#for when bingo inevitably wants to corner me with this AU

[sabraeal]

Remedial Lessons

[Read on AO3]

Written for @kaedix‘s birthday! Kimber has a gift for picking niche AUs, and this one she gave me a little unexpected challenge along with it: writing Obi as the meister and Shirayuki as his weapon. Not my natural inclination on a Soul Eater AU...but then it worked out SO much better than it could have the other way.

Blue flame licks up her fingers, pinched like a clothespin right on the tip of its comet tail. It struggles, a squiggling pendulum attempting one last heave toward freedom, but it’s no use; the thing might be all fire, but it’ll never burn that kid’s small hands.

“All right.” A real flame might dance that close to her sigh, like a birthday candle thinking about if it’d give up its wish, but this one doesn’t even flicker. Obi’ll never get used to that, no matter how many of these souls he sees. “Down the hatch, I guess.”

The kid’s jaw opens-- practically unhinges, really, like something you’d see on National Geographic, or maybe something drawn by Junji Ito-- and she wraps her mouth around it whole, slurping the thing up easy as soba. It’s weird to see, honestly; kid’s usually got silverware and napkin perfectly applied to every meal, as neat an eater as she is a note-taker, so when blue wisps out from the side of her mouth, caught by her tongue--

Ah, well, it does something for him. A little. Not because he’s got a thing about food or whatever; he doesn’t just watch videos of cute girls eating like that stupid monkey does, it’s just...her. He’s got a thing for her and, yeah, it’s starting to get real inconvenient. “Do those taste good?”

Shirayuki blinks up at him, everything about her completely normal in size, and swallows. “Excuse me?”

“The soul things.” He waves his fingers, trying to make them flicker the same way as her last meal. “I always thought they’d be spicy or something. Burn on the way down. But you can’t even handle a Red Hot Cheeto, so...”

Her mouth pulls thin. “That’s because they’re unpleasant. The, um, cheetos, I mean. Not the souls. Those are--” her head tilts, eyes drifting up like they might find the answer somewhere past her eyebrows-- “sweet. Or, well, not really. I’m not sure they really have a taste, but it’s like...eating your favorite meal until you’re full. Satisfying, I guess.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat, one hand creeping up to his shoulder just so he’ll have something to do. “Sounds...nice.”

“Mostly.” She grimaces. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way they...squiggle when they go down.”

Obi’s eaten something like that; last time Zen took him overseas he’d paid a handful of yen to some guy with a bucket to try a tiny octopus on a stick. Its little suckers clung to his throat as he swallowed it down, and well--

Probably not the time to tell her he’d thought it was fun. “We should get headed back,” he says instead. “What was that? Eighty-eight? Ninety-one? Shidan’s gonna have something to say about it.”

Shirayuki hums, that face of her taking a worried bent. “I’m sure...”

“Ninety-seven.” There’s a pen between the professor’s fingers, the kind that usually has a little boat or a ski-lift inside, moving to and fro. This one’s got a small soul, traveling down the length of it to Death and his scythe before scurrying back across. “You’re at ninety-seven souls, Shirayuki.”

The guilty twist of her mouth says the kid knew the count too. Better than he did at least. “You’ve given us some very good opportunities over the last year.”

It’s a diplomatic answer, and by the way Shidan slumps behind his desk, it’s not the one he wants to hear. “Garak wanted you back at Shibusen at ninety. If you were so close, you should have said--”

“I don’t want to go yet.” It’s just like her to let the truth fly right out, landing with all the subtlety of a bomb. One that catches her in its blast by the way she pinks up, just a few shades lighter than her hair. “I mean, we’re not done here. We’ve only just scratched the surface of what the Olin Maris is, let alone what it means for our system of weapon classification, or whether there’s other mythic weapons we haven’t even considered because--”

“Shirayuki.” Obi’d thought Shidan was a bit of a scrub when they first met him, a scraggly excuse for a professor with even scragglier facial hair, but nothing makes a guy grim up faster than having a team of kids thrust upon him and told to keep them alive. Especially when one of those kids is Shirayuki. “I appreciate that this project has...meaning for you. I do. But I also know that if you guys fumble your last soul on my watch, Garak will wring my neck and serve me for dinner.”

That hauls the kid up short, all her passion careening into a pile-up. “Ah...”

Those big eyes roll his way, looking at him like he’s the one with all the experience of talking them into trouble and right back out again. “I dunno, kid. Master’s going to string me up too if we blow this smash and grab a second time.”

Her mouth bows into a frown cute enough to send a little thrill up his spine. “He doesn’t like it when you call him that.”

“And he can scold me about it straight to my face,” Obi says, grinning down into hers. “When we get shipped back to Death City.”

The determined jut of her jaw would like to argue, but before the kid can work herself up past, “No,” Shidan swings in with a weary, “You’re not ready to catch a witch soul.”

“That’s not true.” Shirayuki’s half out of her seat already, tiny hands braced on its arms, ready to spring. “Umihebi--”

“Umihebi is what you can expect from an experienced witch.” Shidan’s not the kind of guy who does resolution, let alone conflict, but he stands his ground, albeit with all the enthusiasm of a cliff face in a storm. “But not a powerful one. Garak hasn’t seen fit to furnish me with the details of that little excursion, but I doubt you’d manage much better if she took you on today.”

Technically, Obi agrees. Hell, that’s the meat of the argument he’d been trying to have only a few days ago, back when the kid had gone off and signed them up for this last glut of souls.

There’s going to be a witch to wipe the floor with us whether we get all our souls today or two years from now, he’d told her, flicking the end of her tiny ponytail. Not because it made his chest squeeze to see how long it had gotten since that raggedy boy cut, of course, but because it was there. No need to rush things. After all, who’s the meister here?

But he watches her face crinkle up, freckles disappearing into the peaks and valleys of her discontent, and-- and it’s stupid, but he can’t just stand around watching it happen.

“We’re stronger than we were then.” Big eyes turn toward him, shining and surprised and hopeful, and he can’t keep this up but he can’t look away either. “Better.”

It’s the truth, it is, but also: it’s a low bar to clear. He wasn’t a stranger to this whole weapon business, even wielded a few a time or two when the job called for it, but this kid was something else entirely. Not his style, for one, and for another, well--

Shirayuki wasn’t for the faint of heart, that’s for sure. He’d nearly passed out that first time she fell into his hands, and staring down Umihebi’s goon squad with her in them had his knees and heart weak.

“He’s right.” The kid quivers with conviction, the way dogs do at the end of their leash. “We’d hardly been partners more than a few weeks at that point, and now--”

“Right.” Shidan’s chair squeaks as he shifts, just as uncomfortable as its occupant. “But can you resonate?”

“ He’s right,” Ryuu says with his signature bluntness. “You can’t.”

“Well, sure. But...” It’s just like the Shirayuki to search for the silver lining in every cloud, but this one even makes her come back empty-handed. “Just because we haven’t managed it doesn’t mean we can’t be good collectors! I’m sure there’s plenty of weapons and meisters who can’t, they’re just--”

“Not Death Scythes?” Suzu offers.

“Thanks, Suzu,” Obi drawls. “Real helpful.”

“What? I’m not saying you’re not skilled.” Bony shoulders shrug, poking up through his jacket like a wire coat hanger. “Clearly you’re better than me and Yuzuri. But you can’t get into the upper ranks without having a Death Scythe, and you can’t get a Death Scythe without fighting a witch, and you can’t fight a witch without some serious firepower, and you can’t get serious firepower without--”

Obi waves his hand. “Soul Resonance, we get it. Trust me, we’ve gotten this talk before.”

“Then what’s the hold up?” Suzu finally looks up from his little science project, face all consternated, like it’s any of his business. “You guys are totally simpatico here. What’s going on in the field?”

Baggage, he doesn’t say, at the same time Ryuu observes, “I think it’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” It’s just his luck that Yuzuri’s halfway through sticking her neck in, drawn to gossip like a moth to a flame. If moths came naturally flame-retardant, that is. “Is there something going on between you two?”

“Ah, no!”  It’s unthinkable that there could be something, he knows, but it stings a little, how quick that scythe of his is to jump in. “It’s just-- there’s someone else who’s supposed to be my meister. But that’s...”

“Complicated,” Ryuu reminds them again.

She’s got the grace to flush. “There’s other duties he has to see to, important ones, and since I’m so new at this...”

“Oh.” Yuzuri snorts, unimpressed. “I see. The kind of guy who can only give you the time of day if you’re a Death Scythe.”

“No! Well, yes.” Her hands wave, as much of a jumble as this whole situation. “It’s not his fault. But Obi has experience with weapons, and he’s able to wield me, so we thought...”

One extremely judgemental eyebrow hikes up to Yuzuri’s hairline. “He might not be Mr. Right, but he’s Mr. Right Now?”

Hands clap to her cheeks, like it does anything to hide what’s going on underneath them. “Well, it sounds terrible when you put it like that! It’s not like-- we’re not-- plenty of weapons train with different meisters!”

“Right,” Suzu sniffs. “But they’re not making them do all the work.”

Obi holds up a hand. “It’d make more sense if you knew who it is. Trust me.”

That catches Yuzuri’s attention, quick. “Why? Is he important? Is it someone I’d know? You’d tell me if it was someone--”

“In any case,” Shirayuki says, pitching her voice to be heard over this mess. “Shidan told us there was someone who could help. A colleague of a colleague, I guess.”

Ryuu glances up. “Really? Who?”

“Some guy,” Obi grunts, right as the she replies, “Rata Forzeno.”

“Why is it that all these genius types always live out in the middle of nowhere?” His complaints mist into the air, blunted by the cold. “If they were so smart, wouldn’t they live somewhere with central heating? A grocery store within a twenty minute drive? Wifi?”

“Some people really enjoy their privacy,” the kid says, like that’s any sort of explanation at all for why they have to hike through this stupid forest.

“Most people just delete Twitter.” The snow’s high enough he’s got to lift his legs to clear the next step, and each time he puts his foot down, twigs crunch. Like a special surprise at the bottom of a shit sundae. “Wasn’t he supposed to be some important scholar? Don’t they all live in Death City, or something? Or at least keep a PO box?”

“He did once. Live in Death City, I mean.” Shirayuki grimaces as he helps her over a rocky outcropping hidden beneath the drifts. “There was some accident? Yuzuri didn’t know the details, but she thought it might have to do with some assistant of his.”

“Accident.” Just what he needs, another professor who thinks safety regulations are guidelines rather than prosecutable laws. “And this is the guy who’s gonna figure out what’s wrong with us.”

“There’s nothing wrong with us!” It’s cute how heated she gets, gripping him through their thick layers, all flushed. “Everyone has trouble resonating at some point!”

“Right, well, most of them are at Shibusen,” he grumbles, tugging her close enough to dodge the snow the tree beside them dumps. “And the ones that aren’t don’t go around collecting all those kishin souls, only to bungle the last one because of it.”

“We hadn’t been working together that long.” Her elbow pushes into his side, luring his gaze right down into the trap of her smile. “Did you tell Shidan we were stronger now? Better?”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t realize he was going to send us out to bumfuck to see some crazy hermit--”

“He’s not crazy.” It’s insane how calmly she can say that when her knees are soaked through with snow. He’s got to lift her up every other step to keep from losing her in it. If he thought she’d tolerate it, he would have called her weapon shape and carried her already. She’d be a hell of a lot lighter that way. “He’s just-- oof!”

It comes out of nowhere; one minute it’s snowy forest and then next the kid’s tripping over tumbled-down stone, a whole ruin jutting out of the snow like teeth in a kishin’s maw.

“Where did this all come from?” Shirayuki cranes her neck, like somehow an answer might pop out of the drifts if she looks hard enough. “A soul barrier, maybe? But to make this look like a forest instead of...?”

“Welp.” He pops the ‘p,’ plucking her attention away from the mystery. “I think we can say for sure that this guy is off his rocker.”

“Obi.”

“I appreciate how fair you’re being, kid, I really do, but normal people don’t just go around living in busted down temple stuff, throwing up barriers and--”

Snow splatters him, just the way solid things shouldn’t, cresting over him like a wave on a breakwater. It takes him a minute to blink, to clear the snow off his eyelashes enough to see a rock’s sitting between them, carving a crater out of the snow.

He leans closer, catching the way grooves are worn into it, images. No, not a rock. It’s a whole hunk of marble, with one sightless eye staring up at them, half a grimace stretched beneath it.

“Is that a statue?”

“No,” the kid murmurs, pale. “It’s a...a bas relief. That means they carved it straight into a block of stone, not--”

“Sure.” His lips are numb where he licks them. “But it got thrown at us, right?”

Her mouth rounds. “Ah--”

“You know.” A voice echoes through the ruins, coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. “It’s not polite to wander into someone’s home and call them a crazy old hermit.”

Another hunk lands inches from Obi’s boots, and he stumbles back, hand outstretched. It’s enough to brush her, and that’s all the signal the kid needs, the metal heft of her shaft fitting into his hands like it was made for him. “You’re supposed to call ahead first, at least.”

“Call ahead?” Obi squawks, spinning Shirayuki to deflect the next chunk. “Like you get service out here?”

A man leaps down from a boulder-- no, another one of those frescoes or whatever, looking just as stressed as the face at their feet. It’s an older guy, slender enough that he shouldn’t be leaving the crater he does in that snow, a worn lab coat whipping around him.

“You’d be surprised.” Another hunk of marble breaks itself off; a screaming face, by the looks of it. “Now get off my ruin.”

Obi crouches, ready to deflect the next throw, but with a shout as sharp as her blade, the kid cries out, “Wait! Shidan sent us!”

“Shidan?” The man-- Forzeno blinks, not dropping the marble, but losing his menace. “Why would that idiot send you out here? Not on one of his hopeless quests, is he? That man is made for fool’s errands...”

“You used to be a teacher, didn’t you?” Shirayuki’s not a Death Scythe, not yet, so her transformation is all or nothing, scythe or girl, and for this, she finally decides on girl. “At Shibusen?”

“Yes.” The marble churns overhead as Rata adds, begrudgingly, “I had to be in order to use their facilities.”

“Right.” If Obi were her real meister, he’d be able to tell if that kid was really as confident as her words, but he can’t, so he’s stuck here, having to believe she can brazen it out, just like always. Just like she couldn’t with Umihebi. “Shiden told us that if we were looking to resonate, you were the one to ask.”

The jerk frowns. “That’s not under the purview of my research.”

“But you used to do it,” she presses. “Shidan said you used to be the best.”

“I was,” Rata agrees, like it’s fact. “But I wrote that paper.”

It’s too much. “Are you kidding me?” He can’t take these nerds and their stupid papers anymore. “We came all the way down here to talk to you, and you won’t even--?”

“Shidan told me that too,” the kid says, which is news to him. “You’re interested in mythic weapons now, aren’t you? In...Legendary Resonance?”

If anything, this makes the guy less comfortable. “Yes. Though I don’t see why he would waste his time telling that to a weapon that isn’t even--”

Shirayuki lets out a hiss through her teeth, loosening her jaw just enough to say, “My mother was Carnwennan.”

The marble drops. Just tips right over, inched from that guy’s heels. “Carnwennan? The dagger wielded by Arther himself? The sister to--?”

“Excalibur.” She grimaces. “Yes.”

He hesitates.

“Fine.” Forzeno turns his back to them, heading deeper into the ruins. “Come into my office.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #soul eater au #ans #it has been SO LONG since i watched the show or read the manga #but i did go back and watch like the first 12 eps for this #it worked out well since my husband actually got me the dvds for christmas #i kept going back and forth while planning #about whether i liked obi as the meister because his whole attitude is that he should be used as a tool #and then once i started writing in obi's POv it all came together PERFECTLY #and made the whole resonance issue come together perfectly #i had a few plans for after this point but i am keeping them in my back pocket #for when bingo inevitably wants to corner me with this AU #🤣

[deanwanddamons]

Right In Front Of Your Eyes

Summary: Y/N and Dean are best friends who work together. When she joins a dating app, will she meet ‘the one’ or has she already met him? 

Word Count: 2K

Pairings: Barista!Dean x Barista!Reader. 

Warnings: Fluff. Just fluff.  

Bingo Squares Filled: @spnaubingo - Coffee Shop! AU. 

@deanandsambingo - Bakery/Coffee Shop!AU

Song Inspiration: https://youtu.be/Q3tyfh0slEg

Right In Front Of Your Eyes - The Wedding Singer The Musical. 

A/N: This is just a little one shot that was written as a Galentine Fic Exchange in a discord server I am in. With a bit of editing, I have made it reader insert. 

A/N 2: As always thank you to my beta @winchest09. You are my cheerleader, my bestie and my constant support. I love you.  Coffee shop dividers by @firefly-graphics

My Masterlist 

Buy Me A Coffee 

“How about this photo?” 

 Y/N asked, as she turned her laptop towards her fellow barista and best friend, Dean. The coffee shop where they both worked was quiet, the lunchtime rush having ended over thirty minutes ago, their patrons retreating back to their busy lives. So, she was now taking advantage of the quiet environment and was asking the green-eyed man for his opinion. 

She needed a new picture for the dating site, ‘Find The One’. Y/N had been a member for a few weeks now, and had already had some dates after following up a couple of introductions. Yet so far, she hadn’t managed to find the one as the app had promised, and that was because she had already found him. It was a closely guarded secret that she kept to herself. Joining the site had been more of a distraction than a real quest to meet Mr Right. From the day Dean had started his employment with ‘From Bean To Cup’ two years previously, she had held a torch for him. A flame that was getting brighter with every passing day. 

They had hit it off immediately, thanks to having the same taste in many different things. So when it came to their job, they engineered the work rota so more often than not, they were on matching shifts just so they could be together. They both enjoyed the same TV shows, movies and classic rock music, which would result in them spending plenty of evenings hanging out together, drinking beer and playing pool (which to Dean’s dismay, Y/N was very good at, inevitably leading to her beating him on more than one occasion.) They fastly become best friends.

When Dean had met Lisa though, the time that they spent together waned. It only consisted of seeing each other behind the counter while they served lattes and flat whites. Y/N had pretended she was happy for him when he told her how he had met her. She faked a smile when he explained that while out for the evening  with his college buddies, a brunette had started to talk to him at the bar and they had swapped numbers. While he was telling her the story, his cell had beeped with an incoming text to which he immediately responded. This exchange had lasted for a few minutes until Dean announced he had arranged to see said brunette, who’s name was Lisa, once his shift was over. He seemed genuinely happy, so she upturned the corners of her lips, forcing a grin as she said all the right things, but deep down her heart had dropped into her stomach. She didn’t understand the emotion she was feeling, but as Lisa and Dean’s relationship developed over the next few weeks, she realized she was jealous. Not only was she missing her best friend, but she hated the fact that he was with another woman.

He had been seeing Lisa now for about six months, and they seemed pretty serious. Y/N, on the other hand, still hadn’t found anyone special. So deciding that she needed to update her profile, she wanted to get Dean’s opinion on which picture of herself to use. She still classed him as her confidant, even though their relationship was not as close as it used to be. 

“Yes, I like that one. You look really pretty. Use it,” he told her, clearing his throat slightly before sliding his hands into the front pocket of his apron.  

She smiled and nodded her head in agreement, then uploaded the image. Just as it loaded, a customer came to the counter, so she closed the laptop and took their order, putting her now updated profile to the back of her mind. 

That evening, as they were closing up the shop, Y/N’s phone pinged with an incoming message. It was a notification from the dating site; a member named ‘Benny224’ had requested a private chat. Swiping along the glass, she brought up his profile. He was good-looking; bright blue eyes, pleasant open features, and he was wearing a flat cap. His details explained he was from Louisiana but currently living in Lawrence and he was 36. Deciding to respond, she typed up a brief message just saying ‘hi’ and sent it. Closing her cell, she dropped it back into her apron pocket before she turned the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed.’

“You have a date?” Dean asked from his position behind the counter where he was cleaning the coffee machine. 

“Just a chat request,” she responded, “we’ll see how it goes.” 

Y/N had noticed Dean had seemed quite subdued the last few shifts she had worked with him. So, wanting to get to the bottom of whatever was bothering him, she turned her key into the lock and pocketed the piece of metal before she turned to her friend. 

“Are you okay?” She inquired, walking further into the shop and towards him as she spoke. 

“Yeah.” He didn’t look up as he answered, continuing to wipe the now spotless serving area in slow, rhythmic circles. 

Pulling up a stool, she sat down, rubbing at her aching back as she did. “It’s me you’re talking to Winchester. What’s up?” 

Dean’s movements slowed as he inhaled a deep breath. “I’ve ended it with Lisa,” he finally admitted, placing the cloth over his shoulder and resting his palms on the wood before him. 

This was not what she was expecting to hear. “Wow. Okay. Can I ask why?” 

“Honestly?” Dean continued, making his way around the counter to join her on the other side. He too pulled up a stool and dropped heavily down on it next to her. “She wasn’t who I thought she was.” 

As he explained, his gaze was trained on his hands which were clasped in front of him. Taking the rag from his shoulder, he began fiddling nervously with the material. 

“What do you mean?” 

“She…umm…” he began, but stopped mid-sentence. “Never mind.” He stood, and moved swiftly across the room towards a round table before he quickly started to clean it. 

Following him, she rested her hand on his broad back and softly prompted, “Hey come on, you can tell me.” 

He stiffened and without turning towards her, his words came out quickly. “She wasn’t you.” 

Y/N froze. Had he just said what she thought he had. “I’m sorry. What?” 

“Forget it. Just ignore me.” He moved away from her, heading for a booth over the other side of the room, leaving his colleague and friend in shock behind him. 

“I’ll never ignore you,” she told him, her heart thumping in her chest as she began to process Dean’s words. It was then that she hurried after him, wanting a further explanation. “Please, talk to me.” 

He had paused at the booth and was hunched over the bench between the seats when she caught up with him. Turning to face her, he leaned against the edge. 

“Ever since you joined that dating site I…” He started to play with the cloth again, entwining it between his fingers, his eyes downcast. “…thinking about you going on dates with other men made me realize something. I was jealous. Even though I was with Lisa already.” He lifted his head, his green orbs meeting hers, which were wide with shock. 

“Jealous?” She asked, incredulity evident in her tone. She couldn’t believe what the man before her was saying. 

“Yep,” he went on, popping the ‘p’. 

“I don’t understand.” And she didn’t. She knew she had feelings for Dean, and would even go as far as to say she was in love with him, but had never thought he felt the same way. Was this him trying to tell her that he did? 

She took a step towards him, closing the distance between them. 

“We have been friends for a long time right?” He husked, his voice low as he dropped his head slightly so he stared down at the floor. “Well, I guess I have always had feelings for you, but I didn’t understand what they were until you started going on those dates. Then it occurred to me. I woke up one morning and just realized that the one I wanted was right in front of my eyes..” With those last words he looked up, his gaze on her now strong and intense. 

