#and my nose is still bleeding on occasion so I should get that checked out too

[apuppetmuseum]

so my back is bleeding, that's fun.

[cinimon01]

Riding the contentment wave on our own boat.

.....and then things happen that you didn't plan for.

22nd April 2024: Planning day to see if we should go out to the Bay of Islands and just stay for a few nights. We saw that the wind was great today and practically non existent for the rest of the week, so we untied our ropes and let loose into the beautiful bay. The winds were just enough to let us cruise at 5 to 6 knots, but Mai Tai has a mind of her own and turned into the wind on several occasions making me panic and David wonder why she was not steering where we wanted her to go.

So we sailed around in circles for a while and then went back to the mooring, then into the town of Russell for pizza.

23rd April 2024: Today we are going out into the wild blue Bay of Islands for a few days. We first motored to the fuelling dock and re fuelled 7X20 litre diesel containers. This was tricksy as they took up a lot of room in the dinghy and then we had to get on too. We made it back safe and unleashed Mai Tai and motored out towards Army Bay.

No wind as forecast so we had a relaxing time motoring. While I was on the dolphin seat looking for any signs of wildlife, David saw a 3 meter bottle nose dolphin just next to the helm. He called out and I just saw him as he went for a dive. He was huge.

Once anchored, we went ashore and had a walk up to the look out and a great view of the bay and Mai Tai. It was a tad worm at the beach so when we got back I went for my first swim. It was chilly but I just love the water. What a great day.

24th April 2024: Our anchor held all night so I was grateful for that. We went ashore for some more exploring and discovered another part of the bay. Walked to the top and saw some squatters in tents on the side of the hill. But the bird life is something else.

On our way back disaster struck. David was letting the outboard motor down off the lift and it fell back and caught his finger. I saw by the look on his face as he said, "I need help", it was serious. I expected the whole finger to be inside the clamp. Shit, so I got out and helped him lift the engine off his hand. I saw it was still attached so that was a good thing. He said, I'm alright just caught my finger. So we got it the dinghy and started back for the boat. So this little catch on his finger started to leak blood everywhere all over the boat. I handed him a cloth shopping bag to wrap around it and quell the bleeding. It helped till we got back to Mai Tai and I had a proper look. David caught his right index finger in the clamp and it tore through the fleshy part, missing the tendon and bone by millimetres.

This needed stitching. I applied first aid, cleaning, stopped the bleeding and wrapped his hand up until a doctor could see it.

Now we had the job of getting back to Russell from Army Bay. I called a cab and booked him in for,,,,of all days, Anzac Day. Then planned to get us back to Russell. Pulled up the anchor, and motored back fine. Picked up our mooring and relaxed.

Get a boat they said, It will be fun they said.

25th April 2024:

Anzac day for us this year was a little different. We drove the dinghy to the wharf, caught the Russell ferry to Paihia and met Geoff, our taxi driver. He was wearing a Trump hat saying make America great again and he was a pommy. He drove us to Kawa Kawa Hospital where, I was happy to see no one else around. The doctors made quick work of applying 7 stitches and checking the tendon. They were fantastic and so helpful. I have been in a few emergency rooms with the kids and David and the staff here were great. I even scored a few extra bandages and first aid equipment to replenish what I used for David's hand. All done and back to Paihia for brunch. We were both exhausted so went back to Russell and back to Mai Tai. We did go to the pub later to have dinner and watch a dismal game by the dragons. But that was it.

Lest we forget.

So after a busy few days I have found that living on a boat is no different to living in a house. Shit happens and you deal with it. Make the most of your time while you can and count your lucky stars and fingers if all of your days go to plan.

[voidboymads]

For the prompt post: “Are you sure about this?”

I don't know if you wanted a requested pairing, but you write three of my favs so.. dealer's choice.

The words, ‘Are you sure about this?’ still ring heavily in Stiles’ ears. They’re shortly followed by an eye roll from a very gruff-looking Alpha and, ‘Yes, Stiles, I’m sure. Now get out there, you got this.’

He, in fact, did not have it.

It being the rough and tumble he had to endure whilst training with the wolves. Scott may have pulled his punches and linebacker tackles, but he was still a solid mass of supernatural vigor and after two, count them, two pile drives to the gut, Derek finally heeded the standard rule of tap-outs and let Stiles sit out the next few rounds.

He was busy cleaning up a bloody nose in the bathroom when Derek came up behind him a few minutes later. He could hear the rest of the pups still training outside through the small open window above the shower stall. It was a nice day outside, the sun high in the sky, a chill breeze whirling through the trees.

Stiles would have rather spent it inside, but he’d been dragged out of the house with the promise of coffee and breakfast foods. He had no idea he’d be duped into training with the pack on Derek’s old family land afterward.

He’d rebuilt the house one summer, after selling the loft and purchasing the land back. Stiles had helped when he could, but most of the time he’d defer to the pack who had the super strength and fortitude to build such a big estate.

This bathroom was on the first floor and mainly used for guests, but it was one of five sprinkled around the large house, usually between rooms save for the master bath in Derek’s room.

Stiles had never been inside that one.

“Did you know that tilting your head back during a nosebleed doesn’t really stop the bleeding?” Stiles asked amidst shoving tissues up his nostrils. Most of the flow had stopped by now but the sink looked like a massacre had occurred in it.

Derek leaned against the door frame, tucking one arm under the other. He’d decided to wear a gray muscle shirt today and Stiles had to stop himself from staring too long on many occasions. He couldn’t help but look now as he stared at Derek through the mirror, though.

“Nope,” Derek shrugged.

“Right,” Stiles nodded, rolling his eyes and regretting it a second later when it made his nose hurt. “I forgot, you magically heal within seconds. Do you even get nosebleeds?”

“Occasionally,” Derek gruffed.

Stiles had to resist the urge to roll his eyes again. “Cool, so-” He turned around, leaning back against the edge of the sink. “What’s up? Shouldn’t you be watching them?”

Derek glanced toward the open window and back again to Stiles. “Just checking up on you.”

“Well, I’m just dandy, big guy. Swell, even.” He shifted his weight, leaning back on the sink with his hands.

“Stiles-”

“Peachy keen.”

Derek huffed a sigh through his nose, clearly frustrated. But Stiles was frustrated too and he couldn’t understand why he had to do things like this when he clearly wouldn’t ever be able to match their level.

“Would you just-”

“I don’t see the poin-”

They spoke at the same time and Stiles would have continued on with the rant he’d been preparing the moment he set foot inside the house had Derek not stepped into the bathroom and derailed any present thought from his mind. “Shut up for a moment and let me talk,” Derek grumbled, a low growl forming in his throat.

Stiles wasn’t even sure how to respond to that, so he stood, quiet, waiting, and ready to listen to whatever drabble Derek might have to say about ‘pack dynamics’ and ‘how everyone should pull their weight’.

“You could get seriously hurt,” Derek said into the silence between them. “I’m trying to protect you.”

Stiles hadn’t been expecting that. “I’m sorry, what?” He’d set himself up to listen to the rantings and ravings of a frustrated Alpha and his wayward human, not the quiet concern he could just barely hear in Derek’s voice.

Derek sighed again and took another cautious step toward Stiles. He couldn’t back up anymore or he’d risk falling into the sink and he was pretty sure the back of his pants was already ruined by any of the blood spatter. “You need to be able to protect yourself. I - We won’t always be there to watch out for you.”

He knew what Derek was trying to get across but arguing was second nature to Stiles. The urge to question and pester was just as a part of him as the skin on his bones. “I don’t need you guys to watch out for me.”

Something flashed across Derek’s face and for a moment, Stiles thought he saw something akin to disappointment flare in his eyes. Stiles swallowed past a lump forming in his throat because he never wanted to disappoint Derek. It was just difficult to do what he wanted.

“You’re right.” And just like that, Derek was shutting down. Stiles could see it, feel it, and knew he didn’t need heightened senses to realize that the disappointment Derek was feeling wasn’t for him. It was for Derek. He’d spoken up and said something on his mind. Showed a sliver of vulnerability and Stiles had cut it off at the quick.

He hadn’t meant to, he just wished everyone would just stop worrying about him. He didn’t deserve it.

Derek turned to leave and Stiles did something stupid. He reached out, pushing himself off the edge of the sink, and grabbed at Derek’s arm to get him to stop. It was easy enough. Now all he had to do was speak.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles sighed. “I’m just - upset. I mean, you can’t mess with the money-maker,” He smirked, pointing at his face and trying to lighten the mood. Derek turned around but he didn’t exactly look all that amused. Stiles’ smirk fell and suddenly he realized just how close they were now, how warm Derek’s arm was underneath the palm of his hand. He released his hold as if burned to touch the wolf and sighed again. “Sorry, I-”

Derek wasn’t going far though, nor did he look offended by Stiles’ abrupt retreat. He towered over Stiles, took a brave step toward him, and looked down at him a moment before he reached out to grip his tiny shoulders in massive, warm hands.

