part of you, a very tiny part kind of understood what he did. You’ve never known why, he never told you, not even Iceman. He said that it was a Mitchell problem and that he knew better than getting involved.  

“Rebel come on!” roars Rooster trying to be louder than the people around him.  

You leave all feelings asides for tonight and go have fun with your friends. You don’t know how difficult this mission is going to be but if they brought Maverick, then something is clear.  

Someone might not make it home after this.  

Few hours later, Rooster and you walk out the Hard Deck, ready to go home.  

“Where are you staying, Roos?”  

“I don’t know yet, I just got here. You?” 

You take the keys out of your pockets, getting closer to your yellow Honda bike. “Follow me, you’ll stay with me” 

“You still have it?”  

“Of course, it’s like my baby” you say while you sit on it. “Remind me I have to tell you something when we get home” 

“… I have a feeling I’m not gonna like this”  

“Oh Roos, you’re so not gonna like it” you turn on the engine of the bike, ready to leave and wait until Rooster gets into his Bronco. It’s safer to tell him about Maverick when he doesn’t have to drive right after.  

After a few minutes, you’re both entering your home. The base gave it to you, for a few weeks until the mission is over.  

“It’s been a while since I’ve been in one of this” says Rooster, sitting on the sofa.  

“Yeah, I thought the same when I entered this morning… I’ll be right back, I’m gonna get out of this uniform. Your room is the one on the left at the end of the corridor” you explain to him. He nods closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the sofa. You know he is mentally preparing himself for whatever it is that you have to tell him.  

You go to your room, feeling bad for destroying Rooster happiness. You know he likes being back, surrounded by old friends, being recruited as a member of a special team for a secret mission. And you’re gonna pop that happiness like a balloon.  

After changing into some more comfortable clothes, you take a sit next to him. You take a long breath, preparing yourself to just throw the news at him.  

“Maverick’s here” 

Rooster’s eyes, that were closed still, open slowly moving around to look at you.  

“You gotta be kidding me”  

“I wish I was, Roos… I saw him at the bar a minute before you came in”  

He shuffles in the sofa, taking his hand into yours.  

“Did he talk to you? If he said something I’ll kill him”  

“No, I couldn’t even look at him. He was the old timer that paid for the round. Well, he actually couldn’t and got thrown out by Hangman and Payback” 

Roos scoffs. “For once, Hangman did something good”  

You smile a little, looking at Rooster hand. He is the only family you have left, and now you are both in this mission…  

“Why do you think he’s here?” asks Roos, hate evident in his voice.  

“I think I know. But I wish I’m wrong”  

Rooster squeezes your hand, as if reassuring you that you are not alone.  

“He’s gonna teach us. Phoenix was right, we’re the best of the best and we need someone better than us to teach us something” 

“What is he gonna teach us? To kill friends and pull your daughter’s papers?”  

Rooster had reasons to be angry and hate Maverick. More than enough reasons. However, you never thought that Maverick was behind Goose’s death. You’ve read the case files. It was investigated and it turned out to be a malfunctioning. Maverick had nothing to do with it… but still, Rooster thought so.  

“I just want to finish this and it hasn’t even begun yet” 

“Feel ya… Wait, are you telling me that Hangman kicked out his instructor from the Hard Deck?” 

You raise your head, looking at him with a smile in your eyes. 

“I can’t wait to see his face tomorrow when he realizes” you laugh, the sound filling the room.  

Rooster laughs with you, hugging you and kissing your forehead.  

“Everything will be okay, Reb. We’ve got each other”  

“Of course. I’m gonna need a wingman when I get the team leader position”  

“Yeah, you need someone up there to stop your ass from time to time” he mocks.  

You sigh and hug him tightly. How much have you missed this big man.  

“We need to sleep, we gotta work tomorrow”  

“I hope I get to kick that old man’s ass tomorrow”  

“I’m sure you will have the chance”  

Next morning, you’re sitting with Rooster waiting for Cyclone for the morning briefing. Your keep bouncing your leg up and down, knowing that the moment Maverick enters the room, you’re gonna have to talk to him and address him as your superior. You look at the book in front of you. F-18. You’re going to fly an F-18.  

“Reb, calm down”  

“Easy to say”  

Hangman approaches the both of you. Oh, how you’re gonna laugh when he sees Maverick entering the room.  

“I see that you’re still joined to the hip”  

“Jealous, Hangman?” asks Rooster looking up to face him.  

“Of a rule breaker and a slow rider? Yeah sure” retorts Hangman.  

“What do you want, Bag man?” you ponder, standing up.  

“I just want to ask you two to behave. Mostly you, Rebel. We don’t want to be ashamed in front of our teacher”  

You look down to see Rooster smiling slightly. You have to bite your cheek to stop the laugh that wants to come out. That stupid cocky smile of his is going to disappear when the teacher gets here.  

“Don’t worry Hangman, I can assure you that I won’t be the reason your ashamed” 

He looks at you, slightly tilting his head to try and decipher the meaning behind your words. You are about to speak when you see Cyclone and Warlock getting closer to the deck.  

“Cyclone is coming, go take your sit” you say, sitting again next to Rooster and watching Hangman leave. 

“Wanna bet?” Rooster whispers  

“Sure”  

“Five bucks say that Maverick is going to tell us to forget the book”  

“Roos, if you need five bucks just say it. That’s obviously the reason that they have called him”  

“Attention on deck!”  

Every aviator in the room stands up, waiting for Warlock and Cyclone. Cyclone stays next to Hondo; Warlock is the one in charge of introducing Maverick.  

“Morning. Welcome to your special training detachment. Be seated. I’m Admiral Bates, NAWDC Commander. You’re all Top Gun graduates. The elite. The best of the best. That was yesterday”  

You can see the smiles drop in the room. Yeah, this is the best of the best, but you’re here to learn, right? You’re here again because there are things that you need to learn if you want to succeed in this mission.  

“The enemy’s new fifth-generation fighter has leveled the playing field. Details are few, but you can be sure we no longer possess the technological advantage. Success, now more than ever, comes down to the man or woman in the box. Half of you will make the cut. One of you will be named mission leader. The other half will remain in reserve”  

Hangman turns his head to look at Rooster and you, smiling, as if saying that he will be team leader. Yeah, sure. If someone’s going to be team leader, that will be Rooster. You are too much of a rule breaker for that position. Not that you want to be team leader, anyways. It’s a big responsibility.  

“Your instructor is a Top Gun graduate with real-world experience in every mission aspect you will be expected to master”  

You and Rooster look at each other, knowing exactly who Warlock is talking about. You hear someone walking behind you. You don’t turn around, there’s no need to. You sit straight in your seat, looking for anything interesting to look at rather than your father.  

“His exploits are legendary” continues Warlock “And he’s considered to be one of the finest pilots this program has ever produced. What he has to teach you, may very well mean the difference between life and death. I give you Captain Pete Mitchell. Call sign: Maverick”  

Hangman and Payback look at each other, shame on their faces and you have to cough to hide a laugh.  

“Good morning” says Maverick, looking at everyone in the deck. You and Rooster look at each other. Maverick looks directly to Rooster, his smile fading a little. Rooster turns his head to look at you. You found his hand under the table, holding it between yours.  

“It’s okay”, you whisper.  

Rooster nods and looks to Maverick again. He’s a superior after all, he has to be respectful.  

“The F-18 NATOPS. It contains everything they want you to know about your aircraft. I’m assuming you know the book inside and out” says Maverick, holding the big manual in his hands.  

A few of your teammates agree with him, Hangman of course talking every time he has the chance. Cheeky bastard.  

Maverick tosses the book inside the bin. “So does your enemy”  

“You owe me five bucks, Reb” Rooster mutters next to you. 

Cyclone and Warlock look at each other, regretting their decision of bringing Maverick. You see Phoenix smile. She loves people that don’t care about breaking some rules. That’s why she likes you so much.  

“But what the enemy doesn’t know is your limits. I intend to find them, test them, push beyond”  

“He’s gonna get someone killed...” Rooster whispers.  

“I hope that they know where the limits are. You don’t have to do everything your instructor says... Not when said instructor is known for breaking the rules over and over again” you whisper back.  

“Today we’ll start with what you only think you know. You show me what you’re made of” finishes Maverick. 

He looks straight at you. Not Rooster, but you. He has seen Rooster fly. But he never was around when you did. He wants to know what you are capable of. So be it, then. 

You're walking towards your aircraft, next to Rooster. The grip on your helmet tightens every time you think that you are going to fly with your father.  

“I haven’t seen you up there in a while. I’m excited to see what you got” says Rooster, bumping his arm against yours. “Chin up, Rebel. Mission’s a mission, remember?”  

You look at him, mouth opened in surprise. “Did you just quote Bag man?” 

“Don’t you ever tell him that I agree with him on something” he warns you, smiling.  

“Rooster, Rebel” you hear Maverick calling you both. 

“Great” you keep walking. You have nothing to discuss with him.  

“Bradley. Y/N”  

Rooster takes a deep breath. “Leave us alone” he says low enough for you to hear.  

“Lieutenants Bradshaw and Mitchell!”  

At that, you stop. He’s using official names, no disrespecting superiors. That’s Maverick’s thing not yours.  

“Yes, sir” both of you say, turning around.  

“Let’s not do it like this” says Maverick, looking at the both.  

“You're gonna wash us out?” Rooster questions the only thing you want to know about him.  

“That’ll be up to you two, not me” 

“Now it’s up to us, but all those years ago it wasn’t? Interesting” you articulate, every word filled with resentment. 

“Rebel...” 

“Are we dismissed?”  

You don’t wait for him to dismiss you, you turn around and leave, seeing Hangman and Phoenix looking at the both of you. Great, if they want, they can put two and two together and guess that he’s your father. Rooster walks you to your airplane, he puts on his helmet and looks at you.  

“Safe and sound, Rebel”  

“Safe and sound, Roos”  

You hit his helmet two times, Rooster doing the same with yours. An old tradition of yours before flying. You get into your airplane, ready to prove to that old man that you’re better than him.

If he wants you to prove yourself, you’re gonna show him how it is done.  

#top gun x reader #jake hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake hangman x fem!reader #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick #hangman x reader #top gun maverick fanfic #jake seresin x reader #hangman seresin #hangman imagine #jake hangman fic #a rebel in my soul

[spartanguard]

sons of love and death, 8/13 {CSSNS 23}

Summary: After the Final Battle, Killian Jones had finally settled into his happily ever after with his wife and family. Until a new foe arrived in Storybrooke: the infamous Dorian Gray, who looks rather familiar—one might say identical—to the pirate, and he’s on a mission: to claim the powers of the Dark One for himself. There’s only one problem: the Dark One no longer exists. What follows is a journey of vengeance, revelations, magic, and finally facing down the darkness within himself that Killian thought he’d finally put to rest. [roughly canon divergent from 5B, though set post-canon] A/N: So here's the chapter of this @cssns story where things finally earn the M rating ;) (Also—not just because of that—this might be my favorite chapter of the whole thing.) Hope you enjoy it! (As always, thanks to the best beta, @optomisticgirl​​​​ !) rated M | 5.7k words | AO3 | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

Killian took a pull from his flask as he stared out at the horizon. The sun had just set, its orange hue still painting the edge of the sky where it met the ocean, but stars were starting to twinkle in the inky blue overhead. The sight was normally soothing, but it wasn’t quite doing the trick tonight. 

He should probably just go home; brooding on his ship was not going to give him anywhere near as much respite as Emma’s embrace would, but after the day he’d had, he also sorely needed a moment (or a few) alone to try to quell the internal tempest that was currently raging. 

He was also desperate for Emma’s light, but knew he had to find his own first. (And not just the blue glow he could see pulsing in the vein at his wrist.) 

That day saw him at yet another magic lesson. He’d slowly been getting better at harnessing his powers, but maintaining focus was still a challenge. Today was especially difficult as not only had they met in the woods—in an effort to teach him to channel his powers away from the call of the sea—but he’d already been distracted before he met Regina. His thoughts still lingered on the number of townsfolk giving him the cold shoulder; while he knew it was because of Dorian’s actions and not his own, it was still disheartening that his neighbors would be so quick to assume the worst in him, after his consistent work to the contrary. 

Despite the progress he’d been making, he gave into those feelings of hurt and anger while harnessing his magic. It had resulted in some powerful moments, albeit uncontrolled—though he at least had enough magical acumen now to clean up the mess he’d made in the clearing in the forest. 

Towards the end of the lesson, Regina huffed with her arms crossed and gave him a curious look. “What?” he snapped, taking deep breaths as he tried to calm the shaking in his limbs. 

She pursed her lips. “It’s a good thing Emma isn’t here, is all.”

Before they were supposed to meet, Emma had to run off to tend to a break in at Any Given Sundae—Dorian again—so he’d originally attributed his inability to focus on the lack of her presence (though he knew he’d have to stop using her as an emotional crutch at some point). “And why is that?”

Regina strode closer. “I’m the last person to talk when it comes to warning you against feeding your magic with anger; we both know where that goes. But we also both know it’s easier that way.” Then she smirked. “And I know that it feels good.”

He swallowed; he wanted to refute that statement but…he couldn’t. Those angry outbursts—and the accompanying bursts of magic—tingled through his veins in a way that felt oddly euphoric. He was coming to enjoy the sensation of magic flowing through him, but he only felt it strongly when he let his darker emotions take charge. It still felt better than when the Darkness was coursing through him—more natural—but he was starting to worry that it might feel too good. And he was no stranger to addiction. 

“So what do I do?” he asked, in a smaller voice than he intended. (Regina was not someone he’d ever thought he’d be vulnerable in front of.)

She shrugged. “You know I can’t answer that for you. But if there’s anyone I know who can figure it out, it’s you.”

Regina was far more confident in his abilities than he was—and it showed in his next failed attempt (or successful, depending on how one looked at it: his anger overtook him once more, and a nearby rock split in half).

She tutted as she put it back together with a(n annoyingly) casual wave of her hand. “You literally turned your back on the Darkness; this should be easy. How did you do that?”

After catching his breath, he said, “Well, Emma was quite literally having the life choked out of her; I’d rather not reenact that.”

Regina shook her head. “Both of you are so literal. It wasn’t the act; it was the emotion. For someone who wears their heart on their leather sleeve, you’re being awfully dense.” She took a deep breath. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but channel your love for Emma, or something.”

He smirked at her discomfort. 

“Look, that’s the best you’re gonna get from me; you’ve gotta talk to your mother-in-law for all the lovey-dovey crap.”

It got a little better after that—but only his control; there was nothing so powerful as when he reacted instinctively and frustratedly. Regina seemed content enough at the end of their scheduled lesson, as the sun started to cast long shadows, but despite her uncharacteristically encouraging farewell, he still felt off-kilter.

Which brought him here, drinking on his ship, hunched over the railing, in what was proving to be a vain attempt to settle his soul. (Though he realistically should have known that would be no easy feat; it was well-documented that his soul was quite troubled.)

One terrible thought kept plaguing him, especially as he felt the magic in his blood sing in reaction to his proximity to the water: if his love for Emma wasn’t as strong as the anger at his core, then what did that say about him? There was no doubting the immensity of his feelings for her—True Love and all that—but, despite everything they’d been through in the last couple years, had he not yet risen above the depths of his own depravity enough to outweigh it?

And if so, would he ever?

Perhaps he and Dorian were still more similar than he’d like to admit.

“Drinking alone?” Speak of the devil. Killian stiffened at the noise, though; he still wasn’t used to the sound of his own voice coming from someone else. “Doesn’t seem very heroic.”

“What would you know about that, anyway?” he tossed over his shoulder at Dorian. Footsteps sounded as the other man apparently descended on the deck. 

“Oh, nothing; just figured you’d be off with your lovely wife and all your friends, getting high on your own innate goodness.”

Killian turned around—only to find he was well and truly looking in a mirror; As he’d suspected, Dorian was wearing his clothes, his hook, and even more of his face than usual. “Bugger off,” was the only quip he could produce. 

“What, trouble in paradise?” Dorian went on. “Color me surprised.” His smirk said the opposite.

“Sure you are,” Killian answered dryly. “And where does this little rendezvous fit into your futile plan? Come to see how well you’re ruining my life?” He was being a bit of what Henry called “emo,” but he figured it was deserved.

“Why must everything be part of some grandiose plan?” Dorian tossed back casually. “Everyone’s been telling me I should take a lesson from you; what if that’s what I was doing?”

“I’d say you need to study better,” he lectured.

“Ah, I was never much of a book learner. Too flammable.” As if to emphasize it, a burst of flame licked over him from head to toe as he dropped the glamour he’d been using.

“At least that’s one thing we don’t have in common.”

“Definitely more than that,” Dorian continued, either oblivious to or willfully ignoring Killian’s less-than-chipper mood. “You’ve got terrible taste in liquor, too; could barely drink half the rum I stole.”

“Poor you.”

From nowhere, a cigarette appeared in Dorian’s fingers; as he approached Killian, he snapped the fingers of his opposite hand and a flame danced at his fingertips that he used to light it, then shook the fire away as he took a drag.

“No smoking on my ship,” Killian warned, then doused the roll with a quickly summoned bit of seawater.

Dorian pouted, but then tossed the wasted cigarette overboard before leaning backwards against the railing next to him. “I have a feeling we could swap stories on where to find the best booze in all the realms; have you ever been to—”

“Not interested,” he interrupted, and corked his flask to hopefully put an end to that conversation.

“Suit yourself. But perhaps you can tell me: last time you were in Agrabah, how were the brothels? It’s been so long—”

Killian stepped to the side to face him. “Why don’t you go there and find out for yourself—and leave me the hell alone?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Dorian’s smirk was both audible and familiar—far too similar to Killian’s own, right down to the dimple that Emma had often told him was adorable, but just seemed insincere on the other man’s face. 

(Though…he couldn’t deny he’d used it in the past to lull others into a false sense of security.)

He turned away and crossed the deck, no longer wanting to look at his counterpart. He imagined this was similar to what Belle once saw looking into the Ice Queen’s mirror: a twisted vision of one’s most intrusive thoughts brought to life.

“Do you really expect me to believe that Captain Hook, of all people, enjoys life in this…hamlet?” Dorian went on. “It’s just so…boring.”

Killian scoffed. “I had two hundred years of exciting; I’m fine with a bit of boring.”

“Please; you’re a wanderer. For all our differences, I know that’s the same.”

“It’s not; not anymore.”

“I think you’ve just forgotten,” his twin hypothesized, and he could hear and feel his steps getting closer. “Come on, man—let’s take this thing out and set sail. Do some pirating in the Caribbean, eh? Head back to our home realm and visit Pleasure Island. Or we could go to Agrabah, like you said; check out those whorehouses ourselves. Bet things are getting pretty dull with the missus, eh?”

It was like a spark ignited in Killian at the mention of Emma—how bloody dare he assume that? (Especially when it couldn’t be further from the truth.) He didn’t even think; he just dropped his flask, whipped around, pulled his right arm back, and unleashed an instinctive punch right on the side of Dorian’s nose.

He staggered back, bringing his hand to his face; his fingers came back bloody. The other man sniffled, but it did nothing to stop the sluggish flow from his nostril. 

He glared at it for a moment, but then laughed. “Oh, it’s definitely still in you, Hook,” he snarled, glancing up with a wicked grin. “It never leaves.”

“What is?” Killian demanded.

Dorian jumped into his personal space. “The darkness,” he hissed. “Admit it: part of you is fond of me. I represent to you all the sins you never had the courage to commit.” 

Killian shoved him away. “Fuck. Off,” he bit out, but he knew he was talking to his own doubts and worries just as much as he was to Dorian.

“You can’t deny it,” Dorian told him cockily. “It’s always going to be a part of you. Each of us has heaven and hell in him.”

If Killian had been thinking straight, he’d have remembered Dorian was talking about that shred of the Dark One deep within; but with the way his day had gone, all he heard was that he hadn’t truly changed—not enough.

“You know I’m right. I can fucking feel it.”

Killian glanced down and saw a tempest forming in his palm; he wasn’t sure if it was his imagination or the waning light, but he swore he saw hints of black within, much like when he was the Dark One.

“Tell me, brother: how much blood has that hook spilled?” he prodded.

“Apparently not enough,” Killian spat back, grabbing Dorian’s lapel with his hand pressing the tip of his hook to the other man’s jugular; he could hear the metal scraping against his stubble.

“Do it. I fucking dare you. See what everyone thinks when you’ve murdered me in cold blood.”

“If only that would work. But I get the impression you’d find a way to weasel yourself out of death.”

“Something we’ve both done.”

“No.” Again, he pushed Dorian away, rejecting such selfish similarities. He wasn’t that man anymore—right?

“You can try to deny it, but the facts speak for themselves.”

Killian blinked back tears of frustration. No—he’d come too far from the man he once was—had done so much to make amends—and yet—and yet—

It wasn’t enough. No matter what he did, he’d always be Hook first to everyone.

He glanced down at his namesake appendage. It glinted in the waning light, almost taunting him.

With a dejected cry, he twisted the tool out of its socket, yanked it from its brace, and threw it with all his force at the deck; the point stuck in the wood. 

“That doesn’t change anything and you know it,” Dorian taunted, lighting another cigarette.

He was right; it didn’t. But what would anymore?

Rain started to fall on them despite it being a clear evening; the way it sparked against his skin told him it was his own magic overreacting to his emotional turmoil. Oddly, though, it just sizzled against Dorian as he stared on, unfazed; it didn’t even touch the ember at the end of his cigarette. 

Killian’s heart was racing and it felt like he was on the verge of a panic attack; he hadn’t had one of those in over a century. His vision blurred and it got hard to breathe, and he could feel his magic racing through his veins. He needed—he needed—he needed Emma.

The next thing he knew he was standing in their bedroom at home, sopping wet, and the room was beginning to spin.

He fell to his knees on the rug beside the bed as stars began to swim in his vision; he could still see effulgent blue in the veins of his hand, but faded from where it was a moment ago. 

“Killian?” Emma was on the floor in front of him, worry furrowing her brow. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I—” he gasped, but had no idea what to say. 

A sudden rush of fatigue took hold, anyway; his eyes refused to stay open any longer, and he was aware of his arm buckling underneath him as he fell forward. 

The last thing he heard was Emma frantically calling his name before darkness took over. 

Good. That was what he deserved. 

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Emma was trying to process…whatever the hell was going on. Why had her husband just appeared out of nowhere in their room, soaking wet, and promptly passed out in her lap?

Regina had texted earlier, letting her know that his lesson had been a little rough, so she knew to at least expect him in a stormy mood. But not to look like he’d been caught in an actual tempest. 

His hook was missing, and she could see light fading in the veins at his neck as his magic receded; she still had to ask Regina or Gold why his powers did that. But he didn’t appear to have any other injuries; he’d probably just used too much magic at once and overexerted himself. (She’d definitely done that a few times.)

His brow twitched when she pushed the hair out of his eyes, but he didn’t move otherwise. She knew she should let him rest, but if something was wrong, she needed to know.

But first, she dried him off with a wave of her hand; the subsequent sparking that appeared all along his body in reaction to her magic told her that whatever downpour he’d been caught in was one of his own creation. (That and the fact that she hadn’t seen a cloud all day.)

She’d hoped to rouse him in a more gentle way, but his eyes flew open at the shocks; that was probably hard to sleep through, even if he’d been completely unconscious a moment ago.

“Hey; you okay?” she asked as his eyes darted around from where he was still laying on her thighs, until they finally settled on hers. The normal clear and bright blue was edging on a turbulent grey—a good tell of where he was mentally.

He suddenly jolted upright and then scurried away from her; not far, but enough that there was some distance between them, and he was facing away from her. 

He was sitting with his legs bent up, arms resting on his knees, and was staring at his hand, turning it over to look at both front and back—and it was shaking. 

“Killian?” she asked quietly. “What’s wrong?”

“Everything,” he said on a breath. 

Knowing him, that was probably hyperbole, but it was clear he wasn’t in a good place, mentally or emotionally. Normally, she’d check to see if he needed space, but he’d already had that tonight and he’d come home (or, at least, his magic had brought him here) for a reason.

Slowly, she got up and moved over to him. He didn’t notice her barefoot steps on their plush rug, so she whispered “hey” when she got close, before she gently took his hand in hers. 

He tried to pull his hand away but she held on tight. Then he glanced up at her, eyes watery, but still apparently speechless. 

“What happened?” she asked as she knelt in front of him. “Talk to me.”

“How can you even touch me, love?” he replied. “After everything I’ve done?”

She made a mental note to call Archie as she wiped a tear from his cheek; he’d come a long way from where he used to be in regards to self-loathing, but still regularly wrestled with his guilt. “Because I love you, that’s why. Pretty sure that’s well-established, certified by the gods and all.” She pressed a kiss to the back of his unsteady hand. “And you’ve come so far from where you used to be; you’re not that man anymore, I promise you.”

“I had thought so, too, but I’m not so sure anymore.”

It didn’t take any further prodding for him to tell her what had happened that day—his growing frustration with the way the town was giving him the cold shoulder thanks to Dorian’s shenanigans; how that affected his lesson with Regina and their subsequent conversations; and then the confrontation he’d just had with Dorian on his ship, including their physical altercation and his rejection of his hook (which answered that question). He held onto her hand like an anchor through the whole thing; she just listened and gradually lowered herself until she was sitting next to him.

“What if I haven’t done enough?” he finally asked her, voice thick. “He’s right—I will always be fighting against my baser instincts. It’s constantly there, simmering beneath the surface. It’s easy enough to ignore when we’re just going about our daily lives, but when tensions rise—when things get unstable—I don’t know that I’ll make the right decisions. And, Swan,” he continued, “I know I love you more than life itself; why isn’t that enough for me to overcome it?”

Well, shit; that was pretty heavy. But they’d both gotten used to helping ease each other’s burdens.

She pulled his hand into her chest and turned on her rear to face him. “I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but yeah, you are always going to be fighting against it. You were in the dark for a long time; that’s always going to be a part of you.” He visibly swallowed at that, and she perhaps slightly regretted that choice of words when it came to, y’know, the actual piece of the Darkness that was supposedly inside of them somewhere. Anyways. “It won’t be easy—just ask Regina; she’ll probably tell you it’s a constant choice. And no, you might not always make the right one, but guess what? I won’t either; we both have a long track record of just that. I know my experience was a bit different, but I remember what it was like, with the Dark One whispering my deepest desires in my ear—and enabling them. But we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if you hadn’t already proved you’re capable of rising above all that.”

He blinked and sniffed. “Logically, I know all that. But deep down…what if I fail, Emma? What if I succumb to that again?”

“Why would you?” she countered easily. She couldn’t imagine any scenario where he—either of them—would risk losing everything they had now to pursue anything that could place them on a darker path, other than something drastic. 

Which, of course, was exactly what he was imagining; should have known that someone who had literally lived through the worst things possible would very quickly find themselves reliving that, or envisioning worse. She could feel his magic sparking against her palm as his emotions began to spiral again.

“Hey—no,” she said firmly, cupping his face with her hand to make him look at her before he could follow that train of thought further. “Nothing is gonna happen.”

“You can’t confidently say that, Emma.”

“And yet, I just did,” she winked, hoping to lighten the mood. He gave a tiny smile back; she took it as a win. “And if for whatever reason you ever did go that way again—well, I’m not so pure and light either, regardless of my savior status. I’m not going anywhere; I will always be at your side.”

His eyes bored into hers and she was expecting some grandiose statement of love, but instead, he surged forward, finding her lips with his own. Well. She recognized well enough when actions spoke louder than words.

She leaned into the kiss without hesitation, her free hand drifting down to his chest. He still held tight to her hand but used his left arm to pull her into his lap, which she promptly straddled. He had a death grip on her whole being and was hardly giving her room to breathe, but she wasn’t complaining; she’d let him have whatever he wanted.

When they did finally come up for air, he gasped out, “Emma; I—I need—”

“What?” Her voice was just as breathless.

“I need to feel…” he whispered, eyes squinted shut.

“Tell me.”

He opened his eyes, and frantic blue was looking out. “Good.”

“You are good,” she reminded him.

“I just…I need you.” He sounded desperate.

“Always.”

They made quick work of their clothes in tandem; wherever he touched her as he helped her undress, sparks danced along her skin. Once she slid his shirt and vest off of his shoulders, she had to bite back a gasp at the way his veins glowed from within all across his body. She stared at it for a moment, but he didn’t let her linger long, gently guiding her chin back up to claim her lips again. 

Awkwardly, they shimmied out of their pants (but they were used to that being a bit unpolished in their usual hunger for each other) and fell against their mattress side-by-side. She was about to ask how he wanted it, until he wrapped his arms around her and rolled on top.

But he hesitated, even though he was hovering above her (and she was more than ready for him). “What?”

“Can I…?” It wasn’t hard for her to tell what he was asking. They usually kept things fairly reciprocal in the bedroom, but every so often, for whatever reason, one or the other would take the lead. Given that Killian was feeling somewhat out of control at the moment, she knew what he was asking. 

“Of course,” she answered, reaching up to cup his neck and toy with the short hairs at the nape of it; he seemed to melt a bit at her touch. “Take what you need.”

His expression softened, and he again kissed her lips as he carefully lowered his hips against hers.

There was no formal foreplay—he was too anxious, and frankly, she was already worked up—but the way his length brushed against her folds as he began to move above her felt divine and had her eager for more.

His leather brace was cold against her increasingly flushed skin where he rested it along her side, but his hand was warm where it gripped her waist. They hadn’t yet broken the kiss, but he came close a few times—either from his own growing arousal, which she was increasingly aware of, or from the play of her fingers through the hair of both his head and his chest. The way his veins continued to pulse incandescently was tell-tale, too.

Finally, he did pull back a bit, but not much—only just enough to give her a little breathing room (not that she wanted any). He sat back on his haunches and stroked himself, but the way his hand was shaking was visible. 

So she propped herself up on one arm and stilled his trembling hand with her steady one. “Let me?”

He closed his eyes, somewhere between frustration and gratitude, and nodded. “Aye.”

Gently, keeping her hand around his, she helped him get the rest of the way to hard—which didn’t take long, but long enough for her to admire the wrecked look on his face and the way his long lashes sat on his cheekbones. Then she guided him to her entrance; he needed no help pressing in, though. (But she wrapped her legs around his waist, anyway.) 

For a moment, they both adjusted to the feel of him being inside her; she never tired of the perfect way he filled her (both physically and emotionally). He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, looking down at her with not a small amount of lust, but there was still some trepidation in there. 

“You are a wonderful man, Killian Jones,” she murmured, cupping his cheek. “And I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he said on a breath, then pressed himself closer as he began to move. 

She figured at the outset, she’d have been the one loving on him; and yet, here they were, with him sucking kisses into the most sensitive parts of her neck as he continued to pull out and press in, delivering the best kind of friction that had her steadily climbing to her peak. 

She’d never had as giving a lover as Killian, and in her experience, those were few and far between. In her opinion, that said enough about what kind of man he was. 

He picked up his pace as they both chased release; she urged him on, pressing her heels into his lower back. “Emma—are you—?”

“Almost,” she breathed. 

He reached between them and found her clit (seriously—he was on another level), massaging it gently, but she still gasped at the sensation. How he was able to work it without losing his rhythm was a mystery to her, but she was the farthest thing from complaining. 

“I’m—I’m—” she stuttered, approaching her apex. 