Y/N’s stomach flipped, her brain struggling to comprehend what had just left Dean’s lips. ‘He feels the same way as me’ ‘No! That’s not what he is saying’ were bouncing around in her mind, the contradictory sentences at war with each other. She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her and she closed it again. 

“I’m sorry. Forget it.” Dean stood abruptly and marched past her, going back behind the counter. He grabbed his bag and threw it over his shoulder, before stomping towards the door. He gripped the handle and pulled it, then remembered she had recently locked it. He breathed in angrily, letting it out through his nostrils in a frustrated sigh. “Can you open it please?” 

She was rooted to the spot. The man she was completely in love with had just basically admitted he felt the same, and she couldn’t move. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ She chastised herself, willing her body to move, urging her brain to allow her to speak. She needed to tell him, needed to explain. Fishing the key out of her pocket, she walked over to him and the door. 

As she reached him, he wouldn’t look at her, continuing to stare out through the glass at the people passing by. He moved aside as she slipped the small piece of metal into the lock, but as he went to turn it and open the door, she pressed her hand against it. 

Stepping in front of him, she blocked his exit. He was a lot taller than her, so looking up at his freckle-adorned face, she reached up and placed her palm against his cheek. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. 

“When you wake up suddenly and realize, the one that you want is right in front of your eyes.” She repeated his statement from earlier, her heart hammering in her chest. 

His eyes flung open at her words. “Really?” 

“Yes.” 

Their gazes held for a few seconds before she surprised even herself by pushing up onto her tiptoes, and kissing him gently on his plump lips. He kissed her back, lightly at first, before his tongue swiped across her bottom lip. She opened her mouth, allowing the embrace to deepen. His hand found the back of her neck, pulling her even closer to him, as her arms wrapped around his slim waist. They continued like this for a short while, simply making out, oblivious to the fact that anyone passing the shop could see what was going on through the glass door they were leaning against. 

Realizing this was probably not the best place to continue, Y/N regrettably broke the embrace. Dean smiled down at her, resting his forehead against hers. 

“You sure about this?” He asked, stealing another quick peck as he spoke. 

“100%.” 

“Me too.” 

“But I don’t think the whole of Lawrence needs to witness our make-out session,” she chuckled, taking him by the hand and leading him into the large storage cupboard at the back of the shop. He followed her willingly, his grin wide and mischievous as he quickly discarded his bag. 

As they reached the room, she paused to turn off the lights of the store. As the shop fell into darkness, she reached into her pocket, opened it to the Home Screen, and deleted the dating app. ‘Sorry Benny’, she thought ‘it was nice knowing you, albeit briefly.’ 

She didn’t need ‘Find The One’ any longer, as her future was right in front of her eyes.

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[btsmosphere]

Just in Time | PJM

~summary:

Once was just good timing, twice a happy coincidence. But can you leave it at just that?

Jimin x female reader

~word count: 3.3k

~college au, new year au, strangers to lovers, fluff

Rating: G

Warnings: drinking, swearing, kissing a stranger

~a/n: another bingo square!! This time, the prompt was ‘new year’s kiss’ - perhaps a little early for new year, but who cares? I hope you enjoy this dose of fluffy strangers to lovers, featuring best wingman Jin and Hobi as a liability!!

5 minutes.

The time showing on the television screen was somewhat lost in the other lights swirling around the dark room, but it was still perfectly visible. And you were still perfectly alone.

Not that it bothered you.

Not at all.

There were plenty of other students in the room around you who weren’t coupled up, too busy singing, dancing and drinking. Rationally, you knew buying into the whole cliché of a new year’s kiss was silly, but with just the right amount of alcohol in you, you found yourself feeling downtrodden.

Turning your back on the screen, you swayed some more, weaving your way through the other bodies dancing.

Lost in the song playing, you let the time slip your mind. Laughing as the music came to a stop, everyone belting the last note out of tune, you spun around only to be greeted with the clock again.

2 minutes.

Averting your eyes, you squeezed through the thrum to get to the drinks. On route, it seemed some couples towards the edges of the room weren’t particularly bothered about saving the moment for midnight. Scurrying past as fast as you could, you finally reached the sanctity of the bar.

Pouring out a drink, you took a sip to test it. Deciding it would do, you hummed along with the song playing as your eyes scanned across the room.

Tonight had been fun, but you were mainly here to avoid the depressing notion of a New Year’s Eve by yourself. Although everyone here was in your year at college, you barely recognised a face.

With no one to distract you, it was inevitable that your eyes gravitated back to the screen.

1 minute.

Taking another sip, you slid away into the crowd again. For the first time that night, the dancing had stopped and there was no more questionable singing. Instead, the music turned down low, chatter filling the space as the clock ticked closer.

30 seconds.

Moving towards the wall, you tried to squeeze around someone, only to trip as your foot caught on theirs. But before your drink could even spill, hands latched onto your upper arms, holding you steady.

Startled, you looked up at the handsome stranger you were suddenly very close to.

He responded to your awkward laughter with a smile of his own, still gripping your arms.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

His abrupt question left you replying before you could think.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he smiled, then tossed a glance sideways at the clock, “kiss me.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“Kiss me.”

Turning your own head to look at the time, your panicked look was in vain as the room was suddenly filled with chanting.

10 seconds.

“I promise I’m not bad,” he quipped, stealing your attention again as the room announced the approaching strike of midnight.

“Five!”

“Four!”

“Three!”

“Oh, fuck it-“ you muttered.

“Two!”

Your lips crashed together, and you found he wasn’t lying at all when he said he was good. Surrendering to him completely, you allowed him to tug you closer as his lips moved perfectly against yours, wiping your mind of the people around you.

One of his hands came up to your jaw, gently but firmly holding you in place as he deepened the kiss, sending chills through your entire body.

All too soon, the cheers were fading around you and his movements slowed. Reluctantly following, you allowed him to linger for a moment before pulling away.

You were sure you must have stared at him for at least 2 years before you snapped back to your senses when he flashed a brilliant smile. Forcing yourself to breathe, you returned it. Next, thinking you should probably attempt to come off as a normal human, you removed yourself from his arms, despite being so captivated by this stranger’s eyes you could barely think.

Oh yes, this stranger.

“Thanks,” he breathed.

“No problem!” your voice came out much higher than normal, making your face burn. Clearing your throat, you tried again, “what did you say your name was?”

“Oh! I’m Jimin,” he stuck his hand out, “Park Jimin. Good to meet you.”

Bursting into laughter, you took his hand anyway and shook it.

“Okay,” you grinned, “see you around, Park Jimin.”

Somewhere between fifteen and ten minutes.

You weren’t sure where exactly, since you had no clock anywhere near you. And anyway, you had more pressing matters to deal with.

“Come on,” you groaned, tugging Hoseok’s arm further around you.

Despite your best efforts, his feet weren’t on the same page, not making it underneath him in time to stop his weight tugging you down yet again.

“Look, just up here,” Seokjin spoke from his other side. He was pointing to the corner of the road where their taxi would be picking them up.

For some reason, this year you had been persuaded out with your two friends to a club: a decision you were sorely regretting having been kicked out at a quarter to midnight given the state of the younger one. You were certain you would be spending the strike of midnight alone on the street outside instead, freezing and waiting for your own taxi.

At long last, you shrugged Hobi’s weight off you, propping him against a wall as the taxi rumbled towards you.

“Are you sure you don’t want to just crash at mine?” Jin asked once more.

“No, it’s fine, really,” you smiled as you opened the door for him, “I have to be home for my parents coming tomorrow morning. Good luck with him.”

Laughing dryly as Hoseok struggled inside, Jin gave a quick wave before clambering in himself, and then they were off.

Looking around you, it was evident the safest place to wait would be back on the main road. So, doubling back towards the club, you pulled out your phone to order your ride home.

7 minutes.

The closer you got, the more noise you could hear emanating from the club. With a sigh, you parked yourself on the other side of a streetlight, leaning against the wall to hopefully stay out of sight of the irritated bouncers who had just ejected you.

Just behind you was the side alley of the club, a few people crowding outside the fire exit for air.

Finishing up your order, you sagged back against the wall, briefly poking your head around the corner. A round of laughter rippled through the cluster of friends that stood there.

You turned back to the main road, not wanting to intrude. Your cab should be here in five minutes. Oh, and look at the time.

5 minutes.

It felt like much longer than that as you stood waiting, muffled bass from the club and chatter from the people outside providing the soundtrack for your slow descent into hypothermia. The brick wall you leaned against definitely wasn’t helping, so you pushed away from it, hugging yourself.

There were 3 minutes left when you looked back down the alleyway.

People were filing back inside, surely to see in the new year in a room full of bright lights and cheering students, rather than outside on a bare road in winter.

But then one of them looked around.

You would recognise that face anywhere.

At first you thought he didn’t see you, but when Jimin patted one of his friends on the shoulder and excused himself, you realised he was coming straight towards you.

“Y/N!”

Smiling shyly at him, you pushed some hair back behind your ear before returning your arm to your side for heat. His smile never left his face as he came to stop in front of you.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, taking in your shivering state.

“Waiting for a taxi,” you explained, glancing over your shoulder to the road, “I kind of got kicked out-“

Jimin’s eyebrows raised as his smile overflowed into a laugh, prompting you to explain yourself.

“-well, my friend got kicked out, and, you know, I had to see him out…“

“When does your taxi get here?” Jimin interjected softly, stepping forwards.

Breath catching for a moment, you gulped. Then shook yourself and turned over the phone in your hand.

“1 minute.”

“It’s one minute until midnight,” he spoke.

Barely meeting his eyes, you nodded. In fact, with less than one minute now, you were sure he was about to go back inside again-

“Lucky coincidence I bumped into you again.”

As his hand lifted to gently graze your waist, you loosened your arms, suddenly warmer.

The start of the countdown filtered through the club’s front doors to the pair of you. With no time to check your phone again, you trusted in the booming voices from inside, letting your hands travel up Jimin’s chest to his shoulders as the final ten seconds of this year were announced.

“Just in time?” you breathed.

“Exactly,” his breath came back, hot across your face and barely a second before he closed the distance.

The faint cheering from the building behind you fell on deaf ears. You were too busy drinking in the feeling of Jimin’s lips on yours, in perfect motion that left you dizzy.

It would be a lie if you said you had never thought about last year’s kiss ever again, but this felt so much better, so much more real than even your memories could conjure. His fingers clamped on your waist, igniting your need for more as the kiss grew hungrier, his tongue swiping at your lips and your eager submission, hands now clasped behind his neck as you desperately pulled each other closer.

Just as you rose to your tiptoes, the distant hum of an engine.

Keeping your lips attached to Jimin’s until the last second, you only broke apart when the taxi drew up right beside you. It took everything in you not to dive straight back for more.

Panting slightly, your eyes locked for the briefest of moments, his hands still in the air where he had been holding you.

But then you tore yourself away.

“So you’re like, some mysterious girl who kisses people and vanishes into the night?”

“No, Jin!” you laughed into your phone, “I don’t kiss just ‘people’!”

“Oh, so he’s special?”

“Yes! Wait, no-“

“You did say it happened last year too, right?”

“Well, yeah,” you sighed, flopping back onto your pillow, “but it’s just one of those things, right?”

A pause.

“I mean, it is a weird coincidence,” he agreed, “maybe it’s meant to be!”

Even over the phone, you could tell your friend had a shit-eating grin on his face.

“You’re no help,” you grumbled.

“Okay, sorry, sorry,” he conceded, “so are you going to try and find him?”

“I don’t know…” you sighed, “would that be weird?”

“Do you like him?”

“…well, I wouldn’t say I didn’t like him-“

“Okay, so you like him-“

“That’s not what I said!”

“It was close enough. So what do we know about this guy?”

“Well… his name is Park Jimin, he’s in our year at college… um, yeah. That’s it.”

Needless to say, your half-hearted search for Jimin didn’t get very far. Before long, he was once again at the back of your mind as you dragged yourself through another semester of assignments and exams.

Park Jimin and his wonderful midnight kisses were a thought reserved for the more lovesick nights, where you lay awake in the dark, wishing to see him again.

But then you would fall asleep, and in the morning you would be preoccupied once more and fail to do anything for your love life.

And then came final year, Park Jimin seeming more and more like a distant fantasy. You were drowning in work, so much that even Jin could barely talk you into going out at the weekends anymore. Determined to do well, you set yourself on the most stressful course.

Which was probably why you were being informed about Jin’s party two months in advance.

“No last minute excuses, no pretending you have to study all night, especially in the middle of a holiday. You are coming,” he announced as you read over the post it note he had smacked onto your calendar.

“Okay,” you rolled your eyes, “but only because it’s new year.”

“And because you love me so much?” he batted his eyelashes.

“Your ego doesn’t need any more feeding,” you scoffed, though a smile did make itself known on your face.

“Aish, so ungrateful,” he complained, “you better be there!”

“I will, I will,” you consoled him. Apparently he was satisfied because he let you chase him out of the door, leaving you alone with your laptop.

Of course, you forgot.

That was the problem with promising to go to a party with two months to spare.

It was only because your friend couldn’t contain his excitement from babbling out of his mouth that you had been reminded with two days to spare. And maybe you had no one to impress, but you still wanted to look good.

Two wardrobe emptyings later, you were left with no option.

Hoseok was the first of your friends to pick up his phone, which is how you ended up tugging him out of the café at the front of the mall (which he insisted you go to as payment for him being a noble friend and helping you shop), but not before he had eaten no less than five nutella pancakes.

Once you finally got around to the shopping part of your shopping trip, he was very useful to have around.

Several times he forced you to try on clothes you never would have looked at twice on the hanger. But somehow, all of them worked. More than worked, in fact. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you twirled around in the latest outfit admiring how it looked as Hobi chucked yet another item over the top of your cubicle.

Turning your eyes to the new addition, you saw lace. A lot of lace.

“Isn’t this a bit too fancy? It’s just a college party!” you yelled.

“Just try it!” he called back.

Sighing, you decided it would do no harm , so you slipped out of the previous outfit. As you placed it back on the hanger, ready to try the new one, you heard ringing.

Scrambling for your phone, you found the screen blank.

Then Hobi’s voice outside ended the ringing instead. You heard him greet whoever it was as you ditched your phone again in favour of the dress he had picked out for you.

“Oh come on, you have to be there! It’s important!” Hobi carried on in the background as you struggled with the back zipper.

Tuning him out, you straightened up and looked in the mirror.

“Damn,” you breathed. Hobi was right about this one. But so were you: it was a little too fancy for a lowkey new year’s party.

“I told you about Y/N, right?”

The moment Hobi said your name over the phone, you snapped your attention away from the mirror. Tiptoeing towards the cubicle door, you pressed your ear up to it.

“Yes, she’s going to be so surprised! Yes, I’m sure she does. Don’t worry! I’ll see you there, okay? Okay?”

As it became clear he was hanging up you scurried away from the door, casting one last longing look into the mirror before changing back into your own things.

“How’d it go?” Hobi grinned as you walked out, arms full of his fashion advice.

“Good, thanks, yeah,” you nodded, noticing his phone was safely away again.

You definitely weren’t meant to hear that conversation.

Whatever it was, you had no idea, and so wasted little time dwelling on it. Dropping off the unwanted items, you slid the lace dress onto your ‘yes’ pile in your right arm.

“Hi!”

“Y/N!”

“Happy new year!”

“Woooo!”

A chorus of friends yelled greetings as Jin opened the door. Waving briefly, you hurried inside and shed your coat, still clutching the wine bottle you intended to drain.

“Looking good!” Hobi screeched, nearly knocking you over from behind as he swooped in to give you a hug, before holding you back at arm’s length, “not the lace?”

“No, I told you, too fancy,” you laughed at his fake puppy eyes, “now let’s go get drunk!”

Normal laughter returning, he slung an arm round your shoulder as you walked into the main room.

It wasn’t as big as the parties back in first year, and certainly not as high-intensity as clubbing, but it was still a decent sized party. People littered the hallway and the kitchen, chatting and drinking, while a cluster still danced in the living room, and few crazy brave souls were outside, of all places.

By the time midnight was close enough for you to think about, you hadn’t made much progress on your wine, but you were still having fun ignoring the advance of the clock.

Or you were, until Jin grabbed you and steered you towards the door with 5 minutes to go.

“Are you kicking me out?”

“No, dummy,” he grinned as soon as you were parked in front of the door, “happy new year!”

“Happy new year to you too…” you mumbled, perplexed.

But Jin didn’t take any notice, instead reaching for the door handle and tugging it open, looking inexplicably smug-

Park Jimin stood outside.

You were dreaming. You had to be dreaming. All you could do was stare at him.

After all those nights you had just imagined him, it was amazing to see him standing right there. Right in front of you.

A shy smile painted his lips, but at your silence his eyes slid hesitantly over to Jin at the door.

“Uh… hi?” he said.

“Oh my god!” you squealed, finally finding your voice, “Jimin?”

“Happy new year!” he smiled, still tentative.

Instead of a response, you flung yourself at him. As Jimin hugged you back, finally relaxing, you missed Jin giving him a thumbs-up and sneaking away back into the living room.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re here,” you rambled, stepping away, though his hands still rested at your waist, “what the- how-?”

“Jin wanted to surprise you,” he chuckled, “I’m on the same dance course as Hobi, and he came asking, saying his friend Y/N had some mystery guy she wanted to meet…”

“Oh no,” you blushed, hiding your face in your hands, “please don’t think I’m creepy-“

A light laugh cut you off. Pulling your hands down, you were blessed again with Jimin’s gorgeous smile, eyes creasing as he looked at you.

“I wanted to find you too,” he whispered.

“Well, here I am,” you smiled, moving closer to him. Just then, he looked down, checking his watch.

“One minute.”

“This is familiar,” you laughed.

Taking a deep breath, you ran your tongue over your lips.

“It won’t… it won’t just be for midnight this time?” you asked softly.

“If you’d like that?”

Biting your lip, you nodded quickly, bouncing on the balls on your feet.

“Do you want to go on a date with me?” you asked.

“Now that, I’d like to see,” Jimin smiled, hand rising to cup your jaw as the roar of numbers started up in the next room.

But for all you cared, they could have been on another planet. You were enraptured as Jimin leaned in, closing the gap between you, and not for the last time. Savouring his lips, you looked forward to the many more times you could do this, now you had finally found him.

Maybe you did have cause for that fancy dress, after all.

Thanks for reading! Leaving a reblog instead of a like really helps me, I appreciate ever reblog!

@aianloveseven​ @preciouschimine​

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Feverish and Teary & How Long Has it Been Since You’ve Eaten- Prompt Fill

@thatonekidellis​ Jon, Tim, and Martin have a rough time after the Unknowing. Especially Jon.  I hope this is kind of what you were asking for?  

@janekfan​ you get a ping because this is your au!

CWs: nausea, vomiting, fainting, fever, food mention, alcohol mention, canon typical mentions of Tim's pre-unknowing mindset, canon typical Jon not taking care of himself.

I am still accepting bingo prompts, so let me know which character, which prompt, and if you want a drawing of a fic!  Bingo card by the wonderful @celosiaa​!  This one is twice my usual length because it is two prompts and I did not want to cheat!

The Unknowing blows up.  

As simple as that.  

All according to plan.  

It really is as simple as that.  

Jon, Tim, Daisy, Basira.  Piled back in Daisy's car.  Ears ringing.  Soot slowly settling.  Trying to drive away before the actually police get there.  

It hasn't been Jon's problem how to avoid arrest.  

He is even more glad it isn't his problem now, as he slides down the beat up seat in the back of Daisy's car.  Ash streaks the window, mixing with the light rains that is starting to fall.  

Jon tries not to vomit the nothing he's eaten in the last couple days.  Nothing in him but frayed nerves and statements.  Hadn't even managed to stomach dramamine before their trip.  

Jon just wants to sleep.  

They still have their hotel reservation for another couple hours, so Daisy drives them back there to clean up before heading back to London.  Yes they have to go back today, it's less suspicious.  Jon isn't sure if that is actually true, but he doesn't have the energy to argue.  

Tim showers.  Jon sends a text to Martin.  'Alive.'  

He doesn't answer Martin's near-immediate call because just then he's dry-heaving into the small bin in the corner.  Stiff and shaking and sweaty and miserable.    

Jon showers.  Too dizzy to stand, he sits on the shower floor.  He hates that.  The tub feels filthy.  He feels filthy.  He scrubs his skin raw.  He stands.  He throws up more nothing.  He scrubs himself again, leaning heavily on the wall.  

He wants to talk to Tim.  He wants to tuck himself into Tim's arms and never move again.  Christ, he's running an impressive fever.  Probably.  It's hard to tell.  And his brain is swimming too much to even think about asking the Eye.  

He's cold.  He shivers in his threadbare joggers and stolen jumper (Martin's).  

He wants to join Tim on the bed by the window, but Tim ...looks too deep in a melancholy thought to even notice.  Somewhere between losing his drive for anything, adrenaline crash, and losing the last hope of a last glimpse of Danny, if Jon were to guess.  

Jon could say something.  He knows he could.  But, hasn't he caused enough of a fuss?  Made Tim and Martin trail after him after the ...the.... with Daisy and... that.  If he'd have just stayed quiet and stayed still... well Tim would still hate him... and might not be alive... but ....but he's caused so much worry with that.  And then with... his other kidnapping No.  He can't think about what that... what... not without puking again which... the point is not to worry Tim.  Which means he should try some medicine again.... if he can keep it in him half an hour he'll survive the drive back.  Probably.  

Christ, when is the last time he bothered to drink anything?  

He lays there in a daze until Daisy bangs on the door telling them it's time to leave.  

Tim sleeps on the drive back.  Finally giving into the last few sleepless nights.  Jon is jealous.  

Last night had been spent tangled together, shaking, awake, and silent.  Anxiety too thick to slice with words.  Not even nothing to turn off the lights, because the fear is a little easier to manage in the light.  Jon couldn't stop thinking about Nikola.  He couldn't stop thinking about plastic hands on him.  Couldn't stop thinking about how many things could go wrong and how he could lose Tim and Martin when he only just got Tim back.  

Jon was pretty sure Tim hadn't been sleeping the last few nights.  Jon knows he hasn't.  Not that he has slept well in a long time.    

In any case, Tim sleeps.  Jon doesn't.  

Daisy glares at him through the review mirror.  Jon isn't sure if she is still waiting for him to prove himself monstrous so she can attack, or if she is making sure he isn't ill in her car... again.  (He really wishes he could forget his first ride in her car.  Really really really wishes.  It was not a pleasant experience for anyone, and Daisy had made him pay the cleaning bill.)  

It doesn't matter, he slides down further in his seat and closes his eyes tightly.  

His head hurts.  

Thankfully the medicine knocks him out soon enough.  

Martin greets them at the institute door.  Melanie by his side.  

Jon hazily wakes up to Martin gently touching his shoulder.  

"You actually made it!  I'm so glad you're safe... I was so worried, Jon why didn't you answer your phone, I've been so worried, I mean I know you would have said something if something had happened, but Christ I've been so worried about you, come here."  