That lump in Stiles’ throat was growing, along with the rising levels of embarrassment mixed with anxiety that was normally at a high but now felt like they were skyrocketing up and out into the room.

“We - I can’t always be there to fight with you. I need to know that you’ll be okay when I’m not.”

Suddenly training wasn’t that difficult of a request anymore. He could do it. He’d endured worse over the past few years, right? Sure, he’d end up with some bruises, maybe a broken bone here and there, but looking up at Derek right now made all those impending dooms feel like they were tiny and insignificant.

Stiles sighed. His shoulders, along with Derek’s hands, slumped a little. “Just give me a minute and I’ll be back out there.”

“Are you sure about this?” Derek asked, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. It was the kind of smirk Stiles wanted to eat up, but that was a hill to climb for another day.

Huffing a chuckle, Stiles offered up a smile instead, slapping a hand down on one of Derek’s shoulders.

“Yeah, we got this.”

Thanks for the prompt! It’s been a bit since I’ve done much Sterek so I went with them for a light, fluff piece :3

For anyone else whose looking for some prompts for me to write, visit —> here!

[wearywinchester]

Something Old and Something New — Part Two

Mechanic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: When life takes a turn and you take an unexpected break from college in Stanford with your best friend Sam, you return home to your job at your family’s co-owned garage. You return home to work alongside the guy you thought you hated—Dean Winchester.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warnings: angst, injury, blood, mild swearing, mentions of alcohol, fluff

Three weeks.

It’d been three weeks since you’d arrived back home in Kansas for an amount of time you don’t know if you’ve decided on yet. Three weeks of wondering the right way to tell Sam just how you felt about law school in actuality. Because since you’ve been back, you found it harder and harder to want to leave like you had planned to eventually.

Putting things off rapidly became your specialty when it came to this you’ve noticed, the very thoughts in your mind having revolved around this very subject yet you still can’t find it in yourself to pick up your textbook and study like you said you would. You’ve got a year left, you keep reminding yourself of that. A year before you finish and get your degree, a year before you can pack that up and put that chapter of your life behind you if you so pleased to do so.

But when you thought more about it, the worse it sounded as you mulled it over. Another year of doing something that didn’t make you as happy as it should. Studying law wasn’t something you believed to be thrilling even to the most eager student out there, even to Sam. You’ve caught him on more than one occasion throwing his textbook across his room. It was a complicated profession to study, one with a million endless words to read through and fully grasp should you want to be a success.

You wanted to be, but maybe you wanted to be a success in something else.

Your mind had been swimming with thought after thought on the matter, but apart from that things weren’t so bad. It hasn’t taken you long to settle back into your apartment, the place you’ve been missing ever since you left to go back to college a few months ago. It was a contrast to your place with Sam, housing quite a few more of your personal belongings. It was a place that’s all your own, and not that you didn’t love Sam’s company, but it was nice to come home to have time for yourself.

Even if you didn’t live an extraordinarily eventful life, you were content with your own company.

Things had fallen back into place at the garage over those last few weeks, some days far busier than others. Things were a bit different with Dean since that first day back. Not that he hasn’t been up to his usual tricks, not that the two of you hadn’t still bickered over trivial things like you’d done with each other for the better part of twenty-four years. That was still very much a part of your daily schedule and you don’t know if that’ll ever change.

But there was something different, something you couldn’t quite figure out.

The moment you saw the lack of cars in the parking lot when you’d pulled in you knew you were in for a day, could tell by the way the green eyed Winchester had leaned against the counter with his arms folded over his chest when you walked in the door with a squinting gaze.

“You’re late,” he says, head tilted and brow raised.

“No, you’re just always early,” you say.

He chuckles then, looking away from a moment before turning back to you, an expression on his face you knew all too well.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You ask, tone cautious as you cross your own arms over your chest, keys jingling in the otherwise quiet garage.

The corner of his mouth quirks up at your words, something that only deepens the crease between your brows when you see it. You knew it meant nothing good, it had to, he doesn’t smile like that unless it’s something you don’t want to hear.

“Benny and Bobby went out to check out a new sign for the shop, ‘s just you and me today,” he says, his arms falling to his sides to slip his hands in his pockets.

Your eyes roll immediately, more so at the contentment filling his expression. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Oh, I’m serious,” he says, pushing himself off the counter. “You were the one complainin’ about the sign anyway.”

You purse your lips at his words, ones that were very true but it didn’t help your cause for him to be right this time. It was doing the exact opposite and the grin sitting smug on his lips was more than telling that he knew exactly that.

“And,” he started, your sigh immediate as you tip your head back. “It’s a slow day today, so you get to help me work on Baby.”

“I don’t think I ever offered to help,” you said, putting your keys on the hook and your bag under your desk.

“Lucky for you, you didn’t have to,” he says, nothing but teasing in his tone as he reaches over the counter and swipes the candy from your jar.

“It’s 9 o’clock in the morning and you’re already steaming my stuff,” you say, huffing as you sway his hand away before he can get any more.

“Be in the shop in five, sweetheart!” He calls over his shoulder, finger pointed in the air in the direction of the clock before he disappeared around the corner.

It was hot, hotter than you’d like as you worked that day. The garage doors were open and the fan was on high, but the summer heat was proving to be just a little more persistent than your efforts. The radio had been turned up just a little louder than it would have been if Bobby had been there that day, a little louder than it would be had it been busier. All of the good classics had been playing in a steady list of hits all morning, Dean’s humming accompanying it along with a string of lyrics every so often.

Your hand stayed pressed to the wheel as you wiped your forehead with the back of your hand, returning your focus to tightening the very last lug-nut on the wheel.

“I gotta say, I’m impressed,” Dean says, muffled before he leans out from under the hood to look at you for a moment.

You miss the way he looks at you, at the way it’s far too easy for him to become distracted with the way your tongue pokes out in concentration or the smudge of grease on your cheek. You miss the beginnings of a smile on his lips before he ducks back down to work under the hood of his car.

“I know more about cars than you think, Dean,” you say, standing to your feet and wiping your hands on your jeans. “‘Sides, rotating tires isn’t rocket science.”

The smile he had widened a fraction, his head shaking as he leaned over the front end. It was only a matter of seconds before you heard a series of metallic clatters, a string of curses leaving Dean’s lips that had him huffing in irritation. You walked over to him with a raised brow, watching as he fished around somewhere under the hood blindly, his nose scrunched and his lip curled up as he struggled to reach what he was looking for.

He pulled his arm back out, empty handed and his knuckles were scraped an angry red as grease smudged darkly around them.

“What is it?”

“I dropped my wrench and the freakin’ thing is stuck,” he huffs, running his hands over his face. “I’m gonna need you to reach in there and get it.”

Your brow remained raised, eyeing his hand before your gaze flickers back up to his.

“C’mon, Y/n. Your hands are smaller than mine.” You roll your eyes at his words, peering over into the spot he’d been rooting around in before he spoke up once more. “Be careful.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, shooing him away as you catch sight of the tool glimmering brightly amongst everything else.

A huff leaves your lips as you try and figure out how to maneuver around everything just so you could get to it, your other hand pressing to the edge of the car to steady your balance. You could see just a little better than him but not anything significant, and you find yourself patting around in hopes your fingertips land on what you’re hoping to grab. Your luck was rapidly becoming the same as Dean’s when you came up short, though you might just top his.

The moment you moved your hand down further was proving to be a mistake— you may have grabbed the tool you’d set out to look for but the feel of something you hadn’t seen ran sharp and unforgiving along the side of your hand. It sent a jolt of pain through you as you gasped, a soft yelp sounding as that same metallic clatter happened a second time.

Dean turned his head, the sight of your scrunched face having him cross the garage in a few bounding steps.

“Ouch!” You groan, pulling your hand out and groaning.

“What happened?” He asked, eyes bouncing from you to his car before returning to you.

“I scratched my hand on your car, Dean. What’s it look like?” You say, squeezing your hand in hopes that it’d make it hurt less, even if it was just a little bit better.

“Dammit!” Dean says the moment he sees your hand, the moment he sees the scarlet smudging around the scratch you refused to let him see to avoid this kind of reaction. “Y/n I told you to be careful!”

You could hear the frustration in his tone loud and clear, and if you hadn’t fed off of that very same frustration you’d be able to see that there was something different in the way that he looked at you. You didn’t know the way worry clouded his mind in that moment, or the flash of fear that ran through him when he’d first heard you gasp. But you didn’t, you did what you knew best when it came to Dean Winchester—you bickered.

“Okay, well that’s not helping me now!” You argue, your good hand wrapping around the other as you hold them to your chest. Your cheeks burned under his stare, narrowed and discontented. “And I was careful, by the way. Don’t worry, your pretty car is fine.”

“Y/n, you’re freakin’ bleeding, okay?” He says, voice still loud and still frustrated but the worry on his face was clear. “And don’t be ridiculous.”

“‘M fine,” you huff, turning away from him. You made it all but two steps before he spoke up, stopping you in your tracks.