“Come for me, love,” he whispered, and she did, with a cry and a jolt—literally. 

It felt like her every neuron was lit up as she hit orgasm—which wasn’t unusual, but the fact that her magic was humming beneath her skin was new. Tiny pinpricks of electricity sparked along her spine and through her veins, then danced at her fingertips. 

With the way she was gripping his shoulders as she fell into oblivion, she hoped she wasn’t hurting him—from either her grasp or her magic. But he didn’t seem to give any indication of discomfort as he found his own release a few moments later. 

Once she caught her breath, her eyes fluttered open to look up at him—and her breath was immediately stolen again, because he was entirely alight, the blue glow of his magic shining from within. She wasn’t sure if the sheen on his skin was sweat or an expression of his own water powers, but each drop was almost fluorescent. 

She brushed his wet (again) hair from where it hung in his face; there was again a reaction when her own inherent electricity met his personal precipitation. His eyes flew open at her touch, and even his irises seemed to be lit from within. 

“What is it?” he asked softly, his eyes darting back and forth as he studied her face.

“Just…look at you,” she told him. “You’re incredible.”

His brow furrowed in confusion, but then he glanced down at himself. He stilled at first, but then slowly sat back (pulling himself out in the process) and held his arms out in front of him, staring. 

At first, she couldn’t quite tell if he was in awe or shock; there was an unusual lack of expression on his face as he studied himself and the magic flowing through his veins, glowing especially bright under his breast—at his heart. 

He clenched his hand into a fist and closed his eyes. She propped herself up on her elbows as she watched…whatever he was doing. It still seemed like he wasn’t sure—until she saw his jaw clench in a determined way. 

Not just that—no, he suddenly seemed confident. 

The beads of water all along his skin seemed to glow brighter for a second, then lifted away from him. Slowly, they began to twist and swirl, circling Killian and coalescing into one spiral of luminescent liquid. 

Few things she could recall looked more beautiful. 

The coil of water made a few more revolutions before snaking away—towards the bathroom, she realized; of course, he’d be conscientious about cleaning up his mess (they’d deal with the other one later). 

The glow under his skin had faded as the physical evidence of his magic disappeared, but a different kind replaced it: he opened his eyes—and grinned. 

“Believe me now?” she asked—a bit smug, but mostly proud and just so, so in love. 

“Aye, I think I do,” he answered; she thought he was being unusually modest, especially when he scratched behind his ear, but then he was glancing up at her through his lashes, gaze filled with lust. “But maybe you could remind me again?”

“Mm, I think that can be arranged.”

Round Two was just as magical. (So was Round Three.)

Some time later, calm and sated, they fell into bed again, but this time for rest. She was tucked into his side, her hand resting over his heart on his bare chest, and he was holding her close. 

“Thank you, Swan,” he murmured as she began to drift off. 

“For what?”

“For helping me come back to myself.”

She tilted his head to face her. “Always. But I hope you don’t need it as often now.”

“I hope so too, but—”

She stopped him mid-sentence by pressing a finger to his lips. “Uh-uh. No buts. Do you honestly think a selfish man would have made me come four times tonight?”

He chuckled. “I suppose not.”

“You are one of the best people I know, Killian, and it’s because you once weren’t that makes you so good now—you’ve walked that path, you know what it was like, and you learned what not to do. Nothing and no one can change that.”

“No, I don’t think they can,” he agreed. “Not as long as I have you by my side.”

She cupped his cheek. “Well, I’m not going anywhere, but you don’t need me. Remember—I know what your heart looks like, and it is the brightest red.”

“There’s a bit of black.”

“A bit. The part that kept you alive long enough for us to find each other. And the part that’s a reminder of how far you’ve come. Don’t ever forget that, okay?”

“I won’t.” 

She pressed a kiss against his lips and settled her head on his chest (her favorite pillow). “Good. I love you.”

“I love you too, darling. Eternally.”

“Same. Now stop being melodramatic and go to sleep.”

He laughed again—she loved the feel of its vibration under her cheek—but complied, and they both drifted into a peaceful sleep. 

And hopefully, that was the last time she had to convince him that he was no longer defined by his past. They’d certainly had that conversation before, but this one had a sense of finality—of closure. 

Whatever lay ahead—whatever Dorian had planned—it was even more unlikely to succeed now. 

And that was the comforting thought that put her to sleep. 

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

Back on the ship, Dorian stood over where his twin’s hook still sat lodged in the deck. He was smirking, and frankly impressed with himself. 

He knew he’d have to get his hands on it at some point, but hadn’t expected it to be this easy. A piece of metal that had been touched by all three former Dark Ones? (Everyone knew the story of Hook attempting to stab Rumpelstiltskin with his namesake appendage, and he’d seen the sheriff touch it more than once.) A rare thing to come by but crucial to his plan. 

He extinguished his cigarette on the ship’s railing, leaving the ashes behind, then knelt down to inspect it. So unassuming, but so much potential. 

He fished a handkerchief from an inner pocket of his coat and wrapped it around the curved metal. It took more force than he anticipated to free it from the wood, but once he did, he tucked it in his jacket and then transported himself away, back to the room he was squatting in.

While that was an important ingredient, it wasn’t all he needed to complete the spell. Obviously, blood was required, and there was still the matter of getting at their souls, but progress was progress. 

Though the night was young, it was definitely past closing time for most businesses, so his next step would have to wait a bit. He’d seen another bar that day that looked to be less trite than the Rabbit Hole; it’d be good enough to spend an evening. 

He took out the hook and put it in the drawer of the bedside table, ignoring the overflowing ashtray atop it, then placed a locking spell on it that only he could undo (he wasn’t fool enough to think a blood lock might hold, even if Killian was nowhere near that kind of magic yet).

Tomorrow, he’d keep moving forward. Tonight, he’d just have fun. 

★・・・・・・★・・・・・・🗡・・・・・・★・・・・・・★

thanks for reading! tagging some peeps (let me know if you do/don’t want a tag!) @kat2609 @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy@mryddinwilt @cocohook38 @annytecture @shireness-says @ohmightydevviepuu @wistfulcynic​ @pirateherokillian @colinoeyebrows​ @wingedlioness​ @word-bug​ @thisonesatellite @killianmesmalls @thejollyroger-writer @ineffablecolors​ @ive-always-been-a-pirate @nfbagelperson @stubblesandwich @phiralovesloki @athenascarlet​ @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells​ @idristardis @scientificapricot @searchingwardrobes​ @donteattheappleshook @jrob64 @the-darkdragonfly​ @stahlop​ @klynn-stormz​ @resident-of-storybrooke @bluewildcatfanatic

#cs ff #cssns 2023 #killian jones ff #captain swan supernatural summer #sons of love and death #my ff

[actress4him]

March Trope-A-Thon Day 5

I don’t normally post two fics in one day but I’m trying to catch up a little haha.

More comf for Lili, which everyone loves to demand!

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @inky-whump , @painful-pooch , @pigeonwhumps , @bookworm2107

Previous | Next | Querencia Masterlist

Fandom: Original Work

Prompts: Fevers, Cold/Flu, Blankets and a Hot Drink

Notes: Takes place between chapters 12 and 13. Can be seen as a sequel to this snippet.

Contains: lady whump, cold and fever, reference to past homelessness, reference to noncon drugging

.

.

Liliana knew it was coming for a whole day before it fully hit. Her throat had been scratchy when she woke up, becoming actually sore by evening, but all she’d known to do was drink a glass of orange juice and ignore it.

That’s what she’s trying to do this morning, too, despite the fact that she woke up unable to breathe through her nose at all and feeling like she hadn’t slept in days. Part of her wanted to curl up and attempt to go back to sleep, but she had a feeling it wouldn’t work and knew she should get up and eat something, anyway. The team worked so hard to get her stomach used to normal meals again, she doesn’t want to throw all that away.

So she gets up, and dresses in the warmest things she can find - a pair of sweatpants and a long sleeve tee that Nari bought for her on their shopping trip, some fuzzy socks that had randomly appeared on her bed one day, and a hoodie that used to be Alex’s and therefore swallows her whole. She’s tried to give it back to him multiple times, and he refuses to take it. Then she ventures out of her room and shuffles toward the kitchen, glad to find it empty.

She’s not really hungry. Despite the number of options on hand which still blows her mind some days, nothing really sounds good. She pours herself another glass of orange juice and sits at the kitchen table sipping it, trying to decide what she can stomach that she actually has the energy to make, and coming up blank. Even making a piece of toast seems like too much work when she’d also have to get out butter or jam to spread on it.

Finally she forces herself to pour a quarter of a bowl of dry cereal and sits back at the table, picking at it with her fingers and staring out the window at the river rolling peacefully by.

“Oh hello, Liliana, I didn’t know you were in here.” Quinn smiles pleasantly at her as he enters the kitchen. “You’re usually already done with breakfast by now.”

She puts on a smile of her own, though she can tell how weak it looks. “I slept late this morning.”

He just hums and nods, but gives her a long sideways look before opening the refrigerator. “Are you feeling alright today?”

Shoot. She’d been hoping no one would notice, or that she could stay hidden in her room most of the day and not encounter anyone. Swallowing her cereal and trying not to grimace at the pain in her throat, she searches for a good answer. “I-I’m, um…tired today, I, I guess.”

Quinn sets the egg carton on the island counter and stares at her. She tries not to squirm under his scrutinizing gaze. “Are you sure? I don’t mean to pry, but…you sound like you might be sick.”

Liliana shrugs, suddenly finding her glass of orange juice incredibly interesting to look at. “Y-yeah. Maybe, maybe just a-a cold. Nothing to worry about.”

He hums again. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you running a fever, or anything?”

“Probably? I-I feel…cold. And, and warm. So…” She shrugs again, as if that gesture alone makes everything less of a problem.

A few seconds later, he walks up and sets a thermometer on the table next to her. “We should keep an eye on it, make sure it doesn’t go up too high.”

For a moment she just stares at it, trying not to think about her mamà snuggling up next to her to hold her still while they waited for the thermometer to beep. She wants to say that it’s fine, she survived a cold on the streets without knowing what her temperature was or taking medicine or even having things like hoodies and orange juice to help. She wants to say no thank you, because if they have confirmation that she’s sick they might inject her with unknown medication and quarantine her, like at the facility.

But she obediently picks up the thermometer and takes her temperature, reading the small digital numbers aloud afterward with only slight trepidation. “One-hundred-and-one point four.”

It’s at that exact moment that Nari walks into the room, dressed in workout clothes with a sheen of sweat across her face. “Wait, Lili, are you sick?”

“She is,” Quinn answers for her. “One-hundred-one point four temperature.”

“It’s just a c-cold,” she’s quick to insert.

Nari crosses over to her and crouches down next to her chair. “Poor thing. You sound all stuffed up. Don’t you wanna go sit somewhere more comfortable? We can take your cereal and juice into the living room and get you set up on the couch.”

Liliana is quickly becoming overwhelmed by all this attention. “I-I was, I was j-just going to, to go back to my r-room when I finished. I d-don’t want to, to bother anyone…”

“Oh you can go back to your room if you’d rather. I just thought maybe you’d want to be in the living room where you could watch tv or a movie or something if you got bored, and have company if you wanted it. But that’s totally up to you.”

Watching a movie and having company does sound nice. She’s afraid that that will mean they feel like they have to keep checking on her and doing things for her, though. After considering the pros and cons for a moment, though, she finally slowly nods. “O-okay. The couch is, the couch is fine.”

“Cool! I’ll be right back, okay? I’m just gonna go prep the couch for you. I think Alex and Jamil might be in there playing a video game, but we can kick them out if we need to.”

Before Liliana can protest that, Nari is off, disappearing through the doorway.

“Is there anything that I can get for you?” Quinn asks. “I’m going to scramble some eggs for myself, would you like any?”

She looks down at the cereal she’s barely touched. The protein in the eggs would be better for her. And since he’s already making some… “If…if you don’t m-mind?”

“Not at all.” He sets to work cracking the eggs into the skillet he’d already prepared, humming quietly to himself.

It’s Alex who enters next, a frown on his usually jovial face. “Hey, Lil. Nari said you’re sick.”

She tries to smile at him because he doesn’t look right being so serious. “I-I’m okay. You, you don’t have t-to stop playing your game.”

He shrugs. “Well, if it doesn’t bother you, we might keep playing for a while and just keep the volume down. Is it okay if I touch you?”

The question catches her off guard. “Um…y-yes?”

“Alright, here we go!” Before she can blink, he’s scooped her up out of her chair, carrying her out into the hallway like a baby. “I call this the ‘Xtra Xpress’! Get it? ‘Cause my name’s Xtra…?”

Liliana is too busy remembering how to breathe to respond. She hasn’t been carried since she was a tiny kid. And of course she knows that Alex is super strong and her weight is nothing for him, but the surprise of it still blows her away.

They arrive in the living room, where an anime character is paused mid sword swing on the tv and Nari is arranging pillows on the couch. “I hope you don’t mind, Lili, I snuck into your room and grabbed your pillow. I figured that would be the most comfortable for you. And I’ve got it propped up right now so you can eat, but you can take the others away and lie down whenever you want to.”

Alex settles her carefully down onto the cushions. “Thank you for riding the Xtra Xpress, this is our final stop for the tour.”

“Thanks,” she manages to whisper, scooting herself back against the pillows.

Jamil arrives then with an overflowing armload of blankets. “I raided my closet for all the coziest and softest blankets. Just tell me when to stop.” He begins layering them on top of her one by one, stopping to make sure each one is smoothed out and fully covering her.

“That’s, that’s fine, th-thank you.” It’s just a cold. They’re all being so over-the-top nice to her, spending all this time and energy on her and giving her their own things. She wishes she could tell them to stop, but she doesn’t want to be rude and also…

She kind of likes it. It…feels good, to finally have somebody care about her like this again.

“I’m going to go make you some tea,” Nari announces, dropping a box of tissues onto the couch. She knows Liliana likes hot tea and will try most any food or drink, anyway. “I’ll be back. Boys…” She narrows her eyes and points her finger back and forth between Alex and Jamil. “Behave yourselves and let her rest.”

“We will!” Jamil promises.

“Yes, ma’am!” Alex salutes jauntily, then snatches up the video game controller and plops into an armchair.

Jamil settles down onto the floor in front of Liliana’s feet. “You okay with us playing?”

“Mhm.” She nods a little, and he smiles at her.

It’s only a minute later that Quinn leans over the back of the couch with a plate of scrambled eggs. “Here you are. I believe Nari is making you some Baesuk.”

“Thank you. She, she said something about tea.”

She slowly nibbles at the eggs, half-watching the anime character destroy monsters on the screen. Quinn doesn’t cook much, but he makes decent scrambled eggs. They’re hitting the spot much better than the dry cereal.

The plate has been empty for a few minutes when Nari comes back with a steaming mug of tea. “Here you go! It’s got bae - which is Korean pear - black peppercorns, ginger, and honey. It’s great for colds.” Passing over the mug, she whisks the plate off her lap. “Anything else I can get you?”

“N-no, thank you, you’ve…you’ve done plenty. I, I appreciate a-all of this.”

Nari smiles softly. “Of course, jagiya.” It’s a pet name, like ‘honey’, she’d finally learned. “If you need anything, just…kick this guy in the back of the head to get his attention or something,” she laughs, gesturing at Jamil.

“What did I ever do?” he protests, but also gives Liliana a grin over his shoulder to let her know it’s okay.

Nari leaves, and the only sounds in the room are faint music and effects from the video game. Liliana sips at her tea, the heat and honey soothing her sore throat. She gets through about half the mug before she gets too overwhelmingly tired to stay sitting up any longer.

Twisting around, she attempts to set the mug on the end table, catching Jamil’s attention who jumps up to help. Not only does he take the mug, but he also helps her with the pillows once he finds out her goal.

The video game sounds get even quieter as she curls up and closes her eyes, a tissue clutched in her hand.

#amow tropeathon 2023 #sickfic #cold/flu #fevers #blanket and a hot drink #lady whump #lady whumpee #querencia #liliana the healer #quinn the leader #nari the hero #alex the hero #jamil the hero #team as family #fluff #comfort #whump writing

[kmhnsecretexchange]

Empty All Your Pockets, Cause It's Time To Come Home

Author: @isdisorigionalenoughforyou

For: @\YellowDein (Twitter)

Pairings/Characters: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito

Rating/Warnings: Teen: Non-Sexual Intimacy, Hurt/Comfort

Prompt: Fanfiction - Post-game. Hinata receives love and affection and gender affirmation from Komaeda after not feeling very good mentally. Just general positivity and warm words from a place of genuine affection.

Author’s notes:Hello YellowDein! I hope this work satisfies your prompt. I drew my own understandings of gender, so if I missed the mark on some points, I apologize. Also, I didn’t originally plan on them to end up in the bathtub, but I cannot control my muses very well. Special thanks to @klui24 for helping me beta read and look for lyrics that matched the vibes!

“Well, what are you waiting for?” The Future Foundation pilot spares it one last disapproving look before jerking their head towards the open side of the helicopter. “We’re here. Get out.”It can’t actually hear them, of course. The 96 decibel thundering of the helicopter’s blade-vortex interactions consumes all human speech and then some, despite its earmuffs. If it had the energy, it’d be grimacing, but a dull pounding has already cemented itself into the back of its skull. But Kamukura is a flawless lip reader, and the pilot’s intent is comedically easy to read, from the disdain radiating off the set of their brows to the professional way they keep their hand on the controls. It’s nice to know that Makoto hadn’t sent it home with someone incompetent, at least.It’s 4:32 am. Opaque clouds cover the sky, making the sea a choppy, wine-dark, inky black. It can smell a storm approaching—it’ll probably hit the island at maximal power right around breakfast time, whenever that is. Despite the obscured vision, it could close its eyes and easily project exactly how the stars would stretch across the sky. It prepares to jump—grabbing its meagerly-packed backpack like it’s getting ready for another day in the Reserve Course, drifting closer to the open helicopter door. It briefly ponders asking for a parachute, but overall, it’s unnecessary. A fall from this height would badly bruise its body at worst, even if it somehow miraculously messes up its landing or hits a bear trap inexplicably hidden in the surf. It doesn’t care. It just wants to go home.So, it nods at the pilot in a mock form of respect, and leaps. It feels truly weightless for the first time in 745 hours, with no more mission preps running through its head. It indulges in the weightlessness for 2.560 seconds, which by theory would indicate it plummeting 105.4 feet to all relevant significant figures. In practice, with air resistance and the finesse of the ultimate skydiver, it’s probably closer to 102.  It’s 4:33 in the morning, and it hits the surf. It feels nothing beyond the obvious sensations– the force of the water, the air it displaces– and it emerges out of the ink black sea. Seawater drips down its forehead. It’s windy. It makes its wet dress shirt and coat and slacks feel cold as they flap in the wind. And from there, it’s just one numb, numb foot in front of the other, over and over and over again, until it reaches its cabin.++++“Hajime’s supposed to be back by today,”  Hiyoko complains, picking at her rice moodily. “I really wanted to eat food that wasn’t prepared by a creepo.”“Scuse me?” Teruteru pokes his head out the kitchen, frowning. “I’ll have you know that I’ve grown and changed as a person!”Hiyoko eloquently sticks her tongue out at the cook. Mahiru, equipped with an equal-parts-fond and equal-parts-longsuffering smile, pats the blond dancer on her forearm as they eat together. Nagito’s heart aches something strange. The rest of his former classmates regress back to muted chatter, utensils clacking against their dishware as Teruteru’s cooking is scraped clean. Outside, an unexpected tropical storm beats down on the decorative thatch on the hotel roof, turning the resort’s typical bright colors and harsh shadows into dull, matte grey. Watching the water trickle down the cobblestone pavement, Nagito wonders if the downpour spells good or bad luck. As one of the last ones to the hotel, minus Mitarai, he almost got caught up in the rain. The tips of his jacket are still wet. “It was a failure on my part to warn you all of the storm,” Imposter grumbles beside him, having followed Nagito’s gaze out the window. Appropriately, they’re wearing the Ultimate Meteorologist today. “Nah, the weather’s been funky for days.” Souda, across from Imposter, points with his fork, bits of scrambled egg still on it. “Besides, our equipment somehow malfunctioned real bad. I still dunno how it broke like that.”“Sorry,” Nagito jokes. Souda’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second as he whips his head around to stare at him, as if Nagito could actually have summoned a tropical storm just by the sin of existing. Well, maybe that’s true…“You didn’t break the radar or summon the storm,” Imposter declares, with Byakuyan efficiency and unfound confidence. Their real self shines through in how they gently pat Nagito’s frail shoulder. Nagito doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he looks down at his plate and pokes the food around, grabbing some toast with his chopsticks and nibbling at it. Nagito continues to languidly pick at his food as the rain roars on, slowly reducing from torrential downpour to moderate rainfall—enough for him to dash back to the cabins and only get moderately soaked. He eyes the outside again as the sounds of his islandmates eating slowly transitions to the sounds of them retrieving playing cards and board games—creating an improvised game day, in honor of the universal desire to not do hard labor beneath the miserable weather. Nagito has no desire to play with them, because his luck would ruin any possible fun they could have, but doubtless he’d get dragged into it eventually. It’s what Hajime would try to do. And then Sonia and Imposter picked it up from him, and then Mahiru, and even Kazuichi strangely, though he sometimes looks like he wants to vomit while doing it. But Souda is just in a perpetual state of anxiety most of the time, so Nagito can excuse that.Hajime.Hajime really should be back by now. The fact that he didn’t come to breakfast…Nagito stands, eyeing his half-full plate for two seconds, and takes a precursory glance at the rest of his former classmates. They’re all arguing good-naturedly over what games they should play. He slips quietly  towards the staircase, leaving his meager breakfast behind. Briefly, he makes eye contact with Peko’s brilliant red irises—her ever-perceptive gaze remains vigilant, even though they rarely need it on their sequestered tropical hell-paradise—but she only nods at him, before turning her gaze back to the Monopoly board.

++++He might have underestimated the might of the rain. In less than two seconds, Nagito’s shoes are waterlogged, and they squelch like a miserable wet sponge. Though, it’s hard to hear such vile sounds over the beat of the rain—splashing on the nearby palm trees, ploonk-ing softly into the pool, forming streams and puddles on the uneven bits of the cobblestones— puddles that Nagito utterly fails to avoid, as to be expected by him.The raindrops against his face and chest are merciless, even as he attempts to shield his eyes with his metal arm. His hair is quickly acquiring the consistency of a drowned rat, and the humidity isn’t helping. However, Nagito doesn’t stop until he’s under the roof that shelters the porch outside Hajime’s cabin. the sleeves and shoulder of his jacket are soaked through. Like any sane man who happens to be half-drowned, he peeks through a window first. He wouldn’t dare disturb Hajime from a rare, peaceful, post-Future Foundation-job slumber.The bed, freshly made (by him, yesterday morning), is empty. Nagito bites his lip, prays to whatever cruel god is out there, and inches around the narrow parts of the dock to another window. At this new angle, he can see a body-shaped lump on the floor.Terror momentarily catches his breath, but he stays calm and collected as he inches back to safer rain-battered ground and tests the door handle. It clicks with obvious resistance under his hand. Locked. Well that won’t do, Nagito thinks to himself, frowning at the offending doorknob. Knocking to rouse Hajime from his deserved rest just to answer the door is an absolute no-go. Running back to ask Souda to dismantle the lock for him would probably net too many odd questions, like “is that why you volunteered to clean up his cabin for when he came back” and “why are you breaking into my soul-bro’s house” and “why are you monologuing about how you’re not worthy of my presence, dude, I know we’re not friends yet but I don’t hate you yanno?” which Nagito would rather not answer for now.Despite the rainstorm, he finds himself glancing around for witnesses. Obviously, there are none. So, as dexterously as he can, Nagito slams his metal hand onto the doorknob. Something in the mechanism snaps. Nagito tests the door again. Silently, the door opens. Nagito thanks his accursed luck and peeks in.Sure enough, there’s a Hajime-shaped lump curled up on the floor, in a soaking wet black suit. A few matted spikes of black-brown hair stick out of the silhouette. He looks pale. The air conditioner whirls ominously in the background. Nagito darts over and frantically checks for a pulse. Hajime’s skin is disturbingly cooler than usual, but it’s still warm and pounding persistently, like he’s fighting to exist even now. It makes Nagito’s throat tighten. He barely remembers to shut the door before he returns to Hajime, gently rolling him over on his back to inspect him further. Just then, he notices the backpack some feet away, soaking wet and thrown hastily against a bedpost. Closer inspection sends the smell of briny seawater into his nostrils—more than their cabins normally smell of. Nagito refuses to outright sniff Hajime, because that’s weird, but this brings up the possibility that Hajime fell into the ocean somehow.He returns to hovering over Hajime, hesitant hands trying to decide whether to shake him awake or simply wait for him. Before he can make a decision, Hajime slowly blinks underneath him. Nagito’s breath catches under his heterochronic gaze. It looks so empty.“Hajime? Can you hear me?” He whispers, blinking slowly back. “Hey, stay with me. You know where you are, right?”Hajime’s reactions are minute—nigh impossible to read, even—but Nagito knows this man. He knew him through the end of the world, through a death game, and after. He doesn’t know him completely, and perhaps he never will, but he knows him enough to know that he dares not leave his emptiness to fester in isolation, lest Hajime completely lose himself. He knows Hajime can hear him. It’s in the way his gaze momentarily focuses on him, recognition blipping across his features, before it all slips away again.“Hajime,” Nagito rasps again. “You should get out of your wet clothes. Let me help you?” “…Okay.” His voice sounds withered and unused. Nagito is frail, but he maneuvers Hajime into a sitting position through sheer force of will. He begins peeling off Hajime’s waterlogged suit jacket, tugging it from Hajime’s cooled skin. Hajime’s fingers twitch when he momentarily holds them to steady his arms. That’s good.“Can you stand?” Nagito tries, standing himself and tugging on Hajime’s hand, because he cannot lift Hajime. Hajime’s gaze drifts over to him and struggles to lock on, but with gentle encouragement, he wobbles to his feet and accepts Nagito’s measly support. Nagito guides him to the bathroom, helping him step over the rim of the bathtub and sit in it. All of their rebuilt cabins had been outfitted with a tub and shower and a few more excessive built-in bathing options, at the insistence of Souda, strangely enough. (He’d argued that it’d be nicer in the long run, which was unexpectedly sentimental of him. But also that they’d be cool, which was much more like him.)He places the stopper and runs warm water into the tub, helping Hajime remove his drenched, saltwater-stiff clothes in clearly-telegraphed movements. For a brief moment, he remembers the chill of Towa city, of herding those children into taking care of themselves—but the thick, humid air and persistent sound of rainfall keep him grounded, as does Hajime’s presence. He needs to take care of Hajime. Such devotion has never scared him, and it won’t start now. When the tub is full and Hajime is properly stripped—with Nagito keeping his gaze chaste as possible, and Hajime still staring off into space—he fumbles for the soap bottles on the far end of the tub, wincing when his wet coat sleeve brushes Hajime’s bare back. He pops the cap of the first bottle and squeezes some soap into his spindly hands, before gently massaging the shampoo into Hajime’s spiky hair. It’s getting longer than Hajime usually likes it.And perhaps Nagito indulges in this massage for too long, because Hajime’s eyes slip closed and his breathing becomes more even. He makes a little noise of contentment. It’s very cute.Nagito is leaning over him to reach for a washing cup when Hajime’s eyes blink open once more, focusing easily on him. “H… Hey,” Hajime mutters, strangely bashful.“Hello, Hajime,” Nagito smiles. Hajime glances away, good humor dropping away like a stone in a pond. “Sorry for making you baby me like this.”Nagito frowns. “I—” For a moment too long, he doesn’t know how to refute that. Hajime’s ferocious independence streak was hard to spot in the death game, since he’d gotten along well with everyone important, and collaborated on solving all those murders. But it made itself quite known once he began disappearing after waking them all up, only to show up later after accomplishing a task no ordinary person could’ve done alone– all the while remaining unsatisfied. Nagito had mistook it for humbleness at first, unempathetic to others as he was. It was nearly awe-inspiring, what Hajime was capable of. Surely, it would’ve been the highlight of his life before the world ended, back when he devoted himself to talent above all else. What kept it from being so magnificent was the despair that crept into Hajime’s eyes each time he crawled back to them all—a frustration, a deficit, an emptiness. The feeling that he’d never be enough.It was the same expression he’d seen in the mirror for the past decade. With words failing him, Nagito forsakes scrabbling for the washing cup and instead places one of his cool hands on Hajime’s cheek. Hajime seems surprised for a moment, but as Nagito forces his hand to remain steady and solid, that surprise melts into raw exhaustion—vulnerable and open, like a wound. Hajime presses his head against Nagito’s hand, and Nagito presses back, providing comfortable pressure.“I felt like—I felt like a tool, out there,” Hajime confesses, in barely a whisper. Nagito traces his thumb over Hajime’s cheekbones as Hajime continues to speak, words bleeding from his lips.“I f-forgot who I was, Nagito. It—I just had to keep going. Just do everything I was told to do, enough to survive. It was like—school again. And it sounds stupid when I say it—we’re adults now! The world’s ended! No one is ever going to tell me that I’m just a tomboy, or it’s just a phase, or I’m just confused or stressed and projecting—” Hajime takes a deep, shuddering breath. “But I guess I thought that no one was ever going to use me again—” his voice breaks, and Nagito sees him scrape the too-clean, too-straight medical-diagram scar lines across his torso. “I thought that no one was ever going to use me again to fight their shitty ideology wars. But that’s just what the Future Foundation is doing to me now, isn’t it!?”Hajime’s voice is failing him, diced to bits. “Everything they gave to me was so I could be useful.” It breaks. “I never had anything good in the first place.”“That’s wrong,” Nagito cuts in. Exhausted, spiraling Hajime still has it in himself to laugh hysterically, drawing his knees in. “Is it?” He leans against Nagito’s hand again, but this time, he seems to be mocking the gesture. “Remove the talents they put in me, and I’d never be able to wake you up. That’s an undeniable fact and you know it. Hell, they only did my top surgery because it’d make me more compliant.”“Hajime!” Nagito growls. In a split-second decision, he brings Hajime’s head towards his, pressing their foreheads together so he can glare at him better. “You’re wrong. Yes, those surgeries embedded you with more abilities that most—” “Yeah, a—”“But. But. Those aren’t you. Even without those, you’re still Hajime Hinata. Stubborn, intelligent, tenacious Hajime Hinata, who I fell in love with.”“Really? If it wasn’t for everything they gave me, that made me end the world, you’d never have even looked at me with anything other than disdain.” Hajime’s raspy voice is colored with a hatred that Nagito knows all too well—self-hatred. Hajime closes his eyes. They’re sunken and shadowed. “And without them, you’d be dead in those pods.”“How can you be so sure?” Nagito challenges. “How could you be so sure that I’d never catch sight of you? Of course it wouldn’t be exactly the same—but. Hajime. You can’t say more about these theoretical things than I can. If you can say what you think would happen, then so could I.”“And what do you think would happen?” Red and green blink open, staring into his greys, hard as steel— in challenge.Nagito returns the gaze, unflinching. “I think I’d fall in love with you, talent or not. World-ender or not. Killing game or not.” Hajime almost flinches away from Nagito’s intense tone, but he doesn’t look away. Nagito continues. “And, if you hadn’t been able to save me from the simulation—so what? By then, you’d already gotten to me, even though I was so resolute in my beliefs. I wished you were the one who’d live, even though it was nearly impossible, considering the diary. Yet I…”Nagito can’t keep the emotions from his horribly incoherent rant. “Can’t you see, Hajime? Thanks to you, I no longer care about talent. You’re what I love. So please…” He shuts his eyes, feeling a briny dampness running down his cheeks that can’t be the rain. He hears water slosh, and two warm, wet hands come up to wipe at his eyes. “Nagito…” Hajime says, undercut by fragile awe. Nagito inhales a shuddering breath. “…Sorry. That might’ve been too intense.” “It wasn’t. I-I mean. Maybe it was? But I don’t care.” Hajime’s voice is soft “I appreciate it.”Nagito removes his head from Hajime’s hands to press a gentle kiss to one Hajime’s knuckles, before kissing the rest of them, so they don’t feel left out. “I love you,” he whispers. The tenderness in his voice is audible to even himself. “More than I could ever say.”“I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it,” Hajime slowly admits. “But if you’re willing…”“As long as you want it, I’ll be here.” Nagito has never been so sure of anything in his life.Hajime stares at him with a half-grin, cautious and incredulous. His eyes dart to different corners of Nagito’s face, searching for any sign that Nagito might be lying to him somehow. He won’t find any. Ever so slowly, like a flower unfurling under fair weather, Hajime’s hands emerge from the water to clutch at Nagito’s drenched jacket. And as Hajime draws him in, Nagito returns the embrace, pressing closer to him— intent to reassure him as much as he can through his meager touch. To be invited in at a time like this is something that even Nagito can’t mistake as anything other than precious. “…You’re wet,” Hajime mumbles, into the soggy shoulder of Nagito’s jacket that his spiky, half-soaped  hair is buried into. It bristles against his cheek in a familiarly itchy sensation. Nagito laughs sheepishly. “I ran through the rain.”“That was dumb,” Hajime grumbles, sounding sleepy. “Get in here. C’mon, I’ll help you.” “Huh? Wait, Hajime, WAIT—” ++++Despite its—his exhaustion, his urge to take care of Nagito is so great that it’s only after he’s dragged Nagito into the tub with him that it occurs that this might be a bad idea. A loud slosh of displaced water quickly confirms this.  This is inconsolably hilarious to him. Nagito, after a moment of shock, shakes his wet hair out of his face, and decides that they should just rinse off in the shower, and let Hajime go to sleep in his bed.That’s right. He’s Hajime Hinata. He’s different, but he’s the same. When they emerge from the shower, steam billowing behind them, Nagito takes great care in toweling off Hajime’s hair and body, peppering his various surgical scars with kisses—paying extra attention to his chest, but Nagito’s always been weird like that. It makes Hajime laugh.  Once he’s finished, Hajime attacks Nagito’s fluffy mass of white hair with a towel and as much vigor as he can summon, which is not a lot. Nagito splutters and they both giggle and ignore the hairdryer on the counter. It would be too loud.The rain is still pouring down as they emerge from the bathroom, drumming against the docks and splashing into the sea. Nagito takes one glance at the puddle of water on his floor and decides that that’ll be a problem for them in the future.Future. There was once a time in his life where Hajime refused to believe in such a thing. Why would there ever be a future for him, when he was fighting so hard to simply survive in the present?But as Nagito guides him to his bed, planting a kiss on his brow, Hajime is suddenly struck by how much time they have. Here, on this tropical island prison paradise, away from the rest of the world—with Nagito in remission and Nekomaru’s heart beating steadily and Mikan’s relapses reducing—and suddenly, the grueling march that the Future Foundation pushed him through seems like a distant memory.Or maybe that’s just the sleep deprivation talking.As Nagito pulls the sheets over him, Hajime grumbles, “Remind me to ask Naegi for less bullshit missions.”Nagito hums above him. “I dislike how they run you ragged. This might be the last straw. If they pull this again…”The threat hums sweetly in the air, along with the whirling of the air conditioner. Hajime can’t pinpoint if he’d appreciate threats being made in his name before the surgery, but he certainly appreciates them now. “They can’t handle another one of their headquarters blowing up.” Hajime jokes, half-asleep already. Nagito blinks with exaggerated innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”His partner withdraws to his full height, fond gaze lingering on Hajime before it glances to the door and the rain beyond. Hajime slowly lifts up the covers like a bat offering shelter in its wing, belatedly hissing as cool air hits his bare chest. “C’mere.”“Y—are you sure?” Doubtless the question is more out of reflex than anything else at this point, because Nagito is already inching closer. There’s a lot of things he could say in response, that he wants to say. He could speak to how Nagito inexplicably understands him more than he understands himself some days. He could confess the guilt from his chest that will never truly go away, no matter how much they talk about it, because the fact of the matter is that he helped a teenage girl end the world. He could admonish Nagito for continuing to think so lowly of himself, even out of habit. None of it compares to just grumbling and flapping his arm. “You’re basically naked anyway.” “Ah, so I am!” Nagito is much too cheerful about that. He closes the distance and slides himself into the bed, shamelessly snuggling up to Hajime. Hajime drops his arm and the covers around him. Nagito radiates heat as all living things do, and his weight against Hajime’s tethers him to the bed as he drifts out of consciousness. Hajime has no idea if Nagito will fall asleep alongside him. He hopes that he will. If not today, then the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that.