Jon starts mumbling some apologies, but is interrupted by Martin gently gathering him in a hug.  Jon sinks into it, fervently hoping Martin doesn't notice the heat rolling off of him.  

Thankfully Martin is too distracted, gathering Tim in a crushing embrace.  Likely very relieved that Tim didn't die, and knowing Tim is harder to break than Jon with his delicate bones and fragility following many incidents.  

Jon... doesn't really know what he's trying to accomplish.  Just... get out?  Or go in?  Or get to the cot?  Or just curl up on the cold tile of the basement toilets?  Get away from people he will inevitably worry?  

Just go somewhere where he can fall apart without taking anyone else down with him.  

It looks like Martin has been crying.  Jon hopes it isn't over him.  

Tim needs to recover from the emotional toll of the last few days without having to pick up the pieces after Jon Again.  

Jon slowly backs away.  

His head is swimming, but that's okay.  If he can just reach the Archives.  The cot.  Anywhere.  Anywhere away from this moment.  This breath.  

His vision swims violently, and there is no doubt in his mind that he is going to be very well acquainted with the pavement in a matter of seconds.  Either that or he's going to be ill?  No.  Sidewalk.  He's going to eat the sidewalk.  Heh... first thing he'll have eaten in days.  

He isn't sure if he loses consciousness or not.  It's hard to tell in the blur of motion and sounds and his spinning head.  Sound is almost gooey in this state of almost unconsciousness, but he thinks someone might be shouting.  Or several someones.  He should maybe worry about this?  But in actuality, he is praying he properly passes out to save himself any more embarrassment and save himself from his unsteady insides.  

His face hurts.  

Someone is holding him.  

Jon fights to open his eyes.  They don't seem to want to look in the same direction, rolling in their sockets instead of doing what he wants them to.  He blinks hard a few times, failing to bring things into focus.  Glasses?  Does he still have those?  Did they break?  No... still there.  Skewed on his face.  Just... too dizzy to see, then.  

Daisy and Basira are glaring at him.  Melanie is walking away.  Possibly.  Hard to tell when the world is tilting with unsteady regularity.  

Jon closes his eyes again, pressing a groan against the nausea that threatens to overcome him, despite the medicine.  

"Jon?"  

"Burning up."

He's too hazy to put a name to a voice.  The words dripping in the air around him, tightening around his chest, silly string sitting on his skin in fibrous heaps that jiggle uncomfortably, cold and clammy.  

Shit, thinking in gibberish.  That can't be good.  

“Does anyone know how long he’s been ill?”  

Someone grunts.  

Footsteps.  Two sets?  I’m asking away.  Leaving him.   

“I.... I don’t know.  I don’t think he was feverish last night?  But... I haven’t exactly been... It’s.  It’s been hard.”

“Jon?”

He’s being jostled.   He whines.  Stomach flopping dangerously.   

"Jon?  Are you awake?  Can you open your eyes for me?"  

"Oh shit, he's gonna puke."  

He's being lifted, shifted on his side, bin shoved in his hands.  Where he throws up more nothing.  

He's crying now, feeling like utter shit, and unfortunately more awake.  

He isn't sure if eyes swimming with tears is better or worse than the unsteady world tipping around him and making him feel worse.  

"Christ, Jon!"  

He finally pries his eyes open.  Martin and Tim solidify above him.  More or less.  Still fuzzing in and out of focus.  

Now that he's crying, he just... can't stop.  Fistfuls of Martin's sweater.  

"Oh Jon..."  Martin's arms circle him, carefully.  Gentle not to jostle him more.  

"Buddy.  Think we can get you off the sidewalk?"  Tim.  Cupping his face.  Smoothing back sweat and tear soaked hair, long since escaped his bun, still not dried from his earlier shower.  "My flat isn't far, you know?  Didn't bring my car here, though.  Still... wasn't..."

Tim cuts himself off, but even addled as he is, Jon can fill in the rest of the sentence.  

So can Martin apparently, because Martin frowns.  It's never been more apparent that he's been crying quite recently.  "Still weren't sure you were coming home...  Tim..."  And his eyes start looking damp.  

Tim is tearing up now.  "Martin... let's not in the street...  I can carry Jon back to mine, it isn't far.  You can come too.  We'll get some take out.  Drink some whiskey.  Get Mr. Smoking hot cooled off.  We can talk then.  It's.... it's been a rough week."  

"Jon?  Can I carry you?  I think that might be less rough than a cab ride?  Do you need a few minutes?"  

Martin's voice is soft, and Jon thinks he could sleep right there.  In fact, he might.  So he nods.  

Martin lifts him carefully.  His head swims again.  This all is feeling rather familiar.  Jon takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.  He tries to relax despite the lingering anxieties about heights.  Martin feels safe.  Tim is also safe now.  He lets himself drift.  

He wakes briefly on the trip.

"Hey bud, how are you feeling?"  Tim.  Tim seems off.  Too many things crossing his face to parse out, probably even for someone with a better sense than Jon of what those subtle face changes mean.  But Jon is too hazy to think.    

Jon's mouth feels gummed up.  His eyes feel gummed up.  

He's thankful his mouth doesn't taste like something died in it, though.  Although he is very aware how unhealthy it was that he's spent a good portion of the day with his body trying to turn itself inside out, and he couldn't so much as produce bile.  

Jon feels sick thinking about it, so stops.  He drifts again.  

He wakes to a damp rag on his forehead, no memory of anything past the explosion. 

How did he get here? 

"Sorry, that looked like a nice sleep, but you'll feel better with some medicine in you, and some water.  We can try some tea later, once the meds work.  And some food hopefully."  

Martin helping him sit up.  Just enough to get a few sips and some pills into Jon.  Which, Jon thought was probably optimistic, but he'd try it for Martin.  

"When was the last time you ate?" Martin again.  

Jon blinks at him in confusion.  "Is it over?"  

"Is what over?"  Still Martin.  

Where's Tim?  Where's Daisy?  Where's Basira?  Where's Melanie?

His breathing picks up, and that makes his head spin again, and makes him wonder just how long he can keep the medicine down.  

"Is it over, what happened?"  He's panting now, halfway to a panic attack.  

"Jon?  Jon!  Calm down.  Can you take a breath for me?"  

How did he get here?  Where is he?  This looks like Tim's flat, but there is Tim?  Did he survive.  

Jon reaches for anything.  But comes up blank.  

"Where's Tim?  What happened?"  He gasps out.  It feels like his ribcage is shrinking, being laced up the front. fighter than the corset he had worn in acting class in uni.  

"Tim's... taking a moment.  As soon as we got you here... he.... it's been rough on him, you know?  He did all this for... and I know he said he wanted to live.  He wants to live... but he's... not been in a good place and it's helped that you two are talking again... and that he's had company more... but he saw an old picture with.... with his brother.... and that polaroid with ... with Sasha.  Well, he keeps going between you know tearful and sorry and cackling about how everything blew up.  It's... probably a lot to have three revenge schemes going at once for the same.... not a person really... but ... Her.  And then... having it sorted.  But...  Listen Jon I don't know.  What don't you remember... or what's the last thing you remember?"  Martin edges on histerical near the middle, but takes a turn for the sad near the end.  

"I remember the... the world was all wrong.  Then... then it blew up.  Is it over?  Martin are you real.  Is everyone alive?  What happened to you?"  He's desperate.  Desperate breaths too shallow.  Words interrupted by jagged pulling of too thin oxygen.  He's going to pass out.  

He does.  

He wakes feeling... clearer.  The last period of wakefulness a distant and flighty thing, dancing just out of his reach.  The rest of the embarrassing day back in vivid detail.  Tim's sitting over him.  Or rather, curled around him.  Jon's hair is being played with.  A stray curl looped around Tim's finger as he laughs softly to himself.  Muttering that he's alive.  That Jon's alive.  That Martin is alive.  he didn't lose anyone else.  That that clown is finally dead.  Finally.  

Gentle and warm hand on his face, refreshing the cloth.  Checking his temperature.  

"I..."  Tim chokes on a sob.  And Jon tries to remember how his arms work so he can let Tim know he's there.  

"Tim?"  

"Hey bud... sorry."  Tim wipes his eyes on his sleeve.  "It's been a hell of a week.  I... don't know how to feel about it.  Fuck I need a drink....  And to check in with Martin.  I... he hasn't told me what happened, but he's upset.  And.  Fuck I should have noticed you were ill, why didn't you say anything?"  Tim's voice starts to rise, and Jon tenses.  All the times Tim yelled at him still too fresh in his mind.  He trusts Tim.  he does... but Christ he is still afraid.  Afraid that it can't last, that it isn't real.  Where it be a trick of his mind, or some manipulation tactic to an end Jon can't see, he doesn't know.  

"Hey.  Hey.  Buddy... Jon.  I'm sorry.  didn't mean to yell.  It's just... been a day.  I'm not mad at you.  I just... I'm worried about you and Martin and I...I don't know how to feel about everything that happened.  I'm sorry you feel like shit."

Jon feels... like shit.  Marginally less nauseous, however.  A little less like he's going to pass out again.  Probably been given plenty of pills by Martin.  

"Sorry."  He croaks.  Voice probably shredded with smoke.  And fever.  

"He, bud, don't apologize.  I'm sorry I didn't notice you weren't well.  I... I thought I knew better than to be that preoccupied.  I mean... I guess I didn't make it worse this time, but..."  Tim sighs.  "I'm disappointed in myself because I don't want to fuck this up again.  And no don't apologize again part of that was on me and yes part of that was on you and we've done apologies to death.  All we can do now is keep going.  I just wanted to protect you and I couldn't see you were fading in front of my eyes.  Again.  I know you haven't been eating or sleeping, but I haven't been either so I didn't want to call you on it, and I didn't want you to call me on it, but I should have noticed.  I know I couldn't have done much, but I didn't do anything but shut you out again.  I could have told someone to stop to get you medicine, or food or even a bit more rest.  I know that would have done fuck-all, but I still could have offered you a little comfort and warmth and had us brought straight back here."  

Tim's crying properly now.  Jon is too.  Not sure if it is the fever, or just... everything.  There is so much to feel and think and worry about and yes they saved the world but that the fuck comes next.  

What comes next is that Martin enters with tea for Jon and a bottle of whiskey.  

Jon scrubs at his eyes.  "Martin what happened?"  Jon can see he's been crying again.  That is starting to scare him.  It's a goddamn miracle he hasn't pulled an answer out of anyone yet today.  

"It's... well it isn't fine.  I... well our plan worked here too.  Just... you know... Elias.  He can.... He can do things.  It's fine.  It's worth it."  Martin swipes at his eyes furiously.  

Jon pushes himself up, ignoring the room tilting around him, and hugs Martin.  Jon's still crying.  Martin sniffling.  Tim also crying.  It's... a very damp hug.  And Jon knows he's too warm to be comfortable to hold, and he's shivering hard enough to rattle Tim and Martin.  

"I'm... I'm so sorry Martin."  Jon chokes out.  

"It's alright.  It was worth it.  And you both.  Christ I am so glad to see you again... I thought... I thought.... I didn't..."  Martin is fully sobbing now.  Tea set down on Tim's bedside table, the whiskey being pried from his hands by TIm.  

Late that night the bottle is empty (and so are a couple more), Tim and Martin have killer headaches, and Jon is still feverish, but less so.  A lot of tears have been shed.  And Jon has been plied with enough liquids that he feels a little less like a crumbling husk.  

By the time that Tim and Martin are ready to think about food, Jon is finally feeling like he can maybe stomach something.  They order takeout.  Jon... has some broth. 

By morning Jon manages a few bites of leftovers.  

By afternoon, Elias Bushard is arrested.  

#the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod #fic #sickfic #cw nausea #cw vomit #cw vomiting #cw emeto #cw fainting #cw food #cw fever #fever #cw alcohol #my writing #my words #my art #my fic

[bangtanloverboys]

i’d be home with you // knj

summary - death is inevitable, it’s something you cannot escape. it only hurts more when it you die too young.

pairing - ghost!namjoon x female! reader

genre - angst, hurt/comfort; ghost au

word count - 7.7k

warnings - peer pressure, drugs, alcohol consumption, anxiety attack, major character deaths (duh), police, accidental deaths, crying, vomiting, drinking as a coping mechanism, communicating with the dead, psychics, moving on, acceptance of death 

author’s note - this is for the final tile in my bingo ‘ghost au’. this really hurt me writing it and im sad, but i hope you guys like it

Namjoon had a lot of regrets, despite living a fairly cautious lifestyle. But since he died all he had left was regretting stuff he didn’t get to do sooner. Dying at 23 via accidental overdose? Hell of a way to die when he was someone who struggled to even tell a waiter that they gave him the wrong order, but that’s how he met his end. 

There were so many things he didn’t get to experience: getting his Masters, graduating college, finding the love of his life, having children with said love of his life, growing old, retiring, spending time with grandkids if he had any. But all of that was cut short by just one single party and one single decision.

His brother, Seokjin, dragged him along to one of his dumb frat parties. All Namjoon wanted to do that evening was just study for his anthropology final that was coming up the following weekend but in his brother’s terms he needed to quote-unquote “Take a chill pill”. He dragged him over to some random townhouse a couple miles away from the university, handed him a cup of alcohol and abandoned him. 

Namjoon didn’t drink, just didn’t think it was all that appealing to him. He sat silently in the corner of the room, keeping himself flush to the wall. He pretended to sip the plastic cup that was in his hand, trying not to draw any attention to himself whatsoever. It wasn’t until he was approached by a young brown haired man that his fate was sealed. 

“‘Sup man, you look like you need a bit of fun.” The man said, a small smirk on his lips as he raised a small baggie of white pills. 

“I- uh, I’m good. Thanks.” Namjoon quickly panicked, turning him down and quickly started looking around for his brother. This wasn’t his scene. He just wanted to go home now.

“Nah, come on man! You look like you need a bit of destressing, just take a couple. On the house.” He watched in abject horror as the guy opened the maggie and poured some into his hand. He took Namjoon’s free hand and put the pills in his palm. “Go on! Feels great.” He winked at him as he leaned against a wall, waiting for him to take the drugs. 

Despite only the stranger’s gaze on him, he felt like everyone at the party was staring at him. Waiting for him to take the pills. His heart was pounding, he should give them back and just walk home. With or without Seokjin. Instead he found himself slowly lifting the pills to his mouth, throwing them in and taking a swig of the cup in his hand to wash it down. The alcohol was bitter on his tongue and they clumped together as they went down his esophagus. 

“Yeaah man!” With a heart shaped smile, the man slapped him on the shoulder, “Enjoy it man. See me if you need anymore later.” And with that, he disappeared into the crowd.

Namjoon just stood there, head pounding as the lights bleared his vision and he swear he could feel the floors vibrate beneath his feet with the base of the stereo. Despite him not even moving, he felt like he was spinning and hanging upside down. Was it getting hot in here? Why did his limbs feel cold? He pushed himself from the wall, pushing his way through the sea of people between him and the way out. 

“Heyyy!! Joonie! Get over here!” The voice of his brother called out to him, he turned to see the man himself walk over to him and pull him out of the crowd. “I see you were gettin’ jiggy, eh? Finally letting loose?”

“Jin, I-I don’t feel so good. I need-”

“Oh quit it Namjoon!” Seokjin scoffed at him. “Just take another drink and chillax!” He took the cup in his hand and brought it to Namjoon’s lips, forcing him to gulp down more of the burning liquid. 

With that, his brother walked away. He felt himself get sucked back into the crowd of dancers, pushing and pulling him in all directions. His heartbeat was in his head, the base of the music was in his stomach. His chest was tight and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. All he knew at this point was the people he was surrounded by. Dancing, screaming, singing. It was loud and hot and nauseating. Yet despite the heat of the bodies around him, he felt cold. All he knew was what was in that crowd of people: sweat, heat, and constant movement.

After that the world just seemed to turn black.

He woke up the next early morning to sirens; red and blue lights flashing outside the windows. That should’ve been his first clue. His second clue should’ve been the lack of a hangover he should be having. Namjoon walked down the hallway he was in and into the living room where a couple he didn’t know were talking to police, alongside a few other party goers were all sitting on the couch. 

“H-hey what’s going on?” He asked as he approached them, but he was ignored. “Um, hello?” He waved his hand, trying to catch their attention. He felt his chest tighten, what was going on? Why were they ignoring him? When he heard an officer call out for a Mr. Kim, he almost cried from relief, “That’s me!”

But the officer walked right past him and out onto the porch, where a young man sat with a blanket laid over his shoulders. “Mr. Kim, I’m sorry to bug you at this time but we need a statement.” The man said to him. The young man nodded and stood up to face the officer. To Namjoon’s horror it was Seokjin, his eyes red and puffy. He’d never seen his brother look so distraught. “Are you alright for me to ask you a few questions?”

“Yeah,” his voice croaked out. 

“Did Namjoon, or anyone else in your family, have a history of drug abuse?” The question threw him for a loop.

“No!” He yelled at the officer. “I have never-”

“No, he-” Jin cut him off with a sniffle. “He’s never used drugs before, I dragged him out to this party. And-and it’s my fault he’s dead.” 

Namjoon’s entire world seemed to collapse in on itself. “What?! I’m not dead! I’m right here! Seokjin! Seokjin, look at me!” He cried out as he tried to push past the threshold of the door but some invisible force kept him in. “Seokjinnie, please! Hyung!” He screamed as he watched the officer place a hand on his shoulder as his older brother sobbed. 

He looked ahead of them and saw a white van labeled ‘CORNOR’ just shut its doors, only giving him a split second to see the tell-tale black body bag inside before the other door shut.

At that moment, another officer walked out the front door. Walking right through him. He watched as the man visibly shuddered before talking to the officer about giving Seokjin more time before asking questions. The air left his lungs, not that he had any in there to begin with. He clutched his chest and ran. He ran through the walls of the town house towards the back door, only for the same thing to happen at the front door happen again. An invisible barrier holding him in. 

He needed to be in an enclosed space. Glancing around, he saw an open closet tucked beneath the small staircase to the master bedroom. Namjoon burst into another run and slammed the door of the closet shut and let out an ungodly scream; crying out for his mother, brother, someone, anyone to hear him and tell him it was going to be okay. The only person came was an officer to investigate the slam but no one else came. No one saw him. 

He died August 28th, 1994. He was 23 years old. Cause of death was drug induced heart attack. The pills the stranger gave him were part of a bad batch or laced with something else, at least that’s what the owner’s of the house mentioned when he listened in on their conversations. At first he felt bad about it, but he couldn’t leave the townhouse so what else could he do? Watch paint dry?

After a while the frat guys who lived in the house moved out, not feeling comfortable with knowing that a guy died in their hallway on their watch. Namjoon didn’t hold any ill will towards them. It wasn’t their fault. Hell, he was such a forgiving person, he wasn’t even that mad at the guy who gave him the drugs. So he didn’t know exactly why he was stuck here, in a small townhouse. But there he was. And he tried his best to deal with it. 

While it certainly did suck the first few months of just trying to deal with people walking through him and not being able to be heard; being dead wasn’t so bad when Namjoon thought about it. It did get a bit lonely sometimes, not being able to talk to anyone outside of his own half conversations with the tenants that moved into the townhouse.

Sometimes the tenants of the house figured out that the place was haunted; sometimes they’d bring in psychics, who were definitely fake as no matter how much he tried to tell them he was a nice ghost they always spouted some bullshit of a vengeful spirit. Sometimes they’d bring in their own ghost equipment and start talking, but soon as he got a word out they freaked and left. The place was constantly on and off the market until you. 

You were a plucky university student who finally found a place that had low enough rent and was close enough to your school that you didn’t need a roommate. Despite Jungkook’s and Taehyung’s begging, you wanted a place to yourself and finding a 2 bedroom townhouse with rent that cheap? It was a steal! With the help of your two friends plus your older brother Yoongi, you were able to get all your stuff moved in within the day!

You didn’t understand why the place never had steady tenants; sure there was a history of noises and cold spots, but it was an old house built in the 70s. Of course it’s gonna have some old stuff that needs fixing. 

Namjoon watched in silence as the four of you went in and out of the house. A few times you did walk near him and visibly shiver, your friends even mentioned the cold spots to you, but you waved it off as if it was nothing. “Just the heater, I’ll talk to the landlord. See if he can do anything about it.” Now he wasn’t an engineer or anything, but he’s seen the heater and there’s nothing wrong with it, it was definitely him you were feeling. But he just had hopes that whoever the landlord hired would say the same to you. 

He was quickly able to get a quick gage on your friends; the brown haired one being Jungkook, he could easily tell he was the youngest of the group by how the rest of you babied him. The blue haired one was Taehyung, but there was something about him that was familiar almost. He reminded him of his brother, how handsome he was. Lastly the dark haired man was Yoongi, at first he wasn’t sure about your relationship to him, seeing how he was the oldest out of all of you, but he quickly came to realize you were siblings by the way you teased each other. He found a lot of joy watching the four of you bicker and talk as you all set up certain aspects of your new place.

“Are you sure you don’t want a roommate?” Jungkook whined as he brought in the last of the boxes. “I swear, I’ll do all the laundry and chores just pleaaasee?”

“Sorry, Jungkookie.” You laughed at your friend. “But the lease is signed and I got everything I want planned out already. You can go room with Taehyung!”

“But he gets paint all over my shit though!” He groaned as he set the last box down on the counter. 

“Hey, if she says she’s okay for her own place I believe her.” Yoongi said as he left your room. “Your bed is all set up by the way.” He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. 

“Thank you, Yoongle.” You smile at your older brother, happy he was able to get your bed together before it was too late in the day. “Now I just gotta find my sheets and I’ll be able to sleep in bed.” You chuckled.

“Which are right here,” You turn to see Taehyung holding a bag full of your blankets and pillows. “Want me to bring them over to your room?” He tossed his head in the direction of where you claimed your bedroom would be.

“Please and thank you!” You gave him a wide smile as he made his way down towards your room to drop them. 

“You sure you don’t want me to spend the night tonight?” Yoongi asked, “First nights are scary, believe me.”

“I’ll be fine! Don’t worry!”

And you were. You thought you’d have a bit of difficulty adjusting to being alone, but for some reason you didn’t really feel alone? If that made any sense. You’d think after living with your brother the past few years you’d instantly notice being alone. Physically you knew you were but at the same time, deep down you knew you weren’t. Whatever this feeling was, you didn’t mind it. Hell, the weird feeling comforted you. Helped you prove to your brother that you didn’t need any extra help. 

Namjoon was kinda baffled at how willfully ignorant you were. It’s been a few weeks since you’ve moved in and he notices you do tend to lose stuff and don’t really question it when he suddenly places it where you can easily find it again. He likes watching you get ready and organizing your place. (Of course, when he sees that you’re getting dressed or getting ready for bed he’ll give you your privacy.) Sometimes he’ll kinda give some ghosty help and straighten up some of the crooked frames you hung up. Being the friendly ghost roommate he is. 