“Y/n wait,” he said, voice softer than before. When you turn back, you can see the dimples at the corners of his mouth and you can see the flare in his nostrils—you can see the softer look in his eyes. You could see the bit of hesitation he held onto in that moment. “Let me patch you up.”

You shifted on your feet, a quiet huff leaving your lips. “Dean, I can do it myself.”

He shook his head, a laugh leaving his lips as he brushed past you to head into the garage. “C’mon.”

You rolled your eyes when he walked ahead of you, hopping over the counter by your front desk, patting your seat with a smile on his lips. You sit down as he squats to rifle through the cabinets, grabbing the peroxide and blindly putting the bottle on the counter. He snagged a fresh towel and a few gauze, a wrap and a few bandages that was a bit more than necessary.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen this thing stocked with first aid supplies before,” you say, a laugh in your words as you feign surprise.

“Yeah, well,” he starts, standing to his feet as he sets the other stuff down. “Benny just might be even more clumsy than you. I gotta be honest, I never thought that’d be possible.”

“Would it kill you to be nice just once, Winchester?” You ask, squinting up at him as you bite the inside of your cheek.

He pretends to ponder the question just to get on your nerves, just to see you frown the way you do because he knows it never lasts long. You know he’s got something to say, can see it by the way his smile returns. “I like to think I’m very nice. But for you, maybe it’ll kill me.”

You lips pursed and your jaw clenches, his head tilting as he flashes you his award winning mocking smile. You could feel that same frustration from just minutes ago bubbling in your stomach, the urge to grab the supplies from the counter and do it yourselves having grown almost too much. But the moment he looks at you, all teasing aside, his gaze just a little bit softer, a little bit more intense, that’s what has you changing your mind.

He sits down on the other chair, his thighs parted so he could scoot closer to you to make things all the more easier and much less cumbersome. “Let me see what you got goin’ on, butterfingers.”

You give him an exasperated look before you glance down at the hand you still held close to your chest, eyeing the crimson smeared on the fingers of your other hand. It throbbed and it burned, the grease on your hands surely doing you no favors. But, with all the hesitancy in the world you pulled your hand from your chest and extended it out towards him, cheeks burning at the sight of it because it looked much worse than you thought it did. Much more than you played it off as not more than five minutes prior.

His brows furrowed as he took your hand, turning it to get a better look.

“Baby really got you good, didn’t she?” He hummed, grabbing the towel he’d gotten before pushing himself up to his feet to go wet it at the sink.

Your gaze cast downward at the cut running jagged along the outer side of your hand, swiping your finger along it in an attempt to brush away some of the dirt still smudged on your skin.

“Don’t do that,” Dean says, sitting down in front of you once more.

You roll your eyes as you sigh, eyes bouncing up to catch the way he bit the inside of his cheek as he looked downwards and shook his head, green eyes flickering up just briefly in time to catch your gaze.

“Have you always been this bossy?” You ask, watching as he takes your hand in his, gentle as he turns it.

“Oh, shut up,” he says, but you don’t miss the way the corner of his mouth quirks up, a smile he tries to hide as he swipes his tongue over his lips.

He takes the dampened towel in his other hand, careful as he blots and presses it over the wound, the once clean fabric now stained a crimson as he swiped it over your hand. His eyes look up at the way you tense, brief and wordless and he saw the way your lip sat between your teeth, at the way you’ve got your brows knit together. But he looked away before you could notice, lightening his touch before he cleaned away the dirt and blood on your other hand.

He set the towel on his lap, snagging the bottle of peroxide before flipping the cap open with his thumb.

“This is gonna hurt, sweetheart,” he mumbles, looking up when he hears the softness of your laughter. “What?”

You shrug your shoulders, your hand still enveloped in his own. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you call me that in a way that wasn’t sarcastic.”

Your tone was full of faux shock, near theatrical as you pressed your free hand to your heart, one that made him roll his eyes immediately.

“Don’t get used to it,” he says, but you can hear the lighthearted tone he held. You nudged his boot with your shoe, heaving a sigh.

He moved his hand to hold yours a little more comfortably, the cold metal of his ring brushing across your skin. It brought you back to the current moment, but not quite as much as the clear liquid pouring over your skin, stinging and burning as it bubbled white over your irritated wound. A gasp sounded then, your brows furrowing once more.

“A little heads up would’ve been nice!” You say, nearly pulling your hand from his grasp.

“I did,” he says, offering a teasing smile.

You slump back in your seat with a huff as he releases your hand for a moment, for the first time in what feels like ages, ripping open a bandage before returning his attention back to you and the task at hand. He pressed it over the length of the cut on your hand, the one that still burned from the peroxide just a mere minute before.

It was then that your gaze fell on him, at the crease between his brows as he tried his best to keep from causing any more pain unbeknownst to you. At the sweat beaded across his freckled cheeks and nose from the warm summer heat, a single drop of it having trailed down to the very tip of it. As if you’d shared the same thoughts, he’d paused his actions and grabbed the collar of his shirt, tugging it upwards to swipe across his face.

It was a matter of moments before he’d begun wrapping gauze around your hand, tearing it free from its roll with his teeth before tucking the loose end into itself.

“You’re good as new,” he says, looking up to meet your gaze.

You felt your cheeks burn at the fact that it became apparent to him that you’d already been looking, something you knew you should stop doing but for the life of you, you couldn’t.

Your eyes bounced over every inch of his face to avoid his gaze— at the slight raise of his brow, at the sweat accumulating on his cheeks once more, at the freckles smattering across his nose and more importantly, more distractingly, the freckle sitting pretty on his lips. You knew that the longer you averted his eyes the more foolish you looked, and right now you were batting a thousand at doing just that.

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and words, whatever they may have, been sat on the very tip of your tongue and it became increasingly more obvious that your hand was still in his. The closeness of your proximity wasn’t far behind that either.

It was then that your phone rang, pulling your attention as your hand fell from his grasp. You sat for a moment longer, flustered, before you pushed your chair from him to reach it, the smile on your face evident.

He watched that smile grow as you pressed the phone to your ear, the rest of your attention rapidly becoming stolen for the time being.

“Sam!” You say when you answer.

At first, you miss the way Dean swallowed thickly, still sitting in the same spot. But it’s the muffled squeak of the chair’s wheels rolling across the concrete floor that had you glancing over at him, seeing the familiar furrow of his brows that was more than just nothing, at the tension heavy in his jaw as he looked away from you. You watched him while you listened to Sam, at the way he swept off the trash and crinkled it in his fist, tossing it in the garbage before disappearing around the corner.

His change in mood wasn’t lost on you, but it was something you quickly pushed from your mind with mere confusion when Sam repeated your name what had to be two or three times.

—

It was much cooler that evening as the clouds started to accumulate, the sun dipping low enough to stave off the heat that hung heavy in the air. The sunshine that did peek through the windows, broken into stripes by your blinds had painted everything it landed on a deep orange, dimming the later it’d gotten.

You sighed as you rinsed off your dishes from dinner, loading everything in the dishwasher for the night. When the doorbell rings your brows furrow, gaze shifting to the clock on the microwave. 8:14 pm.

You dry your hands on a tea towel, trying your best to avoid your bandages as you smoothed down your clothes, heading to the front door in curiosity to who could have been at your door at this time of day.

When you unlock the door and open it a crack, the crease between your brows deepens, the door opening wider once you see who’s standing on the other side of it.

“Dean?”

He stood there, reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. He’s got a change of clothes on now, a pair of jeans on that have a rip in one of the knees and a t-shirt that’s free of black grease stains and sweat. And despite the summer weather he’s got a flannel on over top the sleeves rolled up to his elbows in true Dean Winchester fashion. But perhaps the most noticeable thing was the half-smile he wore as he looked at you.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, leaning against the doorframe as you cross your arms over your chest.

“You uh—you left this at work today,” he says, lifting his hand as your sweater dangled from the tip of his finger.

You laughed softly at the sight of it, eyes rolling at the sight of the sweater you never failed to show up with should you get cold at work or anywhere you are. Odds are, you didn’t need it most times but sometimes you do.

You tilt your head and raise your brow, knowing full well that he himself knew he could have just left it there overnight.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wanted an excuse to come and see me.” He rolls his eyes then, tossing the sweater at you as his lips purse. “Spit it out, Winchester.”

“Just wanted to see how your hand’s holdin’ up, that’s all,” he says, shrugging his shoulders as he glances down at the bandage still wrapped around your hand. It’s got a few dirt smudges on it from his hands earlier that day, but that was the least of your concerns.

“‘M fine, Dean.”

He nods, hands stuffed in his pockets before his brows furrow.

“You still haven’t unpacked?” He asks, and you follow his gaze to the suitcase and duffel bags still sitting where they’d been in the corner by the doorway. The same spot you’d left them the day you came back home.

You turn back to him, breathing out a sigh. “It’s a long story.”

“I got time,” he says, the corner of his mouth turning upwards into a half smile.