#kmhnsecretexchange #submission #fanfiction #sfw #komahina #nagito komaeda #hajime hinata #dr #sdr2 #dr3

[imspardagus]

Hugh

This will be personal so if you don’t like personal, look away. 

I woke today to an email from my dear friend Hugh’s partner, Karl. Karl’s purpose was to inform me that Hugh had died, peacefully, last Friday.

I envy those who can take such messages in their stride and know exactly the words to use in reply. But I doubt I will ever be among their number. My instinctive reaction is to go clinically cold and only later to find the emotions rising. But I set about writing a reply to Karl, picking my way through the minefield of platitudes and unnecessary revelations and ended up with something I hoped would pass muster.

You see I had loved, and been in love with, Hugh for something like forty years. My love for him had never been “fulfilled”, to use the precious euphemism. I’m not sure I was ever looking for that. But I had known since before I was married that I could happily have devoted my life to being his companion. Sadly I also knew that, for all his amazing kindness towards me and my family, and for all the trouble he took to seek out my company and spend time in it, I could never mean as much to him as he meant to me.

I hope that if ever Karl reads that passage he will know that it came from the heart and that never for an instant did I see myself as a rival for Hugh’s affections. Hugh’s love was for him from the start and I frankly rejoiced in knowing that Hugh had such a partner. I just wished…

Anyway, I want to tell you about Hugh. Or that part of Hugh that I knew, because, like the most beautiful gemstone, he had so much rich depth and so many facets and I was only privy to a few of them.

I first met Hugh in 1978. He was already an established lawyer at the Department of Employment where I was an unbelievably gauche rookie. If I noticed anything it was that he seemed not so much reserved as aloof, remote. His friendship group in the office was not the grey-haired, grey suited, grey-minded post-war clique that ran it nor the stereotypically brash and superficially self-confident younger male cohort (with both of whom he maintained a serviceably professional but studiously distanced relationship), but with two female lawyers, one of whom was a somewhat dippy spinster who had, presumably by length of service alone, achieved a senior management position, while the other was a no-nonsense, highly competent and very left wing divorcee (picture Barbara Flynn, who could have played her to perfection) who scared the hell out of me.

To be fair, I was scared of most things at this point, not without some reason. I had been bullied by dim-witted public school oiks during my pupillage and, as a grammar-turned-comprehensive-school-non-Oxbridge upstart, left in no doubt that I should “know my place”. Then, before I had even arrived at the Solicitor’s Office of the DoE, I had been decried as “an inky-fingered clerk” by the man who was now to be my boss, because, prior to turning to the law, I had been a civil service executive officer. I felt a total fraud, out of my depth and in the wrong place, in short.

Things did not get off to a good start with Hugh. In those days, we lawyers were supposed to take our lead from the imaginary and nostalgic version of the “gentlemen’s” profession we had more or less left behind in chambers. It was considered unseemly to arrive at work before 10am or to be at work after 5pm, and lunch, which would start at 12.30 and proceed until 2, or 3pm on Fridays (when, thankfully, the pubs shut), was likely to consist of beer, pints thereof. Hugh did not participate in any of this but he was a stickler for morning coffee and afternoon tea. He loved to gossip, a trait which never left him.

The juniors had to take turns ensuring that the Tea Club could enjoy its tea and coffee breaks (again, taking their cue from a nostalgia for chambers). One day it was my turn to make the tea and, because I had been held up with a phone call I was late. Hugh took it upon himself to take me to task, “Everybody else manages to get the tea in good time, Why can’t you?”

It stung. All the more because I felt I was there on sufferance anyway. I mumbled an excuse and left the room.

That night, as I walked up to Leicester Square to catch the train, I was aware of someone behind me trying to catch up and to speak with me. I realised that it was Hugh and that he was trying to make amends. Stupidly, I snubbed him and the last words I heard as he fell back were “Okay, if you don’t want to talk…”. Even as I pulled it off I hated myself for the lost opportunity but was also stunned that Hugh I thought I knew should make the effort. This sudden display of unsolicited human consideration just didn’t fit with the caricature that I had formed in my head of a remote and uncaring person.

I don’t know how things turned around but gradually I learned more about Hugh. Scott, a colleague, was an incorrigible sharer of gossip (when he had something salacious to impart he would talk out of the corner of his mouth as if he had done time in the nick - though it probably came from public school, much the same) and through him I learned how Hugh had had a long standing, live together, relationship with a man who had, appallingly, died of a brain tumour. I could imagine to some degree how awful that was but not how awful it really was, if you get me. I had not known at first that he was gay. Even in 1978, being homosexual, as the polite term then was, was not something you broadcast. But it helped me to understand why Hugh was distant. Also that it was a protective coat.

Over time I came to respect Hugh (his intelligence and powers of analysis were breathtaking), then to like him, and eventually to love him.

I will not pretend that he was an easy man to work with. The old adage about “not suffering fools gladly” found its exemplar in him. He had no time for laziness, pomposity, pretension or conceit. I learned from administrators that he had earned the nickname “Terse Purse” for his very concise advices.

I recall one such. A young and very self-regarding fast-streamer had sought Hugh’s advice, sending him 28 paragraphs of extremely dense and opinionated instructions, clearly expecting that his efforts would be admired. Hugh’s whole reply was as follows –

“Paragraphs 1 to 27 of your memorandum disclose no legal issues. The answer to paragraph 28 is yes.”

But he had courage too. It showed itself when, later, Hugh was seconded to be the lawyer on a Parliamentary Bill of some political importance. By then, a new breed of barrow boy had taken over the civil service asylum, thanks to Thatcher and her minders. The man chosen to head the Bill team was a known, relentlessly self-consumed and ambitious workaholic. He slept in his office and called long, pointless meetings on a whim, regardless of the time and of the situation of his team. Hugh put up for a while with unnecessary, ego-massaging meetings going on well into the evening. Then one day he snapped. As 5.30 arrived with no progress made and every indication that the meeting could go on into the small hours, Hugh gathered up his papers and rose from his seat. In the stunned silence that ensued he announced “Well I don’t know about you people, but I have a dog to feed.” And left.

After that, a more reasonable, less time-consuming work schedule took over.

But Hugh was kind. Not in a drippy, sentimental way. I never once witnessed an ounce of sentimentality issue from Hugh. He was practical and rational, always, even in his kindness, which in fact made it a lot easier to take. And I felt that kindness spread to me. Hugh helped me to find a degree of confidence; more importantly, he also pricked the acquired barrister’s sense of entitlement that I wore so uncomfortably and helped me to recognise that other people were depending on me and that doing my job to the best of my ability was precisely what they had a right to expect of me. Hugh, as my boss, which he became after a few years, never marked me above satisfactory in all our appraisals. At first, knowing how almost everyone else in the office was getting high marks and performance awards for indifferent work, I resented it and told him so. But Hugh simply said that I was just doing what I was supposed to do and that doing so did not merit recognition as “above average”. I took his point. It was unassailable.

As time went on I realised that just as the civil service was losing its integrity (to ambition and self-aggrandisement), just that quiet, unshowy integrity was what Hugh had, and had in effortless spades. And so it came to pass, inevitably, that when it came to a play-off for the top job between himself and a plodding, prematurely aged but compliant lawyer, the plodding yes-man got the backing of the cabal who ran things in Whitehall. Hugh took early retirement.

We kept in contact, meeting for lunch fairly regularly. After retiring, Hugh was bored a lot of the time, even as he found other work. He expected to be occupied but when he got work he scythed through it, knowing exactly where the kernel of the issue was. There is a story from before my time. The office was going through a lull. Hugh put up with it for a while but eventually reached breaking point. He stormed into his boss’s office and complained that he didn’t have enough work to do. His boss lowered his newspaper sufficiently to look over the top at him and drawled, wearily, “Good heavens, Hugh, aren’t there cinemas to go to? Galleries to visit?”

It was one lunchtime, when we were eating sandwiches in St James’ Park, that I found the courage to admit to Hugh that I had fallen in love with him. I should say that this realisation had come as a shock to me. I did not regard myself as either hetero- or homo-sexual. I didn’t regard myself as anything, to be honest. But I had become aware that I was drawn to Hugh in a way that I had never felt drawn to any man before. I had no idea what I wanted to do about it. I think I probably didn’t want to do anything about it.

Once again, Hugh received my news with quiet aplomb. He spoke to me with a kindness bordering on sympathy. He did not judge me, dismiss me, deride or encourage me and I was able to feel that honour had been done. We parted at the end of lunch on the same good terms but with me feeling that a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. We never spoke of it again. We did not need to.

When I married Fiona and Matthew came along, Hugh and Karl welcomed us to their home and showed us great but unforced hospitality which meant so much more because I knew how private Hugh kept his personal life. And when the marriage broke down Hugh was there again, not preaching, not judging but just providing a comforting presence that allowed me to pick up the pieces and move on.

Around that time I was “invited” to have a chat with one of the ruling elite of the Government Legal Service who were consolidating and misusing their power like Mao Zedung’s elite of Red Guards. She took it upon herself to inform me, “You are friends with Hugh Purse, I gather. You would do well to end that friendship.” That was all the confirmation I needed that my friendship with Hugh was the right thing.

When, not much later, I fell foul of the then Treasury Solicitor by declining to kowtow to her bullying and she used her power over others to punish and break me, Hugh was there again, quietly reminding me that if you do what you believe to be right then you must accept the consequences but you can also live with them.

Yes, I will never understand what Hugh saw in me or why he troubled himself with me but I will never forget his kindness and what I owe him. He became an anchor on my sanity. He enabled me to survive.

And so it is that with Hugh gone I am struggling rather to come to terms with a world which no longer has him in it. I must. He would expect nothing less. But the holes he has left behind will be some time in the fixing. He was, put simply, one of the finest people I have ever known. And I loved him and am proud to say so.

James Taylor wrote a song entitled “Fire and Rain”. I used to sing along with it when I was alone. But the last line of the chorus always came out as, “I always thought that I’d see Hugh again” and then I would think of Hugh. And I see now that I did always expect to see him again, but that now I never will.

Go in peace Hugh.

#Hugh #Love #kindness #Loss

[yee-fxcking-haw]

•Porcelain Obsession•

Summary: Tamaki has a problem, a bad problem. He's obsessed, he's desperate, and he'll do whatever it takes to have you the way he wants you.

Pairing: Pro Hero Yandere Tamaki Amajiki x Reader (both 18+)

Warnings: Yandere, stalking, noncon voyeurism, mild manipulation and sabotage, mild coercive behavior, male masturbation, panty theft, male ejaculation, cum eating. It's just real graphic, strap in.

A/N: I am hopeless, this will have a second part that will be so much more sinful with gratuitous tentacle content. Just tagged those that interacted with the posted about this fic as usual. This little series was inspire by a tiktok I saw, and I'm literally writing it for the sake of putting one zinger of line in it lol.

Playlist

https://vm.tiktok.com/ZMJbubhQN/

Word Count: 4,184

Part Two: Love Me Tender

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Stunning, astounding, enchanting. You're an angel, you have to be. That's the only explanation for the way you shine, surrounded by some ethereal glow.

Tamaki Amajiki has a problem. No, it's not a problem, it's completely normal to fall in love, he's under a spell. He can't be blamed for it, he never stood a chance. Although, most people would call this a problem, but only people who don't understand.

An ignorant person would have seen him watching you from around the corner for weeks, following you to your house after work under the cover of darkness, and finally, finally getting a glance into your window at night and label him as obsessed or disturbed. He should have felt dirty for that, but he didn't, not even close. He felt almost holy.

He felt like some chosen follower that was allowed to witness a sacred ritual. He watched you all evening with immeasurable reverence. He took note of the way you ate, how intently you read, but his favorite part was watching you settle into your bed and fall asleep.

As soon as he saw it the first time, it became an addiction. Watching your body curl around your pillow, clutching the fabric as you snuggled into it. How sweet you looked, so soft, so innocent. It made his chest ache, it made him feel starved. He had to have you, smell you, feel you.

That was nearly three months ago. Now, he watches you every chance he gets. The days he doesn't get to, he feels like a pitiful addict going through withdrawal. He has to at least speak with you, know your voice, see your skin up close.

During his patrol around the city he comes to the conclusion that it has to be today. He feels like he's losing breath without knowing you, captured by your existence but suffocated by the distance. He will have you, he will do whatever it takes.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

At your age, you should at least have a friend or two, maybe go out on friday, possibly even work another job. None of that ever seems worth it, not worth the time or the money or the effort to pretend you enjoy it. Here you stay, stuck somewhere in between discontent for your situation and the refusal to do anything about it.

You only have a half hour left of your shift, everyone else has gone home and you’ve been left to do dishes and lock up, as usual. You huff and puff around the shop as you complete the final closing tasks. Anybody else could have stayed and closed, they probably should have too, considering how often you shut down by yourself so they can all go home.

Naturally, you jumped at the opportunity to stay late, where else are you going to go? Certainly not on a date or out with friends. You feel slightly better about making money while you burn the hours away, so you always end up here.

The sun has set already, leaving the illumination of the shop to the awful fluorescent lights that hang from the ceiling. It’s all so mundane, so simple, so dreadfully boring.

Then the bell above the door jingles.

You roll your eyes and throw your rag into the sink, the sign says closed. Why don’t people read? You huff out of the kitchen and into the serving area.

“Hey, sorry but we’re closed right now, we open again tomorrow-” You freeze, it can’t be him, it has to be some cosplayer, some wannabe.

“I’m sorry, I just- my phone died while I was on patrol and I needed to call my boss to let them know I was finished for the day. I was hoping there would be a phone in here that I could use.” His voice is so timid, so unsteady. It doesn’t sound anything like you would imagine the voice of a pro hero to sound.

You try to stay uninvolved with any hero business, all of the flashy quirks and the gossip and the drama. The theater of it bores you to tears, and you lack respect for anyone that uses their ability to save lives as a tool for gaining popularity. You find most heroes to be so incredibly irritating. Most of them, except one.

Suneater, the emerging pro hero that has been the focus of all of your thoughts lately. You've only seen glimpses of him in the news, seen his face on the back page of a magazine, or heard his name from other people. Any evidence of his existence rapidly became precious to you. You are not some hopeless fangirl, you do not collect merchandise or follow him around and beg for autographs.

You admire him, his subtlety, how genuinely different he is from all the other heroes. He isn’t some attention whore, he isn’t some pretty boy that’s always posing for fan service. His quirk is so unique and powerful, unparalleled by any hero on the charts right now. He’s a real hero, and so much of you wanted him to be your hero.

There he stands, right in front of you, in your shop, asking you for help. He’s far more beautiful than you could have possibly anticipated. He’s all porcelain skin and inky hair, deep indigo eyes pear out from under his magnificent hood. He stands so tall, yet comes across so reserved. He’s spectacular, he’s an angel, he has to be.

“Of- of course, it’s in the back, follow me.” You say, motioning for him to come around the corner with you as you tuck back into the kitchen.

“Thank you, this is very kind of you.” He says as he follows, cape swishing behind him as he moves. You don’t know, you can’t possibly know, how badly he wants to take you into his arms and finally know what your body feels like against his, how he wants to bury his face in your hair and inhale your scent. If he could get away with it, he would, oh how he would feel every inch of you. He can’t though, not yet. He has to be careful, he has to be smart.

I will have her, and she’ll have me.

“It’s no problem, it sucks to be stuck without a phone. I’m happy to help.” You say as you round the corner to your shop’s makeshift break room.

It’s not even a room really, just a corner tucked away with a phone on the wall and a few chairs around a cheap foldable table.

You turn to him and motion to the phone awkwardly, heat settling in your chest and all over your skin. Your heart races and you can feel your palms turning wet.

“Take as much time as you need, did you uh- are you hungry?” You ask, “I’m technically closed, but I can only imagine how hungry you are after a whole day patrolling, I could throw something together for you?”

God, you’re so sweet.

“Oh no, you d-don’t need to do that, I can eat at home.” He insists, your mind fixates on the way he stutters, the way his eyes dart down and his feet shift as he talks.

“I would like to. Please? If you’ll let me?” You say softly, heart pounding even faster when he shifts towards you slightly.

How perfect you are, already asking for permission…

“Are you sure, I really don’t want to create more work for you.” He says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. His gaze makes it hard to swallow, he looks at you so intently, you almost feel like you don’t have enough clothing on.

“No! I promise you won’t be. You’d also be missing out on the best takoyaki around if you didn’t let me, and that would be a tragedy.” You say, trying to entice him with your bold claim.

“Well I g-guess, if you put it that way.” He offers you a trace of a smile.

“I’ll get started while you make your call.” You say as you move to squeeze past him in the narrow hall. As you slide by, there’s a brief, precious moment where you stand inches from each other. You don’t dare look up at him as you skate by, You know your legs will fail you if you meet his eyes while standing so close, and you can’t risk the embarrassment of dropping to your knees in front of a stranger, even if he is a hero,

He doesn’t say a word, simple stalks towards the phone as you glide down the rest of the hallway and into the kitchen.

You slip into autopilot in the kitchen, your brain is far too fixated on the fact that Suneater is down the hall, in your shop, using your phone. You clink around some pans, prepare the octopus meat and the batter and get to work. You can’t overhear him talking to anyone with all the noise you’re making, you almost want to apologize for being so noisy.

Your mind settles on thinking about how beautiful he is, how strong he looks, how easily he could overpower anyone… especially you. The thought makes you squeeze your thighs together, it shouldn’t, but holy hell it does.

Out of the corner of your eye you see him come into the kitchen, you immediately start to berate yourself for thinking that way about him. He’s a hero, he would never be interested in something like that with someone like you.

“I think the phone is down, do you maybe have a- a cell phone i could use?” He seems almost ashamed of the question, it makes your chest ache.

“Shit, that line is always being funny. I’m sorry, but I left my cell this morning.” You say, flipping the takoyaki around in their tray so they’ll cook evenly.

“I live just across the street though, I can run and grab it while you eat.” You say, desperate to help him in any way you can.

I know you’re just across the street.

He just shakes his head and bunches his cape in his fists, a very faint blush spreads across his cheeks and it makes your heart do summersaults.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that, you’re already doing t-too much for me. You don’t need to make the extra t-trip, I can just call my boss when I’m home”

“Really, it’s not too much, if you’re worried about the extra trip you can just walk me home and use it when we get there. I imagine you would need to call as quickly as possible and get somebody on patrol now that you’re off.” You say, catching yourself a little when you sound too desperate.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable?” As he talks, he shuffles so he can press himself up into the corner of the kitchen, almost looking like he wants to melt into the wall.

“Well, considering your occupation is literally saving people, I definitely don’t feel uncomfortable, it’s not like you’re some crazy kidnapper.” You chuckle a little as you plate up the takoyaki. You try not to give attention to the twisted thoughts that enter your mind when you mention the kidnapping, pushing down the desire to be taken away from the colorless life you live.

If you only knew how badly I want to take you, to have you, keep you…

“I guess you have a p-point.” He says, taking the plate with a soft thank you. He starts stuffing his face with the spheres of breaded octopus immediately, letting a small content sigh leave his body.

“This is incredible, thank you, um, can I ask what your n-name is?” That damn stutter is going to turn your bones to jelly.

You say your name quietly, he responds by repeating it back to you, like he’s checking the pronunciation. You just nod as you open the fridge and pull out a gallon of green tea so you can pour him a glass.

“T-Tamaki, my name’s Tamaki Amajiki.” He says with his shy voice.

A warm, invasive feeling spreads through you. You have to remain calm, pretend that his real name is news to you, pretend that you haven’t spent hours searching through fanfictions listed under that name.

You chat as he finishes his food, thanking him as he mumbles compliments about you cooking in between bites. It doesn’t take long for him to take down the plate. He thanks you over and over as you clean the rest up. He stays glued to his spot in the corner until you take your apron off and hang it on the rack with the others.

“Alright, let’s get you to that phone.” You say as you grab your keys off the hook and switch the lights off.

When you turn to look at him the breath is stolen from your lungs immediately. He looks so celestial in the dark, somehow glowing in the dark. He’s stunning, he’s perfect, he’s painfully out of your league. You remind yourself of that last fact in order to still your nerves.

You turn on your heels and walk towards the door as quickly as you can without seeming rushed. He follows silently, the heavy sound of his thick cloak floating around him makes the hair on your neck stand up. He even sounds powerful.

After you exit the building, he stands with his back to you as you lock the door. His stance is protective, surveying the streets around you like a real hero. You can’t let it go to your head, it’s not for you specifically, he would do this for anyone, it’s his job.

The walk to your house isn’t really uncomfortable, but it is tense. The energy between you is painfully obvious, just not to each other. You both want to speak, ask about each other, know each other, but neither has the guts to make the first move.

While you walk, Tamaki’s head is constantly on a swivel, and he stays so very close to you. It makes your chest ache, the feeling of being so safe next to such an intimidating man. Nobody would dare approach you with him next to you. You would damn near kill to have this all the time, if not all the time at least as often as possible.

You arrive at your house after not even two minutes of tension filled strolling. Silently, cautiously, you both enter your home after you unlock the door.

"It's so cozy." Tamaki says immediately upon seeing all of the soft lights and pastels that make up your decor. He’s nearly trembling with excitement from finally being able to see inside your little world. After watching from the outside for so long, he can finally learn more about you.

"Oh, thanks, I try to keep it soft looking in here. It helps me decompress after a day at a busy restaurant." You explain, setting your keys in their dish before leading him down the hallway to the kitchen.

The house is nothing special, a simple little single bedroom, one story with a relatively open floor plan. It’s small but easy to afford and keep clean. It works for you.

“I’ll go grab the phone from my room, feel free to sit down.” You say, gesturing at the two chairs on either side of your tiny breakfast nook.

He just nods quietly, taking small glances around the rest of your house. You find his hypervigilance charming. It makes you feel incredibly secure to know he’s so aware of his surroundings.

You walk off to your bedroom then, leaving him to stand in your dimly lit kitchen.

Instantly, his eyes zero in on the laundry basket full of clothes that’s sitting on your counter. His body moves without his mind’s permission, his heart thrums in his chest once he catches something pink and lacy.

He can’t help but think you’ve done it on purpose, like you’re some spider sitting up in your web waiting for a poor little bug to stumble along and get all caught up. He’s more than willing to be that bug, and so desperate to get caught up.

He grabs the fabric quickly, as it unravels in his hands he sees what it is and his breathing stops.

It’s a pair of underwear, your underwear.

His fingers go all twitchy as he shoves his hood off to expose his pointed ears, wanting to be able to hear your footsteps.

He brings the panties and takes a deep breath in.

They’re not clean.

He has to choke back the noise that threatens to escape when he finally smells the intoxicating aroma. You smell so fucking sweet. His body reacts instantaneously, goosebumps raise on his flesh as he’s dick twitches in his pants.

God he feels dirty, but why should he? You lead him in here, after cooking for him and being so kind. You left this little gift out for him, you had to know what you were doing.

The sound of soft footsteps jolts him back to reality. He shoves the underwear deep into one of his pockets, he’ll keep them as long as he can, preferably forever.

“Sorry it took me a minute, I’m constantly misplacing everything. One of those ‘lose my head if it wasn’t attached to me’ kind of people.” You give a half hearted laugh, which he returns with a cute little chuckle as he takes your phone.

“Oh sorry about the laundry, I’m a bit of a mess today.” Hot embarrassment fills you as you grab the basket of dirty clothes off the counter and hoist it onto your hip.

“Don’t be sorry, you weren’t expecting any visitors.” He assures you, voice soft and soothing.

“I’ll run this to my room and give you some privacy.” You say, turning once again to leave him alone.

As soon as you’re out of the room his shoulders drop and he lets out a quaking breath. Having you so close after filling his mind with your smell pushed him to the very limit. He wants to grab you and lay you out on the counter, rip your pants off and shove his face between your thighs. He wants to drown in every smell and taste you can offer him. He wants to gorge himself on your sweet little cunt.

He can’t think straight. He’s fully hard, his skin is boiling and his mind is fuzzy. He has to get out of here, he has to get to somewhere hidden, Somewhere he can fuck his fist and think of playing with your soft body. Maybe, just maybe, if he stuffs your panties in his mouth he can taste a trace of you.

When you return he says a very quick goodbye, says something about stopping by your shop again so he can see you again. He doesn’t know for sure what words he uses, he’s too focused on getting out before you notice his erection, before you smell the shame wafting off of him in thick waves.

He has to go before he makes a mistake, before he ruins all of his plans.

You follow him to the door to let him out, bidding him goodnight with your gentle, enchanting voice.

You’ll never know that the phone at the restaurant worked fine, that he never even had to call Fatgum. You’ll never know that he stole from you, that he almost lost it and took you home with him. You won’t ever know that he’s not going home now that he’s left your home.

Urgently, he swoops around the corner of your house, heading straight for your bedroom window. His pants feel so tight it’s maddening, he’s frantic, he’s slipping.

As soon as he reaches the bedroom window, his favorite window, he slumps against the building with one arm as the other shoots down to his pants. He takes a quick glance around, noting that the lights in the surrounding buildings are all out given the hour.

He should be safe.

Then you walk into your room, the image of you is distorted slightly by the white sheers you have up, but only slightly, only enough to make you look like some fuzzy apparition.

She uses these curtains on purpose, she wants me to see.

You have no interest in showering tonight, now exhausted and confused. Did you say something wrong? Why did he take off like that? He did say he would see you tomorrow, though, which gives you a bubbly feeling.

You strip your clothes off, and it shreds Tamaki’s last ounce of self control.

You little fucking tease.

You undress until you’re left in your simple white underwear.

Tamaki’s hand is in his pants the second you crawl into bed. He grabs his aching length, thumbing at his head as he watches you shuffle around in the blankets. His mouth waters when he sees your collar bones, his breath hitches when he sees the way your stomach rolls when you sit. He starts to stroke himself slowly when you leave one leg out of your blankets.

His chest rises and falls rapidly as he remembers the precious gift in his pocket.