You called the landlord not too long ago and he said that a lot of the past tenants had complained about it not working or it always being cold in the house so he told you he was just going to replace it. You were excited! Brand new heater! And with the nights starting to get colder, you’re really going to need it. 

It was on a Tuesday when the landlord came to change the heater, which was strange. Namjoon watched as you let the landlord in to work as you left for your early morning class, now the few times he’s seen the landlord and stuff being fixed is few. Normally he’ll have a professional come over and work on it, that’s what happened a few years ago when he accidentally shoved a spoon down the kitchen drain and the tenant called his services. 

He watched with curiosity as the landlord dragged in the brand new heater, box in all, as well as his tool box and got to work. Something in the back of Namjoon’s mind didn’t feel right, so he kept an eye on the man as he installed the heater himself. Again, he wasn’t an electrician and knew nothing of installing heaters, but he knew that he was doing it wrong. He was pushing and slamming against it, trying to get it to fit on the pipes. Namjoon anxiously ran his fingers through his hair, debating on trying to fuck with him and push the heater off. But before he could even do anything, you came home and the landlord dusted off his hands and closed the door to the heater. 

You were so happy that it was finished, thanking the landlord profusely for getting you a new one and installing it. While it was gonna take a bit off of your deposit, and you were internally cringing at that, you knew it was a well needed thing to be done. Soon as he left, you turned on the heat, as it was a cool November day and your professor didn’t bother turning on the heat in her class at all. With the heat on, you grabbed some blankets and snuggled up to watch Netflix the rest of the day, not bothering to work on your essay that was due in a few days. 

As the day slowly came to a close, you realized you were getting a small headache. You didn’t really think much of it, just popped an aleve and drank some water. Usual things that helped cure your headaches, but it didn’t seem to let up. You glanced at the time, it was about 7:30. “Might as well hit the hay early.” You yawned, stretching out and made your way to your room. You did stumble around a bit, damn did you not notice how tired you were? Not bothering to change out of your day clothes, you just crawled right into bed and fell asleep. 

“Not good, this is very not good.” Namjoon was rightfully freaking out. The heater was not properly installed at all and as he couldn’t breathe, he knew that whatever was happening to you was not good. He scoured all over the house, looking for some sort of alarm he could set off, wake you up, get you out of the house. As it turns out, the fire alarm was busted. The landlord was too cheap to fix it and not bother telling you. He constantly went back and forth checking on your to make sure your chest was still rising and falling as he frantically tried to do anything to wake you up. 

Nothing worked though. He hadn’t felt this frustrated since he first died and everyone was walking through him. He wanted to scream, but nothing worked. He couldn’t do much but watch you. Wait for you to wake up and realize something was wrong. Wait for you to die. Which ever happened first and he hoped it was the former. But no matter how much he hoped and prayed to whatever god there was out there, it was fruitless. 

It was 1:36 am when you stopped breathing.

Namjoon lets out a choked out sob, he can’t believe it. He should’ve done something. He should’ve pushed the heater over while the landlord was still here. He should’ve done something to turn it off before you started suffering from the carbon monoxide that was pouring through your vents. He buried his head in his hands and he just cried. Cried for you, for your family. You had so much life ahead. 

“Mmhmm, what’s going on?”

He stilled, he looked up and saw you on the floor, holding your head. He quickly glanced between you and your body and quickly jumped into action. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” He got on his knees to help you to your feet, thankfully in your confusion you let him help you up and quickly escorted you away from your room. He wasn’t sure how you were going to react to the fact you had died, much less seeing your own dead body right in front of you. “Just follow me, you’re going to be okay.” He said as he brought you over to the couch and sat you down. 

“Hmm, who are you? Where am I?” You were still very dazed, he wasn’t sure if that was just a side effect of the poisoning or just general confusion of death. Did different deaths affect ghosts differently? Or was it random to each person? 

“My name is Namjoon, we’re in your house.” He answered as he knelt in front of you.

Your eyes slowly started focusing on him and when your vision cleared to see the stranger in your house, you rightfully screamed. “Who the fuck are you!? What are you doing in my house?!” You shouted scrambling to get away from him. “Get out before I call the police!!”

“Hey hey hey, wait!” He called out after you as you got to your feet and ran back to your room. “Don’t go in there! Wait! Y/N!”

Soon as you crossed the threshold of the room you screamed again. Because there you were, in bed. Not moving. Not breathing. You fell to your knees and screamed again; in horror, confusion, fear. You felt a hand on your shoulder and you just leaned into it, collapsing into the arms of a complete stranger. 

Namjoon held you as you sobbed into him, fists tight around the shirt he died in. He tried his best to be a soothing presence for you, rubbing circles into your back and not letting you go until several hours had passed. A normal human being probably would’ve passed out from exhaustion by now, but you weren’t human anymore. You were a ghost. 

By the time you had stopped crying the sun was starting to rise, you let Namjoon help you to your feet and back to the living room. You both sat down on the couch in silence, besides a couple of sniffles from you. 

“Are. . are you the Grim Reaper?” You asked, your voice groggy from crying. 

“Hm? Oh no, I uh, I’m a ghost. Like you actually.” He replied with a nervous chuckle. “I died here.”

“I figured,” you wiped your nose on the back of your hand. “Landlord said someone died back in ’94, I just thought it was some. . .some old guy. Old age. Didn’t think he’d be-you’d be close to my age.”

“How old are you?” He asked, trying to make light conversation and distract you. 

“Uh, I turned 21 last month.” You gave him a tight smile. Then the two of you fell into silence.

“I’m 23, by the way.” God, it’s been so long since he’s had an actual conversation with someone that he completely forgot how to talk to people. 

“But wouldn’t you be-”

“Nah I don’t really count the years afterward much. I don’t age and can’t leave the house, what’s the point in counting the years.” He scratched the back of his neck. 

“Can’t leave? What do you mean?” You looked at him, confused. 

“Uh. . . you saw Beetlejuice right?” You nodded. “Kinda like that? Only instead of being teleported to some other sand dimension, you just get. . .blocked.”

“I guess there’s also no ‘Handbook for the Recently Deceased’ either.” You let out a soft chuckle.

“Yeah, that would’ve been very helpful.” He gave you a small, dimpled smile. Then the silence fell over you again, the only noise was the shudder of the heater as it shut off, then there was complete silence.

“How long?” You keep your gaze focused on your lap, pulling on your fingers. 

“Hmm?”

“How long. . .are we going to be here?” Your body was still in the other room, how long until someone notices you were missing school? How long would it take your brother to know that you weren’t contacting him? You could go days without talking with him. . .

“Here? I don’t know. . . as for someone to notice. . .that all depends on the people around you. I died when there was just a frat party, so it was noticed immediately. . .”

You furrowed your brows at that, it sounded familiar. . .why did that sound familiar? You knew for a fact you didn’t research the one death in this house, but at the same time you feel like you’ve been told a story like that before. . . 

It was Jungkook who found you a day and a half later. 

“Y/N? Hello?” He was banging on the door, looking in between the windows. Namjoon held you close as you started to cry, you didn’t want Jungkook to see this. He shouldn’t have to see this. He must’ve found the hide-a-key because moments later he was in, you clung tighter onto Namjoon as your best friend of 10 years looked past you. 

“Y/N?” He called out as he walked in, you turned your head into Namjoon’s chest as your friend made his way towards your room. You squeezed your eyes shut as you heard him talk. “Hey you okay? Haven’t seen you at school. . . Y/N? Y/N? Hey wake up-” He must’ve realized because next thing you know he’s running out of the house, right through you and Namjoon, he stumbles outside and onto the small patch of grass that is your lawn. 

You pull yourself away from Namjoon’s grip, throwing yourself to the open door where you see Jungkook throwing up whatever's in his stomach and crying. You wanted to burst out of the house and just hold him, tell him you were okay, tell him you loved him one last time. But you couldn’t, all you could do was stand there and watch as he pulled out his phone and dialed the emergency number.

Soon enough there was a fire track, an ambulance, and several police cars lining the street. Namjoon tried to pull you away so you didn’t have to see what was going on, but you refused. You needed to see, you had to know what was going on. What was going to happen. BUt all those thoughts were thrown out the door when you saw your brother frantically pull up and run towards the house, pushing past officers trying to keep him away from the scene.

“Y/N?!” he screamed as the officers continued to hold him back. “Where’s my sister!? Is she okay?! Y/N!!” 

“Yoongi! Yoongi I’m right here!” You screamed, banging against the force that confined you to the townhouse. Not caring if first responders walked right through you, you didn’t care. You just wanted your brother. 

“Yoongi,” You saw Jungkook walk over to him, tears still falling from his face. You watched as the realization fell on his face. You were gone. 

“No. No no no no no NO!” He clawed hysterically at the officers, begging and screaming at them to let him go. They only did as he fell to his knees, Jungkook right next to him and pulled him in close. Both of them crying their hearts out for you as people watched from beyond the police tape. 

With the way your heater was improperly placed, it was an easy open and shut case. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Manslaughter. Your landlord was arrested and charged, plead guilty. He’ll get 3 years in prison. But that does little to resolve you or your family's grief. 

It takes a while before your family has access to your house again, all the carbon monoxide cleared out from the space. The new landlady gives Yoongi a month to clear out your stuff. You watch there as your mom, dad, Yoongi, Jungkook, and Taehyung all stop by and help try and organize boxes. No tears are spared through the entire time, from them and your family. 

Namjoon feels a bit awkward, staying off in the corner as you sit next to your mom as she folds all your clothes and puts them into boxes. He listens to your family as they tell stories about you, reminiscing on memories. He keeps a close eye on your though, despite him dying before, he never saw his family mourn. He’s unsure how you might deal with seeing them cry and divide up your stuff. 

You only start to lose it when Yoongi finds the pink stuffed elephant he’d given you many years ago, hiding away amongst your pillows. When he pulls out the stuffed animal that was hidden away, you watched as he ran his thumb over the furry creature. He brought it close to his chest and let out a choked out sob. Unsure how much more you were able to take, you let out a scream.

Namjoon quickly ran over to the bedroom where you were on the floor, screaming and crying as Yoongi stood there crying, completely unaware of what was going on before him. “Hey hey, it’s okay. It’s okay.” He tried to calm you, but you weren’t having it.

“No! It’s not okay, Namjoon! I’m dead! Maybe you’d have time to accept things the way they were but I can’t!” You shouted, pushing him away from you. You let out another twisted scream that turned into a sob, shaking Namjoon to his very core. The amount of power and energy you put into that wail shook the bookcase behind you, a few of the books falling from their shelves. The man just sat there across from you as you curled into a ball and just cried, and cried, and cried. Not sure what else to say. What do you say to a girl who was wrongfully killed in her sleep? There’s nothing. 

So caught up in your emotions and trying to keep you calm, neither of you see Yoongi notice stare at the bookcase and the fallen books. 

The next few times your family and friends come to pack things up, Namjoon stays with you in the closet. Saying something about giving them space and you need space as well. At first you protest against it, not wanting to be confined to an even smaller space. But after watching your father tear up as he packed away your photos, you agreed. You couldn’t take much longer. 

Several days had passed and all that was left in your townhouse was just the furniture. Your parents and brother arguing over who could keep what. There’s still a few boxes of your things scattered around the house, you wish you could steal a book or something to keep yourself occupied at least but you’d know they’d notice and find it right away. 

Lightning cracks against the sky as rain pours down. To pass the time, Namjoon was telling you stories about the other tenants that had lived here; the frat boys, the families, the stoners, etc. You were in the middle of telling him a story about how you and Jungkook met Taehyung, how he at 17 years old stuck a bug up his nose on a dare when the front door slammed open. Lightning flashed behind the figure, giving you a quick outline of your brother with a bottle in his hand.

“Oh on, no no no.” You stood up to walk over to Yoongi but he just walked right through you. Soaked from the rain, he probably didn’t even feel the cold spot that was you. 

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Namjoon asked as your brother dropped his bag on the floor, taking another swig of the whiskey in his hand. 

“Yoongi, he-he doesn’t like drinking. . .he only does when. . .” Your voice trailed off. Hurt is evident in your eyes as he places the alcohol on the ground and shuffles around in his backpack. Pulling out a black box and frantically tore it open, pulling out a small speaker and wires. 

“Come on, turn on you. . stupid fuckin’ thing.” He slurred as he pushed several buttons on the speaker until it blarred to life, a loud buzzing noise filling the living room. “Y/N? Are you there?”

Your eyes felt like they were going to bulge out of your head. Never in your life did you think your brother would go to such lengths as to buy a spirit box?! You looked to Namjoon, unsure of what to do. He’s told you a couple times people figured out the place was haunted and they’d try to communicate with him, but this was different. He was looking for you. He only gestured for you to speak. 

“Yoongi?” Soon as the words left your mouth, a robotic voice left the speakers and you swear he jumped ten feet in the air. 

“Is-is it really you?” He clung to the speaker, bringing it closer to his face. 

“It’s me,” you said. “I’m here.” The robotic voice followed after your’s. Yoongi let out a small cry, relieved you were here. You tried to say more but all that came out was garbled and mixed up. “Namjoon! What do I do?!”

“Calm down, small phrases.” Namjoon said, the spirit box picked up on his voice, repeating him as well. 

“Y/N, are we alone?” Your brother stilled, looking around the room. 

“No, someone else.” You said, sticking to the advice of small words and phrases. 

“Who?”

“Namjoon, friend.” The man introduced himself. “Died here too.”

“This is. . .this is great? I think? Y/N, I- I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.” His eyes welded up with tears as he spoke.

“It’s. . okay.” You slowly made your way over to your brother, you placed your hand right over his cheek. “I love you.”

You weren’t sure if he felt your presence or not but needless to say he shut off the machine and burst into tears, you cried as he cried. He sat down on the couch, taking a few more swigs of his bottle of whiskey. His cries eventually evolved into snores as he passed out. You could feel Namjoon’s eyes on you as you attempted to brush the hair from his eyes. 

“I’m glad he didn’t do anything too stupid,” you sighed as you stood. “Or dangerous.”

“I’m sorry this happened, Y/N.” Namjoon said, as you made your way back over to him. Both of you just stand there, staring at your sleeping brother. 

“Not your fault,” you responded. “Just, god, I hope someone takes care of him. . .”

“You have a very loving and caring family, Y/N. He’ll be okay,” he wrapped an arm over your shoulder and pulled you into him. As time passed, you’ve gotten somewhat closer. You can’t help but be friendly with him as he’s the only other person you have, being stuck in a 2 bedroom, 1 and a half bath townhouse for the rest of eternity.

When Yoongi woke up the next morning he was grumpy, per usual of him drinking. He didn’t touch the spirit box though. Didn’t even look at it. He just shoved it in his backpack and left, leaving the whiskey behind. You’re glad he left it behind, but at the same time neither of you don’t know what to do with it. 

Namjoon tried to teach you to harness some of your energy to move stuff, him having several years under his belt. He’s able to move things around with little to no struggle, seeing how he was able to move your stuff around before. You however, struggle to move it even a centimeter. But he tells you not to worry, saying it did take him several years to master. 

About a week after your brother came by there’s a small crowd of people outside the door. Before you can even warn Namjoon, the door opens up and reveals him, Jungkook, Taehyung, a short blond man you don’t recognize, and-

“Seokin?!” Namjoon almost instantaneously recognized his brother, only he looked. . .older.

“You know him?” You almost had eyes as wide as he does, staring at him as he moves with the group of people into the kitchen. 

“Yeah, he’s-he’s my brother.” He feels tears start to well up, stinging as he blinks them back. 

“Your. . that would make you-”

“Taehyung, what am I doing here? You haven’t told me anything.” The eldest man complained as he settled into a chair.

“Dad, I told you just. . .just listen. Please.” Your blue haired friend sighed, giving his dad’s hand a quick squeeze. 

You can only stare at Namjoon who in turn only stares at Taehyung and his father. That’s why his story sounded familiar. You vaguely remember hearing your friend’s dad say something about having a brother that died young. An accident. At a house. Your house. 

The group of people settled around the table, only one left standing was the blond stranger who kept his eyes closed as he took a few deep breaths. His face was scrunched up every so slightly, like he was feeling for something.

“Oh no,” Namjoon groaned. “They brought a psychic.”

“I feel. . .” He started.

“Watch he’s going to say vengeful or something like that,” your ghostly friend crossed his arms with a huff.

“Oh I feel a lot of different things,” he giggled as he opened his eyes, pressing a hand to his cheek. “Mainly confusion but. . .there’s some relief and happiness mainly surrounding you sir.” The psychic pointed to Seokjin, who looked even more confused. 

“Are they here?” Yoongi asked him as he settled down in his seat.

“Yes, your sister and your brother are in the room.” he said with a smile. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Seokjin raised a brow in disbelief. “No, Taehyung. I’m not going to deal with some phony who is going to just make shit up about my brother” He started to get up from his seat. 

“Dad, wait!” Taehyung called after him.

“Pink! He likes the color pink!”

“Does the color pink mean anything to you?” The psychic said, stilling Seokjin. 

“Pink was his favorite color, but to anyone who asked him what his favorite color was it was orange.” Namjoon just spouted off the fact about his brother. The psychic didn’t repeat the statement verbatim, but got the point across nonetheless. 

“Mr. Kim, please just listen to what Jimin has to say. True me.” Your brother pleaded with him. Seokjin walked back to the table and took his seat once again. You could see his eyes were watering, like his brother he was blinking back tears. 

“Continue.” He gave a small nod to the blond man, now known as Jimin, who smiled back in return. 

“Now, we’re here to talk to Y/N and Namjoon, correct. That’s their names.” The table all nodded in response. “Okay, they’re here. They’re a bit confused so I’ll repeat my briefing. Hello, my name is Park Jimin. I’m a psychic medium. I can’t exactly see or hear you, but I can feel your energy and emotions. So please be gentle.” He gave a small laugh as he settled himself in your kitchen chair and closed his eyes. “Your family has questions, I’m here to help translate your answers for you. Family, if you please.”

“If Y/N is really here. . . what’s something only she and I would know?” Jungkook said, you had a feeling he was suspicious of this as well, just more quiet about it, possibly not wanting to insult Yoongi or Jimin. 

You felt your cheeks burn as a memory popped in your head, immediately knowing exactly what proof he needed. “He uh, stole my first kiss when I was 13 underneath the monkey bars.” You let out a small chuckle at the memory.

Almost instantaneously, Jimin burst out in a giggle. “Oh my gosh, I’m getting monkey bars?” He kept his eyes closed as he brought his hands to his cheeks. You were keeping your eyes focused on the psychic, but out of the corner of your eyes you saw Jungkook stiffen. “Oh my face is red. You stole her first kiss.” He opened his eyes, a huge smile on his face. 

“I’m sorry what?” Yoongi immediately turned to the younger boy, eyeing him suspiciously. 

“Shush, it’s her.” He dismissed your brother as he leaned forward on the table, soaking in every word that Jimin said. 

“Dad, do you want to say something?” Taehyung looked to his father who kept his arms crossed and his face stern. Glancing between him and Namjoon as he stood right next to him, you finally were able to see somewhat of a resemblance between them. The same messy dark hair, same stern eyebrows, you could only imagine what Mr. Kim looked like when he was Namjoon’s age. 

“. . . Who was it. . .” His voice cracked as he spoke. 

Namjoon paused, he hadn’t thought of the stranger in many years. . .did they never find him? All he recalls of him was a heart shaped smile and brown hair. He can’t recall much else about him, looking very much normal. Like the rest of the party. 

“Hmm,” He watched as Jimin’s face scrunched up a bit. “He doesn’t know, all he remembers is the smile and his hair color.” He brought his hand to his mouth, gesturing to it. “It was a very specific shape too, I see it in my mind perfectly. I wanna say. . . heart shaped?”

Soon as the words left his mouth, Seokjin broke out into a sob. Namjoon watched as his son, his nephew, rumbed comforting circles on his back. 

“Hoseok, fucking Jung Hoseok.” He choked out, hiding his face from the rest of the table. 

Namjoon reached out to his brother, placing a hand on his shoulder. Trying to let him know that it’s okay, he’s not mad. It’s okay. 

“Seokjin,” Jimin started. “Your brother doesn’t harbor any ill will towards him. He forgave him a long time ago.” He finished with a smile. 

“But it’s my fault he’s dead.” He managed to get out. “I brought him to the party, I gave him alcohol. I was the one complaining to Hoseok about him needing to chill out. I caused my brother’s death!”

Namjoon froze at this information. He looked to you, who seemed equally stunned. The whole table seemed to be stunned into silence. 

“I thought it was him for a while, but no one saw him give Namjoon the drugs. I had no evidence. Hoseok’s dad was chief of police so even if I did it would’ve been swept under the rug.” Seokjin finished as he wiped his tears away. The entire table stayed quiet, waiting. 

Namjoon closed his eyes and took a deep breath, despite the action doing nothing, it calmed him down. “It’s alright, Jinnie. I forgive you.” He focused all his energy onto his hand that was placed on his brother’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You need to forgive yourself.” He must’ve felt it because he started staring at his shoulder.

“He forgives you, Mr. Kim.” Jimin repeated softly. “But he thinks you need to forgive yourself. You can’t change the past. He learned that a long time ago. It’s time to let go.”

Eyes not leaving his shoulder, he nodded. “Okay. Okay Joonie.” He let out in a soft voice. 

Jimin conducts the meeting for a little while longer, your respective families letting you know that you are always in their thoughts and how much they love you. You and Namjoon stayed near each other the whole time, giving each other the support you needed as you all reminisced on memories. 

As the meeting  started to come to a close, the blond psychic said something. “Now, this is not usually conventional for me but I feel like it’s necessary.” 

“What do you mean?” Yoongi asked, looking at the man with concern. 

“Both Namjoon and Y/N need to move on. It’s clear to me they have no unfinished business, so the reason they’re still here isn’t that.” He explained. “Sometimes when people die young they just get stuck behind, it’s not common but it happens.”

“So this will be our last goodbye?” Jungkook’s big doe eyes started to well with tears again.

“Yes, it will be.” He nodded. “Please say your final words.”

“Y/N,” Yoongi started, you watched as your brother’s lip trembled, trying to find the right words to say to you. “There’s so much I want to say but I can’t get it out. . I-I love you. You’ll always be my baby sister.”

Next up was Jungkook, who was keeping his eyes squeezed shut. “I wish. . .I wish I could’ve done more for you. I miss you and- and I’ll never forget you.”

“Namjoonie. . .” Seokjin began. “It seems like I just got you back and now I’m losing you again.” He let out a weak laugh. “I love you. You’re always in my thoughts.”

Finally was Taehyung, who just sat there with his lips pursed in thought. “Uncle Namjoon. . . I’m glad I at least got to meet you. . .kinda.” He smiled lightly. “Thank you for being there for Y/N. Please watch over her, she’s kind of a mess sometimes.” He laughed, causing the table to erupt in chuckles. 

“Hey, I’m not that much of a mess!” You countered.

“Yes, you are.” Namjoon asserted as Taehyung finished his thought.