“Is this your way of inviting yourself inside, Dean?”

“Is it working?”

You bite the inside of your cheek as you squint up at him, a few moments passing before you let out a huff and step to the side as his grin widens.

“Nice place. Who would’ve thought you’ve got decent taste,” he says, closing the door behind him.

“That’s not exactly a compliment, you know.”

“Isn’t it?” He says, eyeing the records you’ve got stacked by the tv.

You shake your head as you make your way to your kitchen, opening the fridge to grab two beers off the shelf. When you spin on your heel you find him leaning against the little kitchen table you’ve got, his gaze bouncing around the room as if to take everything in as his fingers tap against the hardwood.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in here before,” he says, taking it from your outstretched hand.

“I’ve tried to keep it that way,” you jest, catching the way he laughs at first, his expression falling neutral once he realizes your words before he follows you out to your back porch.

It’s quiet when you take a seat, the colors of the sunset becoming more muted the lower the sun dips into the horizon. It’s become routine for you to come out here in the evenings, taking a moment for yourself to unwind at the end of the day. Your apartment back with Sam doesn’t have a backyard, not even a balcony though you suppose it wasn’t quite so bad. But it wasn’t this.

He took a seat by you, cracking open his beer and taking a long swig or two as he looked out at the trees.

“I wasn’t worried about you ruining my car earlier, you know,” he says after a few beats of silence.

You laugh softly to yourself, nodding at his words. “Either you’ve gotten good at lying, or you really mean that.”

“What do you think?” He asks, amusement in his tone.

“With you, I can never tell.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” he says, nudging your foot with his boot as he shakes his head and looks forward.

You knew he meant it, by the way he’d looked at you when he said it you knew he did. Dean Winchester might not outright say how he’s feeling unless it’s in the form of his teasing at you in particular, but his looks give it away every single time.

“So why did you come back,” he asks, tipping his head back and taking a sip from his beer. You chuckle at the question, soft and half of humor, half not. “Oh, c’mon. It can’t be that bad.”

You tilt your head as you look at him, lips pursed for a moment as you shake your head. You were hesitant as you mulled it over in your head, but you found there was no use in playing it off. There was no way around it.

“It doesn’t exactly feel good being a twenty-four year old running away from college to come back home because they decide they don’t like the degree they’re studying a year before graduation. ‘Sides, I also ran back to a job where I’m stuck working with a green eyed dork,” you say, eyes glimmering with mischief as you hide your smile behind your beer bottle.

“Speak for yourself, I’m a joy to be around!” He scoffs into his own bottle, his smile in his voice. You sigh, resting your head against the back of your chair as your eyes fall closed for a moment. “It ain’t that bad. Can’t blame you for leaving if you didn’t like it.”

“Whatever you say, Winchester.”

It’s quiet save for his chuckle, the crickets singing and the lightning bugs flashing whenever they so pleased amongst the backyard.

“Have you told Sam?” He asks after a little while, watching as you pick at the label on the tinted bottle.

“No,” you say, softer as you exhale a sigh. “Not yet.”

“Wow,” he says, brows raised slightly in surprise as he nods. “I thought you told him everything.”

There’s a laugh in his words, quiet and it held something a little different than humor, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on but you didn’t question it too much as he looked at his feet.

“Yeah, well, not this,” you say, swiping your tongue over your lips as you thought about just how you were supposed to do it. You didn’t know. “Speaking of Sam, why’d you get all broody when he called earlier?”

“Broody?” He asks, brow raised slightly.

“Yeah. You had that pout goin’ on like you do when you sulk.”

He chuckles then, shaking his head as he fumbles and twists the bottle in his hands. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Y/n/n.”

You only nod, eyeing that look on his face.

“He’s coming up here to visit in a couple weeks,” you say, your smile evident the more you talk about it. The more you think about you the more your face lights up. The more you beam.

That’s what it was.

The thing that had him all broody. He sees the way your face lights up when you talk about him, when you talk to him. He sees that smile, the one that makes him weak in the knees so much that he’d never ever admit it because there isn’t ever a reason to. Because you smile just like that over his brother. He doesn’t even have to be there for you to do it. He gets it though, he does.

He was excited to see his baby brother, there was no doubt in that, but he couldn’t help the feeling that was simmering in the pit of his stomach.

His mouth opens and closes once, words sitting on the tip of his tongue. He clears his throat then, glancing at the watch on his wrist.

“I uh—I gotta head home. Wanna get an early start tomorrow,” he says, standing to his feet.

“Oh,” you say, watching as he flashes you a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding as he stands there and looks at you a moment more. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Night, Dean.”

You watch as he slips through the door and back into your apartment, setting his empty bottle in the sink before walking out of view. It wasn’t long before you heard the rumble of his car when he started it as you sat by yourself on your back porch, that familiar rumble heightening as he put it in drive before he drove off.

You bit the inside of your cheek then, resting your head against the back of your chair as you sighed. You sighed because as you sat there by yourself, you found yourself wishing maybe he’d have stayed a little bit longer.

—

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[harrysweasleys]

a day in the life // f.w

request: Hi Alexaaaa So someone brought up this idea on my blog and i wanna request it id thats alright with you. So like imagine Fred having an auror wife and stuff and him being v protective and not wanting her to go on this dangerous mission but she goes anyway but gets really badly injured and poor freddie is worried sick. I love comfort fics i cannot lie and i hope u like this request thank you

warnings: mentions of explosions, injury, blood, and food

word count: 2.4k

a/n: hey guys! i hope you all had a wonderful week and that everyone is safe! the new year is right around the corner, can you believe it? where did the time go?? anyways, this was such a fun request and i loved writing it so much, so i hope you all enjoy! xx

“For the last bloody time, Freddie, it’s going to be fine,” you groaned, your head tossing backwards as you repeated the words to your husband for what felt like the thousandth time.

He crossed his arms, “I know you can handle yourself, but please. Please, for me, be careful. Don’t let anyone get the jump on you.”

A small smile made its way onto your lips and you placed your hands on his shoulders, “I always return, don’t I?”

“Yes,” he grumbled. You knew he hated it when you went off on dangerous missions — how couldn’t he? You were his wife. It was practically an oath of his to protect you. A vow. There was no way he’d let you run into the jaws of death without giving you a rough time beforehand. He always had something to say about it.

And he often did just that. He’d go on and on about how you could get hurt, how something could go terribly wrong and he could be left by himself. How you needed to see things from his point of view. You’d then spend the morning comforting him and convincing him you’d be fine, but at the end of the day, he’d always give you a bone crushing hug, muttering “glad you’re home safe” as he did so.

“I’ll be home in time for dinner, yeah?” you asked, standing up on your tip toes and pressing a light kiss on his nose. He scrunched up his face as you did so. You could tell he was trying to act upset at your leaving, but he couldn’t stay mad at you. Especially when, in his thinking, it could be the last time he sees you.

“Fine,” his lips stuck out in a small pout, one of his hands reaching up to run through your hair, “Stay safe, love.”

You brought your hand to his, lifting it to your lips and pressing a kiss to your knuckles, “Love you. See you soon. I’ll be fine.”

He then tossed your hand to the side — gently, of course — and brought your lips to his. His hand was cupped under your chin, fingers causing a slight ticklish feeling as they delicately moved against your skin. But the feeling went practically unnoticed as you lost yourself in his kiss. His kiss that often rendered you breathless and weak in the knees.

You could feel his love and protectiveness in the gesture and it almost made you want to call in sick so you could stay curled up in bed with him, ignoring the world’s problems and acting as you two were the only people on the planet.

But, sadly, that couldn’t happen.

So you gingerly pulled away, already missing his warm lips against yours, and muttered a quiet “I’ll be fine,” once again before beginning to button your jacket.

It was going to be a long day.

Hours later and you were, in fact, not fine.

The mission had gone horribly wrong, leaving you with a heavily bandaged left arm, a throbbing head, and a group of St Mungo’s best Healers giving you countless antidotes and potions to prevent bleeding and further damage. You had only really been in for about an hour, but the swelling in the left side of your body had gone down heavily.

The pain was still rather horrendous, but you didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. Especially not with the current levels of exhaustion floating through your body. You felt as if any second now, you could completely pass out and stay asleep for the next seven years. And you wouldn’t even complain.

Pain really did take a toll on one’s body.

What was even more draining, though, was the fact that your Healer told you you’d have to stay the night. You trusted the staff at St Mungo’s with your life — it wasn’t exactly the first time you’ve been treated here, to be honest — but the room you were staying in was incredibly chilly and the food here was never as good as at home.

Plus, here, you didn’t have Fred’s body curled up next to you.

Fred.

He had gotten the message an hour ago that you were here and he said he’d close up shop early to come see you. They said he sounded rather when they sent someone to deliver the message, but you knew he’d barge in through those doors with wide eyes and panic written across every inch of his face. He was never one to really hide away from his worry, but you had seen him silent on a few occasions. Usually when he was in shock.