He snatches the panties out as he watches you move, as he zeroes in on the meat of your thigh. He shoves the fabric of the crotch into his mouth and bites. He bites your panties like he wants to bite your delicious looking legs.

His hand jerks more rapidly as the faintest flavor spreads across his tongue. His cheeks are pink and his eyes start to tear up as he trembles from the euphoria of knowing you this intimately. His hips thrust into his fist as he claws at the panites, pulling the fabric tight as he watches you drift off to sleep.

His mind races through every possible way he would take you. How he would ruin and claim every inch of you. The idea of you shaking beneath him, moaning his name so sweetly, begging him to keep going, maybe begging him to stop, it makes him want to break down the window.

He tongues at your panties, wishing he could swallow your slick. He feels so unbelievably envious of the fact that the fabric in his mouth has been so close to your perfect little hole. The thing he wants to taste the most, feel the most, fuck the most.

His hand tightens around his dick as he tries to imagine how tight you would feel around him. He rips your panties out for just a brief second so he can spit down into his palm, wrapping it around his cock the second the spit reaches his skin.

“Shit- fuck- shit- fucking love you.” He chokes out as his eyes stay locked on your body.

Once the panties are back in his mouth, the free hand flattens against the window.

Then you shift, hips rolling gently as you adjust your position, exposing your cute little ass to him.

“Slut- bad little slut.” He huffs out as he claws at the window. He feels his balls start to seize up as he focuses on his swollen head, fucking it as fast as he can whle he imagines you with your head buried in the pillows as you stick your ass in the air for him.

He tears the panties out of his mouth and holds the crotch of them in front of his dick, drool slips over his bottom lip as he lets out a high, broken moan while he starts to spill into them.

His body quakes and shivers as he squirts rope after rope of hot cum into his stolen prize. Tears wet his cheeks while drool soaks his chin as he strokes himself through his climax.

He chants your name over and over again, watching the way his seed ruins your pretty little panties. In his orgasmic haze, he brings the panties back to his mouth full of his own release, he laps it up as he eyes roll to the back of his head, pretending he’s made you cream yourself, pretending he’s tasting you instead.

It’s filthy, it’s depraved, but he doesn’t care, he needs it, he’d die without it. He swallows the rest of his own cum down with a greedy whine as he watches your perfect form lay there so peacefully.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, how many more times he fucks his hand while he watches you sleep, only to leave himself covered in sweat and cum and shame. Somehow, he finds himself walking away, as much as it hurts, he knows he can't indulge himself all night.

Once he’s finally home, he collapses, body buzzing and addicted. He sleeps with your soiled panties clutched in his fist. He wakes up with one thought on his mind, he needs more.

#tamaki amajiki #tamaki smut #amajiki tamaki #mha smut #my hero smut #suneater #suneater smut #mha suneater #my hero academia smut #my hero academia #my hero fanfic #bnha suneater #tamaki x reader #tamaki headcanons #mha tamaki #tentacles #big three #fatgum

[singing-wanderer]

If it’s alright can you also share your thoughts on a yandere Hollow Knight?

Hi again! So I’m gonna try and fit romantic, familial, and platonic all in one post!

Once again: a very interesting situation you’ve found yourself in! I’m gonna go with the GodHome ending for this story, and maybe later on I’ll do a yandere HK before it was sealed away.

So for romantic; I’m gonna go with you being a traveler, stumbling upon the corpse of Hallownest and an even larger…corpse? Slouched against the wall. A beautifully engraved nail was clutched tightly in one hand, a lonely look cast upon its mask. You approached it wearily. Of course the nail would be worth a fortune, but you felt bad for the poor thing. It looked like it had been through hell, cloak tattered and stained with some inky sort of substance.

A gentle touch to their cheek had their head snapping up, engraved nail now at your throat. Your arms shot up and your breath hitched. Gods be merciful on a wanderer today. Don’t see them to their grave. Although the nail at your throat and their rigid stature spoke otherwise, it’s eyes seemed devoid of anything but some unspoken sorrow. It’s grip was shaky. Nothing short of terrified. Well, if you’re gonna die, might as well be nice to the executioner. With your own shaky hand, you stretched forward and eased down its nail while whispering that you meant no harm.

Nervously, it shifted forward, shadow casting over yours as they…leaned on you? You could almost hear the groan of relief, the being surprisingly lightweight. Just know that your kindness is what sealed your fate. Even in the face of danger, at the nail of void and god, you remained kind. Something they never had the chance to do. They’ll be very very clingy, hovering over you and often leaning on you to rest. You won’t know a moment alone with it stalking around, heaving it’s cloak over your shoulders as it’s seen so many partners do. It craved to express love, and to be cared for. To feel and be validated. And you did just that.

As for familial, you probably ran into Hornet and the Knight on your travels, greeting them warmly as though you knew them. Hornet would greet you with a curt nod and welcome, while Hollow is already formulating a plan to become friends. Your warmth would remind them so much of what they’d seen families do, how it had watched siblings play and hug or parents greet and cuddle. Hornet had been caring, dressing it’s wounds and doing her best to repair its cloak with the skills the weavers taught her, but something was missing. They wanted warm hugs. A full family. They wanted someone Hornet could talk to along with them, someone to take care of like Hornet did.

Hornet would welcome you as a travel partner, not knowing full well what her sibling planned. Hollow would insist on sitting beside you, fixing your cloak or cleaning your weapon like it had seen others do. You now had a quiet, obsessive sibling to watch your every move, to protect you from all danger and coddle you like it should have been coddled. It has nothing but warmth to offer you, and they should hope to receive the same.

Hollow would’ve encountered you before Hornet in platonic, and the introduction would be about the same as romantic except you’d make some quip about the beauty of their nail. These quips youd share would pique its interest, head tilting as you explained some odd fact about an enemy you two killed or ruin you had stumbled upon. Hornet could never convince them to leave you behind, dragging you along to Pharloom and beyond. Should you wish to stay, they’d be heartbroken. Did you not care about them? Had they done something wrong? Eventually, you’ll probably end up agreeing to go along solely to make it feel better.

Overall, it is obsessive, protective, and determined. They won’t lose you like the rest, even if it means making another sacrifice, no matter the cost.

No cost too great.

Thank you for requesting again! I’m really happy to explore the different yanderes of hk. If there’s any mistakes or you’d like to see something more or different, send in a request. (I wrote this at work ejfjfj)

#yandere #yandere hk #yandere x reader #hollow knight #yandere hollow knight #yandere pure vessel x reader #yandere pure vessel

[inkyvendingmachine]

My birthday gift to @inkdemonapologist​ was actually not BATIM themed this year!! SOMEHOW! BUT. I HAVE THIS POST SITTING IN MY DRAFTS SINCE BIRTHDAY GAME LAST YEAR SO NOW I’M GONNA POST IT!!! Happy Birthday Shazz, love you lots and I hope you’re having a wonderful time today!! oh, another fun thing I did for the birthday game. Since it started in “regular ol’ pre-game JDS” and it wasn’t until the weirdness was questioned that it got revealed that uhh some ink issues might be happening, I actually had TWO Sammy character sheets prepared, one of them being edited to include “Ink Points”

The Ink Points kind of acted as a secondary Sanity Points system; basically, as Sammy took more and more actions towards accepting the Ink Hell version of his memories, he’d gain ink points. During the finale, he had to start making ink rolls to resist involuntary actions Joey was trying to get him to do, or to see things clearly again.

There was a buncha hints also hidden on the character sheets for the “true twist,” like Sammy’s hair being longer in the second one, having MORE sanity and luck after realizing that he wasn’t in pre-game JDS (specifically trying to hint that he was in a better place rn actually,) and some of the stats had been changed to reflect stats that only a version of Sammy who’s been through everything might already have.

I actually have a whole collection of all the hints that I left throughout the game, for those curious:

The biggest hints were of course in the Hint Images, drawings I did based of commissions I got of Escape Sammy. Those included things like: - Sammy’s hair getting longer - Sammy getting less Inky - Sammy’s Banjo specifically being one he has only in Escape AU, because it didn’t exist before then. - The fact that Sammy is barefoot throughout all of this - As well as the scenes themselves being specifically about some things only Shazz and I had talked about being involved in Escape!AU at the time of playing the game, like how Norman reacts to the darkness now, and a scene about Buddy after the flea-market incident. 

There was also a bunch of tiny hints in the Puzzles I presented as well: - the only characters mentioned/described at any time were characters that are involved in Escape!AU - The placements puzzle actually is made out of the room-mates matchups. - The escape room was specifically set up to look like one of Malice’s opperation rooms, but was actually Susie + Alice’s bedroom. Thus, there was a lot of odd ways things were positioned; tools in front of a mirror vanity, including some ink vials that tasted EXTREMELY BAD and were clearly not ink at all (don’t drink makeup or nail varnish Sammy,) - There was photos of things important to Susie in the mirror - A box of hidden stuff, including a bunch of saved songs and other mementos from the ‘glory days’ of being Alice Angel in the studio before everything went bad. Copies of songs... - All the things to get into were specifically dressers instead of normal studio cabinets.  - The code for the door was 1946, which shouldn’t have had meaning at the time based on the ongoing “story” that was being fed - But more specifically, the code was found by figuring out the final notes to a song that Sammy had stuck in his head. This song is a direct reference to the comic that had been done that this “game” directly takes place after. You can read the full comic that inspired this here: Inspiration And some other hints that were just given throughout the game: - The story starts directly after the comic linked above, where Sammy is dealing with Tom hanging out with him while he fixes things around the “studio.”  - HENRY WAS HERE FOR SOME REASON. - Joey would make appearances, but only Sammy ever saw him, and it was only when he was letting the Ink get to him. - Sammy could not figure out if Susie or Allison was Alice Angel, which conflicted with any timeline that had been going on at the time in the game. - Norman and Susie are smoking buddies. - Clear swaps between Susie and Alice in personality even when Sammy was only ever seeing visions of Malice. - Jack could not follow Sammy upstairs when he tried to go upstairs. Buddy was mute. Henry was the most aware of Sammy’s conditions at any time. - Most people do not understand what Sammy is seeing and are trying to calm him down. Nobody is attacking him even when things seem ready to do so. - Also almost everyone’s goals were to keep Sammy out of ink and from leaving the house.  - Joey’s goals were specifically to convince Sammy he was trapped and he needed to escape. - Ink actually never helped his cravings, because none of the ink was ink, at most it was just regular pen ink. - Candles only showed up in one spot (Sammy’s room). There was no Bendy cutouts in the “studio” - Sammy had “5 picks” for some reason, not realizing they were the finger picks instead. - Sammy’s banjo is heavy whenever he picks it up, another difference between his current banjo in Escape!AU and any old banjos. - We had a whole scene diving into Norman’s reaction to lights going out, including the fact that everyone rushed to calm down Norman and stopped specifically paying attention to Sammy at the time as well. - Any time Sammy got close to getting clear information about the safer space he was in now, his visions would immediately go full Ink Hell and sometimes knock him out. - Near the end when Sammy was attempting to escape, a lot of hints were dropped in quick succession, including Henry mentioning things about Sammy’s recovery, and Buddy’s notebook revealing specific phrases from previous Escape!AU Content - Thomas was the last line of defense keeping Sammy from exiting the house, and could have easily struck him down, but in the last moment found himself unable to.

There was two endings to this game, one where Sammy made it outside, and the other where Sammy voluntarily gives himself up to all the people chasing him down and lets them help him. He did manage to make it to the door where Tom was unable to strike him, but at that point he gave in and we got the “good” ending of Sammy being surrounded by caring friends of his trying to help him recover.  The other ending involved Sammy running out onto the empty streets of New York, that are wet and mushy and and Buildings are Oddly Spaced and eventually running into the Loving Embrace of Joey Drew back at his apartment, only to realize his lungs are being drowned in an inky kiss. I did quotes around “good” earlier because TBH I feel like both of these endings were Good Content, even if only one was good for Sammy. ouo

#Escape AU #sammy lawrence #Shazz's Birthday Game AU #A pencil and a dream #Bendy and the Ink Machine

[junghelioseok]

covenant.

↳ your best friend’s engagement forces you to reevaluate your own feelings.

◇ hoseok x reader ◇ smut | angst | werewolf!au | f2l!au ◇ 16.4k [1/1]

⇢ arguably also an arranged marriage!au, ft. kinda sorta dumbasses to lovers? a very, very late bday fic for the most beautiful man in the universe and my favorite funky lil dancer. ♡

notes: i started this in my drafts well over three months ago and all it said was “this ain’t gonna be on time for hobi’s bday i can feel it” and damn if past!me wasn’t right on the money!!! this has undergone three edits, going from 14.6k to 16.4k somehow, and i am going to lose my whole damn mind if i don’t just post it so here it is! hope you enjoy!

warnings: dom!hobi, alpha!hobi, bit of dirty talk, oral (f receiving), some grinding against hobi’s thigh, knotting, hobi’s got a big dick idk, also he’s in heat!!! but things eventually get really soft bc i love him and am a Soft Bitch™ 🤷🏻‍♀️

It’s going to rain.

You can smell it in the air and feel the damp chill against your skin, permeating through every layer of your clothing. The surrounding forest and all its occupants seem to be collectively holding their breath, waiting for the first drops to come. Even your footsteps, soft as they are against the loamy earth, sound much too loud in the hush that’s fallen. Dark clouds gather overhead, looming like an omen, and you silently reach into your purse to check that the umbrella you’d stowed this morning is still there. Vaguely, you wonder if it’s big enough for two.

Around you, the trees slowly begin to dwindle, until there’s only open sky above your head and a wide grassy expanse beneath your feet. A certain heaviness lingers in the air here—a low thrum of energy, born from the ancient magic that sleeps in the gnarled roots of the tree that sits in the center of the clearing. You can feel it prickling along your skin, raising gooseflesh and igniting your veins, and the closer you get, the stronger the feeling becomes.

At the far end of the clearing, you spot a small crowd of people, all clad in black. Your best friend—and your entire reason for venturing out today—stands amongst them in a tailored suit, his black tie snug at his throat and laid atop a charcoal gray shirt. He’s chatting with his father and a few other family members, seemingly calm and collected, but you can tell from the sloppy knot of his tie and the way he fidgets with the hem of his jacket that he is anything but. After all your years of friendship, you can read Jung Hoseok like a book. His auburn hair is disheveled as if he’s been incessantly raking his fingers through it, and even at a distance, you can sense the turmoil in his aura, haloing him like the stormy clouds overhead.

Sensing your approach, Hoseok’s gaze flickers up to meet yours. He raises a hand in greeting and bids farewell to the people he’d been chatting with, picking his way over to you with a wan smile.

“Hey. You made it.”

“I wouldn’t miss this,” you reply, reaching out to take his hand. It’s warm and strong as always, but you don’t miss the slight tremor in his grip. “How are you holding up?”

He shrugs half-heartedly, a sigh escaping his lips and dissipating into mist in the wintry air. “As well as can be expected, I guess. It just… it all happened so fast.”

“I know,” you murmur, twining your fingers together in quiet reassurance. “I’m so sorry, Hobi.”

“Thanks.”

Slowly, his gaze flits to the center of the clearing where the ancient tree sits, traversing from the leafy canopy all the way down to where the gnarled roots disappear into the dirt. In its shadow sits a polished wooden casket, and you squeeze Hoseok’s hand gently as he walks closer, his eyes beginning to glisten.

“I still can’t believe he’s gone, you know,” he mumbles. “All these years of war, of negotiations and peace talks, finally seeing the Accords pass and the company flourish… and now he’s gone. Cancer. Just like that.”

His voice cracks on the last sentence, and you clasp his hand a little tighter. You know as well as he does that a healthy werewolf can live for well over a century, if not for the human genetics that remain susceptible to human weaknesses and disease. True immortality afflicts only the faeries and the vampires of your world—and even then, there are still ways that those folk can die.

“He lived a long life,” you say after a moment’s hesitation, grasping onto any semblance of comfort you can offer. Together, you and Hoseok come to a stop in the shadow of the tree, peering at the closed casket where his grandfather lays. “And it was a good, just life. Not all of us can say that.”

A lone, wet droplet falls onto the polished mahogany, and Hoseok hastily wipes his eyes, tilting his head skyward. “Not long enough,” he whispers. “He still had so much to do. I… I still have so much I wanted to do—to say. And now I’ll never be able to.”

You caress a thumb across his knuckles, the motion soft and tender. “I know. And I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”

Hoseok glances down at that, a glimmer of something manic and desperate swimming in his amber-flecked irises. “You could,” he says, grabbing both your hands and clutching them to his chest like a lifeline. “You could bring him back. You know how, don’t you?”

You shake your head sadly, hating the way his frown deepens as you free yourself from his grasp. “That’s forbidden magic, Hobi. That’s necromancy. You know I can’t do that.”

Hoseok’s entire body sags, his shoulders slumping as he lets out a heavy sigh. Instinctively, you step forward to wrap him in a hug, and he loops his arms around your waist automatically, pulling you flush against him. “I know,” he mumbles into your hair. Then he huffs out a dry chuckle, humorless and deprecating. “Fuck. I’m a mess, huh?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. Instead, you hold him a little tighter, rubbing his back soothingly in long, slow motions—the same way his mother used to do during bedtime. His heart thuds erratically in his chest, fast and frenzied like a caged bird, but lulls as you continue your ministrations, settling into an even rhythm once more.

“Thank you,” he murmurs after a few moments, his warm breath caressing your cheek. “For coming today. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“You can do anything, Hobi,” you reassure, running a thumb along the sharp line of his jaw when he raises his head to look at you. “With or without me. But… you’re welcome, all the same.”

Your presence at this funeral is unusual, and both you and Hoseok know it. Werewolf packs tend to keep their rites and ceremonies private, and the Gwangju pack is no different. Led by Hoseok’s father, and his late grandfather before him, the werewolves of the city have rapidly risen to prominence and power, aided in large part by the founding of JungTech. The company, started by Hoseok’s grandfather, began as a small operation in a battered old warehouse, but quickly grew to become one of Gwangju’s biggest corporations after the signing of the Accords twenty years ago. The peace treaty marked the start of a tenuous coexistence between humankind and Shadowfolk, and, together with your fellow witches—along with the werewolves, vampires, and the few fair folk who decided to leave their homes deep in the forests—you migrated into cities all over the country to forge new lives.

It’s proven easier for some. While the wolves of the city have found tolerance—acceptance, even—you have not fared quite as well. Humans, you have found, tend to fear the ancient magic that runs through your veins. Though nothing you’ve faced comes remotely close to what your ancestors faced in centuries past, you remain wary of those who take a little too much interest in your abilities.

You’re a bit paranoid, your familiar, Bast, has remarked on more than one occasion. But it’s justified, so I suppose it’s all right.

As if sensing that your thoughts have turned to him, Bast stirs in the back of your mind. You feel him yawn and stretch lazily before there’s a tug on the soles of your feet, as if the force of gravity has suddenly, inexplicably doubled. Then he’s materializing—morphing out of the spot where your shadow would be if the sun were shining, taking the form of an inky black cat with sharp, golden eyes. Hoseok perks up when Bast loops between his ankles, and immediately squats down to scratch behind his ears, a small smile settling across his face as a low, content purr rumbles up from beneath his fingertips. From elsewhere in the clearing, a single howl rises up into the air, forlorn and wavering.

It’s starting, Bast says in your head. At the same time, Hoseok straightens to his full height, fiddling with the hem of his black jacket and looking over at you tentatively.

“Sounds like they’re getting started,” he says.

You nod. “I should go.”

Hoseok opens his mouth as if to protest—as if to say no, stay—but you know better and cut him off with a single raised finger.

“I’ll go,” you murmur. “This is a private rite, and I don’t want to break centuries of tradition by overstaying my welcome. Go join your pack, Hobi.”

“Will I see you later?”

“Without a doubt.”

Your parting gesture is to reach out and grab his hand, tucking a little drawstring bag into his palm and closing his fingers over it. “Valerian root and chamomile,” you tell him gently, taking in his rumpled collar and the dark bags beneath his eyes. “Make some tea tonight. It’ll help.”

Hoseok swallows and nods, his features softening as he gazes down at his hand cupped in your smaller ones. He looks like he wants to say something, but another howl interrupts, disrupting whatever thoughts he may have had. Instead, he nods again, murmuring a soft goodbye before turning on his heel to join the rest of the pack gathering around the raised casket. You turn as well, leaving behind the ancient clearing with Bast trotting by your side.

Up above, the heavens finally open, drenching the dirt path beneath your feet with rain. And behind you, the single howl is joined by dozens more, echoing mournfully up into the weeping sky.

///

You’re in the middle of straightening out a display of dittany when the kettle begins to boil, emitting three short, shrill whistles accompanied by a long stream of whirling steam. When silence falls over the shop once more, you wander over to where the kettle sits—atop a small wooden end table next to an old wardrobe. It’s an old relic that’s been passed down through generations of witches in your family, wrought out of silvery metal and suspended in an iron frame above a single lit candle. The flame is glowing pink, flickering in a nonexistent gust of wind, and you smile. Quietly, you grab two teacups from a nearby shelf.

Not two seconds later, the door of the old wardrobe creaks open, revealing the familiar face of Kim Seokjin behind it. A fellow witch and a good friend of yours, Jin has made a name for himself as a baker, running a café in Seoul that offers all sorts of confections—both with magical properties and without. His hair is dyed a muted dusty rose—a stark contrast to the casual black hoodie and jeans he’s wearing—and you reach out to push a stray lock back from his forehead in lieu of a greeting.

“Your hair’s pink again,” you remark. “I like it.”

Jin grins, his plush lips pulling back to reveal perfect teeth. “Thanks.” Carefully, he steps out of the wardrobe and shuts the door behind him. A beat of silence passes, and you take the opportunity to select a canister of tea leaves. You don’t miss the flicker of solemnity that settles into Jin’s features, though, listening as he clears his throat before voicing the question that is undoubtedly the reason behind his unexpected visit.

“So. How’s Hoseok holding up?”

Jin has never been one to mince his words. You suppose you appreciate that about him.

Quietly, you lift the kettle out of its stand and beckon for him to join you at the little wooden table at the front of your shop. It’s tucked neatly into the nook carved out by one of the two bay windows on either side of the front door, flanked by two well-worn, mismatched chairs. Atop it sits a pile of books—everything from ancient remedies to common household spells.

One book in particular always sits open—a detailed list of all the herbs and plants you carry in your shop, along with the various concoctions you’ve created with them. Hellebore, the spine of the book reads, and it’s the same word that graces your storefront in flowing, golden text. An apothecary of sorts, you spend your days dealing out potions and remedies to those in need, both human and Shadowfolk. You do your best to help, for all the times modern medicine has come up short and left someone wanting.

“Honestly? I don’t think he’s been sleeping.” You set the teacups down onto the table and fill them both before handing one over to Jin. “I saw him this morning, at the funeral. He looked exhausted.”

Jin’s brows disappear behind his pink hair. “You went to the funeral?”

“I didn’t stay,” you clarify, taking a sip of your tea. “Just wanted to drop by, say hello, and pay my respects.”

“Werewolves are a private bunch,” Jin remarks. “I’m surprised.”

You shrug. “Hoseok wanted me to be there. So I went.”

“I see.” He doesn’t say anything further, and neither do you, lapsing instead into a comfortable silence that’s broken only by the occasional sip of tea and the clinking of china. Your gaze wanders, drifting over to the front door of your shop, painted a cheerful green and set with a flowery stained glass window that throws kaleidoscopic rainbows across the cream walls and dark wooden floor. Sunlight streams through the wide bay windows, illuminating the interior in warm, hazy gold. On the other side of the room, Bast is curled up, fast asleep on his favorite plush bench beside the glass door that leads to the greenhouse, perfectly haloed by the sun.

“Must be nice being able to fall asleep anywhere,” you mutter, almost to yourself.

Jin hears you anyway, a chuckle escaping his lips. “You sound jealous.”

“Maybe I am,” you reply, laughing with him. “Speaking of which, where’s Adam? Did he stay home?”

Jin nods, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the wardrobe. “Yeah, he’s keeping an eye on the café. Told me to say hi to you for him, though.”

You giggle at the thought of Jin’s familiar, a long-haired sheepdog with a stubborn streak the size of the Nile and blatant disdain for following orders—especially those that come from Jin himself. “Keeping watch, or trashing the place?” you tease.

“With my luck, probably both,” Jin admits with a sigh. “I should probably get back there soon. He ate all the egg tarts last time.”

“Bring him with you next time,” you advise. “Bast will keep him entertained.”

He grins. “I don’t doubt it.”

Finishing off the last of his tea, he stands up and taps the rim of his cup, murmuring a soft cleaning spell under his breath. You smile gratefully as he replaces it back onto the shelf with the others, and stand to walk him back over to the wardrobe. Opening up the creaky door, you watch him clamber inside, standing amongst the hanging coats and the single pair of shoes on the bottom shelf.

“See you later,” you murmur. “Give Adam my best.”

Jin nods. “See you.”

He shuts the door, and you watch the flame of the candle once again turn a soft, roseate pink. It flickers briefly, dancing in an invisible breeze, before reverting back to the color of regular fire, signaling Jin’s departure. Quietly, you clean your own teacup and return it to the shelf.

The remainder of the afternoon passes with few customers, so you opt to close down early and head to your apartment, located up a short flight of stairs on the second floor of the shop. You’re rifling through the refrigerator for dinner ingredients and humming softly under your breath when your phone suddenly rings, Hoseok’s name lighting up the screen in bright white text. “Hey, Hobi,” you say, swiping across the glass to answer. “What’s up?”

On the other end of the line, Hoseok exhales shakily. “Can you come over?”

You blink, glancing at the darkening sky outside. “Now?”

“Yeah. Fuck, sorry. I know it’s late, but I really… I really need to talk to someone. I—” His voice cracks, and your heart sinks. “I need you.”

“Say no more.” Straightening up, you shut the refrigerator door and tug off your apron. “I’ll be there in half an hour. Have you eaten yet?”

Hoseok sighs. “No.”

“I’ll bring takeout,” you decide, already glancing around for your purse. “See you soon, okay?”

Bidding him farewell, you don your coat and head out the door, locking up behind you. Hoseok lives downtown in a sleek, modern penthouse that’s normally a twenty-minute walk away from Hellebore, but after stopping by the restaurant on the corner for food, you opt to catch the bus instead. Fifteen minutes after you hang up the phone, you are rapping the bronze knocker on Hoseok’s front door, a paper bag and a bottle of wine in hand.

Almost instantly, the door is flung open. Hoseok stands in the threshold as if he’s been waiting there, his auburn hair wild and his eyes even wilder. His aura is turbulent, and when he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You raise the bag. “I brought dinner.”

“You’re the best,” he sighs, stepping aside to let you in.

Hoseok’s apartment toes the line between modern and cozy in a way that only Hoseok’s apartment could—with lush green plants and plushy, earth-toned furniture to offset the cold impersonality of the floor-to-ceiling windows and the stainless steel kitchen. Flicking on the kitchen light, you set the food down on the granite countertop and grab two wine glasses out of the cabinet. Hoseok sidles over as you pour a generous helping into each glass, rifling through the silverware drawer for utensils.

“Smells good,” he murmurs, popping a box open. “I’m starving. Thanks for bringing dinner.”

You brush off his gratitude and hand him a glass, raising yours so you can clink it gently against his. Quietly, the two of you fall into a comfortable routine, with Hoseok grabbing the food and you grabbing the bottle of wine to bring into the living room. You help him clear off the coffee table and arrange the food, then settle onto the couch beside him, sipping your drink in silence and patiently waiting for him to gather his thoughts. Years of friendship have taught you that he’ll talk when he’s ready, and you’re content to wait as long as he needs.

Sighing, Hoseok tips the rest of his wine back into his mouth before setting the empty glass down with a soft plink. “So,” he begins, not quite looking you in the eye. “My dad and I had lunch today.”

You stay quiet, waiting for him to continue. He takes several more seconds to muster up the words, and when he finally finds them, they’re exhaled in a tumbling rush. “He told me that he’s pleased with how I’m running JungTech. It’s been over a year, and things are going well… so he wants to expedite my takeover of the pack. In two months, he wants me to take over as the alpha. And…” He swallows. “He wants me to settle down.”

Perturbed, you blink. “What?”

Hoseok finally looks at you, his expression frighteningly devoid of emotion. “He wants me to get married, {Name}.”

Comprehension doesn’t settle in right away. But when it does, your jaw drops to the floor, landing somewhere alongside the ornamental persian carpet and a stray sock that has no doubt jumped ship from Hoseok’s laundry.

“W-what?” you manage after a few long seconds of gaping at him. “Why? Why now? That’s so… that’s completely out of the blue.”

Hoseok shakes his head, a few shaggy strands of auburn hair falling across his forehead and into his eyes. “It’s not, actually. He’s been talking about it for a long time—trying to arrange something with one of the other pack families. It’s tradition, you know? Mating within the pack, keeping the bloodlines pure through marriage. The difference is that Pops always talked him out of it. Always said I was too young, that there was no rush, that I should wait for someone I love, my true mate...” He sighs, heavily. “But he’s gone now. And Dad’s decided that he’s done waiting.”

You shouldn’t ask. You shouldn’t, because you know it’ll hurt, but the question comes regardless—leaving your lips in a near whisper. “Who?”

Hoseok takes a deep breath, his shoulders slumping as he exhales. “Do you remember Im Nayeon?”

You do. You’ve known Nayeon almost as long as you’ve known Hoseok—the three of you having attended the same schools starting from elementary all the way up until Hoseok left to attend university in Seoul. Admittedly, you were never close—and if you were completely honest, you always found her to be a bit disingenuous for your tastes. Nevertheless, you often found yourself at the same events—parties and gatherings you attended at Hoseok’s request, and that she was privy to due to her family’s high-ranking status within the Gwangju pack.

“I remember,” you tell him, your bottom lip finding its way between your teeth. “Does… does she know yet? Have you met up with her?”

Hoseok nods. “She was there this morning, at the funeral. We talked a little bit and got coffee after, but… this is all happening so fast.” Slowly, he tilts his head back to stare at the ceiling, a sigh escaping his parted lips. “But there’s nothing I can do, right? It’s enough that Dad’s somehow talked Mom into the whole thing, but now he’s gotten the Council on board too. Did you know that Nayeon has an uncle on the Council? It’s insane, right?”

“Insane,” you agree in a whisper, doing your best to ignore the way your heart is splintering at the edges.

“You know, I always thought my Dad pressuring me was bad.” Hoseok buries his face in his hands, peering at you from between his splayed fingers when you hum in acknowledgment. “But this? The entire Council on my back? This is way worse.”

“I’m sorry.” You don’t know what else there is to say. Your ribcage feels like it’s been split open and filled with burning coals, weighing hot and heavy on your insides.

Hoseok has dated in the past, of course. You both have—chasing that elusive, fluttery feeling called love and never quite being able to catch it and hold on. Hoseok’s last relationship fizzled long before he graduated from university, having lasted only about six months. You distinctly remember meeting the girl during one of your frequent visits to Seoul, at a small party hosted by Hoseok and his friends. By your next visit, however, things had already ended. He never really told you why the breakup occurred either—only that the relationship never would have lasted in the long run.

Perhaps foolishly, you chose not to pry.

“Is there anything I can do?” you ask softly. Reaching out, you take ahold of his hand and tug it into your lap, threading your fingers into the gaps between his. The gesture is familiar and comforting, like cocoa in front of a lit fireplace, and you can’t even begin to fathom the idea of another person sitting here and holding his hand in your stead.