“Y/N, I’m. . . I’m gonna miss you. I’ll always be your bug.” He concluded. The table turned their attention back towards Jimin, who was wiping away tears. 

“They’re not saying anything but it’s clear that they love you,” he said with a smile as he dabbed his under eyes with a handkerchief. “Now, Namjoon and Y/N. Please stand behind me and put your hands on my shoulders.” You followed his instructions, placing your hands on his shoulders, causing him to shiver. “Ooh cold. Now, join hands everyone.” He held out his hands for Yoongi and Taehyung to take. They did and the rest followed suit. 

They all sat there in silence, eyes closed. You and Namjoon looked to each other, neither of you knew what was going to happen next. He’s tried for years to move on physically saying he’s moving on or had no more unfinished business, meditating. Nothing worked. Maybe he was stuck and needed a real and proper psychic’s help?

Suddenly warmth covered you and Namjoon. It’s been years since he’d felt warmth like this. He let out a sigh as the feeling enveloped him. He looked over to you and you had a relaxed smile on your face, content with everything. The sadness he was so used to seeing on your face was now replaced with a look of peace. If he was to look in the mirror, he was sure he’d look the same. 

There was no light that neither of you could recall going into. You both just watched your world melt away into the next.

#btsghostiebingo #btsghostie #thehouseofbangtan #thetruthretold #namjoon x reader #kim namjoon x reader #bts x reader #namjoon fanfiction #bts fanfiction #kim namjoon angst #namjoon angst #rm x reader #bts angst #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook

[runpogorun]

Gravity

To fill my Marvel Fluff Bingo square, Astronomer AU. No warnings apply, rated G, Matt Murdock/Foggy Nelson, 2759 words. Read it here or over on AO3.

Matt makes his way slowly into the room. The first thing he finds is the couch in the middle, presumably facing the TV, so Matt circles it slowly, his cane tapping lightly between the heavy thud of upholstery on his left and the hollow chink of wooden skirting board. The cane makes a higher tink as it collides with a metal structure and Matt reaches out with his hand, searching, and confirms a metal cabinet. He continues sweeping his cane across the hardwood floor, wary of any rugs, as his hands skate the surface of the cabinet finding photo frames, three clustered plant pots. He sends some loose sheets of paper skating off the surface and freezes, trying to track their direction of flight. 

“Don’t worry about it!” Foggy calls from the kitchen. “I’ll get them.” 

Matt turns his head over his shoulder, towards Foggy, and grins sheepishly. “Sorry. Comes with the territory.”

Foggy tsks quietly. “It’s not a problem. They’re just bills. You said whisky, right?”

Matt nods, “Yes, thanks,” and resumes his exploration. There’s an open doorway just past the cabinet, and Matt pauses, head tilted. “This the bathroom?”

“Yup.”

Matt moves his cane again, and it twangs in his hand with another metal vibration. But this doesn’t feel as heavy as the cabinet. He frowns, and reaches forward as he hears Foggy come up behind him.

“Oh, that’s a little more fragile, but feel free to… feel away.”

Intriguing. Matt stretches through space and finds smooth, painted metal with his fingertips. The metal is curved into a tube, and as his fingers move along it they find an encircling ridge. The object gives under his touch, and he finds the pivot point, the tripod suspending it. He tucks his cane under his arm and takes a step forward, using both hands to get a better idea of its dimensions.

Matt turns his head back in Foggy’s direction. “Is a telescope actually useful in New York City?”

Foggy makes a considering noise. “It’s alright. Not as good as, say, the Socorro Desert. But I can still see things.”

“Does your apartment have roof access?”

“Not the apartment itself, but the super lets me use the service stairs. 

“Nice.”

“Yeah.”

Matt files that away, drops his hands and turns towards Foggy. “Shall we sit?”

“Sure.” Foggy moves towards the couch. “Did you find the couch? It’s over here.” He pats the cushion with an open palm, a firm thump of orienting sound.

Matt smiles at him. “Yes, thanks.” There’s a coffee table as well that Foggy forgot to mention, but he expected that. He folds up his cane and drops it on the coffee table and sits down next to Foggy before accepting his drink. “So, what sort of things do you like to look at? You’re not a creeper, are you?” He takes a sip, revelling as always in the first burn.

Foggy laughs loudly at that. “No. I’m an astronomer.”

Matt tilts his head. “You said you were a teacher.”

“I am. I teach Observational Astronomy and Cosmology at NYU.”

Matt laughs. “And here I was, thinking you were a dance teacher.” Foggy had held the class in his palm, everyone drawn to him, like he had the strongest gravitational pull in the room. It had only taken three classes for Matt to succumb, and accept an invitation for a drink.

“That’s just a hobby. I like to boogie. And it’s a good way to meet people,” Foggy says, nudging Matt with his elbow.  

Matt raises his glass, and Foggy clinks them together. “Slainte. So, do you do this often?” He takes a sip.

“Meet people?”

“Bring strange men back to your apartment.”

Foggy laughs at that. “Strangers are friends we haven’t yet met. But, honestly? No. I don’t.”

Matt considers that. He, in contrast, does do this often, but usually only once or twice with the same person. Matt’s a comet, shooting in and out, plenty of noise and fuss but little substance.

“How about you,” Foggy asks.

“Me?” Matt mentally scans through all the men and women he’s dated in recent history. This may not be the moment to share that information.

“How do you make your crust?”

“Oh.” Matt leans back against the couch cushions and stretches an arm along the seat back, towards Foggy. “I’m a lawyer,” he says, mouth quirking in a slight smile, and waits for the inevitable praise. People are always impressed.

“Oh cool. I nearly did Law,” Foggy says. People often say this - it’s one of those throwaway lines. But then he adds, “I was aiming for Columbia but then… I took an intro to Astronomy class over the summer after high school and I sort of… fell into the stars.”

Matt tilts his head. “Tell me about it.”

Foggy hums, consideringly. “I’d always been interested, you know?” he says. “But I hadn’t really thought that it could be my job. I thought it would be fun to take the class, that it would be interesting. So I did.”

“Always a solid choice, choosing the interesting.”

“It was residential, close to an observatory. One morning we got up in the middle of the night, and towards dawn I saw the Orion Nebula. It’s near Orion’s Belt.  And it was so beautiful, and unknown. I wanted more. I couldn’t stop thinking of what else must be out there. 

“I mean, we do know a lot now, especially when a probe like Juno fires back information, but also a lot of it we can’t exactly know. No one knows what it’s like to stand on the surface of Eros, not really. Or what the Helix Nebula looks like from the inside. We can model it, sure, but we can’t know. I was hungry to find out what I could. I was hooked.” Foggy stops, abruptly, and Matt can hear him sip his drink.

Matt is struck by the emotion in Foggy’s voice, growing with every word. “That’s a great story,” he says. “Not everyone finds their passion, or follows it.

Foggy takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “Yeah. You know, I don’t usually tell people all that, right out of the blocks.”

“I guess I should feel honoured,” Matt says.

“You should, my friend,” Foggy says, the humour back in his voice.

Matt angles his head towards the telescope in the corner. “And that. Do you use it often?”

“Uh yeah, I do, actually.” Matt can hear Foggy shifting against the cushions, like he’s embarrassed again, caught out. “I mean, it’s no match for the Keck telescopes, but it still lets me look. I like looking.”

“Why don’t you show me?” Matt suggests. “I mean, if it’s a good night for it.”

Foggy holds his breath for a moment, then lets out a puff of laughter. “Sure. Why not.” 

It takes a minute to get sorted. Matt snaps out his cane, stashes the whisky bottle under his free arm and holds the glasses in that hand. Foggy is gentle, almost reverent, with the telescope as he folds up the tripod. They head out the apartment door, Foggy and telescope leading, Matt and whisky following, and up the stairwell to the roof. 

The summer air is still warm, but cooler than the oppressive heat of the day. “Over here,” Foggy says. There’s a table and a couple of chairs set up to one side, and Matt settles down to listen as Foggy fusses over the equipment.

“You do do this often.”

“Mmm. It’s nice up here. Quiet.”

Matt listens to the sound of cars rushing in the street below. It’s muffled, sure, and you can’t ever escape cars in New York City. But Foggy’s right. It is peaceful.

“What do you see?”

“There’s still some light in the sky from the sun, but Mars is close and bright. And Venus. Not that I need the telescope for them.”

“You don’t?”

“Not to find them. They’re just like bright stars. But it’s not really dark enough yet. I’ll wait a bit.” The other chair creaks as Foggy sinks into it. “Tell me about your law practice, Matt. Are you a corporate hotshot?”

“Not so much.” Matt shrugs. “It’s just me and my partner Kirsten, and our paralegal Karen. I mostly do what Kirsten says.”

“Partner?”

“Business partner,” Matt says, smiling at Foggy. “Best friend from law school.” 

“What kind of work do you do?”

“Small stuff, mostly. Tenancy disputes, work visas, that kind of thing. Most of our clients come from here in the Kitchen.”

“Sticking up for the little guy!” Foggy cries. “Show me some skin.” Matt holds up his palm and Foggy high fives him. “That’s what I wanted to do.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well, like I said, it was the stars. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d learned in that in astronomy class. And I’m good at Math, so that helps. I ended up switching from Philosophy to Physics before the year started. And then I went on to get my doctorate at UC Davis. My parents were devastated when they realised I wasn’t going to drive a Bentley” he says, laughing.

Matt laughs with him. “Academia isn’t really a way to make money, is it?”

“It’s really, really not. Not like law. Mom wanted me to be a butcher but that was never going to happen, so at least I could have done something which would have made me rich. Such a disappointment.”

Matt laughs at that. “You sound like me. I’ll never be rich.”

“Your family counting on you for the bucks, too?”

Matt sobers. “Uh, not exactly.” He needs to get off this topic, now. “How far into the galaxy do you usually look?”

“The radiotelescope guys look right back in time, as far as we can look. But I kind of like our neighbourhood - our solar system. Each planet in our solar system is a whole world. Well, obviously they literally are worlds. They’re suspended, hanging in the enormous void of space. They look so serene, from Earth, as they hurtle through the endless blackness, but they’re dynamic and complex. Did you know that the Great Red Spot on Jupiter is so large that two Earths could fit side by side inside it? It’s an enormous storm that’s been raging for at least 150 years, probably much longer.”

Matt shakes his head. “I don’t know much about any of it.”

“We’re all so far from each other, and together at the same time. Once you leave our solar system it’s 25 trillion miles to the next one.”

“The next galaxy?”

“The next solar system. Our galaxy is fifty-two thousand light years across.”

Matt shakes his head. It’s too big a number to make sense.

“We’re bound by gravity to the rest of our solar system. There are so many stars and planets out beyond the Kuiper Belt,” Foggy continues, “And we’ll never be able to reach them. We can’t even see most of what we know is out there, we just have to make an educated guess at it, work it out from the clues.”

Matt half-smiles to himself, and takes a sip of his drink. “Seeing and knowing are two different things.”

“Uh, yeah, of course, I didn’t mean to--” 

Matt cuts him off with the wave of his hand. “So you took the class, and fell in love with astronomy?”

“Oh no, that happened much earlier. Growing up in the city I never saw that many stars, you know? When I was eleven I went away on summer camp to this place upstate. We stayed in these little cabins in the woods by a lake, just outside a small town. It was weird - so quiet, but sometimes you’d hear a wild animal. And at night, the stars! I didn’t know the sky could be like that. Like grains of sand scattered across a velvet blanket. I’d sneak out in the middle of the night when the sky was truly dark, and the entire sky was covered with stars. The trees were only visible as the places where the stars weren’t. 

“I discovered later that Aboriginal people in Australia, who live in the desert where obviously it’s really dark and the sky is very clear, have constellations that are the darker areas between the stars. The reverse of us who live with more light pollution. All people look up at the stars. We all wonder.”

Foggy suddenly sounds like he’s come back to himself, remembered where he was. “I’m sorry, I’m doing all the talking and this is probably really boring.”

“No,” Matt says quietly. “It’s not. I’ve never heard a description like this before. I-” He cuts himself off, unsure how to carry on without making himself sound wistful, and smiles. “I like it. I like listening to your voice.”

Foggy makes a quiet, pleased sound. “That’s a great line. I feel like I should be saying things with gravitas, or beautiful things. She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars,” he quotes.

“Now that’s pretty,” Matt says.

“It’s Neil Gaiman. And he’s right, about the stars and planets dancing, caught in each other’s gravity.”

Matt smiles. “So then, tell me,” he prompts, gesturing upwards. “What’s there to see tonight? You said Venus?”

“Let’s see.” Foggy stands and goes again to the telescope. Matt hears the quiet scrape of metal as Foggy adjusts the focus. “There’s Jupiter. It’s high and bright right now. And Venus and Mars.” 

Foggy’s quiet, and Matt considers how far away his focus is. It’s hard for Matt to have a clear impression of anything beyond the reach of his hands - when he’s not touching something it could be anywhere, just out of reach or miles away. But Foggy looks at planets thousands of miles away, places he can never touch but he knows.

“Sometimes it’s better not to use the telescope at all,” Foggy says. “The Leonids meteor shower is going to arrive in a couple of months, and that’s better observed with the naked eye.”

“What are meteor showers like?”

“Fireworks. Bright, white hot stripes painting the sky. Streaking across the heavens.”

“But no boom.” Matt places his empty glass on the small table next to the bottle, and his glasses alongside.

“Good point! And several nights in a row. I’m looking forward to it.” Foggy sounds like he’s turned back to the telescope. 

Matt stands, the whisky now making him loose-limbed and easy, and walks slowly towards Foggy. His hand is slightly extended, reaching for the tune Foggy’s humming under his breath - it’s Drops of Jupiter. He clears his throat. “And what do you see, closer to home?” His voice is low and husky.

Foggy jumps and turns and his arm bumps Matt’s hand. “Oh! Um. Well.” Matt hears him take a quick breath, as Matt brings his hand to rest on Foggy’s shoulder. “I can see at least one beautiful thing.”

“That’s very cheesy,” Matt says, sliding his hand up to Foggy’s neck, then further to cup his cheek. He fans his thumb across to Foggy’s mouth, finding a goatee, and feels Foggy lean in to match him. “But I like it,” he breathes.

Foggy makes a small noise of pleasure for the brief moment that his warm, soft lips are pressed against Matt’s own. Matt brings his other hand to Foggy’s face, sliding both hands back and finding that Foggy’s hair is pulled back into a low pony.

“I didn’t think long hair would be allowed, Professor?” Matt asks.

Foggy huffs a laugh. “It’s Doctor to you, and anything goes these days.” He rests his forehead against Matt’s. “I like you,” he says, breathless.

“Really,” Matt says, one eyebrow lifted.

“I promise I’m usually better at… Words. And things.”

“What sort of things.”

“Oh, I can totally show you. But I feel obligated at this point to tell you that my super has a CCTV camera on this rooftop, and he is probably watching us right now because that’s the kind of guy he is. So, maybe we could take this back downstairs? If I’ve wooed you enough with the stars.”

“I could stand to hear more,” Matt says. “But yes, let’s go inside, and continue the story there.” And Matt follows Foggy again, drawn along by his gravity. He wonders what happens to a comet that gets caught in a gravitational field it can’t escape, wonders if he’s going to find out.

#pogowrites #daredevil #Matt Murdock #marvel fluff bingo

[marshmallow-phd]

Charming Instruction

Part of The Untamed - EXO Wolf Universe

Genre: Supernatural, Wolf Au

Pairing: Junmyeon x Reader

Summary: You were just an average, everyday college student desperately trying to graduate. Only one more year stood between you and that celebratory walk. However, due to an oversight by your adviser, it seemed that the one class you never wanted to take was required to take that walk. It wasn’t the subject matter that made you uncomfortable. It was the teacher. Your heart sped up every time you saw him and you didn’t want that distraction in your life, attractive or not. With meeting him now an inevitability, you swore that you would keep your hormones in check. But after your first day of class, a series of hi jinks and weird situations lead you to discovering the secret of your professor and why he seemed to bombard your every thought.

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13 I Final

**

Junmyeon didn’t lead you too far into the woods. He stuck to the tree line, pulling you in close once he was leaning up against a sizable trunk that kept you somewhat hidden from the house. Hands resting on your hips, he leaned his forehead on yours and sighed deeply.

You could tell he was still stressing over the meeting. Perhaps he was expecting more concern and questioning from the pack rather than the nonchalant reception that was bestowed upon him instead. While you didn’t know the boys all that well, they all seemed to give off that carefree vibe, which was possibly be the bane of Junmyeon’s existence, if you had to guess. But that probably just came with the territory of being a leader. And being the mate of the leader, you figured it was your job to help him stop worrying.

“Just give them a little time,” you reassured him as you rubbed his arms. “Soon, they’ll take it more seriously. It’s just because the information is so vague at this time, they don’t know what to be cautious of. So, they blow it off rather than stressing about something they have no control over.”

Junmyeon pouted, squeezing your sides. “Then why am I stressing about it?”

“Well, I don’t know too much about werewolf pack dynamics….” You scrunched your face mischievously, “But I’m pretty sure it has to do with the fact that you’re the leader and it’s kind of your job to worry over every little thing.”

“I do not worry about every little thing,” he protested.

This was coming from the same person who didn’t tell you the truth about the connection between the two of you because he was overthinking on whether or not you would hightail it out of here and leave him in the dust. Granted, you didn’t give him much hope for any other outcome, but still.

You held your thumb and index finger up, leaving a minuscule amount of space in between. “You do. Just a little bit.”

Junmyeon opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it, sighing heavily. “Okay. Maybe a little. But someone has to worry about these things or else we’ll all be doomed.”

“Well, then I guess it’s a good thing that you’re the leader instead of one of the others.”

He let out a short laugh. “Well, me and Kris. And it was nice that he-”

A little over the current discussion, you simply pressed your lips against Junmyeon’s for a quick kiss to stop his talking. Well, it was supposed to be a quick kiss.

Catching the back of your neck with his hand before you could pull away, Junmyeon deepened the display of affection, taking full advantage of the isolation. Under your palms that were resting on his chest, you could feel his content purr vibrating both you and him. The sensation made you giggle. Junmyeon broke off the kiss at the sound.

“What’s so funny?” he murmured, frowning at you.

“You’re like a cat,” you chuckled. Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

Junmyeon scoffed, the corners of his mouth turning up in astonishment. His eyes turned back to you, “Do you realize how insulting that is?”

“Um, sorry?” you snorted. He did not find it as funny. “It’s not my fault! You were purring!”

“I was happy! I can’t control it!” he whined.

You rolled your eyes. “I was just saying that it was cute!”

“Hardly the word I want to hear in the middle of kissing you,” he grumbled.

Stepping back, you crossed your arms, just staring at him. He kept pouting, just making him even cuter.

It was ridiculous. The big alpha wolf wanted to be seen as anything but cute. But he made it hard with that fluffy brown hair, puckered lips, and big, round brown eyes gazing at you. You almost wanted to snap a picture of it, but that didn’t feel appropriate in the moment. Honestly, it felt silly, him taking offense to that four letter word, but it wasn’t worth starting an argument.

You threw your hands up. “Okay. Fine. I won’t call you cute anymore. Never again. I will purge that word from my vocabulary unless I’m talking about a puppy or small child.”

Junmyeon’s eyebrows shot up to nearly his hairline. “I didn’t say that.”

Narrowing your eyes and smirking, you teased, “So, you do want me to call you cute?”

He shrugged, hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t mind it under certain circumstances. Just not when I’m kissing you. Because that makes me want to show you exactly how not ‘cute’ I can be.”

Now that kind of had you taken back. “Are you sure you’re a college professor? Because you are acting a bit more more like a college boy right now.”

With a predatory gleam in those russet eyes, Junmyeon stalked towards you. Instinctively, you stumbled back until your back hit a tree, the curved edges of the bark piercing your shoulder blades.

Your breath quicken and you couldn’t stop the audible gulp in your throat from how much like a wolf he being. That reaction seemed to just egg Junmyeon on. He didn’t stop until the space between you was completely gone, a hand on each side of your hip to keep you in place. His lips were right against your ear as he whispered, “I’m only a professor on campus.”

Oh, that’s not good.

Junmyeon nibbled at your ear before moving down to your neck. You giggled anxiously. He’d never gone this far before. What really made you nervous was the fact that you didn’t want to stop.

“Junmyeon! Junmyeon, are you out here?!”

Junmyeon growled, slamming a fist into the bark above your head. “Oh, for crying out loud.”

You snorted, covering your mouth when Junmyeon shot you a look.

Chanyeol and Jongin came running through the trees. You straightened up, hoping that there was no evidence of what you and Junmyeon were doing left on your face.

“What is it?” Junmyeon asked grumpily. You could tell he was trying to remain calm and not be irritated at the boys in case it was a real emergency.

“Sorry to barge in,” Jongin actually looked really guilty, which made you want this whole thing end even quicker, “but no one can find Tao. Did he run past here?”

Junmyeon shook his head. “No, we haven’t. Why?”

“No one can find him,” Chanyeol explained. “He stormed off after the meeting. He seemed really pissed.”

“That’s not good.” Junmyeon ran a hand through his hair before glancing at you. Turning back to the other wolves, he asked, “Did you see what direction he took off in?”

“He went out the front door,” Jongin replied.  

“So, you think he went into town?” Junmyeon guessed.

Chanyeol shrugged. “Maybe? And you know Tao when he’s mad. He doesn’t really have the best control.”

“Alright.”

You could see how reluctant Junmyeon was to be the leader, to go after his wayward member, but it was an instinct that he couldn’t ignore.

“I guess I’ll go track him down,” Junmyeon sighed.

“I need to go back into town anyway,” you inserted. Maybe if you were the one to take him, he’d be less pouty about it.

“Luhan wants to go with you,” Chanyeol added. “Said if anything, he can drag Tao to the empty bar while he does opening work.”

Junmyeon nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

The four of you headed inside, grabbing Luhan before splitting off and going back outside to your car.

It wasn’t a very chatty car ride. Luhan stayed quiet in the back seat while Junmyeon held your hand from the passenger’s seat. He made random comments about the area’s history or how the road needed repaving every once in a while.

Apparently, Tao preferred to hang out downtown, so that’s where you dropped the two wolves off. You told Junmyeon that he could find you at the museum once he was done. When he questioned why you would go there, you simply shrugged and said to kill time.

That wasn’t entirely a lie. You really did like to spend free time at the museum, wandering around and trying to find new pieces to memorize.

But today you had a little mission.

Even though Junmyeon said he’d already gone through the little book of his family’s history, you thought that maybe a fresh pair of eyes could pick up some new clues.

Mrs. Kang wasn’t surprised to see you at all when she saw you in the main lobby. Junmyeon had told you earlier in the week that he had you added to the very limited list of people with access to the back room. Mrs. Kang handed you a key card with no hesitation and left you to go on your merry way. Getting a pair of cotton gloves from the supply closet, you buckled yourself down at the table in Junmyeon’s secret room after carefully taking out the book from its resting place.