You felt awful. Both physically and emotionally. Fred had every right to be paranoid about you leaving the house; this wasn’t your first injury. And yet, you spent every morning persuading him to let you go. Fast forward to today, where you were currently bandaged in an uncomfortable bed at St Mungo’s. Not an ideal ending to your day, to be honest. And not an ideal piece of news for Fred to receive.

“Your husband is here, should we let him in?” one of the healers came to your side, checking under the bandage on your hand before nudging her head in the direction of the hallway.

A small groan left your throat, “Of course.”

She walked towards the door to the room and opened it, Fred’s frantic face finding its way to your bedside as quickly as possible. You could see the paleness of his skin, making his usually fiery hair stand out even more. His sweater was badly buttoned, and you were pretty sure the scarf he was wearing was on backwards.

If the situation was any different to the way it was right now, you’d probably have a good chuckle.

His hands immediately found yours, giving small, gentle squeezes as if he would break you if he put any more pressure, “Love, are you okay? What happened? Are you badly hurt?”

You let out a sigh with a small smile, “Freddie, I’m fine. It’s just some minor bumps and bruises. I got caught in the middle of an explosive curse, it’s fine.”

He pulled his hands away from yours and sat on the small metal chair next to the bed, pulling it as close to you as he could, his eyes scanning every inch of you as if he were doing his own evaluation, “It’s fine?! I was worried out of my bloody mind, woman. Can you imagine the panic when some bloke comes to tell me my wife’s at Mungo’s? Bloody thought you were dying.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” you joked, rolling your eyes playfully before reaching your hand out to grab his, toying with the wedding band on his left hand, “I just have to stay here for the night. I’ll be home first thing tomorrow.”

“You have to stay?” his bottom lip stuck out, the childish pout on his face adding to the guilt fluttering in your chest.

You sat up slightly, trying to limit the weight on your bad arm, “I’m sorry, love. It’s for precaution. I don’t want to leave and make things worse. But, I promise, as soon as I’m discharged, we are heading home and doing nothing all day, yeah?”

“Well, I’ll stay here with you tonight ,” he puffed out his chest slightly as if he was a superhero, causing a bubble of laughter to erupt from your chest. Maybe it was just the exhaustion from your day, bud Fred’s sense of humour really never failed to get to you. Even at the worst of times.

Your eyes began to droop, but you gave his hand a squeeze, letting him know that even though you were fading, you were still listening and conscious. The last thing you wanted, now that he was here, was to leave him alone in the cold room. Cold, both in temperature and in atmosphere.

“You look tired, love,” his voice was soft, gentle. Loving. All the things you wanted to hear right now. If you were honest, you were worried he was going to be furious. Not at you, per say, but at what happened. So the fact that he was being caring and sweet meant more to you than you could begin to express.

Your eyes fluttered shut as he rubbed soothing circles on the back of your hand, “Tired? Me? Never.”

His laugh was quiet but you could hear it loud and clear, “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you get up.”

You didn’t want to sleep, to be honest. You wanted to sit up and talk to him. To let him know you were sorry and just what went wrong today. You knew he’d listen, and would most likely panic a bit more when you told him the details — but he’d be comforting. And that was kind of what you needed right now.

But, alas, your body had other ideas, and before you knew it, you were sound asleep.

“I can handle it myself,” you groaned, both hands gripped tightly on the jar of jelly, twisting with all of your might and still, somehow, not getting the lid to pop off.

Fred stood in the doorway to the kitchen, his arms crossed and a small smirk on his lips, “Alright, I’ll just watch from here.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, turning back to the jar and focusing all of your strength into opening it. Which wasn’t saying much, to be fair. You hardly had your strength back, and your body was still as sore as ever. You should probably give the jar to Fred, but your inner stubbornness told you to do it yourself. You couldn’t improve if everyone did everything for you.

“You’re sure?” his voice was laced with amusement as he held back a laugh, watching as your cheeks turned red from the amount of force you put into opening this jelly jar. You were surprised it hadn’t broken, but then again, were you even applying that much force?

“I’m fine!” you grumbled, using your sleeve to prevent the skin on your hand from getting irritated, your palm already bright pink from excessive use.

But it seemed to be no use. Your toast will have gone cold by now, and your breakfast just wouldn’t taste the same.

“Fine, here,” you mumbled, sticking your arm out and pushing the small jar into Fred’s chest, your bottom lick stuck out in a pout that could rival your husbands, “I hate feeling useless.”

He popped the lid of the jar as if it were nothing before handing it back to you, “I know, love. But you’re not useless. Your body just needs time to recuperate, yeah? Can’t go pushing your limits or you’ll just end up back in St Mungo’s, and I reckon you don’t want that.”

“I don’t want that,” you replied, beginning to spread the contents of the jar onto your now-cold toast, “I’m just bored. I miss work. I stay home alone all the time.”

His arms slithered around your waist, giving you a light squeeze as he rested his head atop yours, “Georgie’s taking over the shop today so I can stay here with you. We can do whatever you want.” His warmth spread through your body.

You had to admit, that did lift your spirits a little bit. The whole day at home with your husband? That sounded like quite the treat.

“Really?” you turned to face him, his arms still wrapped around your waist, but he took a step back so you could actually look up at him, “The whole day?”

“Course,” he grinned, pressing his lips to your forehead, “Gotta take care of my girl.”

The day hadn’t been overly eventful; a few cuddles on the couch, a few cuddles in the bed, listening to music, sitting next to Fred and watching telly as he organized paperwork for the shop. Just a few small things. But being with him for the whole day, it really did make you feel a million times better than you had all week.

Maybe that was his plan. To use his very presence as a way to cheer you up. Whether he did it knowingly or not, it did the trick. And now, the aches and pains in your body seemed to dissolve as he ran his hands up and down your arms, the two of you curled up in bed and ready for another night’s sleep.

“Thanks for spending the day with me,” your shot him a smile, but highly doubted that he’d see it in the dark, “I already feel loads better.”

“Of course you do,” his voice sounded cocky even though you couldn’t quite make out his face, “I make anyone feel better. I’m a real treat.”

You scoffed, “Yeah, I adore your humbleness. That’s why I married you.”

One of his hands slid around your waist and pulled you closer to him, body flushed against his. He was still gentle as if not to hurt you, “Not the only reason you married me, love.”

“Right, I also married you for George. I don’t know what I’d do without that chap in my life,” you teased, one of your hands finding it’s way into Fred’s hair, twirling at the strands that were starting to get long. Not as long as when you were in school together, but long enough that it covered his ears and often made you tuck a few strands behind his ear.

“You wound me,” he tried to pull away, but you held onto him enough that he couldn’t. Your strength was starting to come back, which was a massive improvement.

“I’m actually the wounded one,” you rebutted, your face finding it’s usual spot in the crook of his neck, his warmth encasing you like one of his hugs.

His arms wrapped around you, “You can’t be wounded anymore! I gave you so much love. That should have healed you.”

You giggled, placing a light kiss as the nape between his neck and shoulder, “Silly me. Your love has healed me, that’s very true.”

Fred might have had a certain reputation while the two of you were in school. But now, with your marriage only getting better by the day, you couldn’t help but see him as just one thing. As Fred. Your husband, your lover, and the man who would throw himself into a fire if it meant saving your life.

You lucked out more than you can even begin to express, and you would continue to be so for the remainder of your days.

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[rebrandedbard]

A little drabble exchange for @theamazingbard that accidentally became more of a ficlet. Threw in a little hispanic nursery rhyme since I don’t know if we have them in english for making pain go away. I tried googling but it was unhelpful. 

TW: Descriptions of blood, drinking it, gross stuff like that. Canon-typical wounds. References to drinking and inebriation.

WC: 2617

Lips Black as the Rose

Featuring highervampire!Jaskier as he tries to figure himself out after being turned. A bit of spice in there. Am I picking and choosing parts of the lore as I see fit? Yes. Is it very sexy of me to do so? One hundred percent. Will I beta this before posting? Oh absolutely not, you know the drill. ‘No beta, we die like men and get our shit wrecked in the comments’ is my go-to Ao3 tag for a reason.

-

Under no circumstances would Jaskier ever cause harm to another living thing, but the world did not reciprocate that exact philosophy. He’d been chased and held at the business end of many a sword, dagger, lance, and—on several unfortunately memorable occasions—a startling variety of available flatware. Things were rougher after meeting Geralt and having his usual human pursuers overshadowed by the threat of monsters.

Where once a spoon in the hands of a rabid duke would seem a most threatening opponent, Jaskier now found himself on the run from a more literal array of rabid beasts, and he could quote the running speeds the prove that having an extra pair of legs did indeed give certain monsters a leg up, so to speak, on the competition. But then, having no legs at all could prove a better advantage, and such creatures as those often had the additional advantage of long, venomous teeth.

Suffice to say, it was a difficult thing to be a lover in a world of fighters. Particularly when one falls into the company of another presumed lover, only to discover that their invitation to dinner was, in truth, an invitation to be dinner.