“Just talk to me,” Hoseok entreaties, squeezing your fingers. “Distract me. What’s going on with you?”

You hum, swallowing down the lump in your throat and letting your head fall onto his shoulder as you pick through the events of the past week for the most interesting tidbits. “Bast has been bringing me dead rats lately,” you finally say, nose scrunching at the memory. “You should see the size of them—they’re almost bigger than he is. And they smell like the sewers, because I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s where he’s getting them from. It’s horrid.”

Hoseok huffs out a stilted laugh. “Sewer rats? Gross.”

“It’s not all bad, to be honest,” you tell him, nestling a little closer to the warmth of his body. Hoseok keeps his apartment chillier than you’re accustomed to, and you’re beyond grateful for the furnace-like heat he gives off naturally. “The bones are pretty useful. The tails too, provided you don’t tell people what they actually are.”

His laugh is much more genuine this time. “Tricky little minx,” he says, amusement lacing his tone. “I’ve always liked that about you.”

You ignore the uptick in your heart rate at his approval, grateful that he can’t see your face as a pulse of heat flushes your cheeks. Instead, you burrow into the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. Hoseok smells like the forest—fresh and woodsy, with a slight floral undercurrent from his fabric softener. It smells like home, and you smile when his arm comes up to wrap around your shoulders.

“Jin came by today,” you murmur.

“Yeah?” The monosyllabic response rumbles through his chest.

“Yeah. He asked about you, too. You should probably text him later.”

Hoseok hums a confirmation, and, satisfied, you cuddle a little closer to him. You pull at the afghan he keeps laid over the back of the couch, laying it comfortably over your lap as he rests his head gently atop yours, his ear pressed to your crown. Your eyes fall shut as you listen to the rhythmic thud of his pulse—solid and steady, backed by the soft hum of the refrigerator and distant traffic on the street far below.

It’s comfortable, sitting with him like this. Comfortable, stroking his arm with your fingertips, in time with the drumbeat of his heart. Ever so gradually, Hoseok’s breathing evens out, and you briefly think that you could stay like this—encapsulated in this delicate, iridescent bubble of contentment—for the rest of your life.

You know the thing about bubbles, though? Bast remarks dryly in your head. They burst.

I know, you sigh.

I know.

///

There’s something soothing about taking inventory—something calming in the repetition of walking down the aisles of Hellebore and restocking the shelves one by one. You’d woken this morning to an apologetic Hoseok making pancakes in the kitchen, his residual heat and woodsy scent lingering on the blanket tucked around your body. After a harried breakfast and a promise to text you later, Hoseok rushed off to the office.

You, in turn, returned to your shop, where you grabbed every ounce of cleaning supplies you possess and scrubbed the place from top to bottom, foregoing all of your usual dishwashing charms and dust-clearing jinxes. The physical labor is a welcome distraction from the events and revelations of last night, and you’ve thrown yourself wholeheartedly into all the chores you need to complete.

“Almost out of rosehip oil,” you mutter, eyeing the half-empty vial and making a note to extract more from one of several plants in your greenhouse. “Low on valerian too, hmm…”

The bell over the front door jingles merrily, diverting your attention away from your task. “{Name}?” a voice calls softly. A moment later, a familiar head of coppery red hair pops around the edge of the shelves, choppy bangs framing a soft, warm face. “Hey, there you are. You busy?”

You shake your head and shut your inventory book, setting it down on the nearest shelf. “Not terribly, no. What brings you here today, Lisa?”

Lisa’s answering smile is sheepish. “Got something to return,” she says, holding up a little glass jar full of lavender colored pills that you immediately recognize. “I’m guessing you’ve already heard the news. Looks like I won’t be needing these anymore, right?”

Your laugh sounds brittle, even to your own ears. “Right. Yeah. Not anymore.”

For just over ten years, Lisa has been the wolf assigned to help Hoseok through his heat. Between his family’s status and his longtime designation as the next alpha of the Gwangju pack, it’s imperative for Hoseok to avoid anything that might be perceived as scandalous. Torrid sex stories splashed across tabloid covers is the last thing a man like Hoseok needs, and that’s where Lisa comes in. Once a year, for three days, she goes to him, and no one is none the wiser. Her job is one that calls for the utmost discretion, and as the daughter of a high-ranking Council official, no one understood that better than she did. You’d only found out because of your role as one of the few witches in the country who makes and stocks the proper contraceptives for such wolves—the dosage much stronger than the human equivalent.

And when Lisa had first approached you to purchase the pills, you’d dropped two jars and nearly set fire to a third. Your stomach had fallen to somewhere around your toes, right alongside the shattered glass and little lavender tablets.

You’d chalked the accident up to surprise. Hoseok hadn’t mentioned anything to you, after all, and you’d known very little about the intricacies of werewolf heats back then, having just opened your shop at age eighteen. But surprise doesn’t explain the snaking jealousy that bubbles up in your tummy every time Lisa comes in to restock her supply of pills, nor does it explain the overwhelming sense of relief you feel now as she presses the unopened jar into your hands.

“I still can’t believe he’s going to be the most powerful man in Gwangju soon.” Lisa steps back, tucking her hair behind her ear and letting out a soft sigh. “And now he’s engaged, too. It’s pretty crazy, huh?”

“Crazy,” you agree tonelessly, turning to replace the jar onto the appropriate shelf.

Lisa, however, is nothing if not perceptive. A gentle hand lands on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. “Hey,” she begins, soft and slow. “You know you can talk to me, right? Are you—?”

But the sound of the bell drowns out the rest of her question, metallic and bright in the quiet of your shop. “Hello? Anyone home?” a cheery voice asks.

“Be right there,” you say immediately, shrugging off Lisa’s hand and stepping out from amongst the shelves. There’s a young woman standing at the checkout counter, rifling through the collection of seeds on display, and you cringe as she replaces a few packets in the wrong spots. “How can I help you?”

At the sound of your voice, the woman turns gracefully on her heel, her expression a perfectly crafted amalgamation of surprise and delight. “{Name}!” she exclaims, stepping forward with an outstretched arm. “Long time no see!”

“N-Nayeon,” you stammer, the shock of seeing her face freezing you in place. “What… what brings you here?”

The dark-haired woman steps forward to pull you into a hug, enveloping you in her fruity perfume. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to catch up with an old friend?” she asks playfully.

We were never friends, you want to say. In your head, Bast lets out a derisive snort of agreement. Lisa, you notice, has conveniently melted away somewhere amidst the organized chaos of your shop, disappearing into the myriad shelves and knickknacks.

“Plus, I really wanted to look at some flowers,” Nayeon continues, betraying her true purpose at last. “You’ve heard, haven’t you? About my engagement? I’m sure Hoseok—I mean, my fiancé—has mentioned it to you, of all people. You are his best friend, after all.”

The inside of the shop is beginning to feel stifling. Perspiration trickles down your neck and you tug at your collar, loosening the material from where it’s plastered against your skin. “Sure,” you manage, once you feel like you can breathe again. “Right. Sure. The flowers are right this way, if you want to follow me.”

I’d forgotten how much I don’t like her, your familiar remarks dryly in your head.

Shut up, Bast.

Mercifully, he does. There’s a tug on your feet, and you glance down just in time to see him morph out of the shadow you cast against the sun-drenched floor. Ghostly and amorphous at first, he quickly solidifies into the feline figure you’ve grown accustomed to, and slinks protectively around your ankles before darting off to perch in the cushioned bay window seat.

Conveniently, that’s also where the flower display is. Colorful blooms and trailing leaves adorn the wooden shelves and tables in this particular corner of the shop, and you force yourself to shift back into professional mode as you come to a stop in front of an assortment of honeysuckle. “So, what kind of flowers are you looking for?” you ask, brushing your fingers along the pale yellow petals.

Nayeon hums thoughtfully and picks up a potted rosebush, examining it from all angles. “Roses, maybe. Are roses too clichéd now?” She brings the crimson buds closer and inhales, eyes fluttering shut. “No matter. I’ve always liked them.”

“They’re beautiful,” you agree, turning your attention to the selection of roses lining the topmost shelf. “Do you have a color preferen—?”

“Or maybe these would be better,” Nayeon interrupts, plucking up a pale pink calla lily from the bouquet you keep in a table display. “Or that one—what is it?”

You follow the trajectory of her gaze to a bunch of little white flowers with golden centers, stark against the dark dirt and surrounding green foliage. “That would be bloodroot,” you answer. “One of my personal favorites—it’s both ornamental and medicinal. It would look lovely in a bouquet.”

Nayeon pulls a face and shakes her head. “No, no—I don’t want anything with such a horrible name. What about these?” she asks, reaching up to take a closer look at a larger bloom. “Peonies, right?”

By the time Nayeon makes it back to the checkout counter with a few sample rose cuttings in hand, you’re fairly certain that several eternities have passed. “Is there anything else you need?” you ask as you ring her up and wrap the flowers neatly in paper.

“A discount for an old friend?” she queries, shooting you a playful wink. When you don’t answer right away, she giggles. “I’m kidding! Obviously, I’ll pay. It’s not like I’m pressed for money—I mean, you’ve seen who my fiancé is, right? Now gosh, where did I put my wallet?”

Your cheeks are beginning to feel far too hot. Nayeon is still rummaging in her purse, and you quickly duck beneath the counter under the pretense of looking for some ribbon to tie off the bouquet. Fanning your face, you take a few deep breaths, listening as she continues chattering away.

“We’re having dinner tonight, actually, Hoseok and I. It’ll be our second real date, and… wait!” She gasps, and you peer up just in time to see her slap a hand over her perfectly lacquered mouth. “You should come! Bring someone, if you can—it’ll be like a double date!”

If you can? Bast snipes. Curse her.

You sigh inwardly and straighten back up, ribbon in hand. Shut up, Bast.

If you won’t, I will.

You’ll do no such thing.

Mustering up your best, most earnest smile, you hand over the wrapped flowers along with her change. “That sounds like fun,” you tell her, ignoring the way your insides lurch at the lie. “When and where?”

Nayeon beams and rattles off the address of an unfamiliar restaurant. “Don’t be late!” she calls as she heads for the door. The bell jangles cheerily as she departs, and as soon as the door shuts behind her, Lisa pokes her head around a nearby bookshelf.

“Finally,” she sighs, walking over to join you. “I thought she’d never leave.”

Ordinarily, you wouldn’t dare speak ill of a customer, but you’re willing to make an exception today. “You and me both,” you reply, watching as Bast slinks over like a shadow and hops onto the counter beside you. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your elbow in silent solidarity, and you mindlessly begin scratching behind his ears as Lisa speaks again.

“Are you really going to go to that dinner tonight?”

You meet her gaze, shrugging. “I already said I would. Do I really have a choice?”

There isn’t much else to say, and both you and she know it. Pushing off from where she’s leaning against the countertop, Lisa flips her coppery hair over her shoulder and shoots you a look, brown eyes full of sympathy. “Good luck,” she says sincerely. You get the feeling that she wants to say something else, but decides against it at the last minute. Instead, she bids you goodbye and walks out with a wave and another chime of the bell. Silence settles over the shop once more, and you allow yourself a few moments to breathe—slow and deep, in and out—before picking up your phone and opening up the most recent text messages. It doesn’t take long to find the name you’re looking for, but you still pause, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, before you begin to type.

[4:21pm] You: how would you like to join me for a very awkward dinner date?

[4:21pm] Jin: consider me intrigued.

///

You and Jin arrive at the restaurant first. It’s an ornate, palatial place with tuxedoed waitstaff and a coat room, and despite giving the name ‘Jung’ at the door, you’re certain that Hoseok played no part in the venue selection. The host ushers you to a booth tucked in the back, the cushioned seats a velvety burgundy and a chandelier glittering overhead, throwing refracted, iridescent light across the veined marble table. All of a sudden, the simple black dress you’re wearing feels painfully inadequate. Glancing down at your feet, you wonder if you should have worn heels instead.

Beside you, Jin cuts a striking figure in a creamy silk shirt with ribbons that tie into a bow at his throat, the material loose and flowy up until where it tucks into fitted black slacks. His pink hair complements the elegant outfit perfectly, parted and swept off his forehead to reveal his dark brows.

As if reading your mind, he lays a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You look beautiful,” he says, before gesturing at the booth. “Now, do you want the inside or outside? Think you’ll need to make a quick getaway at some point?”

“Probably,” you sigh. Jin nods and sits down first, and you watch him slide across the seat cushion before settling in beside him. “I still can’t believe you volunteered to be here,” you murmur, plucking up one of the folded cloth napkins and fiddling with the crisp white edges. “You’re a saint, I swear.”

Jin chuckles and plucks the napkin from your clasped hands, laying it across your lap instead. “Not a saint,” he says, matching your soft tone. “Just someone who cares about you.”

Your cheeks warm at his sudden proximity. “Thank you,” you tell him, for what must be the umpteenth time. “I can’t even imagine what I’d do without you.”

“Good thing you don’t have to, then,” he replies with a grin. “Now, chin up. They just walked in.”

You can’t help the groan that escapes you. “Is it too late to run?”

“Afraid so,” he answers honestly.

And then Nayeon is slipping into the cushioned seat opposite you, syrupy smile in place on her berry lacquered lips. “Hi!” she chirps, laying a hand on Hoseok’s arm as he sits down beside her. “Sorry we’re late. We, um…” She pauses and shoots Hoseok a conspiratorial look, giggling. “... lost track of the time.”

Your magic flares, hot and bright in your veins, and you know Jin feels it too when he lays a cautionary hand on your knee beneath the table. “We weren’t waiting long,” he says, offering the two a genial smile. He’s perfectly polite as he and Nayeon exchange quick introductions, and gestures toward the assortment of menus on the table as soon as everyone has settled down. “Why don’t we order some wine to start?”

“Oh, that’s a splendid idea! Isn’t that a splendid idea, Hoseok?” Nayeon turns to the auburn-haired man beside her, and you do the same, gaze landing on Hoseok for the first time tonight. He’s in an all black ensemble, sharp jacket layered over a silky black shirt, the top buttons loosened to bare a tantalizing sliver of golden skin. His auburn hair is parted, a stray lock falling across his forehead, and you shiver when you realize he’s staring right back at you with dark, unreadable eyes.

At the sound of Nayeon’s voice, Hoseok seems to snap out of his trance, his expression smoothing out as he plasters on a smile. “Take a look at the menu,” he says, picking up the leather-bound book and offering it to her. “Dinner’s on me.”

You blink. “We can’t let you do that, Hobi.”

“Let me pick up at least part of the tab,” Jin adds, already reaching for his wallet. “I’m no corporate bigshot, but I do well enough for myself.”

“No need to be modest,” you chime in, nudging him playfully. “Weren’t you just telling me about your new restaurant opening on the way over? Next week, right?”

Jin’s ears redden as all the attention is turned onto him. “Next week, yeah.”

“That’s amazing!” Nayeon chirps, pressing closer to Hoseok. “We’ll have to check it out sometime. Maybe a date night, right, darling?”

Hoseok busies himself with rearranging his cutlery, swapping the knife and fork around. “Right—sure. If we ever make it up to Seoul, we’ll, uh… we’ll definitely stop by. Congratulations, man.”

The conversation continues. A server stops by to take your wine order, and Jin decides on a moderately priced bottle of cabernet sauvignon. Glasses are brought over, and wine is poured. Hoseok finishes his quickly and pours himself another, and though his wolf metabolism prevents him from getting drunk off of regular wine, you know that he’s a bit of a lightweight and tends to avoid drinking heavily no matter what the beverage. He’s drinking with a purpose tonight, and you’re beyond grateful when Jin pipes up with yet another story when the conversation lulls.

“And then I found out that the oven was on the whole time! Adam would probably let the entire apartment go up in flames just to spite me—I should watch my back.”

“Or, you know, just watch the oven more closely,” you tease. “I’ve seen your place, Jin—it’s a complete fire hazard. It’s a wonder it hasn’t burned to the ground already.”

Jin sniffs. “You’re exaggerating. Stop making me look bad.”

“You make yourself look bad,” you retort, laughing when his lower lip juts out into a pout.

Across the table, Hoseok clears his throat. “Speaking of fire hazards—did I ever tell you about the time {Name} set me on fire?”

“I did no such thing!” you protest, reaching over to slap his arm. “I mean, okay, maybe a little bit, but that was one time! And you were barely singed!”

Hoseok snorts out a laugh. “Barely singed? I couldn’t sit properly for a week.”

“Oh please, that’s a lie and you know it!”

Nayeon interrupts your conversation with a loud huff, setting her wineglass down with enough force to thud against the veined marble tabletop. “Do one of you maybe want to fill us in on the joke here?”

Abashed, you glance back at Hoseok, watching as his smile slowly fades back into the careful, neutral expression he’s worn all evening. “Sorry,” you murmur. “It’s an old story from when we were kids—when we first met, actually. We were seven years old, and it was the second day of school. I didn’t have a very good handle on my magic yet, and accidentally set Hoseok’s tail on fire during recess.”

“I preferred to run around in my wolf form back then,” Hoseok further elaborates. “There was a big field out behind the school—remember that, {Name}?”

You nod. “Of course. It went right up to the very edge of the woods. And if you kept going and went far enough, you reached the old wooden bridge.”

Hoseok is smiling again, soft and fond. “That thing was a death trap.”

“But the teachers could never keep us away,” you say, grinning at him.

“All right,” Nayeon interrupts again, sniffing disdainfully. “Enough about the old days—I think it’s time to talk about the present. And more importantly, the future.” She sighs happily and props her chin up in her palm, ensuring that the delicate golden band on her ring finger is on full display, the metal glimmering in the warm light. “You’re both invited to the wedding, of course. And I never did properly thank you for the flowers today, {Name}!”

Her words seem to come as a surprise to Hoseok, who straightens up in his seat. “Flowers? You visited Hellebore today?”

“Of course I did!” Nayeon hides a giggle behind a manicured hand. “I wouldn’t even think of trusting anyone else with my bouquet.”

Hoseok’s gaze skitters over to you, awash with concern and tinged with apology, but you ignore him in favor of forcing your expression into something that’s meant to be a smile. Yet no matter how much you strain your cheeks and stretch your lips, it feels—and looks, you’re sure—far more like a grimace.

“I’m happy to do it,” you lie, your teeth gritted and tight. “I don’t mind it one bit.”

///

“So. That was just as awkward as promised.”

You and Jin are walking back to Hellebore, leaving behind the bustling downtown area for the darker, quieter streets of your neighborhood. Your companion’s hair is tinged orange in the glow from the streetlamps, and you can only chuckle humorlessly when he turns to you and raises his eyebrows.

“Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I was duly warned,” Jin agrees.

A car drives by, the headlights throwing Jin’s profile into stark relief. His expression is solemn but he doesn’t say anything else and neither do you. The remainder of the walk passes in silence, broken only by the occasional strain of conversation from passersby and the low drone of late night traffic. You reach Hellebore with no incidents, and you muffle a yawn as Jin steps into the wardrobe to go back to Seoul.

Just before he shuts the door behind him, he shoots you a meaningful glance over his shoulder. “You should tell him how you feel, you know. He deserves to know. And you… you deserve to be happy.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t need him to. Long after he’s gone, his remark echoes in your head, and no matter what, you simply cannot seem to shake it.

///

It’s been years since you’ve last gone to the old bridge, but after last night’s conversation you find yourself pulled back, lured by the promise of memories of a kinder time. The forest beyond the field hasn’t changed much since your school days, and neither, you realize, has the bridge itself. It still stands tall, proudly spanning the steep ravine that your teachers warned you about, the rickety wood splitting apart at the seams and overgrown with lichen and climbing ivy. Far below, the white-capped river rushes by on its long, turbulent journey to the sea.

Carefully, you step onto the bridge—first one foot, then the other. The energy in the air shifts as soon as your feet leave the loamy earth, finding traction instead on hewn wood, and you sigh as your fingertips brush against the railing. The magic here is an old magic—different from the ancient magic that dwells in places like the werewolves’ clearing and the realms of the fae. The low thrum of it fills the air and seeps into your veins, quickening your pulse and prickling your skin.

“I thought you might be here.” The voice comes from your left, barely audible over the rush of the river.

“You thought right,” you reply, stepping forward until you’re toeing the railing and leaning over to stare down into the swirling, eddying waters below.

Hoseok joins you at the edge. His profile is stark against the leafy green backdrop, and for a few moments, all is still. Then: “I’m really sorry about last night.”

The apology hangs in the silence for a few moments before fading into the sound of churning water and wind whistling through the trees. You suck in a deep breath, oxygen swelling your lungs until you can hold it in no longer, before letting it escape in a resigned sigh.

“You don’t have to apologize to me, Hoseok.”

“Maybe not. But I want to.” He shoots you a sidelong glance. “Will you let me make it up to you?”

You raise a brow. “Make it up to me? And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

“Anything you want.” Hoseok smiles crookedly, but you can’t quell the tumult brewing in your belly.

“What do you want, Hobi?”

His smile fades. “I—” He stops and shakes his head, auburn hair flying. “It doesn’t matter what I want. This is about you.”

You gaze up at him, taking in the sharp cut of his jawline and the straight angle of his nose. Your eyes trail along the smooth slope of his rounded cheeks and the soft curve of his mouth, lingering on the little mole atop his upper lip.

And then you reach out and take his hand, savoring the way his fingers immediately, comfortably settle into the spaces between your own. “Why don’t we head down to the river?” you ask. “It’s been a long time since we’ve been, and I’ve missed it.”

Hoseok’s expression softens, a glimmer of something bright shining in his amber-flecked irises. Gently, he tugs on your hand, taking the lead as you leave the bridge behind and head north in search of the sloping path that will take you down and into the ravine that houses the riverbed. You chance a few glances over the treacherous edge, watching the water froth and tumble over the rocks.

“You know, this seems a lot more dangerous now than it did back then,” you muse. “I see why our teachers were always trying to keep us away.”

“We were kids back then,” Hoseok says, grinning. “We thought we were invincible. Nothing could touch us.”

“Simpler times,” you agree with a laugh. “I set your tail on fire, you cried—”

“—and then we became lifelong friends,” Hoseok finishes, joining in your mirth. “Easy-peasy.”

Together, you locate the path down to the ravine. The descent is easier than it was back then, your longer limbs extending your reach, but you’re grateful for Hoseok’s steadying hand all the same. He carefully guides you around the biggest rocks and tree roots, pulling you closer when you lose your footing near the bottom. His fingers remain twined with yours even after you’ve safely arrived at the riverbed, stepping across stones that have been worn smooth and warmed by the sun. You slip off your shoes, letting them dangle from your free hand, and Hoseok does the same.

Sunlight glitters off the water, throwing a thousand refractive diamonds across the surface, but when you dip your toes in you find that it’s cold as a mountain spring in autumn. That doesn’t stop Hoseok from bending down to splash you though, and you shriek in surprise before retaliating with a silent spell that sends icy water splattering across the faded denim of his jeans.

“That’s not fair!” he protests. “You can’t use magic!”

“I’m just using every resource available to me,” you reply with a sly grin, sending a swelling wave of water toward him with a lazy twist of your hand.

From beneath his drenched hair, Hoseok raises a challenging brow in your direction. “Oh yeah?”

Before you can even blink, he’s shrugging off his jacket and pulling his shirt over his head, baring a taut, honeyed abdomen and toned arms. Tossing the discarded clothes onto the bank, he unfastens his belt and lets that drop as well, fixing you with a crooked little smirk all the while. The muscles in his torso ripple.

And then he’s shifting—limbs elongating and reddish-brown fur sprouting from his skin. His remaining clothing rips under the strain of the transformation, floating downstream in tattered shreds, but you don’t pay them any mind. No matter how many times you’ve watched Hoseok shift, you’ll never quite get used to it. He hunches over, more beast than man at this point, his chest rumbling. And before you know it—before you can even pinpoint exactly when the transformation is complete—he’s standing before you as a massive russet wolf, baring ferociously sharp teeth that you know could easily tear a man limb from limb.

His eyes, however, remain the same—warm, molten brown flecked with amber and gold, a devilish twinkle lurking in their depths. You cock your head to the side in a silent challenge, and swear that the wolf in front of you grins before pouncing forward, landing in the river with an enormous splash that leaves you thoroughly drenched.

“Now we’re both soaked!” you cry in between giggles, watching as Hoseok emerges from the water, his fur dampened black and dripping. “How is this a win for you?”

Hoseok rears back and lets loose a triumphant howl, shaking himself out and further drenching you with the spray of water from his coat. You squeal and back up several steps, batting him away, but Hoseok just presses closer and nuzzles his wet face into the crook of your neck. His body heaves with every breath, flaring hot against your skin, and for a few long moments, you simply stand there, your arms coming up to wrap around his neck as icy water rushes past your ankles.

After what feels like an eternity, you step back, releasing Hoseok and staring up into his face. Even in his wolf form, he towers over you, and you reach up to stroke his muzzle tenderly before bopping him on the nose. “Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s dry off.”

Hoseok lets out a low rumble of agreement, and together, you make your way back to shore. You fold up his discarded clothing while he trots off to locate his shredded jeans, quickly finding them caught between some rocks and carrying the denim tatters back over to you in his teeth. Shaking your head, you add it to the growing pile and lay a hand atop it. Heat concentrates in your fingertips, mingling with the magic running through your veins. Stitch by stitch, his jeans repair themselves, drying in the process. Hoseok bumps your cheek with his nose in gratitude and darts off to change, and you dry your own clothes while you wait.

When Hoseok returns, he’s reverted to his human form, fully dressed and raking a hand through his damp hair. “Thanks for drying these off,” he says, flashing you a sheepish grin. “And for fixing my pants. Again.”

“Mending charms are easy,” you reply, and it’s the truth. Over the many years you’ve known Hoseok, you’ve mended his clothing countless times—from the accidental transformations in his early years, before he could control it, to the calculated ones as he got older. Hoseok doesn’t shift terribly often nowadays, but on occasion he still goes out to stretch his muscles and hunt with his pack. His grandfather, in particular, always made the time to take him hunting at least once a month. You wonder if he’s gone since he passed, but decide not to ask.

“Should we go see the Towers?” you ask instead.

“Lead the way,” he agrees, falling into step beside you as you head downstream. The ravine walls are higher here, decorated with gnarled roots and rocky outcrops that obscure the periwinkle sky and cast long shadows across the ground. Cairns begin to crop up on both sides of the river—each tower of stones carefully and deliberately stacked. They’re small and scattered at first, but gradually become taller and more frequent until you’re nearly surrounded by a forest of stone. The air grows noticeably heavier—the magic more potent. It almost feels as if electricity is dancing across your skin, the sparks sinking into your pores and melding with your soul.

Hoseok feels it too, if the look of awe in his eyes is any indication. “I can’t believe I’d nearly forgotten about this place,” he marvels, running a finger across one of the stacked stones. “Do you feel that? The magic?” Then he chuckles. “Wait, of course you do. What am I talking about?”

You smile softly, tracing the path his fingertips leave behind. “Yeah, Hobi. I feel it.”

The topmost stones are almost out of your reach now. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out a gray pebble about the size of your palm—a near perfect disc veined with white. Gently, you place it atop the cairn closest to you, watching it glint in the sunlight for a moment before turning to your companion.

“Well?”

Ancient legend dictates that as long as an offering is left, one may take a stone from the Towers. You and Hoseok have each acquired a rather sizable collection during your childhood years, lured by the promise that the stones will bring about good fortune and happiness.

“I forgot to bring something,” Hoseok admits, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “But I can pick one out for you. Hang on…” He hums thoughtfully as he scans the towering pillars, tapping his chin until he alights on one in particular, plucking up a stone that’s been worn smooth, burnished orange and marbled with ivory and copper. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful,” you reply, admiring the way the marbled surface glitters in the sun.

Hoseok takes your hand and places the stone gently in your palm. “It’s yours.”

Then he’s off—stepping over a fallen log to admire another tower, brushing a curious finger across a moss-covered rock before glancing over his shoulder at you. “Coming?”

You nod, tucking his gift away safely in your pocket. Together, you carve out a path amongst the towering cairns, clambering over river rocks and brushing aside the dense undergrowth. The path opens up again gradually, revealing the burbling water to your left and the steep ravine wall to your right. The river is calmer here—clear enough to see all the way to the bottom where shimmering, silvery fish dart about. A low, flat rock juts out into the water a short ways away, and Hoseok strides over to plop atop it, gesturing for you to join him.

“This is nice,” he sighs once you’ve made yourself comfortable by his side. “The fresh air is doing me a world of good. I’ve been cooped up at the office for so long, I swear I almost forgot what trees smell like.”

“You’re more than welcome to sniff around the shop if you ever need a reminder,” you tell him, nudging his shoulder playfully. “Better yet, I’ll bring you a plant for your office. Spruce up the place a little bit.”

“That sounds great, actually,” he admits with a chuckle. “I don’t have your green thumb, though. I’ll probably end up accidentally killing it.”

“Something low maintenance, then,” you promise. “A succulent, maybe. When should I bring it by?”

Hoseok’s expression sombers. “You can always stop by tomorrow after the hearing.”

Your heart plummets into your stomach. The Ministry—the overarching government body that dictates all Shadowfolk affairs—summons every pack alpha for a confirmation hearing when they first come into power. “They’re holding the hearing? Already?”

He nods. “The Ministry’s summoned me for tomorrow morning. First item on their schedule, I’m pretty sure.” A resigned sigh escapes his lips, dissipating into mist on the air. “And there’s a party at JungTech HQ afterward. You know. So my dad can officially hand the reins over.”

“The most powerful man in Gwangju,” you murmur, thinking back to Lisa’s words.

Hoseok lets out a derisive snort. “Yeah, right. The most powerful man, beholden to his dad, the Council, and the entire fucking Ministry. It doesn’t matter what I want to do. Never has.”

It’s the second time he’s dismissed his feelings, and as much as you want to ask what it is he truly wants, you find that the words are stuck in your throat, your mouth suddenly as dry as the desert on a cloudless day. Instead, you lay a silent hand over his, feeling his warmth seep up into your palm.

“Hey.” Hoseok doesn’t tear his gaze away from the sky, watching a flock of birds fly overhead. “Yesterday, when Nayeon said she’d stopped by… did she say anything to you?”

The sound of her name leaving his lips leaves a sour taste on your tongue, but you swallow it down. “Not really,” you tell him. “She looked at some flowers and invited me to dinner. Simple as that.”

Hoseok nods slowly, lips pursed. “Was Jin already there when she came?”

You blink. “Jin? Oh, no—no, he wasn’t. I texted him after Nayeon left.”

“Ah.”

“I’m glad he was free, though.” You stare down into the water, where a curious fish swims in and out of the shadow you cast. “I’m honestly not sure who I could’ve invited if he hadn’t been available. Plus, it’s been ages since I’ve had dinner with him, and it’s been a few months since you’ve seen him too, right? I’m really happy it worked out.” You’re rambling now, but you can’t stop yourself. Hoseok has become eerily still, lost in introspection, and you feel obligated to fill the silence.

“You two make sense, you know.” Hoseok’s voice comes suddenly. “As a couple. Both witches—it makes a lot of sense.”

You peer over at him, eyes widening at his assumption. “We—we’re not actually together, Jin and I. We’re just friends.”