You flipped through the pages slowly, gliding your eyes over the heavily faded words. Some paragraphs were almost completely illegible from the old ink wearing away with age. One particularly worn page caught your eye about halfway through the book. The edges were particularly feathered and torn, giving you the impression that this page’s contents were immensely important in the past. Almost all the writing was gone on the pages, but certain words you were able to make out.

Enemies.

Beware.

Hunted.

Future encounters.

Bingo.

At the very bottom of the page, underneath the missing information was a familiar looking symbol still present enough to make out. It was a circle overlapping three points. That could be the clue you were looking for in order to keep the pack - Junmyeon’s family - safe. But where did you take it from here?

Junmyeon came to the museum about forty-five minutes later, finding you in the “caveman” section, as Cam liked to describe it.

“Finding anything new and interesting?” he teased as he came up behind you, encircling his arms around your waist.

You shrugged lazily. “Perhaps. Did you find Tao?”

Junmyeon scoffed. “Yeah, he’s been found. But he’d ran off in the forest, not to town. Apparently, he just ran in a different direction than where we were.”

“Poor leader.” You turned around in his arms, linking your own around his neck. “It’s so hard being you.”

That just made him roll his eyes. “You’re so mean to me.”

You motioned to exit with your head. “Come on. Since I’m so mean, dinner’s on me.”

Junmyeon made his impressed face, the kind he made when a student in class gave him an answer he wasn’t expecting. “I like that idea. And I think I know just the place.”

**

Triquetragirl49: I’m glad that the new article helped!

Archaeology4life: It was a great read! Thank you!

Triquetragirl49: How’s the paper coming?

Archaeology4life: Not too bad! Teacher’s a hardass, though. Lol

Triquetragirl49: Well, hopefully he’ll at least enjoy your paper on irish werewolves.

Archaeology4life: Fingers crossed! If I don’t get an A, I might have to complain to the dean. Jk

Triquetragirl49: Remind me again why you were focusing on that subject?

Archaeology4life: I just came across something about werewolves and a connection to the triquetra in some research. I was surprised that they were both related to protection.

Triquetragirl49: Kind of related. Werewolves were still considered dangerous and best for everyone to stay away from them.

Triquetragirl49: At least, according to the legends, that is. Considering they’re not real!

Archaeology4life: I’m sure if wolves were real, they wouldn’t be dangerous.

Triquetragirl49: You never know. There’s a lot of scary stories out there lol.

Archaeology4life: Yeah… you’re right lol

Archaeology4life: Thank you again!

Triquetragirl49: Of course! Just let me know if you want to know anything else! I’ve enjoyed talking to you!

Archaeology4life: Same!

“What are you smiling at?”

You slammed the screen of your laptop shut just as Junmyeon slid into the empty space across from you in the breakfast booth. Since he had a department meeting this evening, you’d beaten him to the farmhouse and decided to kill some time by getting back in touch with your new internet friend.

Finding triquetagirl49 in a folklore chat room on a history website had been pure luck and she’d giving you so much information on how that old celtic symbol could be related to werewolves. It seemed more like a good thing, representing protection for both humans and wolves alike. You weren’t sure when you should share this information with Junmyeon or exactly how to present it, so you decided for now to just keep it to yourself for the time being.

“Funny article on The Mummy trilogy,” you lied smoothly.

He shook his head, laughing to himself. “You and those movies. Don’t you have them memorized by now?”

“Maybe,” you pouted. “We can watch something else, though, if you want. Or do something else. We don’t have to watch a movie.”

Junmyeon held out two hands, moving them up and down like a pair of scales. “Let’s see… hold my mate close on my bed while we watch her favorite movie or do something else that involves less intimate time and possibly run into someone else in the pack.” He gave you a pointed look. “I think movie wins.”

You beamed. “Good!” Hopping up, you started for the staircase. “Let’s go!”

Junmyeon laughed as he followed you up to his bedroom. By luck, a majority of the wolves were out and about with their mates on this beautiful friday night. Since you and your wolf still had to be careful about who saw you together, it was a night in for the pair of you. But you didn’t mind. In fact, you had been looking forward to it all week.

Jumping on the bed, you pushed yourself all the way up to the headboard while Junmyeon turned on the TV and readied the movie before heading into the bathroom. While you waited on him, you fluffed up the pillows to make yourself more comfortable.

When he emerged from the bathroom, you tried to keep your focus on the bright screen. Junmyeon had decided that it was completely appropriate to come out in just a pair of sweatpants. Just sweatpants. No shirt.

He was such a tease.

You made no protest as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you in close to him. Leaning your head on his chest, you watched the movie for a good fifteen minutes or so until the scene with Rachel Weisz in the museum, knocking over the bookshelves and creating that cringe-worthy disaster came on the screen.

That’s when Junmyeon got a little restless.

At first, he was just playing with your fingers and planting kisses on your shoulder. Then he moved his lips up to your neck, tickling the sensitive skin. Out of reflex, you flinched into the kiss, closing off access from Junmyeon.

“It’s cute that you know every word,” he whispered. It was obvious that he cared nothing for the movie and he was just trying to distract you and maybe even give him all your attention instead.

Taking the bait, you turned to tell him to be quiet. Before one word could escape your lips, he’d captured them in his own. You never saw another minute of the movie, too preoccupied to pay it any mind.

Oh, well. There was always next time and your wolf needed your special attention.

#exo #exo fanfiction #exo fanfic #exo wolf au #exo wolf!au #exo werewolf au #exo werewolf!au #junmyeon x reader #kim junmyeon #suho #exo series #exo supernatural au #Charming Instruction #untamed wolf universe

[murdocklovespage]

Pick a creator, shower them with love: @significantowl

I want everyone to get one of these! @meinhiding & @bubblesinapocket have been focusing on our lovely squad for the last two days and my dream is for as many people as possible to do the same.

Now, for one of my favorite creators: @significantowl

This lovely genius is also the one who runs @daredevilbingo and has made bingo cards for dozens of people for several years. I was lucky enough to be paired with her for our Karedevil Secret Santa last year (as in, she made ME something) and I was just giddy over it. She’s probably the ultimate DD multishipper, focusing on every ship except for Kastle (I think?) and she writes beautifully, for example:

In these pages: ficlets/drabbles - Chapter 3

“In the night, love tastes like copper on his tongue, slides slick and warm down the back of his throat. It’s pure. Elemental.

(He bled for Karen before he even really knew her. When he thinks of that it pleases him: a matter of record, incontrovertible. A steady, honest flame that can never be doused.)”

Chapter 4, an absolutely priceless Core 3 at work ficlet in which Karen comes into work sick...

“Oh my God,” Foggy wails. “Oh my God.” He closes his eyes, clearly collecting himself. “All right, here’s the plan. You’re in there, Murdock -” Matt raises his hands in surrender, and allows himself to be pushed all the way through the office door, which then firmly closes in his face. “I’m going to see if I can charm our friends across the hall out of any cans of Lysol they might have, and you, Karen, you are going to go home, think about what you’ve done, and decide what your role is going to be when this all comes to its inevitable conclusion.”

“What?”

“Are you going to hold Matt down,” Foggy clarifies, “or are you going to throw the pills down his throat, because when he gets this it’s gonna take both of us, Page, don’t doubt it for an instant.”

How much of it is Fire - Starts with Karen transfixed by videos of DD, and delves into her understanding of his violent ways in parallel to her own. I’ve always loved their dynamic- Karen feels this connection to Matt long before she knows who he really is, and she will vehemently defend her Man in Black to those she loves no matter the consequences. This gorgeously describes her thoughts as she tries to find more, even after knowing who he is, and how she wishes to see him in his element again.

I started reading this for this express purpose of picking some new stories I haven’t read, but as per usual, I don’t have the time today. Here’s a sample of what is making it even more difficult to bookmark instead of just read: 

She thinks of it that way purposefully. Matt's rage. The same woman who puts six bullets in a man can be transfixed by the magic of a ceiling made of glittering lights; the same man who wears one suit to punch assholes into the ground can wear another while he’s putting them away in court, and still quietly, desperately, miss the sky.

She never believed that part was a lie.

Finally, my favorite story (I’m partial, I guess), my Secret Santa gift, In these City Streets, an AU (YAYYYY) in which Matt and Foggy own a sandwich shop and Karen is a loyal customer. @significantowl went well beyond the required word count and gave us an AU masterpiece, with Core 3 interactions we all deserve, flirting we need, and action. I have a googledoc somewhere in my drive with dozens of lines copied so I could give her a proper comment (yeah, I’m ridiculously late) but I can’t find it, so I’ll leave it at this: If you love AU’s (and you should), this is what you need. Here’s a lovely sample:

Scent first. Karen flooded Matt’s senses whenever she arrived at the restaurant, but it always started with scent: sweet, warm vanilla over traces of soothing lavender. Then sound, the crisp click of her heels on their hardwood floor, and the light, quick, slightly over-caffeinated beat of her heart.

Back in the kitchen, up to his elbows in a bowl of triple chocolate muffin batter, Matt listened as Karen placed her order with Foggy. A ham and swiss, a bottle of water, and a side of Theo Nelson's famous potato salad. She didn't usually come in this early, before the lunch rush began; in fact, she normally didn't show up until the day was winding down.

Half expecting Karen to end her order with the words “to go”, Matt felt his lips curve up when instead he heard her heels clicking their way towards her usual corner booth. He poured semisweet chocolate chips into the batter - the milk and dark chocolate chips were already in - and stirred. Out at her booth, Karen unshouldered a heavy bag, dropping it onto the table; a few seconds later, her laptop whirred to life.

Sounded like she was settling in.

Felt like Matt was smiling.

Basically, if you love good writing, sentences that are practically poetry, and amazing characterization, you should read everything significantowl has ever written. She helps keep the fandom going and we are lucky to have her.

#Karedevil Squad #KaredevilCreatorsWeek #Squad love #significantowl #Karedevil Creators

[flyswhumpcenter]

Bad Things Happen Bingo! The event where you send me I give myself self-indulgent requests according to this marvelous card!

Corpse Party fanfic in 2019, would’ve fucking thought I could go this far in my previous fandom obsessions? Not me, that’s for fucking sure. So, huh... Here is my tribute to the first fandom to have brought me the whump chills.

(not to mention my first whumpy shit was for Corpse Party, so you bet your sweet ass that this stupid franchise is important to me whenever I remember about it lmao. Good horrific, whumpy times from 2013.)

I’ll Be Fine, I Guess

Summary: Sometimes you just happen to get stabbed in the dark corner of a shady alley to save your crush. That's how life is, sometimes.

Fandom: Corpse Party (Everyone Lives AU (yeah)) Ships: Ayushiki (Yoshiki/Ayumi)

Wordcount: 1.3K words

Event hosted by @badthingshappenbingo

AO3 version available here.

That was kind of… unfortunate, he’d have guessed.

Not that he didn’t expect that to happen, at all: it was kind of obvious he’d eventually find himself with God knew what in God knew where and die a painful and ridiculous death. His life had always been kind of ridiculous anyway: he’d obviously not leave the world peacefully with kids and grandkids and whatever the good and lucky people have in their life when they pass away from old age or sickness or whatever.

No, he was going to go out with style (and an end that could have featured in some shitty anime).

 Everything about the situation was awkward and ridiculous. They were in some shady back alley, there was his class rep getting assaulted by some ever shadier dude with a cutter, it smelled like piss and blood and garbage, and the guy was even dressed in black with a face mask and everything. It couldn’t get worse than that, really, in terms of clichés.

Alas, that was where they were currently standing. In a shady back alley, in the darkness, surrounded by foul odours and with blood pouring all over the place to match. The dude was unconscious on the floor, head smashed against some bin (ha, fitting), and there were tears mixing in with his blood and the rep’s DNA.

Yeah, it really wasn’t a good situation to be in, right here and there.

 “Oh my God, Kishinuma, why did you do that?!”

The class rep, Shinozaki, kept screaming in his ears as she was sitting him against a wall (more like he let her do so, her shaky little arms weren’t going to do that on their own). He’d have usually minded having someone fret over him so much to the point she was hyperventilating; but he found himself unable to make fun of that and instead decided he’d be a responsible senior for fucking once.

“Hey, Shinozaki… No need to cry, y’know… Just call an ambulance or somethin’…”

She stared at him with swollen, puffy red eyes and a bawling jaw, but only nodded in silence and pulled out her phone. Putting it right against her ear, he could tell her fingers were shaking like leaves in the winter wind, barely able to hold the thing in its place, as her voice only matched. Truly, she had never seen the horrors of the world.

She should have never had, all things considered. Shinozaki was too good for this bullshit.

 He simply listened to her telling the cops about the shithole they had found themselves in, lying his head against the wall. In itself, the wound wasn’t hurting as badly as he’d have thought: getting stabbed was like getting punched, except that he was bleeding profusely afterwards and that it was much worse to deal with. He had gotten punched before, that wasn’t a big deal. The pain only started flaring afterwards, and the blood loss was the worse experience he had ever gotten through (after getting disowned, that was).

On second thought, the situation was kind of ironic. He had had no idea why he had decided to save her from probably death (probably). He hadn’t even thought about it before jumping in some shady-ass street of the city where dealing drugs and public pissing must have been national sports. He had just… done that and he wasn’t even finding himself utterly stupid for doing such a dumb thing. Well, also all things considered, she didn’t seem to have enjoyed getting saved at all. Maybe he should have let her die.

Yeah, as if that was ever going to happen.

 Shinozaki eventually put down her phone, putting it back into her pocket, call ended. Tears still flowed from her eyes like river streams, hiccupping as she fretted again, hands flying all over the place and breathing hitching too often to his tastes.

“Hey, calm down, Pres… (He attempted a smile: everything not to make her worry). I’ll be fine… I guess… It’s not that big of a deal, just calm down…”

“How am I supposed to do that, Kishinuma?! You’re bleeding and it’s all my fault! I… I should be able to do something about it, but what?!” (There she went off again…)

“Dude, let’s not go down that road… It was that crazy’s fault, wasn’t yours…”

“But you wouldn’t be like that if I hadn’t been there!”

He wanted to sigh until the end of times.

“Look, Shinozaki, I could have not jumped in there… but I did… and it was my own decision… So stop panicking, won’t be helpful to any of us…”

She blinked for a few seconds, staying idle.

“You… You’re right…”

 Shinozaki rubbed her eyes with the sleeve of her uniform top (oh, yeah, right: that had happened soon after club activities had ended, great), trying to settle her breathing down. Good, that was one step in the right direction. Very good, considering he felt his consciousness gradually leaving him. He needed her to stay calm until help was there so she wouldn’t do something stupid and harm herself in the process. Couldn’t be that hard, right?

He had a hand on his wound, in his left flank. Not the best place to be hurt (he’d have rather taken the hit somewhere completely inoffensive like, huh… Okay, maybe there wasn’t an ideal place to be stabbed in), but not the worse either. Probably didn’t hit anything vital. If he was lucky enough, he’d survive and be able to forget this all happened after he’d have inevitably entered a comatose state. Sleep sounded just fine right now: the smell of his own blood made him nauseous, it was harder and harder to stand with time passing.

 “Just, tell me somethin’, Shinozaki… How in the fuck did you end up here…?”

She didn’t respond, at first. Instead, all she did was to look away, bow her head down, bit her lip, and only then did she answer.

“I’m… not sure. I think someone pulled me in this corner by grabbing my arm and slamming me against a wall. Then he pulled out a knife and… and…”

“O-okay, thanks, don’t panic again…”

“I-I wasn’t panicking…”

“You totally were… (He smirked with the least credibility anyone could have ever failed to deliver on). Doesn’t matter. I’m just glad you’re fine…”

She seemed almost offended to hear him say that. Oops.

“And I’m not glad you got stabbed because of me, Kishinuma!”

“Oh spare me this crap, we just went over this already…”

 Shinozaki crossed her arms, obviously hurt to hear him say that (was he inappropriate? Was she too sensitive? Who fucking knew!), only to soon sob again and, this time, give up all hostility.

“I… just don’t want you to die on me, Kishinuma…”

“Oh, c’mon, I wouldn’t be a big loss… (Then he thought of everyone he’d leave behind today if he died at this moment: the class, Satoshi, Miki, her). I won’t die today, I promise… Just… don’t cry…”

She crossed her legs in front of her, arms wrapped against them. If he didn’t feel so weak, he’d have tried pulling her into an embrace, just to strengthen her and not feel like she could be blown away by a breeze.

“You promise…?”

“Yeah… I know it probably don’t hold much weight to you… but yeah…”

 He expected to get slapped, physically or verbally, but instead all she did was to put her hand on the one he had plastered over his wound like he was trying to repair a leak.

“I… I’ll believe you, then…”

Sirens started to echo in the distance as she looked at him in the eyes, no smile and only tears to be seen, fingers weakly clutching the back of his hand. It was unrealistic to witness, even if he was about to die would proper medical attention not be given to him soon. It was also pretty fucked up to realize he was somewhat happy to witness Shinozaki seemed to care.

 Now to see if he’d be able to keep his promise…

#bad things happen bingo #corpse party #ayushiki #whump #yoshiki kishinuma #ayumi shinozaki #stabbing #bleeding #cw blood #violence cw #otp: shangri-la #bthb 1

[sabraeal]

Family, Duty, Honor [Part 4]

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki AU Bingo 2021 Game of Thrones AU

It no longer shocks her to awake in an unfamiliar chamber.

It had once; when she awoke that first morning in Highgarden, green silk sheets slick beneath her fingers and the finest emerald velvet as her cage, her stomach had given a queasy lurch, putting her on unsteady feet when faced with her Lord Paramount. In those days she had only just grown used to the rooms above her apothecary, to the quiet that could settle in the air when there was no tavern beneath it, patrons drinking and shouting well into the night. To be plucked from those walls and hung out to be seen like the herbs she cut from the Lord’s forest-- it was too much, even for nerves forged as steely as her own.

But after so many years shunted from one set of quarters to the next-- three alone at King’s Landing, in almost twice as many months-- the fear dulled, until all that remained was the vaguest sense of curiosity, followed by inevitability’s heavy shroud. A girl could not forever anticipate waking up in the same bed when she had no home to return to.

It is, however, nice to be warm.

Shirayuki stretches, the whole of her body suffused with a satisfying ache. For once, it is not the complaint of muscles abused past endurance, but instead the pleasure of ones gently used; the same stiffness roused after a day in the gardens. Save, of course, for the aches in certain places-- places she has never been so aware of, ones that leave a strange heat curled between her thighs.

With a sigh, her eyes blink open; it is still night. Strange; she is not one to stir before the sun. Practically part plant yourself, my lady, Obi would tease her, you never open for anything less than the dawn.

It would be wiser to slip back into slumber, to let this mystery await until she can look at it in the full light of morning. But it is impossible-- her curiosity has been roused. Even now awareness spreads through her body, the hairs on her skin standing and settling as thoughts kindle from their embers. There is silk beneath her, soft and cool against her, and--

And she know this because she is naked, not a stitch of clothing on her.

She rolls from belly to side, stifling a curse as she meets the curtains standing sentinel around her. They are dark, and even shadowed in night as they are, she knows their color-- russet red, the same as the hair on her head. On the bedposts are fish, large trout carved open-mouthed, water spurting and swirling upwards to where the canopy rests. Riverrun, the ancestral home of the Tullys. Her home.

Or at least, so she had thought. I’ll marry her myself, her uncle had said, every word filled with bitterness. Get a boy on her.

Her fingers clench, silk and velvet spilling through her fingers. Family, Duty, Honor. The Tully words; her father had spoken them, that night in Dorne, and she had known as sure as rivers run south that they were hers.

And now she knows why her father had left; why he had taken her mother and ran to where the Harmund’s fingers could not stretch. Fishlords, some called the Tullys, and her uncle earned it by his flopping. Blood might be thicker than water, but it still ran as easy as the Trident in his veins; a trout following the strongest current.

Family may be one of their words, but words are wind. A lesson she should have learned when even dragon turned against dragon, darkening the skies above the Blackwater.

Betrayal stung, but Shirayuki’s heart had long been forged into something stronger than flesh, her mind honed sharper than steel. She may not wield a blade or command armies, but her weapons may be just as deadly, so long as she applies them in their proper place.

Anything can be a weapon, Miss, Obi told her once, dragging a cutpurse by the collar to the Watch. The bruise was still livid on the boy’s face, hardly looking like the apple that had made it. You just have to use the right pressure...and where a man’s vitals are.

Her stomach lays flat beneath her palm, but beneath it, it roils. She wanted to reach out to her uncle, to convince him to her side-- to Zen’s side with logic and reason and perhaps even fondness. She wanted them to talk as equals, but now she sees-- he had never taken her for anything more than a pawn, something to be traded for a better lot. And if she must press what weapons she has to his vitals, she knows just which one she might use.

The mattress shifts beneath her, the night’s silence broken by a soft, muffled groan. A man’s. Memory crests as a wave, tumbling her beneath it-- this is not her chamber at Riverrun but Obi’s. She is warm not from the pan beneath the bed, but from his body beside her. And her nakedness, this ache between her legs is because-- because--

She has already set her plans in motion. This languid satisfaction is from muscles used indeed, and this sting a maidenhead lost.

A soft sigh slips from him, his breath rippling along her back. No, not lost but given freely, to a man who had known it for the gift it was. Not the one she thought would receive it, but nonetheless she does not regret it, not one moment. She had done what needed to be done, and Obi-- well, he had made it pleasurable besides.

Shirayuki shifts, one side to the other, smiling at the thick cocoon of blankets, a man-made mount of velvet and fur. A sliver of bronze peeks through a vent, baring half a face slack with sleep and satisfaction. It’s not his, he says, but that does nothing to stop the fondness that wells in her chest at the sight of it. Nor does it quell the new heat that kindles in her belly.

Obi has ever existed at her side, just at the corner of her vision. A touch away, should she need him; a soft pressure when she needs support. Fond has always been a pale word, a shallow reflection for the depth of her feeling. Simply by knowing he is near, she is safe-- no, she is known, vulnerable and inviolable all at once. That face man not be his, but she knows the way he wears his anger, his joy, his grief, and now--

Now she knows its pleasure too. How his mouth slackens when she touches him. The strangled noise that drags unwilling from his throat when he slides inside her. The furrowed knot of his brow as he draws close to his end, voice straining as he dances at the edge of it.

Wetness coats the tops of her thighs, and oh Maiden and Mother, she could burn alive from the way her cheeks blaze. To think of him like this when he is only providing a service-- it’s shameful. He might never claim his title, the ser he has so greatly earned, but even without a white cloak he is kingsguard still, and this another sacrifice to protect the Iron Throne.

No, not for the throne. Nor for the Targaryen name either. For Zen, who needs the Lord of the Riverlands if he is to ever do more than hold the line. Who needs to bring to the table more than the North if he is to ever convince Dorne to throw their lot in with his.