A vampire. Young, wine drunk, and foolish, Jaskier allowed himself to be led into the vampire’s den. It had been many years ago, he no longer remembered the details. He only remembered a sharp pain on his shoulder, followed by a woozy numbness, and he awoke in a strange bed, in an inn he did not check into, with his reflection missing from the mirror. He’d run away from home shortly after, fearing a bloodlust that was never to come.

It was a strange thing, being a vampire. After months of research, Jaskier came to no conclusions as to what it meant to be one exactly. He experimented with the content of old myths, touching silver very cautiously, taking delicate bites of foods prepared with garlic. He could cross a river just as well as any man. All in all, there was not much wrong with him, and he wondered what all the fuss was about. Well, there was a bit of fuss in that he could no longer be sure of his appearance, and he’d become more vain than ever, relying on the opinions of others to assure him that he looked presentable. This was a particular bother where Geralt was concerned, for he rarely paid compliments—if ever—and was not inclined to offer opinions concerning such trifling things as fashion or appearances.

Jaskier felt sure that Geralt would have noticed right away, but when their paths crossed again, Geralt seemed entirely ignorant of Jaskier’s dramatic change in biology. Running his tongue over his teeth, he could find no fangs. People complimented him on his eyes, still cooing over how bright and blue they were; and he’d been so afraid they’d turned a ghastly red as in the stories. From what he could tell, he appeared human. He had no violent urges to drain the blood from red-cheeked virgins, nor had he transformed into a bat and flown into the night. Sunlight only burned his skin as much as it had before, though it might have been harder on his eyes. He found himself squinting more in the afternoon, and it was unpleasant hot at times.

All in all, he was relatively normal.

“Such beauty ought to be preserved evermore.” That was what the vampire had told him that night. A great favor, immortality, but he wished he might have been offered a list of instructions to go with it. Figuring things out on his own was exasperating. And though he was not quite compelled to drink blood, there were times when he was … drawn. By curiosity.

When Geralt returned from a hunt, his flesh torn and body bleeding, Jaskier found it challenging to tend his wounds. Many times, he’d almost given into temptation. It did not help that he’d wanted to know the taste of Geralt’s skin long before the transformation. Now, there was an intoxicating layer to the fantasy, and the smell of Geralt’s blood made him hazy, like the bouquet of a strong wine. Or more realistically, the cloud of bitter vodka. If it had been a particularly nasty fight, Jaskier was sure he could taste Geralt’s blood by the smell alone, so powerful it made his nose wrinkle. He could get drunk on the fumes, and it was not always so pleasant.

He never dared try. There were too many things to consider. For a start, there was no telling what the blood of a witcher would do to him—and that was before factoring potions into the equation. Having never fed of blood, Jaskier did not know how his instincts would react, and he was sure he had some animal instinct to him now. He might drain Geralt dry in a matter of minutes, or the taste of blood might make him go insane and start tearing at his surroundings like a mad beast! Or, simplest and frightening of all, Geralt might kill him. So Jaskier kept his secret, never giving in to his curiosity.

But one day, he’d slipped.

“Fuck,” Geralt grunted. He clenched his hand and a sharp smell pervaded the air. In sharpening his sword, his hand had slipped. He’d cut the meat of his palm, just above his wrist.

Jaskier was up at once, Geralt’s bag in hand, ready to wrap the wound. He was very quick these days in getting things bundled up as soon as possible. Once the wounds were wrapped, the smell was not as pronounced. He fished out a strip of cloth and had it round Geralt’s hand in a matter of moments, working efficiently with good practice.

Geralt smiled ruefully. “A clean wound, at least. Should stitch itself up by morning.” He chuckled and inspected the wound, his eyes flicking over to Jaskier. “Haven’t done that since I was a child sharpening my first dagger,” he said.

“Did you cut yourself often in training?” Jaskier asked.

“No, not so often. We didn’t waste wrappings on such small scrapes either.”

There was a distracting shadow of red seeping through the cloth. Jaskier scoffed. “So you let it bleed into the open air, did you?”

“We were less inclined to coddle than humans.”

“Coddle?” Jaskier said, raising an offended hand to his chest. “My dear, a dressing is hardly evidence of coddling. If I wished to coddle you, I’d kiss it better and sing a little chant.”

Geralt presented his hand to Jaskier, smirking humorously. “Then do it. I’ve never heard of humans having such power as to kiss wounds better. Would save me a lot of trouble.”

“Erm … ” Jaskier flushed, considering the proffered wound. He nearly made a joke about lacking such power, being no longer human, but he bit it back. To cover his hesitation, he took Geralt’s hand and gently sang the rhyme his nurse used to calm him after a scraped elbow or knee. His tongue rolled musically as he rubbed the dressing carefully. “Sana sana colita de rana, si no sanas hoy, sanarás mañana.” Then he bent his head down to kiss the place.

“I don’t see what frogs’ tails have to do with my hand,” Geralt joked.

But Jaskier did not hear him. Instead, he felt oddly fixed in place, a metallic tang on the tip of his tongue. He opened his mouth slightly, closed it, and licked at his bottom lip to chase the memory of the taste. As he did, his tongue scraped the end of a long, pointed tooth. He stumbled back unsteadily, muttered his excuses, and fled to the safety of his bedroll across camp. There he sat, writing nonsense in his notebook as though struck by sudden inspiration.

He’d tasted Geralt’s blood. And now he wanted more.

The next few hunts were blessedly without injury. Jaskier found he was able to breathe again. It twisted his gut whenever Geralt went off to fulfill a contract, and his conscience was at odds with this new obsession. He wanted Geralt to come back whole and unharmed. But he wanted some cut, some smallest scrape upon which to lathe his tongue. When he thought of it, he felt a stirring in his gums, and touching the place, he found the fangs had grown in again. It took concentration to hide them again. He took to smiling with his mouth closed after the first incident, and he developed a habit of biting his lips.

When they came to a larger town, Jaskier went straight to the butcher. To quell his growing need, he bought fresh meat, sneaking a sip from the blood dish beneath the draining sheep’s carcass while the butcher’s back was turned. It had the strangest effect on him. Within minutes of leaving the butcher’s shop, he felt light-headed. He felt drunk, in short, and he wobbled his way to the inn, a giggle in his throat.

For dinner, he asked the potmaid to send the loin to the cook and surprised Geralt with it: a small treat to celebrate his recent hunting success. In truth, he wanted nothing to do with it, festering in the shame of his lie. The loin had merely been an excuse: something to keep the butcher busy while he drank his curiosity like some writhing leech dredged up from the water.

It made him drunk. He made note of it in his book and swore that would be the end of things. This odd affair made it easy to forget, his stomach turning in guilt and disgust at the thought of repeating the act. He was fine and healthy without blood, therefore there was no need to partake. He could go the rest of his life perfectly happy never drinking another drop. Until the day it fell from Geralt’s lip.

Jaskier stared at it from across the room. Geralt had just returned from a fight, his eyes and blood black with potion. His armour was scratched up, covered in foulness from monsters unknown, but he was alive and whole, hardly bruised. Jaskier tried to focus on the smell of the guts dripping from his armour. It was still as disgusting as ever, even with vampiric senses to influence his opinion. The wretched blood was still unappetizing. But above it, he smelled a strange scent: sweet, a touch of iron. And there, shining on Geralt’s lip, the wet glisten of blood.

He swallowed hard as Geralt wiped the cut on the back of his hand. The blood smudged along his chin, all the more enticing. His knuckles turned white on the sheet of his bed as he held himself in place. Ordinarily, he would be up on his feet to help coax Geralt out of his armour by now, but he did not trust himself to be so close.

Geralt shed his shoulder pads, looking at Jaskier from the corner of his eye. “It’s a bit slippery,” he said. He inclined his head, beckoning Jaskier over. That was their way. They did not ask things from one another. It was simple routine, and the brief lapse was something awkward to acknowledge.

What excuses could he provide? Jaskier stood on trembling legs and made his way, biting his own lip to hide the fangs he felt beginning to grow. His fingers were clumsy as he fumbled with the clasps, far too close to Geralt’s face. His breath caught, watching a bead of dark blood roll down his lip, over his chin. His lip was stained black.

Geralt had always had nice lips, Jaskier felt. He was always reminded torturously of this fact when he helped Geralt out of his armour. How could one undress such a man without indulging in the fantasy of what came after, even a little? But oh, it was a dangerous line of thought. Now he was bewitched by his senses, his focus single-mindedly drawn to that point on Geralt’s lip. To kiss him now, to lick the blood from his lip—it would be divine. He felt his heart beat faster at the prospect, his hands stalling to unbuckle Geralt’s breastplate as he stared. Just one taste. One kiss was all he wanted.

A hand pressed against his chest, stopping him short. Jaskier startled out of his unconscious reverie and looked at Geralt in horror. He hadn’t—! Had he? His attention flicked between Geralt’s eyes and his lip, and to his relief, the blood remained untouched.