Hoseok straightens at that, his gaze flitting down to meet yours. “Really?”

“Really.”

A beat of silence. Hoseok looks like he wants to say something else, but a quiet buzz from his pocket stops him in his tracks. His mouth clamps shut as he checks his phone, teeth clicking together, and you can tell from the sudden tension in his jaw that it isn’t good news.

“Do you have to head back?”

He nods stiffly, silent apology written all over his face. “Work calls.”

You offer him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me. Go on. I’ll see you tomorrow after your hearing.”

He nods again and turns to leave. Before he can take too many steps, though, you call him back, reaching into your pocket to pull out the stone he’d gifted you earlier.

“Take this,” you murmur, pressing it into his hands. “I’m pretty sure you need it more than I do right now.”

Hoseok’s fingers curl protectively around the stone, holding on like it’s his only remaining lifeline. “Thanks.”

///

Downtown Gwangju is a monochrome forest of towering glass and steel, clamorous and unchecked by nature, proudly defiant in the face of the earth mother herself. The sidewalks are awash with people rushing back from their lunch break, forcing you to dodge around several businessmen too absorbed in their phones. Just as you are finding your footing again, a hapless intern carrying a tray of coffee cups rushes past, nearly crashing into you.

“Oh, shi—sorry! Sorry, oh, jeez. Are you okay?”

You wave off his apology with a smile, taking in the ill fit of his suit and the messy knot of his tie. “Don’t worry about it,” you tell him, reaching out to help him steady the tray in his hands. A stabilizing spell—silently cast, the magic pulsing through your fingertips—should be enough to get him back to his office with no additional mishaps. You wonder if he’ll notice that his tray is suddenly more well-balanced, or that his hands have steadied.

But then again, you suppose it doesn’t really matter whether he does or not.

Somehow, someway, you make it to JungTech without running into anyone else. The receptionist recognizes you immediately and points you toward the elevator with a smile, and you thank her as you press the up button. It doesn’t take long to arrive, and you take a deep breath as you step inside, staring at your reflection in the mirrored walls.

All right? Bast queries, stirring awake in your mind.

You release the breath that you’d been holding in a long whoosh. Yeah. I’m all right.

The doors open on the top floor, and straight away, you are assailed by a cacophony of sounds. Scattered conversations and laughter intermingle with the clinking of champagne flutes. There are at least fifty people scattered around the open space that lies between the elevator and the glass-fronted CEO’s office at the very back—the office that bears Hoseok’s name on the door. There’s no sign of the man himself, but you have no doubt that he’s nearby. This entire party is a celebration for him, after all.

The elevator doors begin to close, and you quickly reach out to stop them, stepping out before it can protest at your dawdling. A young man in a pristine white shirt materializes on your right with a tray full of champagne flutes, and you pluck one off with a murmur of thanks. Sipping slowly, you wander around the perimeters of the party, listening to the lively chatter. Across the room, you spot Lisa, returning her friendly wave with one of your own.

“Hello, {Name}.”

The deep, familiar voice has you whirling around in an instant, head bowing in automatic deference. “Mr. Jung,” you murmur, not quite daring to look him in the eye. “It’s been a while.”

Hoseok’s father inclines his head in acknowledgment, salt-and-pepper hair gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. No doubt he was a handsome man in his younger days, but the salt in his hair has steadily overtaken the pepper in the last few years, the stern lines around his mouth deepening.

“I didn’t know you would be joining us today,” he says cordially. “But then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised after all these years. Have you been here long?”

“Not long. Five minutes, maybe.” Beneath his piercing gaze, you feel like a small child again. Quickly, you scramble for something else to say, gesturing around the sleek glass interior of the office. “This is a lovely party. You must be so proud.”

Another nod. “I wasn’t sure that Hoseok was going to step up,” he admits. “I had my reservations about whether or not he would accept his duties as a Jung, but he has, and I’m pleased that he did. It’s no easy feat, running this company and leading the city’s pack. But I’ve served my time, just as my father did before me.” His gaze flits down to meet yours suddenly, and you find that you can’t read the emotion swimming in them. “I believe I spotted you at his funeral the other day, did I not?”

You nod, resisting the urge to take a sip from your nearly empty champagne glass as your cheeks warm under the scrutiny. “I was, yes. I’m very grateful to have had the opportunity to pay my respects. He was a great man.”

“That, he was,” Mr. Jung agrees. “Hoseok takes after him in many ways. My father—as great as he was—always had a soft spot for the boy. Coddled him a bit too much.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Jung, I think that’s a grandfather’s job,” you reply with a smile.

That earns you a smile in return, the lines around his mouth easing. After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Hoseok’s father excuses himself to talk to the other guests, and you set off in search of Hoseok himself. You can feel his aura somewhere nearby, strong and steady, but the room is large enough that you cannot pinpoint his exact location. Not for the first time, you curse the fact that you don’t have a werewolf’s sharp sense of smell. No doubt it could easily be as cumbersome as it is helpful, but it would certainly help you right now.

Turning a corner, you are about to continue lamenting your average olfactory system when you suddenly catch a glimpse of familiar auburn hair, afloat in a sea of black suits. Dodging around a sharply dressed businesswoman and ducking beneath a waiter’s serving tray clears your path to Hoseok, and you’re milliseconds away from stepping forward to greet him when you feel it.

There’s an energy emanating from Hoseok, the likes of which you’ve never felt from him before. It’s heavy and commanding and so potent that the air is laden with it, and a cursory glance at the people surrounding him reveals that they feel it too—their gazes lowered, voices hushed and respectful. In his fitted black suit and emerald green shirt, he looks every bit the alpha he is, and you are quickly realizing that you’re not immune to the power radiating off of him. The Hoseok standing before you isn’t the same Hoseok whose tail you set on fire all those years ago. Far from it. The revelation is somehow simultaneously terrifying and thrilling, and your heart leaps into your throat when you notice that he’s waving you over.

As if compelled, you comply, striding forward until you’re standing before him. “Hi,” your murmur, suddenly feeling shy.

Hoseok’s face splits into a smile. “Hi yourself,” he says, and you would have laughed if your insides didn’t feel like they were about to burst.

“I, um. I brought you your succulent,” you tell him, reaching into your bag. There’s a tiny potted jade plant inside, packaged neatly into a box that you open up and present to him. “It’s jade. Easy to keep alive, and easy to propagate too, if you’re inclined.”

Hoseok accepts your gift, his smile growing as he admires the plump green leaves. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

You shrug and wave off his gratitude, fiddling to clasp your bag shut. “So,” you start, glancing around and gnawing on your bottom lip, completely missing the way Hoseok’s eyes darken as he follows the movement. “It looks like everything went well at the Ministry. Your dad is pleased.”

Hoseok hums, low in his throat. “You talked to him?”

“Yeah, just now.”

“I see.”

He looks like he wants to say something more, but he’s interrupted by a blur of motion and a shrill cry of his name. A moment later, Nayeon is at his side, latching onto his arm and batting her lashes, adorned in a form-fitting red dress and golden jewelry.

“Hoseok! There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you!” Then her gaze alights on you, eyes going wide as if she’s only just noticed your presence. “{Name}, oh my goodness. I almost didn’t see you there, hi!”

“Hello, Nayeon,” you grit out, unable to hide your scowl. You wonder if she spotted it before you hid it behind a large sip of champagne.

Luckily, she doesn’t seem to notice. Her attention refocuses onto a spot behind you, and you watch as her expression lights up, delight etching across her features. “Mr. Jung!” she exclaims. “There’s my favorite future father-in-law. Come and join us—it’s not a party without you.”

Hoseok’s father chuckles lightly, coming forward to stand beside you. “Long time no see,” he jokes, nodding in your direction. “And Nayeon—hello. How are you enjoying the party?”

“Oh, I’m having the loveliest time,” she chirps, simpering up at Hoseok. “How could I not be, when my fiancé is here with me?” Then she smiles—her lips painted the same shade of red as her dress. “But I’m sure I’m nowhere near as happy as you are. You must be beyond excited to spend some quality time with your wife after being busy for so long.”

“I am,” Mr. Jung admits. The severity in his features softens as he seeks out his wife, standing across the room surrounded by friends and extended family. “I’m a very lucky man to have a woman like her.”

Nayeon giggles. “And I’m a lucky woman to have a man like your son. Isn’t that right, darling?”

She tilts her head to look up at Hoseok, who blinks twice in rapid succession, his throat bobbing. “Right,” he says, his voice raspy. “The luckiest.”

And as you turn to engage Mr. Jung in conversation once more, you miss the way his gaze lingers on you.

///

Tuesdays at Hellebore are for brewing. You save bottling for Thursdays—giving your potions and other concoctions ample time to simmer and set—but today, you are hunched over the stove with all four burners turned to different temperature settings, watching over your pots so that they don’t boil over.

A cursory glance out the window tells you that it’s well into the afternoon, the pastel blue sky littered with trailing clouds lit hazy and golden in the sun. You’ve been in the kitchen since early morning, and, desperate for a breath of fresh air, you crack the window open and inhale deeply. Then you turn back to the stove, giving one pot a stir and adding a pinch of burdock root to another.

Wandering downstairs, you head to the greenhouse. The sunlight is brighter here, the air more humid. Inhaling deeply, you breathe in the scent of the hundreds of plants growing inside, before heading for the laburnum tree in the far corner. Carefully, you brush aside the cascading golden flowers, about to gather the dried ones that have fallen to the dirt when there’s a knock on the front door.

“I’m sorry, we’re close—” you say, stopping when you recognize the head of coppery red hair in the window. “Lisa?” Confused, you open the door and let her inside. “What brings you here today?”

“You need to go to Hoseok, now,” she says, foregoing any preambles. “He’s… well, you’ll see. Nayeon’s there right now, but she’s not helping the situation, and...” She sighs. “I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who can help him now.”

All at once, your stomach drops to your toes. “What’s wrong with Hoseok?” you demand. “Is he hurt?”

Lisa shakes her head, red hair flying. “No, he’s fine. I don’t know how much longer that’ll last, though.”

The cryptic response sends your heart into overdrive, pounding against your ribcage like a doomsday drum. Striding over to the bay window, you wake Bast from his nap in a slanted ray of sunlight, scratching behind his black ears and watching as his golden eyes flicker open, pupils going wide when he senses your turmoil.

What is it?

Hoseok, you reply shortly. Beneath your touch, Bast’s ears perk up.

What do you need?

You swallow, hard, and suck in a deep breath. I’m going to open a portal.

It’s a dangerous feat, and both you and Bast know it. Opening a portal requires an immense amount of energy, and maintaining one long enough to travel through is a risk to even the most experienced witches. You’ve heard horror stories of spliced limbs and paralysis, and in some cases, even death.

But for Hoseok, you’re willing to risk it all.

“Lisa,” you say, grabbing your purse and striding back to the front door of the shop. “Can you lock up once I’m gone?”

She nods nervously. “Of course.”

You incline your head in silent thanks. At your feet, Bast is slinking continuous figure-eights around your ankles, betraying his worry at the task ahead. Your own heart feels ready to spring out from your ribcage and onto the sun-drenched floor, but you swallow down your nerves and look down at your familiar once more. Ready? you ask.

Ready, Bast confirms. Be careful.

I will.

Closing your eyes, you begin to visualize Hoseok’s front door, focusing on every little detail you can remember. There’s the scuff in the black paint from when he first moved in and accidentally scraped a table leg against it. There’s the bronze knocker that always hangs slightly askew. The image builds slowly in your mind, coming together like the broken pieces of a puzzle.

The air around you is suddenly much warmer than before, an invisible force sapping away at your strength and weakening your legs. Bast’s energy melds with yours, but it’s barely enough to keep you on your feet. Exhaustion seeps into your bones and steals the oxygen from your lungs. You gasp, chest heaving.

I don’t think it’s going to work. Bast’s voice is a faint whisper in the back of your mind.

It will, you hiss. It has to.

The front door of your shop is beginning to glow white, becoming hazy and amorphous as the edges begin to blur. You spot a splash of black paint coming through the fog, followed by a bronze knocker. A matching handle appears a moment later, growing out of tendrils of mist and solidifying before your eyes.

Sucking in a deep breath, you reach forward to grab it. Slowly, you turn until you can turn no longer.

And then you step through.

The first thing you hear is a low, cavernous rumble—deep enough that you feel it reverberating through your very bones. Then your surroundings begin to come into focus. You’re in Hoseok’s entryway, all your limbs thankfully intact. The relief you feel at your success is quickly eclipsed by worry though, when you see Hoseok himself on the far side of the living room. The look in his brown eyes is nothing short of wild, his white shirt unbuttoned to nearly his navel and his auburn hair sweaty and disheveled.

“H-Hobi?” Your voice is no more than a breath, dissipating in the open air.

“Hoseok.” The new voice has you whirling. Nayeon is pressed against the wall opposite him, her expression harried. “Hoseok, please—“

“Get out,” Hoseok growls, his voice dangerously low. He’s bristling with the same energy as before, the same energy you felt back at JungTech—but this time it’s enough to fill the room and spill out the opened door and into the hallway. You can feel it pulsing against your skin, hot and electric, and know that Nayeon is even more affected from the way her shoulders slouch, her eyes dropping to the floor when he snarls. “Get out, now.”

She does. Nayeon turns on her heel and dashes out, slamming the door behind her and leaving you alone with Hoseok. His eyes are alight with something more wolf than man, his chest heaving with uneven breaths, and it’s all you can do not to shrink back when he turns his full attention onto you. Even from across the room, you can smell the liquor spilled across the coffee table in a dark ooze of fluid, cloying and bitter.

“What are you doing here?” Hoseok asks, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “You shouldn’t be here right now, {Name}.”

“Lisa told me to come,” you whisper. “You’ve been pushing yourself too much, Hoseok.”

Hoseok shakes his head and rakes a frazzled hand through his hair. “You need to leave,” he grunts. Shakily, he reaches out to right the overturned liquor bottle, the pad of his thumb skimming across the shattered edge.

“Let me do that,” you tell him, making to step forward, but Hoseok stops you with a raised hand and a low growl that stops you in your tracks.

“Don’t,” he hisses. “Don’t you dare come any closer to me.”

You shake your head. “Hobi, it’s obvious you’ve been drinking. Let me help you.”

“No!” he snarls, flinching back when you take a step forward. “You need to leave. It’s… it’s dangerous for you here.”

“Dangerous?” Your voice is reduced to a whisper at the severity of his reaction, the energy in the air intensifying until it’s almost unbearable. “Why?”

“Because I’m in heat!” Hoseok spits. He sucks in a deep breath, the air whistling between his teeth, before he lets out an agonized moan and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m in heat,” he repeats, reticence dripping from every syllable. “I can’t even fucking think straight, and I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you if you stay. So please, {Name}. Please go.”

“But Nayeon…” you begin, wavering when his eyes flash darkly at the mention of her name. “Or Lisa… I can call her, maybe—”

“No!”

You jump, startled at the volume of his shout.

“No,” Hoseok repeats, softer this time. “Don’t. I don’t want them. I’m—I’m fine.”

The sticky humidity and the pulsating energy flowing through the room tell you otherwise. “You’re clearly not,” you tell him gently, taking another step toward him. “Let me call Lisa. Or maybe one of the other girls in the pack, I’m sure someone can help y—”

“I don’t want Lisa.” Defeat suffuses his tone, his eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t want any of them. I want—fuck.” Hoseok groans and lets his head fall back against the wall, the dull thunk echoing in the stillness. “It doesn’t fucking matter what I want. You need to leave, {Name}. You’re only going to be in danger if you stay.”

For the second time that afternoon, only one word springs to mind. “Why?”

Hoseok groans again. “Because I’m weak,” he mutters hoarsely. “Because I’m weak, and I’m not thinking straight, and if you come any closer to me, I won’t be able to stop myself from pinning you against that wall right there and having my way with you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. The rippling energy in the air is almost oppressive in its strength, and only grows when Hoseok’s gaze finally lands on you, his pupils blown out and blacker than the night.

“Go,” he entreaties, dragging a frazzled hand through his hair. “Please, {Name}.”

You suck in a deep breath, your lungs swelling and expanding with the newfound oxygen. Then, ever so slowly, you let your gaze flicker up to meet his. “What if I don’t want to?”

Hoseok freezes. Time comes to a standstill, and even the overwhelming energy emanating from him seems to falter. The room is near silent, broken only by your companion’s ragged breathing, his chest heaving beneath the thin white fabric of his shirt. Even from across the room, you can see the sheen of sweat coating his honeyed skin, shining in the light of the setting sun.

“You don’t mean that,” he says at last. “You can’t mean that.”

“I can,” you whisper. “And I do.”

For three agonizingly long seconds, Hoseok remains rooted firmly in place, his throat bobbing harshly. Then, before you can even blink, he’s striding forward—a blur of motion almost too quick for your eyes to follow. He comes to a stop a hair’s breadth from you, one hand reaching up to cup your face delicately, as if you’re made of glass.

“You,” he rasps, “have no idea what you’ve just done.” His thumb traces the swell of your cheek just below your eye, the motion surprisingly tender. Your heart stutters in your chest.

And then he leans down and crushes his mouth to yours.

The rest of the world falls away, dissolving into nothing. Your eyes flutter shut as Hoseok’s hands slide down your sides to curl around your hips, your body melting against his taut frame. He is all you can feel and all you can taste, and you keen helplessly when he grinds against you, his cock hot and hard against your stomach.

The sound seems to awaken something in Hoseok, a cavernous groan erupting from his throat. Pulling away from your mouth, he descends upon the delicate skin of your neck, teeth and tongue blossoming bruises in their wake. Shaky hands find the collar of your shirt, questioning eyes seeking out yours for permission that you happily give. He tugs the garment off almost delicately, his ravenous gaze roving across each bit of newly revealed flesh, and once it’s freed from your head he tosses it aside and sets about doing the same to the rest of your clothing.

Maybe it should feel odd, watching through lidded eyes as Hoseok drops to his knees to pull your jeans down and off your ankles. Maybe you should feel embarrassed, seeing your best friend bury his nose between your legs, delirious bliss etching across his features as he inhales, his strong fingers curling around your thighs to spread you wider. But instead, it feels completely and utterly natural—as if this was always meant to be.

“You smell divine,” Hoseok breathes, slotting himself between your spread thighs and running a fingertip along your lace-covered slit, collecting the considerable slick there and bringing it to his nose. “Fuck, {Name}. Just one whiff, and I can tell that you’re primed and ready for me.”

“Take me, then,” you breathe back shakily, rolling your hips when he slips past the lacy barrier of your panties to find your clit, circling around the sensitive nub until you’re gasping his name.

Hoseok’s gaze darkens to obsidian, his pupils swallowing up the amber-flecked brown of his irises. In one smooth motion, he’s on his feet again, straightening up to his full height as his hands find purchase on your hips. He twirls you around until you’re facing the wall, your palms pressed flat against the woven tapestry hanging there.

“Gorgeous.” A single word, laced with unmistakable awe. Then he’s fumbling with his belt buckle, the metallic clink and tug of a zipper reaching your ears, before he presses against you, clothed chest molding against your bare back. Even through the thin layer of fabric, you can feel the sweltering heat emanating from him, his sweat soaking through the cotton and sticking to your skin. His mouth finds its way to the junction of your neck and shoulder again—teasing at the flesh until you’re quivering—before he begins laying a trail of hot kisses down your spine.

“Wanna fuck you,” Hoseok rasps, tearing your panties away once his lips reach the waistband, the flimsy lace ripped to shreds in his desperate grip. “Want you on your front, want you on your back, want you on my tongue—” His voice drops, rumbling through his chest and sending shivers through your entire body. “Want you. Wanted you for so long.”

And as if to reinforce his words, the velvety head of his cock nestles against the cleft of your backside, hot and slick.

Wordlessly, you arch your back, presenting him with the tempting swell of your rear. A glance over your shoulder reveals the strained clench of his jaw and the bob of his throat, his biceps tensed and his gaze unwavering. His control is undoubtedly dangling by a single thread at this point—a delicate, gossamer thread that’s on the verge of snapping. The delirium of his heat is overtaking his senses, his grip tightening on your hips, and ever so slowly, he begins to press forward until the tip of his thick cock is just beginning to part your walls. Already, the fit borders on excruciating, and your body tenses at the intrusion, stretched to the limit around his thick girth.

Hoseok exhales shakily, his primal instincts warring with his desire to ensure your comfort. Soft lips drop kiss after kiss onto your bare shoulders, your back, your neck—wherever he can reach as he whispers tender praises into your skin. “Breathe, princess,” he encourages lowly. “You can take it—I know you can. You were made for me.”

Obediently, you inhale, focusing on the way your lungs expand and contract as you draw air into them. The pain ebbs away with each breath you take, until all that is left is a low throb of pleasure. Your hips rock back against him, and Hoseok takes it as a sign to push forward once more, parting your walls until he’s fully seated inside you, your body stretched to the limit as you mold around him.

There’s no pain now—only an aching desire for more, more, more. He’s deep enough to reach parts of you that you’ve never been able to explore before—either alone or with other partners—and you moan brokenly when he rolls his hips experimentally. “More, Hoseok,” you whimper. “Please.”

He obliges. One thrust leads into another, the punishing pace he sets fueled by his heady desperation for relief. The full, heavy weight of his cock dragging along your walls ignites every nerve ending in your body, sizzling electricity blazing through your veins. It’s all you can do to plant your palms flat against the tapestried wall, fingers twitching at the woven fabric as Hoseok grabs your hips with enough force to bruise and pulls you back against him in time with his thrusts.

“Look at you,” he says hoarsely. “Love the way you feel, clenching around me like that. My perfect, pretty girl, taking my cock so well. I always knew you were made for me.” He grunts, forehead falling against your back, damp hair matting against your skin as he continues rutting against you. “Always—fuck—knew you were my mate.”

The particularly harsh thrust that follows his raspy declaration sends all coherent thought flying out of your head, taking your surprise along with it. All you can manage is a shuddery whine that vaguely resembles his name, the sound intermingling with the obscene smack of flesh against flesh and the continuous stream of praises Hoseok whispers into your skin.

There’s something building inside you—a dull, throbbing pressure at the point where your body joins with his. He’s still rolling up into you, but each subsequent thrust grows more and more shallow. The realization dawns on your dazed mind all at once, as you feel the growing swell at the base of his cock. Hoseok is rendered near immobile as he finally reaches his high, the entirety of his length sheathed firmly inside your pussy as he spills ropes of white against your fluttering walls. The swelling continues, filling you until you feel fit to burst.

“H-Hoseok,” you gasp. “I can’t. I can’t—you’re going to rip me in half.”

Soothing hands smooth along your sides, warm lips littering kisses onto your bare shoulders. “You can,” he murmurs tenderly. “You were made for me, and I for you. You can take it, princess. I know you can.”

The gentle repetition of his fingertips trailing nonsensical patterns into your skin eases your labored panting somewhat. Beneath his touch, you slowly relax, the pressure in your abdomen abating as his knot begins to subside.

“You did so well.” His voice is no more than a mumble, almost lost in the sweat and slick coating your skin.

You sag against the wall, taking a few moments to catch your breath before slowly easing off of him, the sudden loss leaving your core empty and aching. Gingerly, you turn around to face him, acutely aware of the way your combined juices immediately begin dribbling down your thighs.

“You said I was your mate,” you whisper, almost afraid that the sentiment will disappear if voiced aloud. “Did… did you mean that?”

“Every word,” Hoseok replies, equally soft. “Is that okay?”

A smile blooms across your face. Rising up to your tiptoes, you kiss him again—a soft, reassuring peck that he immediately leans into, seeking out your touch like a flower in the sun. “More than okay,” you breathe, feeling the way his lips stretch upward against yours. “I’m glad, Hobi.”

Hoseok sighs into your mouth, a slow smile settling across his features. “Now it’s your turn,” he says, and in an instant, he’s swept you off your feet, one arm beneath your bent knees and the other around your back. “And I’m planning to take my time with you, princess. You’re not leaving here until I say so.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, crossing your hands at his nape. “Fine by me,” you tell him, earning yourself a wide grin. His lips seek out yours again as he carries you down the darkened hallway and into the shadowy depths of his bedroom, pausing only to nudge the lightswitch on with his elbow. Golden light suffuses the room as he steps forward to lay you on his bed, your back sinking into the plush mattress and dipping further when he joins you. He hovers over you with an arm on either side of your head, and you reach up to trace the vein that lines his biceps with a gentle fingertip, giggling when he gives your bottom lip a punishing nip.

The kiss deepens from there. Hoseok parts your lips and seeks out your tongue with his own, subduing it into compliance. By the time you pull apart, all the oxygen has left your lungs, leaving you flushed and gasping. Hoseok chortles breathlessly and trails down to press a kiss to your navel, before traveling downward until he’s reached your clit. Gently, he wraps his lips around the sensitive nub, rumbling with laughter when you buck against him.

“So needy,” he murmurs. To your displeasure, he straightens back up to kneel between your spread thighs, but your complaint quickly dissolves into thin air when he edges forward until his knee is pressed against your aching clit. Desperate for more friction, you grind against him, your wetness soaking through his jeans in a matter of seconds.

It doesn’t take long for pressure to build up in your belly again, winding tight as a coiled spring. Hoseok is staring down at you, transfixed, and his undivided attention only serves to bring you closer to the edge, teetering on the very brink.

“Look at you.” His voice could almost be described as a purr, if he weren’t so utterly canine in mannerisms and appearance. “Such a greedy little thing, all desperate to get off. You’re making a mess of my new jeans, princess.”

You’re too far gone to care about the teasing lilt that colors his tone. The edge is rapidly approaching, and one last roll of your hips is enough to send you over, your walls convulsing around nothing as you ride out your high.

Hoseok doesn’t wait. In an instant, he’s back between your legs, having moved so quickly you didn’t even see when he’d started or stopped. His tongue darts out to lave at your folds, a growl rumbling through his chest when your hips jump on instinct. Immediately, he tightens his grip, strong arms winding around your thighs and anchoring at your waist to render you helpless in his grasp, only able to take what he sees fit to give.

“How is it that you taste even better than you smell?” Hoseok muses as he leans down to suck your clit into his mouth, lips curling up into a pleased smirk when you gasp out his name. “Cute,” he says, releasing the nub in favor of descending to your drenched entrance instead, flicking his tongue shallowly inside before withdrawing with a chuckle.

“Hoseok—” you begin, only to dissolve into a moan when he sheaths two fingers inside you without any warning, curling them up and in until you’re shaking in his grasp.

“Come for me,” he commands softly. “Go on, let me hear you.”

And you do, chanting his name like a mantra as a wave of pleasure overtakes you. Hoseok’s thumb circles your clit in just the right way to prolong your orgasm, and it isn’t until you’re cringing from overstimulation that he finally relents, descending down to mold his mouth to yours in a searing kiss. His lips part yours, tongue dipping out to explore as he sheds his shirt and shucks off his ruined jeans. His skin, when he presses against you, burns hot as a furnace wherever it touches. Against your stomach, his cock stirs back to life.

He’s gentler this time. Every movement is slow and deliberate and tender as he breaches you, murmuring your name reverentially as he fills you again. Your body bows to his willingly, stretching to accommodate him, and the spike of pleasure that lances through you when he bottoms out is almost enough to send your oversensitive body over the edge again, your walls fluttering around him.

There’s an unmistakable shift in the air when Hoseok starts up a slow rhythm, leaning down to kiss you again. His lips move against yours, soft and tender, before moving past your jugular and down to the crook of your neck, elongated canines scraping against the delicate skin in a silent question. You wind your arms around his neck and nod, giving him his answer. There’s no need for words.

And then his teeth are sinking into the spot he’s so lovingly scoped out, breaking the skin. Your body collapses into a searing orgasm, and the pleasure intermingles with the pain of the bite until you are delirious, rendered boneless in his grasp. Hoseok’s hips stutter, his pace growing erratic as he soothes the wound over with his tongue.

You’re prepared for the swelling this time, but the fullness still manages to knock all the air out of your lungs, bordering on painful as his knot grows. Hoseok quells your whimpers with tender kisses, the instinct to comfort his mate paramount even as he paints your walls with ropes of creamy white. He traces a path from your lips down to where he’s marked and claimed you as his, imbuing your skin with a litany of praises that warm you from the inside out.

“My mate,” he murmurs, reverent. “Finally.”

You lean into his touch with a tired smile. “Finally? How long have you wanted this?”

His lips curl into a smile against your clavicle. “Ages. If I’m honest, I think I fell in love with you the day you set my tail on fire when we were kids. It’s always been you, {Name}. Only you.”

You can’t help it—you need to hear it from his mouth again. “You love me?”

Hoseok chuckles. “Of course I do. My tricky little minx—my perfect, pretty mate. I love you more than anything.” One hand reaches up to caress your cheek, running along the tender skin beneath your eye before cupping the back of your head so he can mold his mouth to yours. “Love you more than I can even explain,” he breathes, punctuating each word with a kiss. His hands blaze trails down the slopes of your body until he finally anchors below the crook of your legs. “So why don’t you let me show you instead?”

And he does. Over and over that night, and in the two days of his heat that follow, he shows you exactly how he feels. Propriety is forgotten, left by the wayside with his scorned fiancé and marriage. He is yours, and you are his.

Consequences be damned.

⇢ aftermath.

also set in this universe:

[myg]

#hoseok #hoseok smut #hoseok x reader #bts smut #bts scenarios #werewolf!au #werewolf au #hoseok scenarios #hobi #jhope #jung hoseok #bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts #witch!au #witch au #friends to lovers #f2l #bts fluff #bts angst #hoseok x you #kpop scenarios #lia writes

[palbabor-writes]

Latibule

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, panic attacks & hypochondria, adult language, eventual SMUT

Words: 9790

His usual spot at the cafe is taken, and he’s already decided to keep walking on, but somehow, somehow, he manages to catch your eye.

His feet are slowing, a stuttering breath stagnating in his lungs, all at once hopeful and bewildered, but before he can examine his fluttering emotions, you’re alongside him on the noisy sidewalk, passing him his usual evening drink, a pleased smile on your soft lips.

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you.

Notes: hi. this is my first real foray into the world of Haikyuu!! & i’m so excited to branch into this fandom! if this is your first time reading my stuff imma warn you, i take things slow, so expect some slow burn. 

this will be a multi-chapter fic with eventual NSFW/18+ only content. i will post warnings for each update. i’ll also link other chapters on this page and any other pages that come up, so keep in mind that there will be edits to links as things progress - i wasn’t planning on this being anything more than a one-shot, but this first exploration of Sakusa’s character turned into a monster & i wanna really hone in on that sweet, sweet build up. 

big, huge shoutout to @wickedfaerytale & @albinoburrito​ for their edits and suggestions. y’all are amazing and i love you both so much, this fic wouldn’t be what it is without the two of you. 

Latibule /lat-i-bule/ noun a hiding place; a place of safety and comfort 

pt. i: an opening 

[ pt. ii: four set ] ||

It’s a quiet coffee shop. 

He likes that about it. He likes it almost as much as the simple fact that he can tell what day of the week it is by the smell of the disinfectant and bleach that’s being used behind the counter. 