Shirayuki knows this for what it is, but still, her body reacts. She is no high born lady to think the joining of man and woman a mystery-- if she had not seen animals in the yard, she had too often seen the ones behind the tavern, trying to catch a quick moment before they went back to their own beds. And she knew all too well the ailments that could arise from too many of these trysts taken with little care, or how a lady might bleed before her time if her husband did not take his. But still, even knowing the arithmetic to make two into one, she had thought this might be a more dutiful act, restrained by the weigh of the favor she was asking him-- he had certainly not seemed like a man performing a duty.

Wake me in an hour, he had said, his voice a delicious rumble beneath her hands. I’ll be ready for you then.

She lifts to an elbow, reaching over the man-mound to push aside the curtain. A breath of cool air sighs against her skin, leaving shivers in its wake. By the sky hung in the windows, she had given him more than his hour-- and more than the second she had meant to spare him. If she woke him now, he could press her back against the mattress again, putting his cock where she aches for him still--

And he will, she knows. They must, if this plan is to work. Lies might fool a man, but it would take more than that to trick a maester. Her uncle will not be content to take her at her word, not when it so neatly scuttles his plans, nor when so much glory could be had if he could leverage this child to make himself Hand to the new king. There must be a real, actual child growing in her belly by the time her uncle returns, or all will be lost.

She peels back the layers of his cocoon, enough to sneak a hand through. Soft fingers brush over the cusp of his shoulder, scar ragged beneath them. “Obi.”

He grunts, burrowing deeper into the pillow. It had taken her three years to ever see him sleeping, and even after, he would wake at her slightest sound, at even the threat of her touch. But now--

Now he groans, long legs stretching out, chest arching until his shoulder cups firmly in her palm. And yet, his eyelids hardly flicker.

“Obi,” she tries again, impatience seeping in at she presses closer. His skin is so warm against hers, hard where she is soft. The heat coiled in her belly writhes. “Obi, please, we need to...”

One gold eye unfurls to half-mast, hazy with sleep. Her words are lost, gone like birds on the wind. It had taken all her courage to ask the first time; she cannot bear to dredge up enough for a second.

“Ah, Miss,” he sighs, and, ah, she feels him against her. It. His cock, half-hard, nestled against the forgiving flesh of her thigh. “So insatiable.”

Shirayuki does not pout; no, this pursing of her lips is forbidding, stern. “You did promise.”

He hums, one hand tracing up the curve of her bottom, settling against her back. “I did,” he slurs, sleep thick in his voice, staring up at her through the net of his lashes. “And lucky for you, I’m a man of my word.”

That hand slips up to her shoulder, urging her down, and she gives beneath him. His mouth meets hers on the journey, dragging her into its undertow with a slow, languorous slide. Nothing about this is hurried, like Zen’s kisses, or frantic, like the ones from mere hours ago, but patient, perfect. He hasn’t slept long enough for his breath to be sour, but it’s stale, and she--

Ah, his hand drifts down again, jerking her against him. His cock buries between her thighs, heavy and hard, and she could not care less what he tastes like, so long as he keeps kissing her.

Her own palm slips from shoulder to cheek, nails scraping beneath the bristle of his hair. With a whimper, his hips jerk into hers, leaving them both breathless.

“You’re already wet,” he murmurs, voice thick with satisfaction and wonder. “So wet. And all for me, Miss?”

He should hardly need to ask. He’d pushed her to her back last night, and it’d flowed out of her like a creek swollen in a storm, blossoming over her nightgown. She’d feared he would see it, that he might even smell it as he pressed his mouth to her and know that she had left her own duty long behind, driven now by a needy curiosity. This might all have been her plan, but it was not like her to want, to need. Even now as he rubs himself between her folds, her slit aching for him, empty, she worries that this craving might not ever leave her.

“Obi,” she whines, so unlike herself she might as well be some other girl, the kind that has trysts outside taverns and sees a barn as an opportunity. “I need...”

“Oh,” he laughs darkly against her mouth. “I know what you need.”

Her only warning is the curve of his lips, and then she is weightless, reeling under a force not her own. Like rolling down the hills of Honeyholt, at the mercy of the land beneath her; only it is not the Father’s hands she leaves herself in tonight, but the Stranger’s.

When that breathless moment ceases, she is atop him, pale hands braced upon the bronze of his chest, legs splayed to either side of his narrow hips-- though his shaft no longer sits between them, instead curving along her bottom. Shirayuki shifts, trying to work it beneath her again, to feel the hard ridge of him where she aches, but his hands rest on hers, stilling her where she sits.

Beneath their fingers he is patchwork of scars; unlike this face, they belong to him, the only record of who he was before he came to her, of what he might have been before arrived at the doors of the House of Black and White. Her thumb brushes along the curve of his borrowed cheekbone, heart leaping as he leans into her touch, his smile nestling into her palm.

No, it is not the Stranger she courts tonight, but the Many-Faced God. One in the same, Obi might tell her, a single form of a god that touches every angle of this world, but still--

It is from his jaw whom she has snatched suffering. It is his servant who she has made aid her. Death makes a merciless lord, and she has a habit of standing before his throne, defiant.

Her fingers stiffen where they hook behind his jaw. “I need you,” she says, a whisper so fierce it burns. “As long as you are with me, that is all I will ever need.”

Those shuttered eyes fly open, gold burning bright as a candle in the dim. It’s pale, not coin nor honey nor the intensity of amber, but a spool of golden floss, unwinding. “Miss,” he breathes raggedly, chest stilling beneath her. “I...”

His mouth works, but no sound comes from it. Instead he speaks with his eyes, their wild search of her own conveying more question than words ever could. Her heart pounds with an answer, but it chokes her, refusing to speak itself, refusing to even let her know what it might be, and it is too much, too intense for this moment, this night--

So she kisses him instead. That, it seems, is a language they both speak fluently.

He laughs, joy crashing against her lips. “You say you need me.” He lifts her hips, allowing his head to gently slide down her slit,. “But I think what you need is my cock.”

She wants to protest-- it is not the promise of his size or skill that drew her to his bed in her time of need, and it is surely not what keeps her here, drinking down every drop of his drugging kisses, but--

But he lowers her onto him, shaft nestling between her lips. It’s both what she wants and not enough entirely; more, she needs to tell him, but instead she only whines, leaning into his touch. His fingers flex against her skin, gripping so hard a peach would bruise beneath it, and with a twitch of his hands, he drags her along his length. Her thoughts cease completely-- at least those that are not how his shaft slides along her slit, or the way his cock’s head rubbing at the center of her maiden’s flower, making her skin dissolve in a shower of sparks.

“Obi!” She wrenches herself away from his mouth, trying to gain space, gain her bearings before this heat can consume her. He keeps moving her even still, that steady front and back, watching her with hooded eyes and knowing smile. Her cunt growing slicker with every stroke, anticipating when he might misjudge his angle, and let himself bury within her--

“Obi,” she tries again, shaking herself. She needs to speak, to tell him something--

But instead she looks down, right to where his head plunges between her thighs, flushed and thick and glistening with her own slick. All she can think is how she needs him in her, how she needs him to douse this heat that threatens to consume her whole--

“Obi--” it’s more sobbed than spoken, a fact that might shame her if the whole of her attention wasn’t on keeping herself in a single piece instead of burning into ashes-- “Obi, please--”

“Yes.” His moan throws his head against the pillow, the muscles of his neck straining. “Yes, Miss, I have you.”

He lifts her again, and this time, his cock’s head flicks over where she is empty. She whimpers, an animal wounded, wanting, her hips seeking him out trying to catch that moment of completion. His laugh huffs against the back of her hand, and she nearly scolds him-- how could he be so amused when she could light the glass candle with her skin alone--

And then he is in her, buried in her cunt with no more than the barest stretch. So easy, as if he were made for her.

“All right, Miss?” he asks, little more than a gasp. She manages a moan as his hips twitch beneath her, driving him just a scant inch deeper. Mother, but she wants more, wants all of him. It cannot be possible to be closer than this, but she wants it still, that cessation of space between them.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” His thumbs rub at the flare of her hips, so gentle, before his palms slip. They glide lower, over the soft skin at her joint, cradling her thighs before guiding them forward. Her legs splay, pulling her closer still, sitting more of him inside her, and yet-- she feels more exposed too, vulnerable. It’s an odd angle, one she’s not sure she entirely likes, and she nearly says so until--

Until he surges up into her and paints a field of stars over her eyes, Dondarrion’s banner in full.

Her finger scrabble at his chest, trying to find purchase as he thrusts up. He’s filling her, more than he can before, each stroke touching her so deeply that she’s left gasping, clawing at his skin. She finally clamps her hands around his shoulders, toes curling in the sheets in an attempt to keep her steady. It’s a futile battle; even anchored as she is, moans leap from her, long and low and soft, hips chasing his cock even thought it never once leaves her.

“Obi,” she manages, a gasp rattling from her lungs. “This isn’t--” a moan slips from her, embarrassingly loud-- “this isn’t the best position for--” he leans forward, taking the tip of her breast in his mouth and sucking-- “conception!”

His chest rumbles beneath her palms. “I think,” he sighs, hands sliding down to grab her hips, “that I’ll come just fine like this.”

“I didn’t mean--”

His fingers dig in to her hips, so hard she knows she’ll bruise, but she can’t care, not when he cants her hips and drives her into him, over and over again, his head hitting something in her so right her vision whites at the edge.

“That’s right,” he hums, guiding her along his cock with a savage, almost feral glee. She leans back, letting him hold her weight and his smirk widens. “I’ll spill fine enough inside you, seeing you like this. Plant a seed and let it quicken, and everyone will know just how good you’ve been fucked--”

Her breath catches. This rough talk, it shouldn’t-- she shouldn’t--

She shouldn't like it. She doesn’t like it, she knows for certain; there’d been plenty of men at Highgarden who had made such promises in their cups. Grandfather had always seen them out on their asses, and told them never to darken his door again.

But the way Obi says it, the way he looks at her, pride and desire both-- it’s different. One thumb reaches out to graze her belly, and it draw her gaze down, down to where she can see his shaft pull near all the way out before thrusting again, covered in her own wanting, and Shirayuki-- she cannot last.

The heat between them finally consumes her, hot and cold both, and she is no longer steel, no longer porcelain, but instead putty in his palms from pleasure, slumping over him. His own breath stutters, and with a stifled groan, he spills over, hips twitching beneath hers.

The maesters knew little about childbirth itself; that was a woman’s realm, best left to the midwives they disdained as ignorant fishwives. But on the topic on conception opinions overflowed, an entire shelf in the Citadel dedicated to its methods-- specifically to those that would insure a male heir, even from a woman who had only evinced daughters. Most all of it was hogwash, merely men believing dominate the Mother’s domain as a lord might his lady, but some of it was true, told to her by midwives more experienced than any man in the maesters’ white tower.

Shirayuki knew, in the last bastion of her mind that was not consumed with pleasure, that she should roll off him. That she should get on her back and lift her hips to urge his seed deep inside her, encouraging it to take root. And after that, she should clean herself to prevent any infection from taking hold-- another thing the maesters’ texts found too unimportant to mention. It is what she would tell any woman that would come to her, looking to be taken with a babe, but instead--

Instead she stretches, luxuriating in the warmth of his skin against hers. The maesters and midwives never mentioned this, how close he would feel afterward, their bodies slick with sweat and wanting. They never said how sweet it would feel to have his cock soften inside her, how a simple hand brushed down her spine could quiet even her loudest thoughts.

“Ah,” he laughs, the tips of his fingers teasing at the divot at its base, not daring to curve lower. She wants him too, but she’s too tired to say it, instead just burrowing encouragingly against his chest. “Good morning to you too, Miss.”

“It’s still night.” She traces a scar, a small one right above his breast. it tremors beneath her touch. “Or I suppose it might be the wee hours before dawn.”

He hums, thoughtful. “You should be getting back.”

Shirayuki blinks up at him.

“Don’t look at me like that.” His teeth flash in the dim. “I hate to kick a woman out of bed, but your maids will be up with the sun.”

And all of them would he happy to hum Harmund a tune, should he ask for a song. Especially about his niece’s nighttime dealings. As little as she likes it, she’s lingered long enough.

“Yes,” she sighs, levering herself up. “You’re right, I should...”

She stares down, heart in her throat. Even in the dark she can see it, the pinkish stain smeared across the sheets. The remnants of her maidenhood, dried and set in silk. “Oh...”

Obi rolls craning his neck to match hers. “Ah, well. Do you think they’ll believe me if I say I had my courses?”

Shirayuki spares him a flat look.

“Oh, don’t you be worrying about that, Miss.” He waves her off, using his hips to bounce her leg off him. “It’s not the first time I’ve had to get blood out of silk.”

“But it’s dried.” She lost more than a few good skirts and sheets from that alone. “It’s nearly impossible--”

His hand cups the back of her neck, swinging her gaze around to meet his. “I said I have it handled.”

Her mouth opens, then closes with a snap. It’s hardly be the first time a man like him would have to clean blood from cloth.

“All right.” She pads over to the basin, wincing as the cold water touches her skin. “I’ll only clean myself and then--”

She’ll never know how he can pace a room so fast; one moment he’s at the end of the bed, putting on trousers, and the next he’s standing next to her. Long fingers pluck the cloth from her hand, his mouth curving as her breath catches.

“Let me handle that, Miss,” he murmurs, so close to her they could hold a playing card between them. “It’s my job to take care of you after all.”

The cloth slides down her belly, freezing in its wake, but it hardly bothers her, not when she is but skin wrapped around a living flame. It sinks further still, Obi’s breath fanning across her face as he slips it between her thighs. Her chest hitches when it traces along her slit, so slow, so tantalizing, one of Obi’s long fingers teasing at her entrance.

“Obi,” she whimpers, but it’s the only sound she makes before he covers his mouth with her own. Her fingers curl around his shoulders, trying to keep herself upright, and she slips, just a little, nails digging in--

He gasps. She presses the advantage, slipping her tongue past his lips; all pretense is lost then. The cloth slumps to the floor as his finger sinks knuckle-deep into her cunt, the banked flame in her belly blazing with little more than the slide of his lips and a pump of his fingers. He stirs against her hip; she glances down for a breath, but his cock is still soft, lolling out the gap of his trousers.

To her everlasting shame, she lasts barely more than a few breaths; both surprise and sensitivity working against her. His hips press her hard against the basin, and his finger curves just so, just enough to have her gasping and writhing and riding him to a second fall, Obi grinning the entire time.

“There.” He lifts his finger to his lips, sucking them clean. “Just wanted to make sure it would stick.”

If she’s flushed, at least the dark shrouds it. “I’ll--I’ll see you in the morning.”

She feels him watching as she bends over, gathering up her shift. “With the way I had you, you’ll see me in your dreams first.”

It should annoy her that she knows he’ll be right, but instead-- instead heat flares in her, making her bold.

“Good.” She slides her shifts over her shoulders, and with a single look back, says, “I’ll need you to do it tomorrow, too.”

His face is worth every shade of her blush.

#obiyukibingo2020 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #lemon #my fic #game of thrones au #family duty honor #ans #here i was thinking i was done with this fic #but NO #it has come back to haunt me #with SMUT and POLITICS #mostly smut this time #but in the inevitable continuation i am sure...politics

[sabraeal]

Sic Semper Monstrum, Chapter 4

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Obiyuki AU Bingo Pacific Rim AU

“--And so Kai lays down his hand, and says ‘Is this good?’“ Zen lets his mouth unfurl into a smirk. “It was a straight flush. Ace, king, queen, jack, ten, all out on the table. ‘Is this good?’ Kid didn’t even know what he had!”

Shirayuki’s laugh is an experience; a noise that rolls right up from her toes and bubbles out like the best champagne he’s ever drunk. Shao Industries may have their adrenaline in a bottle, ready to serve up to any ranger who needs a boost in the cockpit, but his stimulant of choice is this, bottled up and shot directly into his veins.

He settles back on the couch, arm draped over the back and legs crossed ankle to knee, and there’s nothing like this feeling, having the power to make her laugh like she’s falling to pieces and watching her as she does. Zen may not be the funniest guy on deck, but she’s flushed right down to the roots of her hair, arms wrapped around herself like she’s afraid she’s going to come apart like a Mark 1.

“A-and you told him?” She reaches out a hand, curling trembling fingers around her mug. That was the real sign that he’d gotten her; Shirayuki never put down her tea. “That he’d won?”

“Well...” Her watches as she turns the mug, delaying the pick up as she waits for his punchline. He likes that about her too, the way she anticipates him. “Shiira told him he lost.”

She shrieks, hands flying up to cover her mouth. “Zen!”

“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” He waves his hands, patting the air to say settle down. “Mitsuhide caught us and made Shiira give him the pot. Well--” he gives her a wink-- “what he hadn’t already spent.”

“That’s terrible,” she says with the sort of playful lilt girls at the academy bars would have, slapping him on the shoulder for an excuse to touch him. “I’m glad you got caught. I hope Mitsuhide gave you the scolding of a lifetime.”

“Almost.” He grins, liking how her cheeks flush. “He made a very disappointed face for most of breakfast.”

“Oh, well.” She ducks her head, fingers picking at some nit on her tights. “That’s just as bad.”

“I felt the barest shred of contrition,” he assures her, “I’ll never lie again.”

“Oh good.” Her mouth curves as she sends him a shy glance, hooded beneath her eyelashes. “As long as you’ve learned your lesson.”

“I’m a changed man,” he promises, offering a smirk he hopes is both charming and roguish, and glad Kiki isn’t here to inform him otherwise. Or to tell him that someone is already doing it better.

Whatever, he can make her laugh. Not many other men can do that.

“So.” Shirayuki starts reaching behind herself, arm flailing out blindly for the desk, and he realizes-- the notebook. She’s going for her notebook.

Right, because this isn’t just a fancy living room, and this isn’t just a friendly chat. He’s a patient, and she’s a professional, and the second she gets that notebook in her lap, he’ll feel it, feel studied, like a slice of kaiju under a microscope.

Her fingers clasp around the spiral edge. “Is there anything--?”

“Your tea’s going to get cold,” he blurts out, anything to delay the inevitable wall between them. The knot in his chest eases as her grip does, her gaze dropping to the mug on the table. “I mean, if you just leave it there.”

“My--? Oh!” She presses a palm against the ceramic, grimacing. “Oh my. It must be getting late.”

Well, this was exactly what he didn’t wanted to happen. “Is it?”

She twists around, glancing at the clock above her desk. “We’ve nearly gone over time! I’m so sorry.” She turning back to him with a sheepish smile. “You probably want to be on your way.”

“I don’t have anywhere to be.” Even to his own ears he sounds desperate. “If you’d like some company.”

“I appreciate the offer.” Shirayuki sends him a smile that makes him warm right up from his toes-- and then grabs that damned notebook right off the desk and lays it across her lap. “But I do need to wrap up here.”

She’s too polite to add, because you’re a patient and this is work, but he’s been around his brother long enough to hear what isn’t said, loud and clear. He might be able to make her forget that, just for a little while, but at the end of the day--

Well, she wasn’t lying to Izana when she said she was too much of a professional to let feelings get in the way of her work. As much as he wishes that wasn’t the case.

“All right.” He levers himself to his feet, enjoying the way she has to crane her neck to meet his gaze. “Have a good night, Shirayuki.”

Her mouth curves into a warm smile. “You too, Zen.”

It takes him an age to get to the door, each step like moving through molasses. Nothing’s ever going to happen between them if this keeps up, if she keeps hiding behind her professionalism like a shield and he keeps waiting for Izana to give him the all clear. It’ll come any day now, he knows; Shirayuki’s been here long enough that his brother uses words like competent and indispensable to people he only talks on screens. But still--

His hand hesitates on the doorknob, cool metal smooth against his palm. A Cat 5 could rise up out of the sea any day now and just wipe them out. Waiting was a luxury people like them just don’t have.

“Hey,” he starts, palm slipping on the knob as he turns it. “Would you--?”

His words sputter out, dying on his lips as the door nearly slams into him, opened from the other side.

“Oh.” Gold eyes meet his from a number of inches higher than he ever wants to think about. “Hey there, boss.”

God, of course this happens. He’s seeing that asshole’s face everywhere anyway, why not here too? “I’m not your boss.”

His mouth sharpens into a grin. “Funny. The way you waste my time, you sure act like you are.”

“Oh, Obi! Is that you?” Shirayuki scrambles to her feet, hurrying up behind him to pull the door open the whole way. As much as he tries to angle himself between them, they lock eyes and Shirayuki’s face does that thing where all the tight lines fall away, like this asshole is a relief or something.

“Sure is, Doc.” The sharpness slips from him like a blade into a sheath; Zen can still see it there in the way he holds himself, in the way every part of this asshole is potential energy coiled around a set of bones, but it’s muted now, hidden but not forgotten.

Zen’s mouth pulls tight across his face. “What are you doing here?”

The asshole’s gaze flicks down to him-- fuck him, for being so goddamned tall-- and he honestly expects to be ignored, for this guy to just keep batting his eyelashes at Shirayuki and pretending he’s not any more of a concern than a single ant at a picnic, but--

“I was just heading down to the canteen,” he says, eyes dragging back to meet Shirayuki’s. “Thought I’d stop by and see if you were hungry.”

“Well, you did,” Zen snaps, fingers tightening on the door. “So you can go now.”

“Oh, sure!” He doesn’t like how breathless Shirayuki sounds. “Just give me a minute to wrap this up.”

It doesn’t occur to him that this might reference him, not until she turns to him, smile wide, and asks, “Was there something else you needed, Zen?”

He swings a slow look back toward the asshole, teeth grinding when he sees his mouth all rucked up into a smirk.

“No,” he grunts, shouldering past. The asshole just giggles, like taking an elbow to the gut is a tickle. Weirdo. “I’m good.”

Zen’s a creature of habit; he’s grown up under a dome his whole life, and even if he wasn’t eating in the mess as a kid, he’s at least used to regimented meals. 1800 hours is dinnertime, and even as he’s stomping through the tunnels, headed determinedly east, his stomach keeps voicing persistent reminders that he’s doing wrong by it.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, digging his fingers into the smooth cotton of his shirt. “No one asked you.”

“Hey!”

Zen jerks his chin up, just in time to watch Mitsuhide round the corner, his friendly face already spread in a smile. Perfect. “Hey, Mistuhide, want to go have a spar?”

His steps stutter beneath him, a ridiculous sight on a man so big. “Spar?”

“Funny.” Zen winces as Kiki emerges from behind him, Mitsuhide’s broad shoulders having blocked her from view. “I could have sworn it was time for dinner. Not interested in courting your adoring masses?”

He frowns, annoyed. Have a couple of people on the deck crew crush on him, and suddenly now he’s groupie hunting. “Not hungry. So?”

Mitsuhide’s always been a study in contrasts; he’s a giant, his shoulders almost twice as wide as Zen’s even without all his training. If jaegers were powered by physical might, Mitsuhide Lowen would be able to pilot one without breaking a sweat. Despite all that muscle packed onto him, he’s gentle, the sort of guy that could pet wild animals if there was any nature left to tame.