“Not just now,” Geralt said, voice rumbling in his chest. “The potions might paralyze you—at least for a day. Anything lesser would die from a drink of it. It turns my blood to poison.”

Jaskier blinked, edging back. “I … don’t understand your meaning,” he feigned.

Geralt followed him, stepping forward. He raised a hand, caressing Jaskier’s cheek gently. “I know,” he said. “You’re not the best at keeping secrets. I noticed some time ago you stopped aging, and there’s no shadow at your feet, even on the brightest afternoon.”

He swiped his thumb over Jaskier’s bottom lip. Jaskier gasped, his lips parting, and Geralt pushed in. Then, his thumb was pushing Jaskier’s top lip away, revealing a glistening fang. He nodded, satisfied, and stepped back once more.

“You’re a vampire,” Geralt said. “And not a common one either. My medallion doesn’t react to you at all.” He chuckled and added, “As if you could be common by any measure.”

Jaskier turned away, picking up one of Geralt’s shoulder pads. He clutched it to his chest, whether for protection or for comfort he could not say. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was afraid to tell you … afraid what you might say. What you … might do.”

A warm hand smoothed down his arm comfortingly. There was a teasing quality to Geralt’s voice when he spoke. A hand wrapped around Jaskier’s waist, making him nearly jump in surprise.

“In regards to what: the knowledge that you’re a vampire, or the knowledge that you want to kiss me?” Geralt asked, words hot against Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier shivered, the adrenaline of his fear quickly turning to something sweeter. “Both,” he sighed. He closed his eyes, trying to focus, to understand Geralt’s intent.

“You cannot drink of me tonight,” Geralt whispered, “but I can satisfy that other hunger, if you only have the discipline to keep your teeth to yourself.”

“What are you saying, Geralt?” The way Geralt’s hand slipped lower and lower down his front, Jaskier thought he knew. Even so …

Geralt chuckled, nose pressing to the back of Jaskier’s neck. “I’m saying I’m tired of the way you look at me like a man starving and refuse to do something about it. It’s gotten worse. It was bad enough before, waiting for you to make your move, but since your turning, it’s insufferable. I feel like the centerpiece of a banquet, waiting to be devoured.”

“You said I couldn’t kiss you,” Jaskier said, breath coming up short as he felt himself pressed back against a firm chest, a second hand coming up to tug at the edge of his chemise. “I have no discipline whatsoever. And you know that.”

“Well then.”

Jaskier dropped the plate of armour as he was pushed backward. He fell, his knees caught by the edge of the bed. Arms caged him on either side, and above him. Geralt smiled, a drop of blood falling onto the sheets below. He pressed his thumb to Jaskier’s mouth once more, something ravenous in his eyes.

“Well then,” he repeated. “Looks like I’ll have to devour you instead.”

[ohplagg]

The Yato-gami I know

Also read at AO3

Summary: 

“My name is Sakura,” she decides to try a much simpler approach “what’s yours?”

The man with his right hand still holding half of his face and with a skeptical look writes on the dirt.

夜卜

Ya…to?

AU where Tenjin never fired Tamanone.

NOTE: Adachitoka never bothered to come up with Tamanone's Tenjin given name so I'm following their example by also avoiding the issue and using Sakura instead

I want to once again give a big 'thank you' to @noragamibigbang for organizing this.

And an even bigger 'thank you' to my lovely partner (@mochakat) who came up with the idea and who also created a beautiful artwork that goes along with this!

It was a day like every other day; nothing new, nothing exiting, nothing special. Just everything really quiet and peaceful and boring.

Sakura, a beautiful young lady with long dark hair dressed in a miko, was starting to despise every second of it. Well not every second of it. Sakura couldn’t really complain much about her days being too peaceful, it definitely was an improvement from those days where her master had his rage moments and fired anyone who even dared to just breathe the wrong way in his presents.

She was lucky that Tsuyu was there that day to talk to master Tenjin out of the idea of firing her, she will forever owe her live to Tsuyu. Who knows what would have happened if she had been fired that day who knows how long ago? ...Was it a 1000 years ago? It’s been so long that Sakura had lost the track of time.

But peaceful days doesn’t mean they should also be boring and lately life had become extremely mundane. Ever since she was forbidden from working in the prayer altar she’s been sweeping fallen leaves from stone stairs that lead up to the tori, far enough that she can’t eavesdrop on the human prayers any more. According to Tenjin-sama “it’s his job to listen to the prayers, not hers” but Sakura knows there’s more to the reason even if he doesn’t say it.

“-hope Tenjin-sama grants that old lady’s prayer.” Sakura’s attention is caught by the gossiping some shrine maidens are having about some human prayer. Oh, how she misses listening to human prayers; learning about the near shore problems and how humans found solutions to their problems, the emotions they felt for one another, the human nature can be beautiful sometimes.

Sakura stops her sweeping as she listens carefully to the gossiping whispers “Yeah. Ever since that Yaboku god murdered that old lady’s son and his wife she comes here daily asking Tenjin-sama to bless her granddaughter academically since scholarships are the only way that child will have a way to pay her studies.”

How unfortunate, Sakura thinks to herself as she resumes her chore of sweeping leaves. If only that Yaboku god would cease to exist, the world would become a much happier place.

-

After an excruciating long and boring day Sakura is taking the last basket of fallen leaves to the trees and bushes at the back of the shrine for disposal. As she dumps it all in the pile of leaves she notice what looks like a head of dark hair among all the orange, gold and yellow autumn leaves.

A bear. Her heart drops and she’s suddenly hit with her fight and flight response. She knows in theory she shouldn’t be scared by things like this but survival instincts wait for no one when a bear is right there.

Without even a second thought she throws the hardest punch she can manage to where she’s guessing the nose would be.

“Ahrg!” someone replies to Sakura’s punch. Maybe she should have given it a second thought.

Sakura frantically apologizes as she tries to check the nose of the poor victim she just attacked. As she does so she notice that the person in front of her was a young looking man dressed in a yukata.

“Here, let me see.” She insists as she pushes the poor individual’s forehead back and tries to move his hands out of the way, but the man rejects her aid between whimpers and grunts as he tilts his head forward and hold the right side of his face with one hand

An awkward silence falls among the two as the young man attends to his bleeding nose, spitting blood from what seems to be a busted lip and probably a lost tooth all the while Sakura just stands there.

“That was a really hard hit, uh? I’m so sorry. I never do things like this, I don’t know what came over me. I really thought you were a bear, which is ridiculous because why would you be a bear? Bears are too busy right now seeking their shelter for winter, they wouldn’t be under a pile of leaves in the back of a shrine, of course not! But why were you under a pile of leaves in the back of the shrine? Not that there’s anything wrong with that, it’s just that it’s unusual- surprising! I meant surprising. Unusual sounds like it’s something bad- which is not! Totally not.” Sakura rants on in her best effort to strike a friendly conversation with the stranger. She sighs and stops her words as she notice that the young man isn’t appreciative of her effort.

“My name is Sakura,” she decides to try a much simpler approach “what’s yours?”

The man with his right hand still holding half of his face and with a skeptical look writes on the dirt.

夜卜

Ya…to?

-

Ever since the ‘I can’t believe it’s not a bear!’ incident Sakura had encountered Yato in several other occasions. Once he was hiding at the top of a tree, other times she found him sleeping in the garden shed and each and every time she tried her luck to befriend him.

He had made it clear several times to leave him alone, that he didn’t want anything to do with her or anyone for that matter, but she was bored out of her mind most of the time and he kept coming back so might as well enjoy the company right?

As the weeks passed by, Sakura found out that Yato was a shy curious individual that just hid behind a mean attitude. The first time she noticed this was when she was talking about her first days as Tenjin-sama’s shinki. As she was talking about it she could tell that she had Yato’s full attention even though he acted as he didn���t care.

Because of this she started to talk about anything and everything in an effort to bait him into participating in the conversation. Some topics were a dead ends but there were a few that she could tell had Yato curious to know more.

-

“But why flowers? Can’t they just say things straight as it is?” This wasn’t the first time that Yato had asked something that to many could be considered obvious.

“Sometimes words and actions aren’t enough to express one’s emotions and feelings. Flowers have different meanings that can help us express what we wouldn’t be able to with just words or actions.” Sakura explained.

“For example,” Sakura continued with her explination, “the emotion of love. You can tell someone you love them but there’s a big difference between the love you feel for a friend, the love you feel for a family member and the love you feel for your lover. Flowers help communicate what type of love you want to say.”

By now Yato had warmed up enough to the point that he was constantly asking questions about anything that she was talking about in the moment.

He asked her about human prayers, about dreams and wishes, about human festivals and ceremonies, about sports and game. He asked about the different types of human relationships, about human entertainment. If humans were involved, you could bet Yato would make a question. He kind of reminded her of a little kid that was just discovering the world for the first time.

“

“Okay, but what about-“ the conversation in the garden shed was interrupted by the sound of a firetruck siren.