There’s a strange comfort to this place’s consistency and Kiyoomi Sakusa likes to linger here, propping his MSBY issued volleyball bag beside his usual table. He’s already placed his coffee order with the cheerful man who guards the cash register, watching as his paper cup is marked with a fresh sharpie and placed on the bartop, beside the elbow of that barista who always attentively turns to wash her hands before making each new order.

He had stumbled upon the shop his senior year of college and he’s haunted it ever since, content to sip on a smooth cortado as he watches over the latest plays from the MSBY games, mapping out his overestimations, his successes, and his flukes in his notebook– carefully lined kanji listing out what worked and what needs some extra practice. The caramel sweet flavor of the ristretto shots always helps to relax him, his broad shoulders lowering, the ache of self-induced tension and overworked muscles easing as his drink cools between his fingers, finally sinking fully into the plush leather seat of his clean chair.

The young woman, he should know your name, but he’s never caught a proper glimpse of your name tag, because you’re always moving, gives him a familiar lifting of smooth lips and places his completed drink on the handoff plane. You know his personal preferences well enough that you’re already moving the caddy of lids and cardboard sleeves forward, so he can select his own from the neatly stacked row. He gives you a cursory nod and his calloused fingertips pull the frothy beverage into his hands, cupping the curved sides and taking a deep drag of air through his masked nose, inhaling the bright smell of fresh coffee.  

And…vines…or is it a tangy pine? 

There’s something else that’s tickling his senses, and he blinks toward you, dark brows knitting together, a misplaced curl of inky hair brushing against his forehead, trying to make sense of the smell. His chin lifts and his head tilts, eyes watching your polished movements as you move onto the next drink in line. It’s definitely got some floral notes, but it’s not cloyingly sweet, like honeysuckle or gooseberry–no, it’s got some kind of balmy spice to it. It returns when you move closer and he swears he can taste summer when you shift back. 

Odd. 

When you look up at him again, he’s already stepping away, his running shoes squeaking across the slate tiles, making his way back to his bag and table. The aroma of your perfume is half forgotten when he cracks his laptop open, squirting some hand sanitizer across his chapped palms before he starts to clack his fingertips across the dark keys. He needs to get more lotion; he thinks as the sterile solution cools between his splayed fingers, this weather always dries his skin out.

The next time he comes in he spies you at the back of the shop, jotting something down in a large binder before kneeling behind the counter, returning with a sparkling, grated drain top. The white gleams under the accented lighting and he watches as you thumb at the paint, denoting a splotch of rust that rests under the dip of the metal. You return the cover to the ground and immediately twist to the hand washing sink that rests behind the bar, lathering up some dispensed soap and methodically stroking from the tips of your fingers to your wrists. A steady puff of steam is rising around you as he places his order– 

[ a oat milk smoothie, with an extra scoop of protein powder, chia seeds, turmeric, kale, cucumber, dash of dates for sweetener ] 

and by the time he’s paid and padding toward his usual spot, you’re finishing up, yanking a few disposable paper towels from the overhead dispenser and gingerly drying your damp hands. 

He’s seen you wash your hands plenty of times before, but he finds himself distractedly following your movements this afternoon as he waits for his order and his computer to finish booting up. You catch his obsidian eyes when you turn around and give him a brief smile; a flash of teeth peeking through your lips before you move back to your binder. You jot down a few more notes as you move onto the fridges that sit under the countertops, pulling and prying at the gaskets that line the doors of the whirring chillers, speaking softly to a fellow employee, pointing out the missed stains and chipped flecks of ice that like to hide within the folds of the protective plastic. 

You’re not overbearing in your coaching, keeping your tone even and friendly, focusing on what can be done going forward, rather than lingering on the ‘what if’s’ and ‘why wasn’t’ of the situation.

Practical, efficient, thorough with your work, and careful with your craft. 

Those descriptors float to the forefront of his mind as he takes his smoothie from the barista that’s standing beside you. He lets his gaze hold against your half leaning form, watching the lead tip of your pencil mark over the stark red checklist that you’re working your way down. 

He’s not sure why he’s so focused on you. He’s never thought much about you. You’ve been someone that exists in the background, part of his routine to be sure, but he justifies that your attention to detail is likely the reason why he prefers this shop to the dozens of other coffee houses that litter the main street by the MSBY training facilities and stadium. Your head shifts, and he can tell you can feel his gaze, so he swiftly plucks up his icy cold cup, his nose involuntarily trying to seek out that perfume you’d been wearing the other day. 

Strange. His brow furrows, and he hunches into his sports jacket, walking back to his chair and his glowing computer. He can’t smell it today. Maybe you’re too far away, or perhaps you’d forgotten to put it on before coming in.

Pity. He’d liked it.

“Running a little late today, I see,” your voice snaps him out of his stupor, onyx eyes lifting to rest against your open expression. 

“Kind of,” he replies blandly, his deep cadence muffled by the pull of his mask.

“Damn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be late! Want me to push your drink to the front of the queue? I’ve got the power to do that, you know,” you tease, tilting your head as a mischievous grin settles over your quirked lips. Kiyoomi blinks impassively down at you and shakes his head. How would he even reply to something like that? You were joking, right? You must be. And if you weren’t, the people who are clustered around the handoff plane would certainly realize that he was being given his drink first, clearly ahead of all of theirs, and they’d probably toss him a few disgruntled stares or mouthy jabs, and likely accuse you of playing favorites. 

Wait. Favorites? 

Does he count as a ‘favorite’ here? He looks away, lips drooping into a pursed line. You’ve always been…nice…but there’s no way he’s a favorite of yours. He’s hardly spoken to you in the year and a half that he’s been coming here. But is that all it takes? Just take up space in the cafe a few times a week and get special treatment? 

No. You must be joking. 

All the same, your jovial tone and that welcoming smile is a little intriguing.    

He shuffles closer to the heat of the espresso machines, easily lifting his head over the lip of the bronze metal, watching you. You’re looking down now, fingers gripping the dark handle of the portafilter, holding it under the buzzing grinder to gather a fine sprinkle of dusky espresso grounds into the waiting basket. Then, you lift a lustery tamp to the heaping mound and press expertly against the delicate remains of the arabica, packing them to an even level before clamping the filter under the display of the machine. When you flick the switch that activates the group head you must sense his stare and lift your eyes to his, eyelashes momentarily fluttering against your cheeks when you spy his unabashed observations of you.

For a second, your hands falter, trapped within the unexpected intensity of his curious gaze, and you pat blindly for the cup that’s sitting to the right of your curled arms, embarrassingly disarmed by his transparent focus. But once your grip wraps around the waiting plastic, it seems to ground you and you let out a huffing chuckle, eyes crinkling up at his half obscured face. 

“I’m only kidding about moving your drink up, don’t worry, I won’t get you in trouble. Besides, it’s against our policy. First come, first serve and whatnot,” you assure him, halting the stream of water that’s pouring the carefully timed flow of espresso into the clear shot glass that’s waiting against the gleaming metal of the drip tray. 

“You’re busy today,” he notes, jerking his curly head toward the gaggle of college students sprawled across some of the bigger tables, their laughing voices and overly loud conversations easily drowning out the hum of lofi jazz that’s playing from the recessed speakers.

“Ah, yeah, finals are coming up for a lot of us that go to the university. I know my classes are starting to gear up for that last push and sometimes you just need a pick me up and coffee is great for that. We also get a big boost from the smoothies and frappes that we sell in the afternoons, so we get a little packed. Most of our sales happen during the weeks leading up to finals and midterms, uh, anyways, not that you asked for an economic lesson on a small cafe’s profit margins.”

“You’re a student?” he asks, head dipping back, eyes glittering in the lights. Wait. How old are you? Not that he can boast any sort of seniority on that front, he’s only 24 after all, but you just seemed, hmm, more mature? He didn’t picture you as a co-ed. Not that he’s actively picturing you when he’s not here. Well, he is a little recently, but you’ve always felt sort of timeless? Ageless? Is that the right term? You give off an air of confidence. So he’d assumed that you were older than him. Not in a bad way, in fact he’d sort of like it if you were. Why, that is, he’s not willing to look too deeply into, at least, not right now. Maybe later, when he gets back home and can…oh, you’re talking again.

“I’m a graduate student, but not for much longer. I’m finishing up my dissertation this week! Thank God. This semester has been the pits, I’m so ready for a break!” You sound genuinely happy and he can smell that faint aroma of your perfume each time you move. 

“Congratulations,” he murmurs, unsure if you’d heard him since you’re stepping away from the machines that he’s posted himself behind. He watches you set up two steaming drinks, topping them with a lazy swirl of silky, housemade, whipped cream, a crosshatch drizzle of caramel, carefully snapping a set of black plastic lids on top, before calling out the handwritten names and handing them off to their respective owners. Then you’re back, hands already unhooking the portafilter, knocking out the used espresso pucks into the trash and bringing him back to that spicy smell of summer that sits on your skin.

“Haha, it’s a little early for a congratulations. Don’t jinx me, will’ya? But seriously, thanks, that’s nice of you to say,” you continue, flowing easily back into this half-hearted conversation he’s accidentally struck up with you. He winces at that thought and dips his hands deeper into his jacket, hunching his shoulders into a habitual slouch that he instinctively imposes upon himself when he’s out in public.

“You want a lid?” you question over the hiss of the machine, and he lifts his head, finding your bright eyes through the misting remains of the cleared steam wands. 

“No.” His response is clipped, and he gulps down a sudden burst of hazy anxiousness when someone brushes past him, jostling him closer to the low wall that divides the bartop from the cafe floor. He braces himself against the warming top of the machine, his large palm steadying himself, shoulders caving forward, his dark curls falling over his eyes, obscuring his face further. He clenches his jaw, a scowl blooming over his lips. 

His social anxiety isn’t anything new, and it’s likely exacerbated by the bustle of the nearby college students, who seem to be getting louder by the second. The noise is needling under his skin. He starts his carefully ingrained breathing exercises, tugging in a deep stream of air through his flared nostrils. 

But the smell is coffee is too overwhelming and suddenly his ritual doesn’t help much. 

He can feel blood leaving his fingertips and toes, or as his cousin Komori puts it [ the inescapable dread of some imagined ailment, which is making him think that his body is rushing blood from his extremities to his vital organs, his fingertips cold, hands shaking, when in reality ‘you’re just feeling unsure of yourself, man. It’ll be ok in a minute, promise!’ ] 

But in the end, it doesn’t matter what anyone calls it, or how they think he should feel during these heart pounding moments, he just knows that he wants to get out of here, now. 

His agitation must have twisted the top half of his expression because the feel of your warm fingertips against his wrist jerks him out of his head, causing him to suck in an unsteady breath as he lurches backwards, pulling away from your offending touch. 

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t think…I just…” you bite your lip, a look of stark worry passing over your usually open features. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Are you…are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, teeth clenched, right leg bouncing in place against the tiles. Shit. It’s not like he could have predicted that you’d try to touch him, so you can’t really blame him for his misplaced reaction. Just get him his coffee and he’ll be on his way…

Come on…come on…

“Here you go. Sorry for the wait, Sakusa,” you lift on your tiptoes, the stretch of your legs and arms apparent as you hold his cup out, careful to balance yourself against the lever of the steam wand. He takes the proffered drink and nods his thanks at you, his gaze dark. The gesture might be a little strained, and he knows you likely think he’s some kinda freak at this point, but he’s glad to see your customary smile before he turns, shouldering his way out the door and into the promise of open air.  

“Stop being so secretive about this place. It’s not like you can’t search for it online, Omi Omi. I saw you come in with the logo of their shop last week and I wanna try it out. Don’t cha’ gimme that look, I deserve to have good coffee too! And if it’s close by you can’t just keep it to yourself! Think about the rest of us, huh? Besides, I think they’d like to see something other than yer’ prickly face every once in a while.” Golden haired Atsumu Miya, his fellow teammate and setter for the MSBY Black Jackals, has been walking beside him for five blocks, jabbering on about the bland offerings of the big box coffee chains that surround their home gym, and how he hasn’t had a good cup of coffee in days. Tch, he’d said months originally, but that was an obvious lie. After all, Kiyoomi pointed out, slipping his mask on before the two stepped into the strong midday sun, he’d come in with an iced coffee two days ago, proclaiming to the whole team it was the best he’d ever had, bar none. 

“It’s a small shop,” Kiyoomi glumly elaborates, his dark hair soaking up the rays of sunlight as they crossed the bustling pedestrian walkway. “I think it’s run by an American. The staff speaks English, besides Japanese. There’s one barista in particular, a young woman, she has–”

“English? Oh, hell yeah! I can practice! This is perfect! They got any specialty drinks? I couldn’t see any from the menu that they had online, but I told ‘Samu I’d send him a picture of the place.”

Hmph, what’s the use of bothering to hold a conversation with this guy, Kiyoomi thinks, obsidian eyes narrowing as his brows furrow over his scrunched face, watching Atsumu chatter on about the vague sampling that he’d seen on their website. He’s not listening, anyway.

The coffee shop bell dings as the two of them step into the space, greeted by a waft of freshly ground coffee and the sharp tang of disinfectant. “Ahhh,” Atsumu says, propping his hands on his trim hips and fixing Kiyoomi with a pointed look, “totally see why you like the place. It smells like they have a freaking bleach, whaddya call those, ah, an air freshener! Yeah, smells like they have an ‘eu de bleach’ wall plug in.” 

“It’s clean,” Kiyoomi affirms, his own hands sliding into his pockets, fingers wrapping around his wallet as he steps into the line. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not at all,” Atsumu grins, resting an arm on Kiyoomi’s shoulder as he glances over the chalkboard menu. “Just can tell that must be why you like this place so much. Bet you huff cleaner as soon as you get home.. Speaking of, I still need to see your new apartment, heard you let Ushijima come by and that’s not fair at all. Kinda– ow! Omi, ya’ friggin ass!” 

Kiyoomi jerked his arm upwards as he stepped toward the register and the abrupt displacement sent Atsumu’s hand flying up, managing to perfectly strike himself on his nose as he attempted to counterbalance his sudden shift in momentum. 

“HA-ah, ahem, I mean…hello! Nice to see you again, sir!” the barista calls out, poorly concealing his mirth at Atsumu’s fumbling behind a gloved hand. Kiyoomi nods curtly, his order on the tip of his lips, but before he can utter anything Atsumu is beside him again, leaning against the well lit pastry case and peering over his options critically.

“Hmm, ya’ got any of those little madeline cakes? They’re vanilla, kinda look like a shell? Saw em’ on yer’ website.” 

The barista gives Atsumu a broad grin and twists to talk with someone who’s below the arched dome of the food case, quietly asking a few questions before looking back at the blonde man. “Yeah, we do! We’re actually just putting them out, my manager is checking for the–”

Atsumu steps impossibly closer to the gleaming glass and pops his head over the dome, peering down at whoever is restocking the sweets. “Oh! Hey there!” he chirps, lowering his chin, his face pulling into an exaggerated, cocky smirk. “Ya’ know what I mean, right? It’s kinda like a cake, but it’s small, like a cookie. It’s French. No, it’s not that. Maybe on the next tray? What? I can’t hear ya’. It’s smaller. I can step around, see if–”

A familiar voice pipes up before Atsumu can move closer and Kiyoomi turns, ears instantly pricking up at the sound of your reply. “I said, I know what a madeline is, sir. I’m rearranging and organizing my cart at the moment and, if you’d like, you can order your drinks first. I’ll have the madeline waiting for you on the other side of the bar.”

“Lemme just see one,” Atsumu grins, resting his hands against the glass. Kiyoomi’s lips curl at the sight, watching Atsumu’s hands leave lingering prints behind. Great, now they’ll need to clean and re-polish the display. Besides, you’d said you had them. Why keep pushing the issue? Ugh. If he wasn’t regretting his decision to show his fellow teammate the shop before, he certainly is now. 

“Just wanna make sure we’re on the same page, is all. Ya’ might give me something else by mistake and that’s a waste of time for both of us!” Atsumu’s smile broadens, a shadowed look falling over his angular features. 

You hop up from your crouched position, a wrapped package with bright blue lettering that clearly says [ French Vanilla Madeline ] on the side, clutched between your fingers. “Oh no, I get it,” you begin, mimicking Atsumu’s cheshire grin with startling accuracy. “You just want to double check! I mean, the words on the packaging do say: Madeline. So unless you mean something else, something that’s not called ‘A French vanilla madeline, made with real vanilla extract and buttery goodness,’ I think we’ve got you covered.”

Your voice is saccharine sweet, lilting over the words, a well-practiced smile lifting your lips. You’re still clearly mirroring the one Atsumu is giving you. It’s the snappiest your tone has ever been, and the fact that it’s being used against his annoying teammate is priceless. Suddenly, he can’t help the laugh that’s already snickering its way past his mask. 

“Oi!” Atsumu cries, pushing himself off the case at last, his teeth gritted at Kiyoomi’s obvious amusement. “I just wanted to check! And you, manager lady, don’t be so mean!”

“Pfft, manager lady? It’s (Y/N). And me? Mean? I was not mean, I told you that we had them! I just needed to FIFO some of the other pastries first,” you defend, a surprised exhale falling from your lips. 

“FIFO? What is that? Don’t use that food jargon on me! I get that enough from my brother. He does that crap all the time, like it’s some sorta secret lingo. ‘Don’t do that ‘Tsumu, gotta make sure it’s in date’. ‘Don’t come on the line!’ ‘Gotta wear a hat or a hair net if yer’ gonna be back here!’ ‘Don’t mislabel the rice!’ On and on. What’s with you food people? So uptight. Look, I just wanted to try one. Yer’ reviews said they were good! Here, tell you what, give me two. Don’t laugh! Omi, help! She’s picking on me!”

“Stop it, you’re making a scene. Any other inane questions? Or anything else you’d like to order, because I’m certainly not buying any of this for you,” Kiyoomi replies, sneaking a glance at your bemused expression. You catch his eye and give him a quick wink and he finds that his smile stays with him long after he, and a chastened and satiated Atsumu have left the warmth of the coffee shop.

“Mmm, these are pretty good,” Atsumu mumbles between bites of his madeline. “Ya’ want some?”

He stops by after his evening practice, when the sun has long since fallen past the horizon of the city, but as soon as he rounds the corner he regrets his decision.

The cafe is brimming with people. They’re everywhere; outside, they are clustered on the pavement, sitting on the collection of iron wrought chairs, and gathered in groups. Inside, most are sprawled close to the hand off plane, or draped over the couches and tables. They appear to be animated, with computer screens and voices bright, too bright. His usual spot is taken, and he’s already made up his mind to keep walking on but somehow, somehow, he catches your eye. 

His feet are slowing, a stuttering breath stagnating in his lungs, all at once hopeful and bewildered, but before he can examine his fluttering emotions, you’re alongside him on the noisy sidewalk, passing him his usual evening drink [ a doppio con panna with bitter lungo shots, poured affogato ] a pleased smile on your soft lips. 

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you. 

“Hey! Glad I could catch you. Wanted to tell you good luck on your upcoming game! I think I saw on the news that it’s tomorrow? Right?”

“Yes, we’re playing Azuma Pharmacy. They have a good starting lineup. It’s entirely possible that we’ll lose.”

“Jeez,” you exhale, cocking your head at his serious expression. “Kind of a pessimist, aren’t you?”

“I’m a realist. I’m perfectly prepared to beat them, but things always play out differently on the court, no matter what your personal expectations are.” 

You give him another smile. This one comes quickly, and it’s bigger than any of the others, the pull of it lighting up your face. It’s different, and he can tell that the way you’re looking at him has shifted; that you’ve liked this answer. He’s not sure why, it’s the truth. Nothing more, nothing less. 

“Good point. Well, win or lose, you’ve got my luck! I better get back inside. Your drink is on me by the way, for the other day…when I touched your hand…well, I’m sure you remember. Anyway, see you, Sakusa!”

He watches you slip past the packed lines of students, already rolling up your sleeves so you can wash your hands. Once you’re behind the espresso machine you’re hidden by the burnished copper and he walks on, shouldering his MSBY bag higher, lifting his coffee to his lips. It’s got a rich flavor, well balanced and expertly poured. Once again, he’s reminded that you’re good at what you do and, despite the balmy heat of early spring, that makes his fingers tingle and his skin break out in gooseflesh.

Later, when he’s falling asleep, he keeps seeing your eyes. Watching as your colored irises come alive in the moonlight, hopeful, shining, and wholly focused on him.

At practice, Atsumu insists on completing his post workout stretching next to him. He’s used to Kiyoomi’s sullen silences and barbed retorts, content to chatter however he pleases, flitting from topic to topic as he eases into his cool down routine. 

“I need to go back to that coffee shop. Ya’ been back lately?”

“No,” Kiyoomi lies, brushing a stubborn wave of curls out of his sweaty face. 

“Too bad. Maybe after Friday’s practice? That girl really knew her stuff. Made some great coffee, too. What was her name? Ah, that’s right, (Y/N). She’s cute, what’s her story?” 

Something twinges against Kiyoomi’s rib cage at the word ‘cute.’ Hmm, that’s not normal. He flips to his left side, facing away from Atsumu’s greedy eyes and leering smiles. 

“How long has she worked there?”

“Not sure,” Kiyoomi replies, flattening his palm against the cool flooring of the gym. “At least a year, maybe more.”

“That other barista said she was a manager. She’s not one of the owners, is she?”

“Dunno.”

“Is she a student? Kinda strange to see an American working in Japan, and she’s definitely an American. She’s good with the Japanese, but her accent is off.”

“Your accent is off, so I’m not sure what your point is. I can understand her, and I can’t say the same for you.”

“Jackass!” Atsumu snaps, flopping up from his splayed stretch to butterfly his muscled legs. “It’s called a regional accent, and it’s perfectly normal. Ya’ got one too, city boy!”

“See? No one says things like that. You sound like a cartoon character. Sometimes I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Yer’ full of it!”

“Hmph,” Kiyoomi hums, curling himself onto his haunches and flattening the tops of his hands against the floor. The satisfying crunch of his wrists as his fingers settle makes Atsumu visibly shudder and Kiyoomi flashes him a quick smirk of his own, hoping it will spook his stretching companion enough that he’ll leave him be. He prefers to do his cool down in silence. 

“She do anything else? Other than diligently slaving over yer’ coffee, that is?”

Tch. It seems that luck isn’t with him today. “She said she’s a graduate student.”

“Oooh, what’s she studyin’?”

“Not sure.”

“Yer’ about as fun to talk to as a stack of bricks, ya’ know? Bet if I’d asked you what her name was the other day all you’d say was, ‘I use’ta just call her barista: first name: cute, last name: girl.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply. Something about these questions is bothering him. He doesn’t like that he can’t answer them properly– it’s frustrating, really. All he can honestly tell Atsumu is that you’re neat and efficient, that you have a smile that he can’t quite shake out of his head, a perfume that he wishes he could place, and that, to date, you’ve given him one free coffee. The fact that he knows that you’re a graduate student is sheer luck, information that you’d happened to share with him, not that he’d asked you about. He uncoils his hands and flips them over, letting his eyes rest against his reddened palms. Oh, and you’d touched his wrist once and the sheer metaphysical weight of that contact had nearly sent him stumbling backwards. 

It’s stupid; he’s stupid. 

It’s not hard to talk with people. It’s just…he knows he’s not good at it. Besides, when would he practice? He’s surrounded by extroverts; extreme extroverts. Extroverts who defy all sense and who usually can’t be silenced unless they’re tucked into a deep sleep, and even then it’s doubtful. Both Hinata and Bokuto have demonstrated that they can, and will, talk in their sleep. Still, it’s frustrating to find himself boxed into a corner, completely at a loss and unaware of the most cursory, mundane, simple, facts about you. For almost two years, he’s seen you at least twice a week, shouldn’t he know more? Why doesn’t he know more?

“Why not give her a ticket to a game?”

Atsumu’s question makes him lift his head, abandoning his musings as he lets the weight of that suggestion sink in. The setter is crinkling his eyes at him now, that all knowing smirk back on his lips, umber eyes hooded, mischievous. “The front office can do that, ya’ know? We’ve got extras. They keep em’ for that purpose. Just say she’s a special guest, or a potential sponsor. They ain’t gonna question you.” 

Kiyoomi looks away, crossing his legs and leaning to his right side, feigning disinterest as Atsumu tells him who he can speak with, where he can see the upcoming calendar, and what seats might be open. It’s a good idea, a great idea, and he can’t help but loathe that Atsumu thought of it first.

The ticket is good for a first row balcony seat.

It’s situated in the best spot. He’d picked it out himself, carefully looking over the colored diagram of the stadium and belaboring the proximity of the sight-lines, wanting to let you have a bird’s eye view of the court. Where would he like to sit, if he could watch a game? What works? What doesn’t? Too high and you can’t catch the movement of the ball. Too low and you can’t see the players. Too far to the right or left and you can’t see the breadth of the court. It’s tricky, and he’s cautious with his selection. He can’t help it. 

Kiyoomi only considers you not even liking the sport when he’s placing his order, watching as you carefully tuck his empty cup down on the polished steel of the bar. Shit.

The cafe is quiet. The students are gone, and when the register barista goes to the backroom it’s only him and you in the well lit space. The click of the burr grinder almost makes him jump, and he compromises with his nerves by shifting toward his usual table, resting his bag in the chair and taking in a deep breath. 

The gentle press of the tamp is audible over the low beats of the music and he hears you knock the side of the portafilter, no doubt leveling off the crushed arabica before you hook the device under the grouphead. Seconds later he sees you flip the switch for his shots, already grooming his heated, foaming, oat milk in the short pitcher, popping the liquid free of any errant bubbles. You’re gentle with this part, and he’s always loved to watch you pour his cortado, liking the raise of your arm and the flick of your wrist as you let the creamy milk flow into the paper cup, swirling a rosetta design through the ochre of the waiting espresso. 

Usually, this well-oiled process of yours calms him, but today he feels fidgety and his head is buzzing. The sooner you finish the drink, the sooner he’ll have to talk to you. Shit, shit. When you move the dark lids forward, his hand feels like it’s heating around the slick paper of the ticket, making it clammy and tacky. He bites his lip and removes his hand from his jacket, wiping his palm against his dark jeans. 

You’re already looking up at him, nodding toward the fragrant cup that’s waiting at the edge of the handoff plane. Automatically, he lurches forward, completely in-sync with his familiar routine. The question [ would you like a ticket to one of my games? ] is resting on the tip of his tongue and his fingers are hovering beside his cup. He can see that they’re shaking and that sight doesn’t ease him. Then you ask him something and he feels everything skitter to a halt. Why is this happening? It’s just a ticket, it’s just a game. 

Wait. You asked him something? 

He does his best to ignore the humming of anxious tension that’s filtering down his fingertips and lifts his bowed head. “What?” he mumbles, lips unsticking at last.

“Just asked how your game went the other day. I tried to record it but my stupid cable box isn’t working. I need to try and see you guys, I know I’ve probably said that before, but it’s pretty pathetic of me to not catch one game when the stadium is only two miles away. Plus, I know y’all are a great team! Heard you made the playoffs last year, that’s so awesome!”

It’s a perfect segway. 

But he feels like he’s rooted to the spot, like his tongue is trapped against the roof of his mouth, and his hands are too heavy to move, content to shake beside his cooling drink as he whittles his time away, too filled with the what if’s to do anything about the here and now. He’s going down a mental checklist, mulling over each possibility, cautiously tampering with that heady rush of excitement that’s threatening to bubble out of his masked lips. Shit. 

He’s gotta check his vitamin intake, maybe he’s low on omega 3s? The team has a general practitioner on standby. He really should call him after this, maybe run by his office before the next practice. 

Something’s off with him.

Wait, that worked. 

That shift in his whirring thoughts broke him out of that suspended state and then, before he completely fucks this up, the ticket is down against the counter and he’s muttering something about unlimited uses, that if you can’t make it now, then you can always switch the date, or add someone on, if you have a [ boy ] friend you want to take; the next game works best with the seat that’s listed, he’s checked. He knows it’s open. Again, zero pressure and no worries if you can’t make it. See you around.

You might have responded, you might have smiled, fuck, you might have laughed at him. He’s not sure.

All he knows is that as soon as he is out of the shop he’s calling the team’s gp and confirming an appointment for tomorrow morning. It’s not natural for his heart to stutter and thump like that. It could be an arrhythmia. 

It could be any number of things. 

He hasn’t felt this nervous about a game in years. Sure, it’s a good team, and they have four players that are of his generation, most of them powerful outside hitters that will probably give the Jackals a good run for their money, but they’re not insurmountable. They can beat VC Kanagawa; they’ll have to if they want to advance further in the lineup for the playoffs. 

It’s just…

He keeps looking for that seat. Your seat. He’d gotten to the stadium early; opting to forgo the first team meeting, saying he needed to practice his wall drills, work on his spin, but that’s not the real reason. The real reason is something that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. At least, not before a game. He steadies himself, reiterating that it’s not practical or helpful for him to worry about things like that. 

Nevertheless, he’s pinned the seat in his mind. He studied it as the lights shuddered on, the maintenance staff flashing him bewildered looks as he stepped into the empty brightness of the court. He’d found it again during the pre-game warmup, onyx eyes committing the location to memory, searching for the little details that he could watch for if he wanted to find it again, later, when the arena was packed with thousands of eyes and waving signs.

As they open the main doors and the seats fill up, he’s still looking at the seat.

“Whatcha looking at?” Hinata asks, his burst of orange hair already slicked with sweat, vivid eyes sharp. 

“Nothing.”

The results of Kiyoomi’s physical had shown no outliers, no cause for worry or concern. Everything was fine. He should just get a little extra potassium in, maybe eat a few more bananas in the morning, or after his practices. He’d been a little miffed when he opened the manilla folder, eyes hunting for abnormalities, for a reason, an explanation. If nothing is wrong, then why does he feel like he’s tingling with adrenaline all the time? It makes him light-headed, sluggish, and that’s detrimental to his playability, to his value to his team. 

He looks away from Hinata and paces past Atsumu’s arched eyebrow, ignoring the implications of that wicked grin that’s resting on the setter’s quirked lips. It’s fine; he’s fine. His eyes look up to the balcony again. He really shouldn’t be doing that, he reminds himself. It’s a distraction, and he doesn’t–

Oh. There you are.

He can’t make out details, not from this distance, and he suddenly feels self-conscious about his face. There’s no mask. He doesn’t wear it when he plays, and this will be the first time you’ve seen him without it. Suddenly, he wishes he hadn’t cared so much about the visibility of the court. Why did he plant you so far away? If he can’t see you, then there’s no way you’ll be able to tell which one he is either…oh…wait…his name is on the back of his jersey and they’ll announce his number. Nevermind. 

The referee calls for the teams to line up and he diligently follows his teammates, standing in his usual spot, ignoring the dull thump of his heart as it beats a ragged tattoo under his ribs. 

They won. 

They won, and he’d racked up a whopping 23 points for himself, a personal milestone. It’ll be something that will go down on his athletic record, that the local and national news reports will chatter about, that he can feel proud of. He’s glad; you always show him your best, so it’s only fair he does the same for you too.

He’d peeked up at your seat during each time out, each break, every time the momentum shifted, and before he hit every serve. You looked like you had your feet propped up, resting against the metal barrier of the balcony, and he could see that your arms were wrapped around your knees. You were paying attention, and that knowledge made his lungs swell and his pulse quicken. 