But at the mention of a spar, his whole face lights up, a feral glee lurking in the shadows of his smile. “Y--”

Of course, that’s the moment Zen’s stomach lets out a great, gurgling growl, reminding him that the mess is the other way.

Mitsuhide turns tame in a second, clapping him on the shoulder. “Dinner first.”

Zen slumps under his giant palm. “Great. Just perfect.”

It’s not like he’s trying to look for them, but-- they’re hard to miss. Or at least Shirayuki is, her red hair bright in a sea of brown and gray, a beacon in the fog, and--

And there is the asshole, head bent toward her, hanging on every word she says.

“There he is again,” he mutters, spearing a piece of chicken. “Eating.”

“And there she is again,” Kiki adds, without missing a beat, “enjoying his company.”

He sputters, ready to refute it-- sure, she may act nice, but Shirayuki can’t actually like this guy-- when she laughs, full and long, her head thrown back and arms wrapped tight around her middle.

His lips thin. “She’s too nice. That asshole doesn’t deserve to hang around her.”

Kiki arches a brow, and oh he feels it, that heavy judgement only a Seiran can convey with a twitch. “And yet you’re the one over here, complaining.”

He grunts, shifting in his seat. “I just don’t think she should hang around him, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” Kiki deadpans. “We’re aware.”

“He’s a total jackass,” he insists, “we all know it!”

“Maybe you should look in a mirror,” she suggests, far too casual. “I think you’d make a good pair. Two peas in a pod.”

Zen goggles. “He hit you!”

“I deserved it,” she admits with a shrug. “Besides, I hit him back.”

“That doesn’t--”

“I think Kiki’s said her piece about it,” Mitsuhide says, a little loud. His mouth is all tight, like he doesn’t quite agree with her, but he knows better than to say so. “And we have to take her at her word.”

She darts a glance at him, and oh, Zen’s glad he’s not on the receiving end of that. Kiki might not speak her mind now, but Mitsuhide will definitely get a whole earful the next time they’re in the drift.

But that’s not what this is about. “Why doesn’t he just leave already? No one wants him here.”

“You haven’t given him a chance,” Mitsuhide reminds him, too even, too calm. “He can’t leave.”

“I know that,” Zen scoffs, sour. “But I’m not going to drift with him.”

“Why not? You don’t want him flitting around Shirayuki, being charming.” Kiki’s brows raise, half a challenge. “If you’d just done it in the first place, he’d be gone by now.”

His mouth pulls thin. Only Kiki would be perverse enough to get punched and suddenly sing a man’s praises, or whatever passed for it from her. “First off, I know it won’t work. Second off--” he snaps, cutting off whatever coy reply Kiki’s taking a breath for-- “I don’t want that bastard rattling around in my head if it does.”

Her mouth cants, amused. “If it works, it’s only because you’re as much of a bastard as he is.”

Zen hisses out a breath, hot as steam. If she thinks she can just say what she wants to him-- “Real rich coming from--”

“If you’re worried about it,” Mitsuhide interjects, studiously oblivious to the tension around him, “you should talk to the Marshal.”

His jaw clenches so hard his molars clack. Of course that’s what he’d think, hand-picked by Izana to be the next pilot for Rex Tyrannous. Why wouldn’t he trust the bastard? He’s someone Izana respects. Not--

Not his brother. “He’s not going to listen to me.”

“Not when you go in demanding he sends him home,” Mitsuhide replies, infuriatingly calm. “But if you talk about why it won’t work, reason it out...the Marshal would respond to that, I think.”

He’s...not wrong. “Still.”

His massive shoulders lift in a shrug, dark eyes meeting his. “What do you have to lose?”

The door to the Marshal’s office is heavy, reinforced steel, nearly three inches thick, meant to withstand all but the most determined battering rams. It was original, installed in the days where they not only had to worry about kaiju but civilians, desperate from the destruction’s fallout.

And so it nearly drowns out, “I want that asshole out of here,” when he slams it shut behind him.

It’s a louder sound than he expects-- than either of them expect from the way his brother stares past him, wide-eyed. Still, he’s not going to let something like that ruin his entrance. Presentation is everything when it comes to dealing with Izana.

He takes a breath, steeling himself. “I want that asshole gone yesterday.”

Izana’s gaze shifts from the door, settling on him with a dispassionate chill. “Well then,” he drawls, settling back in his chair, “then you shouldn’t have wasted it not drifting.”

He could feel the ground slipping out beneath him already, the battle barely begun before he’s routed. It’s how it always is with him; Zen might be the one on the offensive, but he constantly retreats from Izana’s ripostes.

“I can’t drift with that guy,” he huffs, arms cross over his chest. “You know that.”

Izana lifts an infuriating brow. “Do I?”

Zen leashes a growl. “Come on. There’s no way--”

“I’ve heard a lot of excuses,” his brother continues, as if he’d never spoken at all, “but no reasons. At least none that stem from something other than our guest’s popularity with a certain doctor on our staff.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. God, he hates how Izana can just read him like that, like his every thought is writ large on his face for the world to see. “He doesn’t belong here.”

Izana’s gaze snaps up to his, as dangerous and dark as the open ocean. “Prove it, then.” There’s no smile lurking in the corners of his mouth, no maddening tease in his voice. “Show me he isn’t fit to pilot Rex Tyrannous.”

“What?” Zen spits, wishing it didn’t always come to this. “You just want me to jump in the cockpit with him? Let him in my head and try to walk a jaeger right out the doors?”

“No, of course not.” The corner of his mouth twitches, a smirk expertly restrained. “I thought we might handle things the more...traditional way.”

The sparring room is packed, bodies lining every bit of floor that isn’t marked in-bounds. Heaven forfend if one of them stumbles off the mat; they’d fall right into a mass of ranger hopefuls, probably cracking a limb or two on the way down.

“Did you have to make such a spectacle of this?” he mutters, giving his staff a test swing. It still fits easy in his hands, it weight comfortably familiar, but--

The eyes on him make it hard to focus. Zen knows it’s been a while since someone attempted a first drift, but really, this is ridiculous.

Izana’s brows raise, the very picture of innocence. “I didn’t.” His mouth curves, amused. “Everyone is interested. Rex Tyrannous has been in its box for years now. Can you blame them for wanting to see it come out?”

Zen scans the crowd; it’s got techs, sure, and mechanics, maybe even some people from K-Science, but--

He recognizes the hopefuls. Izana has flung every promising face the academy has at him, and one by one they’ve each flunked out, rejected by the drift. Rejected by him.

Just like this asshole is going to be.

He’s across the mat, tank clinging to him in a way that can’t be a mistake, like he went ahead and picked one a size too small from the box. It’s distracting, especially with the easy way the bokken lays across his shoulders, wrists hooked on each side. His shoulder muscles standing out in sharp relief, like they’ve been carved out of bronze, and-- and how is he supposed to concentrate with all that going on? It’s unfair, that’s what it is.

What’s worse is that he’s talking to Shirayuki, and she’s just-- looking at him, eyes pleadingly wide and mouth bowed into a concerned frown. Her hand hovers between them, small fingers outstretched like she might even touch him--

“Remember.” Izana’s smooth drawl buzzes in his ear. “It’s not a competition. It’s a dialogue.”

“I know.” He’s heard it a thousand times; he doesn’t need to hear it again. Not when that asshole is leaning in, all sly smirks and coy winks, making a flush bloom right under Shirayuki’s collar. “That doesn’t mean I’ll hold back.”

“No.” When he dares a glance back up at his brother, the medals on his Marshal’s regalia blazing under the florescence of the gym’s lights, he’s bemused. “I wouldn’t assume so.”

He lifts his chin, spine PPDC regulation straight, and claps his hands. It’s all that’s needed; a second later the room’s so quiet you could hear a pin drop. “Let’s begin.”

Zen turns to the mat, bokken balanced in his grip, and the asshole grins, brows arching. “Ready now, boss?”

Over his shoulder he can see Shirayuki, face pale with worry. Her gaze slides off the man lazily poised in front of her, fixing to him, and--

And he doesn’t like the wariness he sees there. He’s not the bad guy here.

“Oh yeah.” Zen’s lips part in a grin that’s more teeth than humor. “I’m ready. First to four.”

The asshole lets out a huff. “I know how this--”

It’s a cheap shot-- he knows it-- but all he feels is satisfaction as his bokken sweeps the mat, catching the asshole right behind the ankles. The jerk may be tall, may be jacked, but that only means he falls harder.

Zen leans over him, smirking. “One-oh. Try to keep up.”

Triumph turns to tragedy the moment he chances a glance at the crowd. Shirayuki draws his gaze like a lodestone, a bright flash of feather against a drab sea, and--

And she’s not looking at him. Oh no, she’s looking at the scum skimming the mat, concern molding her every feature, halted a half-step toward him by Mitsuhide’s hand clasped about her shoulder. She only eases back when Kiki leans in with a whispered word, nodding absently as she speaks.

Zen clenches his teeth. She isn’t supposed to feel bad for this jackass; she’s supposed to-- to--

The pain at his knee is his only warning before he feels the cruel grip of gravity close around him, buckling to the floor. It winds him; his lungs burn as he tries to catch his breath, wobbling on his belly like a beached whale. But the time he rolls over, Obi’s up on his knees over him, bokken pressed pointedly beneath his chin.

“One-one,” the asshole says, no humor left in him. He steps back, spinning the staff behind him, holding out a hand.

Zen stares. Fine. Fine. Looks like this guy wouldn’t be as easy to put off as he thought.

He knocks aside the hand, rolling up to his feet with a smooth, practiced ease. At least having Mitsuhide knock him on his ass gave him something-- he makes getting up look good. Natural.

Zen shuffles back, taking his corner, preparing his stance. The asshole might need some help in the personality department, but he’s no slouch in the physical one. And definitely not in the looks one either, he can’t help but notice, not when Obi drags his tank off, dropping it to the mat. He’s not breathing hard yet, but sweat’s beginning to dew on his skin, beading on a body that’s looks as cut and welded-together as a jaeger itself and--

This has to be against the rules. This is a distraction, and--

It costs him a second point.

His shoulder stings, and by the time he realizes what’s happened, that he’s been hit, the asshole has leapt away, as light on his feet as a cat.

“C’mon, boss,” he lilts, a feral grin tilting his lips. “Keep your head in the game.”

His fingers clench around the bokken. He’ll show him what it’s like when he keeps his head in the game all right. That asshole will be wishing he never piped up when he limps out of here.

Zen dives into his next sweep. He may not be Mitsuhide, able to make those overhead swings so hard and fast that his teeth jiggle in his mouth, but he knows how to make the small ones hurt, how to take down a man that might have a few inches on him. His staff flicks out in a flurry of blows, each clack against Obi’s so regular it might as well be the second hand of a clock, driving him back--

A single step. The only reaction he gets is a raising of eyebrows, and then Obi is meeting his swings blow for blow, hardly pressed. In fact, he’s relaxed, like an instructor at the academy, deflecting his swings like this speed is old hat, something he’s seen a thousand times before.

Zen jumps back, annoyed. This has knocked Kiki Seiran on her ass. What right does this asshole have to be standing?

Fine. He needs to play this careful, strategic. He’s not fighting a rookie, fresh out of the academy, he’s fighting--

Fuck. He’s fighting Izana.

Another step back sets him safely out of reach, and Zen just-- assesses. Like he should have done at the start. Like he would have if he wasn’t so determined to underestimate him. If he wasn’t so determined to hate his guts.

He grimaces. God, he hates it when his brother’s right

This asshole is trained, and he’s bigger than him. Not big enough to wreck him with a blow, like Mitsuhide could, but he’s got reach on his side, and with the biceps he’s packing, he could make his ears ring trying to catch a harder cut. His usual trick of coming in hard and fast won’t work here, not if his fastest barely merited more than a yawn.

He’ll have to be smart. He’ll have to trick him.

Zen edges back in, bracing for a blow that never comes. Obi’s watching him, just as intent, muscle coiled to pounce. Or maybe to flee.

Huh. Now that’s an idea.

He leaps in, coming in too hot, looking for all the world like he’s over-committing on this swing, like he’s some hotshot that believes in power and glory over strategy--

And there it is. Obi edges back, leaning out of his way, grin on his lips--

Which falls straight off when stares down at his hip, the butt of the bokken leaving a red welt where it hit him. He glances at where Zen used to be, where he thought the swing would land, and then back, brow furrowed in confusion.

Zen gives him another tap-- it doesn’t count, they haven’t reset-- and grins. “Two-one.”

Obi’s gaze drags up him, and for once he sees the calculation in it, the sign that under all that charm there’s a man who has braved the rough waters of the Pacific and lived to tell about it. “All right.”

He’d never understood the idea of trading blows. As a kid, Zen lived for every climactic sword fight in a story, for good against evil warring as their blades sparked and clanged and realism took a nice long nap for a chapter or two. But still, the idea that good sir knight would be able to raise his sword to meet every slash of the villain’s, blade biting in only the least vital places, seemed like something strictly in fiction, the sort of fairy tale meant for boys.

But he understands it now.

The rhythm of their bokken is even, almost as if this were an exhibition, as if this were a dance. It’s easy to read how he’ll move in the lines of his body, in the twitch of his muscles, and it’s nothing to rise to meet him, to see that each action Obi takes has an equal and opposite reaction in him. They manage hits on one another-- Zen catching him on the ankle once, and Obi takes him at both the shoulder and the knee-- but it’s almost secondary to this, to the easy ebb and flow between them.

He hasn’t had a spar like this since-- since Mitsuhide was his co-pilot. No, even then it had been harder, Mistuhide’s strength often leaving his arms jangling and tired, their bouts usually an exercise in restraint and endurance. This is easy, but it has an edge, just like with-- with--

Atri.

His breath rasps from his lungs, static building in his brain until that buzz is all that’s left in him, a persistent agitation that makes his teeth clench in chatter. Atri.

The pattern falters-- his fault, he knows, distantly-- but it’s too late, he’s driving forward with a force that has Obi on the retreat. One leg reaches back, and he sees it, the opportunity, and there’s nothing that matters more than winning now, then coming out on top--

His sweep doesn’t take him entirely; Obi’s so surprised by his advanced he jumps too late, foot clipping the bokken it a way that has him stumbling back, dropping onto his ass. Zen’s right there, stick against his neck, grin pulled tight against his face, and--

And something taps his side. The bokken. Obi’s bokken.

It’s a draw.

“So, boss,” the asshole drawls. “Was it good for you?”

The locker room is empty when he gets out of the shower, thankfully. The last thing Zen needs is a half dozen hopefuls trying to compliment his footwork when the only thing between them and a show is the narrow towels the PPDC outfits them with. Not that he’s shy; the academy makes damn sure any modesty you have coming is shorn as quick as your hair by the time you roll out.

But the academy also has rules, and one of those is don’t stare. Somehow, the rookies always forgot that when they move into the dome. The last thing he needs is for some tech to get a peek, and then all of K-Science knows what size condom he wears.

So far there’s been no sign of the asshole. After the draw he just about disappeared; Zen had thought he’d at least hop in for a shower, but frankly-- the man barely broke a sweat. Maybe he didn’t think he needed a good rinse.

Or maybe he just needed some space. Zen can feel that right now; they haven’t even drifted and yet he feels like someone’s been rolling around in his brain. He’d been half-tempted to ask Shirayuki if she had time for a session, but he hadn’t been able to find her either--

Which is something he’d rather not think about right now.

He strides over to his locker, laying his uniform out on the bench. Might as well take up space if no one else is going to use it.

There’s a subtle change in the air as he reaches for the knot at his waist, a weight that lets him know that not only is he not alone, but he’s being judged on top of it.

Zen sighs. He’d know that disappointment anywhere. “Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything,” Izana drawls, the hard heels of his shoes finally clacking on the tile. “And I don’t know why you think I would. This was an unmitigated success, and--”

“It’s not,” Zen snaps, yanking his boxers on under the towel. “I still don’t want him.”

Izana’s footsteps still. “He’s the best candidate we’ve had in years. I haven’t seen a spar like that since...”

His teeth snap around the words, but Zen doesn’t need to hear them. He’s been thinking them loud and clear, all on his own. “He’s not who I want.”

His brother’s breath hisses through his nose. “We can’t all have who we want--”

“But I can.” He yanks on his pants, glaring over his shoulder. “If you would just stop--”

“No.” The word is too loud in the silence, echoing off the lockers, off the tile. Zen turns to him, eyes wide and-- and Izana never shows weakness but he could swear he sees him tremble. “You can’t.”

With a breath, his brother is in control again, his expression a wall so unassailable that if Sydney had known the trick of it, Bladehead would have had to do a long walk of shame back to the rift.

“You’ll do this drift.” It’s not a question, not anymore. “We can’t afford to pass up this opportunity.”

Zen crosses his arms over his chest, wishing he’d remembered to put on a shirt before all this started. “You can’t force me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Ranger.” He’d always thought Izana stood tall before, but with all those medals winking on his chest, he locates another two. “I can.”

He blinks, breath rasping out of his lungs. He’s been in the dome for years now, and not once has his brother ever done this, thrown up his rank between them and been the Marshal instead.

“I’m just hoping you’ll do the right thing.” His eyes soften even as his mouth pulls thin. “We need Rex Tyrannous out of its box.”

“Why?” Zen breathes. “What’s coming?”

Izana lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Let’s hope we never find out.”

“Setting harness for test mode, waiting for second pilot.” Zen keys in the command, every movement begrudging. He has to this, he knows that, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

And he doesn’t, not one bit. Every moment his copilot makes him wait, the more certain he is that he’s right, that this will be just another drift clusterfuck courtesy of his brother’s obsession--

“Two pilots on board,” a mechanical voice informs him. Zen snaps his gaze over to the door, and there he is, the asshole himself, slinking into the cockpit like he owns it.

He grits his teeth. Of course, he can’t look awkward like everyone else in these armored get-ups. Oh no, he’s got to do for the flight suit what Michelle Pfeiffer did for catsuits. God, he hates him.

“You ready to go?” Zen snaps, stepping back into the harness.

The asshole’s mouth cocks as he keys in his own commands, wry. “Always, Chief.”

“Don’t call me--”

In the blue light of the cockpit, Obi’s eyes take on a strange glow as they fix to his, far too serious. “I won’t let you down.”

Zen stares, mouth suddenly dry. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to be friendly, boss,” the asshole lilts, clearly enjoying all this. “We’re going to be in each other’s heads, after all.”

“Don’t remind me.” He dares a glance in his direction, and-- ah, yep, the asshole is grinning. “Any last words?”

His mouth tips into a leer. “You look great in that suit.”

Zen doesn’t blush, it’s just-- just time to put on his helmet. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Hey.”

He swings his head over to look, meeting the concern in Obi’s gaze. “Don’t chase the rabbit.”

Zen scowls. “I know that.” He shifts in his harness, annoyed. “It’s not my first time.”

Don’t chase the rabbit. Let it flow. Don’t latch on. Tune them out. The drift is silence. He knows it all, done it a thousand times--

But he’s never ready for the moment the handshake takes hold. There’s no uncomfortable sign, no burst of memory blinding him, just one blink he’s Zen and the next he’s more, like waking up from from anesthesia.

The next few seconds are the rough part.

His memories roll past with breathtaking speed; Zen would hesitate to say he likes anything about the first minute of the drift, but as it cards through his earliest gasps of memory, he sees a face he hardly remembers, blurred and bearded, hears a deep, booming laugh he’ll never forget--

“Lucky,” Obi sighs, somewhere between wistful and bitter. He wants to ask what he means, but there’s no use, not when he’ll know everything in another blink. he just has to sit back and--

Zen’s salute is crisp, not an elbow out of place. He’s been practicing all day, drilling himself in the mirror until he’s as shiny and perfect as the medal danging on his brother’s breast. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

Oh no, not this. Please, not this.

Izana returned it with casual precision, as he always does. What perfection Zen has striven for, sweated for, nearly died for, has always come easily to him. He’d hate him for it, if he didn’t love him so much. If he didn’t know he’d feel just what that was like the moment they got to the dome.

“You’re excited,” Izana observes, gaze flickering around the room. He’s seen the barracks before-- he went here too, ages ago-- but Zen’s nervous just the same. It’s his room now, Spartan but serviceable, filled with the few tchotchkes they were allowed to keep, and he wants--

He wants him to like it. To like all of it. To approve of him.

No, no. It’s not supposed to be like this.

“Yes, sir.” He’s breathless, practically trembling from the anticipation. “Always.”

Izana’s mouth parts in a wan smile. “Of course. I was too, when I graduated.”

“It’s not just that.” He’s quivering now, like a dog that’s run its leash, too eager. “I’m ready. To pick up the legacy. To be what father meant us to be.”

His brother is quiet, almost thoughtful, and in the doorway, his shadow coughs.

“Ah!” Zen grimaces. “Sorry, Ranger Shidnote. Not that you-- you’re-- I--”

Shidnote’s lips twitch, just at a corner, the slash bisecting his nose tugging toward it. “No offense taken.”

He was so careful not to think, to just let it flow, but he’s stuck now. They are stuck now.

“About that.” Izana settles a hand on his desk, fingers drumming carefully. “I meant to tell you--”

Oh god, please, no.

“--I’m being promoted.”

“Promoted.” The word’s a dead thing in his mouth, soured and stale, and he nearly gags on it. “But I though--”

“They want me in a command capacity now that Mother’s taking over Anchorage.” Izana clears his throat, fixing his gaze just over his shoulder. “I’m being taken off active duty.”

“But--”

No, this can’t happen. He can’t give him this.

“But--”

He won’t give him this.

If entering the drift is painless, tearing himself from it is agony.

Zen grits his teeth, pushing with all his might, all his will, and it’s like ripping off a limb, like pulling out fingernails--

“Fuck,” he spits, tumbling to the deck, bones rattling as his knees jar against the metal. “God damn.”

“Chief,” his copilot coughs, struggling with the harness, and-- and--

He can’t be here. Not with this asshole, not now.

Zen staggers on his feet, stumbling for the door, just righting himself when he gets to the scaffold. He’s going to hurl if he doesn’t slow down, but he doesn’t care, he can’t care, not until he’s far enough away--

“Zen.”

His gaze jerks up, and there, one flight away is the last face he wants to see, eyes rounded with concern the way they were that day, when he--

“We’re done,” he croaks, voice too soft, like he hasn’t used it in a week.

Izana steps closer, brows drawn. “What--?”

“I said, we’re done,” he shouts, shouldering his way past. “I’m done.”

#obiyukibingo2020 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #pacific rim au #my fic #i'm having that moment where i realize a Zen POv is a very weird entry in obiyukibingo #but also there is some definitely obiyuki in this chapter #must to Zen's chagrin #i know so many of you guessed the pilot was atri #and i think atri was always a balm to what he couldn't have #but Zen's the one between them that's been obsessed with legacy #with living up to what their father created #that the one copilot he wanted had to be the one that could live up to that #who he thought WANTED to live up to that