Now, after he’s finished toweling some of the clinging sweat from his brow and the matted droop of his obsidian curls, he twists back, facing your seat, but you’re not there. An empty curve of plastic greets him and his heavy brows furrow, his fingers dropping the towel onto the bench as they curl up into his palms. 

Did you leave? It would make sense, he supposes. The game is over. He just thought you might come down. Might want to talk. Not that he’d have much to say. He never does. Stupid; what would he talk with you about? See the game? Yeah, duh. 

The distant voice of MSBY’s public relations manager is calling for him. He’ll worry about it [ you ] later, he thinks, he’s still got a job to do.

During his interview he can hear Atsumu’s voice. It’s annoying. While the setter doesn’t attempt to tone himself down, he rarely talks that loudly. Kiyoomi glances over at his straight back, watching as his hand cups against the back of his golden head, an infectious laugh bursting from his turned lips. Strange. It’s not like him to chat with someone for that long, not when he’s got his own post-game interviews to conduct. He usually– 

Ah, it’s you. 

Suddenly, questions like: [ how does it feel to be considered for the 2025 Japanese Olympic team? ] don’t matter. His head is half cocked now, dark eyes following the two of you, his comments to the national reporter falling into clipped monosyllables. This is unprofessional; he should focus on the matter at hand, it’s not like him to be distracted. 

He’s been thinking about that a lot lately. That so many things are suddenly not like him. 

When you push playfully at Atsumu’s shoulder, he lapses into a stormy silence, nails biting into his clenched palms, pressing half moons into his calloused skin. After answering one more question: [ something about his future plans - how’s he supposed to know? That depends on trades, on opportunities. And right now he’s not in the correct frame of mind to answer honestly, not when he can see that you’re right there ] he bows to the smiling face of the reporter, formally concluding his participation in the interview. He knows it’s abrupt; he knows he’ll likely get an earful from the MSBY PR director, from his coach, and from himself, when the full weight of his uncharacteristic rashness hits him, but right now he doesn’t care.

His feet feel like lead and the steps that he’s taking shudder against the gym’s polished flooring. He’s usually smoother than this, more collected, but can’t will himself to stop lurching forward. He tucks his hands into the darkness of his team jacket, coiling his numb fingers into tight balls, and hunches his shoulders. He likely looks like thunder and this suspicion is confirmed when a ball boy scuttles out of his path, eyes wide, but Kiyoomi doesn’t care. 

Atsumu hasn’t noticed his approach, but you do, and that shy wave and familiar smile makes his breath catch in his throat. Damn it. What’s going on with him? 

Atsumu notices your wandering attention and turns, following your gaze. Once he spots Kiyoomi, he gives him a cheeky smirk, dipping his chin, lazily fixing his amber eyes on Kiyoomi’s arched figure. “Look who caaame!” he calls, lacing his tone with poorly concealed glee. “She said you gave her a ticket. What a great, absolutely original, idea! And you had your record breaking scoring streak today too! Hey! Maybe she’s good luck! Watch out (Y/N), pretty soon we’ll be hooking you up with a personal mascot job if ya’ can light such a fire under our stoic hitter’s ass. Must be something special in that coffee yer’ serving him.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at Atsumu’s blatant needling and the setter chuckles, flipping his focus back to you, sensing the rising agitation that is rolling off of Kiyoomi in waves now. “Well, sure was good to see ya’ again! Talk to me next time, huh? I’ll get you a boxed seat. It’s much better than those nosebleeds in the balconies.”

You shake your head, a smile pulling at your lips, and make a show of rolling your eyes. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, you know? And what boxed seats? Feels like I’d see them if you had them,” you tease, earning yourself a last laugh and Atsumu’s back, a friendly hand waving a last goodbye as he finally strides toward the waiting cameras. Kiyoomi watches him go, his shoulders tense, a feeling of unease settling in his gut. Is Atsumu doing this on purpose? 

He almost snaps a retort at his retreating figure, but the sound of your voice immediately snatches his attention toward you. His dark gaze meets yours and the look in your eyes makes his palms feel itchy and his feet scuff mindlessly against the floor.

“This is gonna sound so dumb, but it’s been on my mind since I got here…”

Kiyoomi’s fingers twist in his pockets, coiling over each digit, and his pulse feels like it’s speeding up again. “What?”

“It’s just…well, you look so much younger without the mask,” you let out a small laugh and duck your head, teeth pulling at your lower lip as you face away from his widening eyes. 

“Is that bad?”

“No! You look good! Uh, I mean, not that you didn’t…I just wasn’t sure…not that I’d thought about it…a lot…uh, I…yeah, I’m…No, it’s not bad!” You press your hands against your mouth, steepling your fingers under your nose and fix him with a sheepish grin. “Anyway, I know you’ve got things to do, but Miya was right about one thing, you had a great game. I had a lot of fun and it was so nice of you to get me that ticket, and well…”

You pause, lowering your hands to yank your purse forward, fingers digging into the leather before you right yourself once more, returning with a small, zipped bag, and a plastic card that’s balancing atop the metal teeth. “It’s a…well…I sorta tried to think of some things that you might like. To say thanks! It’s nothing fancy. A nail filing kit, because I read that volleyball guys like to keep their hands in tiptop shape, one of those portable ball pumps and some masks. 

The masks are from a great company, back home, er, in the states. Well, at least I like them, they’re super durable. And the card, uh, ha, um, the card is to the cafe. I know it’s not super original, but I didn’t know if you liked any other places. And I didn’t wanna assume or — Haha, oh God, I am talking your ear off. Just…here! Take this from me so I can get my foot outta my mouth, okay?”

You press the bag forward and before he can tell you he doesn’t accept gifts from fans, his hands are already out of the safety of his pockets, firmly wrapping around your offering. “Thank you,” he bows. He wants to say more, but he’s not sure how.

He didn’t mean to come by the cafe. 

He thought he’d go for a quick run before practice, maybe loop the block, or jog toward the university. None of these things are close to the cafe, but apparently his feet had other ideas. The shop bell rings when he steps inside, wiping some hand sanitizer against his heated palms, onyx eyes alert, already searching for you. 

A male barista [ is it Kane? ] greets him and before he can stop himself, he’s asking if you’re there. “Oh, (Y/N)? Nah, she’s off today. But I can make your cortado, you get almond milk, right?”

“Oat,” Kiyoomi replies, voice muffled by his mask. Damn. Why did he come here? He didn’t mean to and now it’s looking like it was a wasted trip. A useless instinct. He’d wanted to thank you properly for your gift, which had been on his mind a lot the past few days. Perhaps that’s why he felt so compelled to jog the extra mile, why he can’t seem to keep away, why he keeps looking for you as he waits, even though he knows you’re not here. 

Maybe he can text you his thanks. That would make all of this easier. Oh, wait, does he even have your number? He pulls his phone out of his pocket and examines his contact list, searching for you. No, nothing under your name. Maybe he put it under something else? [ barista? cafe? ] Again, there’s nothing. Damn. Why didn’t he ask at the game? Or when he gave you the ticket?

When he picks up his drink and paces back into the sunshine, he’s still kicking himself that he hasn’t asked for your number yet. It would have made things so much simpler, he reasons, sipping at his coffee; now he’ll have to come back. 

But days pass, and he hasn’t returned. 

There’s just too much going on. Too many team meetings and late practices. Too much preparation. The pace of his schedule has never bothered him before, but now he keeps hoping for some kind of reprieve. 

The other morning Atsumu strode into a meeting with a cup from your cafe, proudly flaunting the familiar label. It made Kiyoomi’s blood boil [ did he see you? talk with you? Did he get to see that addictively pleasing smile of yours? ] and later that afternoon he experienced his first scolding. 

“What’s going on, Omi? Five missed digs? This isn’t like you. You look like your head is in the clouds. Come on, get it together. Big game in five days.”

“Sorry, won’t happen again.” It’s all he can say. 

When he’s heading toward the team showers, he catches sight of Atsumu’s knowing leer and he grits his teeth, ignoring the huffed snicker and scoffing head shake that the setter sends his way. 

Finally, two days later, he’s got some free time. There are other errands he needs to run, things he should do, but the only thing he can think about is you. 

He’s walking up from a side street, one he rarely takes, when, at long last, he catches sight of you. You must be on a break. You’re sitting at a bench, facing a small, but well laid flower bed, flipping the pages of your open book languidly as you read under the cool shade of a gnarled tree. 

He’s glad he’s wearing the mask that you gifted him. 

You’d said that they were durable, and their quality had genuinely impressed him. When he got home, after the game, he slipped them out of their individual plastic cases, fingering the thick, well made materials before washing one. He’d left the others in their containers. He’ll use them, eventually, but not right now. He wants to savor them. He wants them to last.  

Kiyoomi is almost to your side when you look up and he bites against his lower lip as soon as you give him that friendly smile of yours, already closing your book and standing, waiting for him to step closer. He comes to a stop in front of you, peering down at you through his dark lashes. 

You always smell so nice, he thinks, unconsciously shifting closer, seeking more. You must have showered before coming into your shift because the crisp scent of peppermint and gentle lavender makes his nostrils flare hungrily under his mask. 

“Hey there!” you begin, tucking your book into your arms. “Long time no see. How have you been?”

“Fine. I have practice later. I came by the other day. I…” he lapses into frustrated silence, dark brows falling, letting his hands grip at the material of his jacket. Why is this so hard? You, all the others on his team, Motoya [ hell, even the notoriously impassive Wakatoshi has come out of his shell over the years ] can slip into a conversation. Damn it, how can everyone else make this look so easy? 

“Saw you’re playing the Adlers soon. They’re the team the Jackals have a sorta rivalry with, right?”

He blinks down at you and lets out a shallow exhale. There you go again. You’re giving him a life raft, a conversation he can fall into, something he enjoys talking about. He remembers his stilted conversation with Atsumu, the one where he did not know about any of the basic things, the obvious things, the things that made you, you. It’s nice that you’re looking out for him, that you’re helping him along, but he doesn’t want to talk about volleyball, not right now.

“We do. How did your finals go? You said you had a dissertation?”

“Oh!” you blurt, your eyes widening, but you’re clearly pleased, even a little excited that he’s asked. “You remembered! Finished it up last week. Now I just need to knock out my revisions and I’ll either go back to committee, or they’ll approve it! I’m hoping they approve it. I’m sick of looking at it, haha.” Your fingers tap against your book and you duck your head, a quick smile passing over your smooth lips. “Uh, did you want to come in for a coffee? Not trying to hold you up, if you’ve got practice to go to.”

“I was the one who came over.” He sounds a little harsh, he thinks, nose wrinkling under his mask. He’s never worried about being blunt, but that doesn’t work here. He doesn’t want to be, not with you. “I mean, I wanted…wanted to say thanks, for the masks and the other things. I like them.” He points to his covered face and you let out a chuckle, gleaming eyes crinkling as you look up at him. Damn, you’re pretty. How has he not noticed that before? He wants to see you laugh again, he’s just not sure how to go about it. Does he even know any jokes? Shit.

“Awe, I’m glad you like them! Speaking of, Atsumu came by a few days ago, I guess you must have worn one around him because he was trying to sniff out if I’d given them to you. He’s a funny guy, but I cannot get a good read on him. It’s almost like he’s doing stuff on purpose, but he’s never blatantly obvious about it. The way he was talking, I was kinda worried he was trying to play a prank on you. Does he like to get under your skin or something? He’s–”

Kiyoomi’s not thinking when he leans down. He’s been doing that a lot lately, not thinking. It makes his skin prickle. Or is that the smell of peppermint on your clean neck, the fragrant lavender in your hair? The kiss is soft; more of a press of his lips than a real caress. But it’s nice, and he actually likes being this close to you, but something feels off and, ah, damn it. 

His dark brows knit together, furrowing his forehead, when he realizes what he’s done. He didn’t take off his mask. How stupid. But that shaky gasp of air that you let out when he pulls away, and the following upward lift of your body, your lips chasing his, clearly wanting him to come back, oh that’s so worth it, mask or not.

Your eyes are the first thing he sees when he looks back down, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so perfect. They’re bright, vibrant, and rich with an excitement that makes his toes curl. 

The smell of lavender and peppermint, of you, is almost overwhelming, and yet somehow it’s all together, not enough. He doesn’t say anything and neither do you. 

What is there to say? 

That one, half-formed, touch said it all. It expressed every frustration that he’s felt over the last few weeks, every faded memory of your voice, of your playful smiles, of those hesitant conversations you’ve helped him through. It’s all there, sitting quietly between the two of you, shimmering in the sunlight as you take a step closer and his hands finally fall out of his pockets, waiting, hoping for yours. 

“(Y/N)! Break’s over! Coffee’s not gonna brew itself!” 

The distant voice of your coworker shatters the euphoria and you tense, pulling away, your head turning toward the barked command as you call out your reply. Kiyoomi huffs out an impatient breath. He wanted to try that again. Do it right this time. How pathetic is he? Kissing you through a mask? But his annoyance dies when you face him again, slipping your hand tentatively into his. 

His digits fall limply around yours and he can’t help but marvel at the softness of you. One of his thumbs lifts and he traces the skin along your knuckles, unsure if he’s even breathing anymore. “Come on,” you say, looking down at his touch before lacing your fingers through his, showing him how to hold you. “I’ll make your coffee.” 

You’re walking forward and he has the inane urge to snatch you back, wanting to see how the rest of you feels, wanting to know how you’ll fit into his arms, but he distracts himself by following you. There’s a budding warmth that’s spreading from his palm, where your hand rests inside his, to his chest. It feels like a low burning fire is coursing along his veins and his heartbeat thuds out of rhythm, but for once he doesn’t care. 

In fact, he thinks he likes it.

He sits in the cafe for too long, his coffee cold, the cup almost empty. But before he leaves [ already so, so late for practice ] he gets your number. 

He taps the unfamiliar digits carefully into his device and you watch from the counter, your chin propped in your hand, a gentle smile kissing against your palm. Then he stands, pausing beside you and you run your index finger down his arm, lingering your touch beside his wrist, making him shiver in the warm sunlight, a pleased grin hidden behind his mask.

notes: this man has what, 10 pages of interaction? idk why and idk how, but he is stuck in my brain - like, seriously send help, i think i’m in love. 

#sakusa kiyoomi #kiyoomi sakusa #reader insert #sakusa x y/n #sakusa x you #sakusa x reader #kiyoomi x y/n #kiyoomi x you #kiyoomi x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu!! #hq #hq!! #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu!! imagines #multichapter #this thing is like an ode to coffee #sorry #:3c

[five-rivers]

Face Your Dreams

Almost forgot to post this here as well!  @anthropwashere 

Phic Phight 2021

Prompt from Anthrop: Any flavor of the Reverse AUs that strike your fancy. Who gets the ghost powers? Who becomes the ghost hunter? Who gets ghost magick'd into the villain of the week?

 Danny’s phone was dead.  Which was just typical, really.  His parents were brilliant, wealthy inventors that played with the fabric of reality on a daily basis and had managed to turn, not one, but two of Danny’s best friends into half ghosts, but they couldn’t be bothered to get Danny a phone that was actually reliable.  Although they hadn’t intended to do the half ghost thing and didn’t know about it.  

Probably.  

Maybe.  

(Honestly, Danny didn’t know.  His parents were weird.  And Danny suspected they were keeping secrets.)

Back on topic.  Phone.  Not working. Which was a problem because Danny was something like ninety-percent sure a ghost had been following him for the last block or so and he couldn’t call for help.  

Correction, he could call for help all he wanted, he just wouldn’t get any that would be any good against a ghost.  If he got any at all.  It was the middle of the night.  

He should have taken up Sam’s offer of a flight home. Or Tucker’s.  But, no, he had to be sulky about how both of them were developing yet more really, incredibly cool powers and Danny was still just…

Himself.  

Faceless, boring Fenton.  Only notable for the number of bullies he attracted and the people he was related to.  No special skillset, no dreams he had any hope of achieving, no triumphs.  Nothing to contribute.  Not in and of himself.  Only useful to enemies that wanted a hostage.

He was about to be murdered by a ghost and he was still sulking.  God, he was pathetic.  

(Not all ghosts were evil – Sam and Tucker’s stories had taught him that much, on an intellectual basis.  Was it too much to hope that he could reach home without the ghost attacking?  Too much to hope that it was just watching?)

White noise tugged at Danny’s ears.  It reminded him of the sleep CD Jazz played when Mom and Dad were being loud.  

… and, also, oddly, of a video he’d once watched about what stars might sound like, based on how they vibrated.  

Danny shuddered, his heartbeat redoubling as he picked up speed, reaching a run.  If he could get home, he could turn on the ghost shield and call Sam and Tucker from his home phone.  They’d be annoyed that he was bothering about a ghost so long after a patrol, but he was freaked out enough to not really care about their teasing.  

(He’d been freaked out enough for the past two blocks.)

His breath began to catch in his lungs, his side burning. He splashed through a puddle, dark, oily liquid sticking to his right sneaker and pant leg.  It glittered in the light of the waning crescent moon.  

Wait –

It hadn’t rained for weeks.

He slipped and fell, skinning hands, knees, and chin on the sidewalk.  Something wet, sticky, and smooth as silk spread over the pavement beneath him.  It bubbled like a tar pit, and captive stars shone from within.  

Danny tried to push himself up, but the liquid held on to him, pulled him back down.  

He was sinking.  

He flailed for the sidewalk, reaching, trying to stay afloat.  It didn’t work.  His elbows were below the level of the sidewalk, and inky, glittery black dripped from his front.  It seemed to be eating through his clothes.  

Forget useful help.  He’d take any help.  He screamed.  

And he fell.  

.

“You have such lovely dreams,” said the masked man, his horns curling into galaxies.  “Impossible dreams.”

Danny couldn’t breathe.  He was in freefall.  A vacuum.  No ground in sight, only the cold, heartless stars, perfect in their beauty.  

(And his eyes.  Oh, god, was this really a ghost?)

It was his dream, to be an astronaut.  With this little twist, it became a nightmare, and yet—

Yet.  

“You feel faceless,” continued the masked man.  “But there’s freedom in that, is there not?”  

Danny shouldn’t be able to hear him.  There shouldn’t be any sound in space, and there wasn’t.  Not except for his voice.  

“Freedom,” said the man, “to follow your wildest dreams, unshackled from responsibility, from reality, from reasonability.  No longer dependent on those that call themselves your friends, who claim to be your family, who walk over your dreams for the sake of theirs.”

Suddenly, Danny hit the sidewalk, and he could breathe again.  Something thick dripped from his nose, his mouth, his eyes.  He pushed himself to his hands and knees.  His clothing was gone.  His limbs were painted with the night sky in all its glory.  He froze, staring.  

From Danny’s shadow, the masked man rose, towering over Danny until he felt like little more than a shadow.  “Don’t you want to have the chance to see your dreams come true, child?”

Danny blinked.  It was hard to force his eyes back open.  They seemed to want to stick closed.  

“Who are you?” Danny asked, words garbled by the dripping stars trying to force their way past his lips.  

“I am Nocturne,” the ghost said, leaning closer.

“You’re like,” Danny choked, “like Desiree.  I don’t want—”

Nocturne scoffed.  “Desiree.  A creature of wishes, of momentary things.  I do not care for what you wish for.  What matters is that you dream.”  

There was something in Nocturne’s hand, round and white and moonlike.  It looked small, held between two of his fingers, but it had to be the size of Danny’s face.  

“Don’t you dream of flying?” purred Nocturne.  “Of being among the stars?  Don’t you dream of a peaceful world, where your friends are safe, and the accident never happened?  Where you’re a friend, not a weapon supply, a sidekick, or a damsel in distress?”

Danny had been thinking something so close just minutes ago and he couldn’t—

“There, there, my child.  No need to cry.”  He brought the round thing closer.  

Danny could see, now, that it was a mask.  Just his size.  

“Close your eyes,” said Nocturne, gently, cupping Danny’s trembling shoulders with his other hand.  “Close your eyes and dream.  Let your face go, for a little while.”

(Danny did as he was told.)

.

“Hi, Sam,” said Mrs. Fenton, her voice crackling slightly through the phone speaker.  “Have you seen Danny today?”

“I haven’t seen him since last n—Since yesterday,” said Sam, correcting herself halfway though.  Mrs. Fenton didn’t know about their nightly escapades, and for good reason.  “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Maddie.  “He just…  I haven’t seen him either.  He usually says goodbye before he leaves.”

He didn’t, but Maddie didn’t need to know that.  

“Have you checked with Tucker yet?  Sometimes they hang out without me.  Guy things.”  This… was also not entirely true.  Danny and Tucker hadn’t had a ‘guy thing’ for ages.  They’d been smoothly replaced with ‘ghost things’ like most everything else in their lives.  

Sam… might have felt a little bad about that.  All of their normal friend activities being replaced by ghost things, that is.  Often ghost things that Danny couldn’t really participate in, because Danny couldn’t fly or shoot lasers from his hands.  

He did do a good job of setting up obstacle courses and covering for her and Tucker’s—

Wait, no, not the point.

“He hasn’t seen him, either.  Jazz doesn’t know where he is.  I don’t—”  She broke off, sighing.  “Call me if you see him.  Or tell him to call me.”

“I will,” said Sam, opening the window and preparing to take off.  

“Thank you,” said Maddie.  She hung up.  

Sam went ghost with a burst of green fire.  She floated up and out of the window, fading out of visibility as she dialed Tucker’s number.  

“Starboy’s missing,” she said.  

“Yeah, I’m already searching for him,” said Tucker, the microphone crackling with static but otherwise clear.  Tucker’s powers both did and didn’t mesh well with technology.

“Any luck?”

“No,” said Tucker.  “This is one of those times when I wish he did have friends other than us.  Then we could ask them about where he is.”

“Do you think he’s been taken by a ghost?” asked Sam.

“I mean, maybe?  There was that whole thing with Desiree…”

“And the second thing with Desiree,” added Sam.  

“And Skulker.”

“And the second thing with Skulker.”

“And Spectra.”

“And the second thing with Spectra.”

“Not to mention Vlad.”

“What a freak,” said Sam.

“Are you picking up a pattern here?”

“Yeah, maybe.  Who’s only kidnapped Danny once?”

“I’m not sure…  Maybe it’s a new guy?  We do get new guys now and again.”

Sam sighed.  “Never mind that,” she said.  “Where have you looked so far?”

“Not too many places.  Do you want to meet up, or…?”

“No, we’ll have more luck going separately.  I’ll check in with you in a bit.”

.

A whole day passed without any sign of Danny. They did, however, find a lot of ghosts with stitched-shut eyes, which they decided was probably related and also incredibly creepy.  

By that time, the police got involved.  Danny was officially a missing person.  

But they were distracted.  Didn’t have the manpower to search for just one missing person.

Why?

The sudden surge in coma patients.  

“I don’t get it,” said Tucker.  “Is that more of a, you know,” he lowered his voice, “doctor thing?  Like, if it’s a bunch of people, don’t you think it’s a disease or something?”

“The police think that someone poisoned ‘em,” said Sam.  

“How do you know that?”

“How do you think I know that?”

“Dude.  You have to stop eavesdropping on the police.  I’m, like, ninety percent sure that’s illegal.”

“Not for ghosts, it isn’t.”

“Okay, I’m one hundred percent sure it is.  You’ve read the anti-ecto acts, haven’t you? I’m not the only one who did that, right?”

“It was, like, fifty pages thick.  And stupid.  The only reason I’d read it would be if I wanted to break the laws more efficiently.”

“Seriously?”

.

An alien world spread out below Danny, a place to explore to his heart’s content, the sky twinkling above him.  He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there, in the nameless, infinite way you knew things when you were dreaming.  

He was an astronaut.  An adventurer.  An explorer.

He was doing everything he had ever dreamed of.

The only thing missing were the people.  His friends.  His family.

But… He could bring them here.  He knew that, too, in the same way.  

He just had to reach out and touch them.  Feel them.  Take them.  

(A bit of black and starlight in their eyes, a touch of the gift given to him.)

(Nocturne whispered in his ears.  A song only for him.)

.

They found the ghost responsible for the comas.  And maybe they should have realized a ghost was causing them, but Danny was the one who usually put the pieces together, and he wasn’t there.  Which was the problem.  

(What Sam wouldn’t give for some kind of reliable ghost-detecting power.  Or even technology.)

(No, the Fenton Finder didn’t count.)

It was small, human proportions, human skin tone, where it wasn’t covered with some kind of ghostly paint that mimicked the night sky. Its hair was colored the same way, and a blank mask covered its face.  Seemed to be directing the green stitched-eye ghosts somehow, despite not saying a word. So.  All in all, typical ghost, if somewhat more annoying due to his lack of witty banter.

Then he shrugged off the thermos beam like it was nothing.  Almost like he was human.  

Then Tucker froze.  

The ghost was carried away from the fight by its minions, faster than Sam or Tucker could go.  

“Tucker!  What was that?”

“Birthmark,” gasped Tucker.  

“What?” asked Sam.  

“That was Danny’s birthmark.”

“Oh my god,” said Sam.  “Did he really get himself transformed into a ghost again?”

“This seems different than Desiree,” said Tucker. “I don’t…  Were we really fighting him?”

Sam rolled her eyes.  “Let’s go get the Ghost Catcher.”

.

The Ghost Catcher was not in evidence in the Fenton basement.  

“What now?” asked Tucker.  

“Beat it out of him?” suggested Sam.  

“That is a terrible plan.  No, I can’t even call it a plan.  It’s just bad.”

“Do you have anything better?”

(Tucker did not have anything better.)

.

(And Danny still couldn’t find his friends, to show them this dream come true.)

.

When about one in ten people in Amity Park was in a coma, things managed to get even worse.  The people who were asleep began to sleepwalk.  And sleep attack people.  

Sam and Tucker were used to fighting ghosts.  Not humans.  They didn’t want to hurt anyone.  

Especially Danny who was especially vicious. And also seemed to be targeting them.

.

Danny was so close.  So close he could almost touch them.  He could feel them, electricity and green things and dreams of power and justice.  He could feel them, feel them, feel them, and he was so, so close to inviting them into the dream and he needed it, needed them.  Wanted them.  

His dream, the dream, his dream, it just wouldn’t be complete without them at his side, wouldn’t be right.  

He reached for them, reached for Sam, brushed her sleeve and—

A meteor shower threw them apart.

.

Tucker dragged Sam away from Danny’s hand and the sleep-inducing liquid it was coated in.  

“We have to go,” he gasped, looking out at the veritable horde of ghosts and sleepwalking humans.  

“Yeah,” said Sam.  “Yeah, we have to – Have to regroup.”

They retreated to the Ghost Zone, and, predictably, were separated.  

.

The ghost’s name was Undergrowth, and he was interested in Sam.  Interested enough to offer to teach her.  

His power was the same as hers.  Nature.  Plants.

His rage against humans was… much greater. Overwhelming.  Too much, too far, to extreme.  She was glad he didn’t see her as human, didn’t seem to know that she wanted to protect humans.  

(That she wanted to save Danny.)

.

Tucker already knew Technus.  Had met him, fought him, beat him.  More than once, even.  

So, he had to ask why Technus was suddenly helping him.

The ghost fixed Tucker with a look that managed to be both incredulous and flat.  

“Ghost child,” warbled Technus, “I, Technus, Master of All Things Electronic and Beeping, know what being electrocuted feels like!  By the very power we both now wield!”

“Oh,” said Tucker.  “Yeah, that makes sense.  You were saying?”

.

Sam and Tucker stood in front of the portal, side by side.  

“Ready to be a wake-up call?” asked Tucker.  

“You’d better believe it,” said Sam.  

.

Danny was caught, trapped in Sam’s vines.  

“This isn’t working,” said Tucker, lightly shocking Danny once again.  The ectoblast didn’t help, either.  “Usually, this’d zap the ghost out of him, but…”

“Maybe we could try to overshadow him?” asked Sam, dubiously.  

“Ugh,” said Tucker.  “My least favorite power.”

“It could be the only way to find the ghost actually responsible.”

“Let’s do this.”

.

Danny was thrilled!  He’d finally found his friends.  True, he couldn’t move, but—

The stars shuddered.  Shifted.  Blinked.

Nocturne was angry.

.

Sam was knocked out of the sky at full speed, making a crater in the dark ground.  People were gathered nearby.  Amity Park people.  

This couldn’t just be the inside of Danny’s mind (overshadowing had never worked this way before, but, well, it wasn’t like they experimented with it a whole lot), it had to be some kind of shared dream.  A special power of the ghost, perhaps?

Sam fired up her powers, reaching for the nearby plants. They didn’t respond.  

Crud.  

This was a dream.  They just looked like plants.  

Then Tucker lit up the sky like a dying star, electrocuting everyone in range.  

.

Danny woke up, throwing Sam and Tucker out of his body, something metallic clanging against sidewalk pavement.  Out of his mind, out of his dream.  Out of that dream, the one Nocturne had made for him.

Oh, god.  He’d just spent the last week—Had it been a week, or longer? —out of his mind, in that dream, reality at one remove, if that.  He’d been blind and—

He reached up to his face, to that mask and he pulled.  It stuck. He pulled harder, and felt the goo sticking it on give, the mask coming away while dripping thick strands of ooze. He gasped.  And it felt like the first breath he’d taken in—

How long had it been?

He opened his eyes just in time to see Nocturne rise out of his shadow.  

.

Both Sam and Tucker had more of an advantage out here in the real world, without having to worry about hurting people.  Well, without having to worry about hurting people more than usual.  Wrecking buildings and missing with ectoblasts were still concerns.  

“Draw him towards the park?” called Tucker, once they got close enough to confer with each other.  

“You grab Danny?”

“I don’t—” started Tucker.  He dodged a swipe from the large, starry ghost.  “He might be safer, if—”

A column of blue light strobed into the sky, and Nocturne was pulled into the Fenton Thermos.  The Fenton Thermos held by Danny Fenton.  He coughed, black liquid dripping down his chin.  

“Hey,” said Danny.  “Thanks.”

“I’ve got to stop losing that thing,” groaned Tucker.

“I think the more important thing here is getting Danny some clothes,” said Sam, shielding her eyes.  

“Yes, please,” said Danny.  

“Glad to have you back, man,” said Danny, landing next to Danny and transforming.  “Honestly, without you, we kind of suck at the whole investigation angle.”

“What?” asked Danny, taking the sweater Tucker offered him.  

“We missed you,” clarified Sam.  “A lot.  We kind of… don’t do to well at anything about ghost fighting.  Or life.”

“Yeah, our social life sucked even more than usual.”

“Oh,” said Danny, wrapping the sweater around his waist. “That’s cool.”  He spit some of the black liquid out onto the sidewalk. “I need a shower.”

“Yep.  Hugs are going to be deferred until then.”

“I’m okay with that,” said Danny.  “I kind of… don’t want to be touched, for a while.”

“Ah,” said Tucker.  “Well.  I’m depressed again.”

“Just.  Until the shower,” said Danny.  

Sam reached out as if to pat Danny on the shoulder, then drew back.  “Do you want a flight back home?  Or to, uh, Tucker’s house?  To shower. And get some clothes.”

“How is that different from a hug?  You’ll still have to carry me.”

“It just is,” said Sam.  

“It really is,” said Tucker.  

There was a long pause.  

“I lied, I want a hug so bad,” said Danny.  

His friends practically flung themselves at him.

#Danny Phantom #phic phight #danny fenton #sam manson #tucker foley #nocturne #reverse trio #void!danny