“That’s the 3rd one this week.” Sakura sighs. “My master says that some gods have been causing suffering to humans to amuse themselves since the amount of dedicated believers have dropped and with it the amount of things for them to do, that’s why there has been an increase in tragedies in the last couple of years.” She explained.

“That’s awful.” Yato pointed out.

“I know! How heartless can one be to call the killing of humans a game? Those gods are horrible monsters. The world would be better without them.” Sakura expressed her frustration.

“Sorry,” Sakura apologized after a sour and tense pause, “I just-”

“It’s ok, you don’t have to explain” Yato suddenly interrupts as his voice crack in the process. “I feel the same way.”

-

“Anything interesting happened today, Mizuchi?” a young looking man with almond colored hair dressed in a dark Yukata asked as he cooked some miso soup.

“Nothing much, Father.” A little girl with short dark hair dressed in a white kimono sat by the table, waiting for said miso soup. “Bishamonten-sama has lost 2 more shinki to god’s greatest secret, Takemikazuchi-sama is still trying to get a blessed hafuri, and Ebisu-sama might reincarnate soon again.”

“What about our Yaboku dear?” the man asked over his shoulder.

“He’s been going to Tenjin-sama’s shrine quiet a lot lately. I think I’ve seen him talking to a shrine maiden a few times. She goes by the name of Sakura.”

“Is he now?” Father halts everything that he’s doing for a brief second.

Father has been aware for the longest time that his son spends his time in different shrines whenever he has free time. Even though Yaboku thinks his father doesn’t know, he knows but simply decides to turn a blind eye to it as long as his Yaboku stays obedient to him.

But it is quiet surprising that Yaboku has spent most of his time in Tenjin’s shrine, even more so now that its winter time. He usually spends winter time at Binbougami’s shrine.

“Mizuchi dear, could you tell Yaboku to come visit me next time you see him? I have something I need him to take care of.”

-

Yato visits Sakura. Sakura is busy setting up some extra lanterns and some other decorations in the stone stairway. Sakura explains that New Year’s is coming and along with it a lot of humans visit the shrine as well.

“Where are you going to be during all of this?” Yato asked sternly, something felt out of place for the child-like curious Yato that Sakura knew.

“Probably near Tenjin-sama, why?” Sakura wondered

“No reason.” Yato’s response was sharp in the tongue. “I have some business I have to attend to in Kyoto so I won’t be seeing you until after New Year’s, okay?” He asked but it felt like it didn’t matter what Sakura answered in returned.

Both Sakura and Yato briefly said their farewells and just like that Yato left. Sakura made a mental note to ask Yato once he returns and seems less on edge to ask him what happened that made him act so out of character.

-

It finally was New Year’s Eve. Everyone’s visiting the shrine. Families with their children and elderly. Some couples; young love, old love, friend groups, you name it. Sakura was loving every second. She loved being close by humans, there’s something about their joy that just feels amazing.

Sakura had been sent to the entrance on her master’s orders. And just when people were starting to pray. But she can’t complain much, at least now she is surrounded by humans and enjoying the happy chattering they have amongst themselves instead of being stuck next to her master hearing the same jokes he makes every year.

As she walked there was a sudden screams interrupts any and all gleeful chat. Everyone starts walking towards where the scream came from. On the road, just before entering the shrine perimeters. A man had fainted and looked like he had a seizure and judging by the reaction of his wife, it looked like she had just seen a ghost.

People gathered around the married couple trying to wonder what just had taken place, all the while some other called the emergency line.

As all of this was unfolding Sakura knew she had to rush to her master and tell him the incident that had just taken place, but as she was turning back she caught a glimpse of a familiar black hair head and a dark yukata.

Yato?

That didn’t make sense, he said he wouldn’t be in the city by this time around. Her curiosity got the best of her and she started following the man that had an extreme resemblance to the Yato-gami she knew.

“Stop!” Sakura yells as she’s lead to the back side of the shrine, where she met Yato the first time. She notice that she’s out of ear’s range of anyone so she decides to finally test out her theory.

“Yato, wait!” the male figure pauses. Frozen in place but with his back still facing her. “It’s you, isn’t it?” Sakura didn’t need an answer. The hesitation in that man’s actions told her enough.

Yato slowly turned around, looking like a kid full of guilt. Sakura noticed he was holding a katana-like weapon but this one looked odd, like it was made of water.

“I don’t understand. Why are you here? You said you wouldn’t be here!” She questioned him to no avail. Yato remained quiet, eyes glued to the floor unable to face her. “Why… why are you acting this way? And why do you have a weapon? Did you have something to do with that man?”

Sakura was furious and frustrated and upset. It didn’t help that Yato still wasn’t looking at her but rather was very focused on the dead and muddy grass under his sandals.

Sakura noticed Yato say something under his breath and as soon as he does his katana-like weapon transforms into a beautiful young girl with short dark hair.

‘He has a shinki’ Sakura realizes.

“Hello! So you are the famous Sakura!” the little girl gleefully greets Sakura, “I’m Hiiro! I’m sure Yaboku has told you all about me.”

“Ya…boku?” Sakura whispers in disbelief towards Yato as he looks like a deer in headlights, still unable to look at her. To say Sakura was confused was an understatement. With just one sentence she had more questions than what she could actually think of. “Yato. Who is this?” unable to put her thoughts into words, Sakura decided to focus on the first thing that confused her.

Yato tries to find his voice, tries to answer Sakura but the knot in his throat is too big that any time he opens his mouth to say something, anything, nothing comes out.

“Come on Yaboku, you didn’t tell her who I was? Some brother you are.” The girl that answers instead. “I’m Hiiro. I’m Yaboku’s shinki and sister!”

“Why does she keep calling you Yaboku?” Sakura carefully questions Yato, as if she’s walking on eggshells that could turn into glass shards any second. Sakura noticed that Yato looked beyond scared.

“He didn’t tell you? His name is Yaboku.” Hiiro once again answers in Yato’s stead. She turns to look at Yato, “don’t tell me you didn’t tell her.” Yato looks like he wants to run away even though he is frozen in place.

“You’re the yaboku?” Sakura seeks confirmation from the man himself even though she doesn’t need to hear anything else. “All this time I thought that- that you- and I thought that we-“ a rush of fury clouds Sakura’s thoughts leaving her speechless.

“I- I can explain!” Yato stumbles with his words, desperately trying to gain his voice back.

“So you used me to choose your victims? Did I lead you to your victims?” Sakura questions in disbelief.

“No!” Yato frantically tries to get a word in “Let me explain, I-“

“And you even lied to me about who you were! You deceived me!” by this time Sakura was yelling at the top of her lunges

“Yes- I mean no! Sakura you got to listen to me-“

“Don’t. Keep my name out of your filthy mouth. I can’t believe I ever considered you a friend.” Sakura emotionlessly says as she wraps her arms around herself and leaves.

Yato reaches a hand out towards the leaving figure of Sakura trying to call out to her but gives up shortly after seeing as there is nothing he could say to make her stay.

-

“Yaboku. You’ve been like this for months now. Its time you snap out of it.” Hiiro pushes Yato’s shoulder as he’s laying on his side looking out to the garden.

Hiiro would be lying if she said she wasn’t surprised at Yaboku’s unusual behavior. They had gone out several times now on Father’s command but whenever they did Yaboku looked so miserable that she actually felt bad for him.

“How about we go to play? That always cheered you up!” Still no answer from his brother. “Sigh. What can I do to cheer you up? Would me calling you Yato like that Sakura girl did do any good?”

Hiiro noticed that as soon as she suggested the idea Yaboku’s face had a hit of emotion for the first time since that night.

“I’ll call you that if you want me to but you have to tell me, otherwise I won’t know. Hiiro tried once again to get Yaboku to say something.

It was close, she could feel it. Yaboku looked like he really wanted to say something but just like it had happened so many times now he got caught up in so much hesitation that he gave up in whatever idea he was about to share.

But this time she almost had it and she wouldn’t let it slip away. “Look, it’s obvious you miss this Sakura girl and I could tell that she genuinely cared about you so she probably misses you too so why don’t you go talk to her?”

Hiiro was right, all that time spent with Sakura was something both of them enjoyed and if he was missing her this much it was very possible that she was missing him back. But did he had any right to go back to her? After he lied to her so much? Yato didn’t deserved her forgiveness, didn’t deserve her time or her kindness.

But she deserves an explanation and an apology. Yato thought to himself.

And with that he got up and left.

-

It was a day near the end of spring. Sakura couldn’t really tell what day it was, every day had felt the same since that night. The only thing that made the day different from other days is that now she was sweeping the Sakura blossoms instead of shoveling snow.

At first Sakura was furious. She felt angry and betrayed. After a few weeks she felt just upset and used. After that she simply felt sad and lonely. With all the time Sakura had to think she understood that she was in no position to judge a god and she also understood that it was unfair of her to cut all communication with Yaboku-gami as if they had never known each other ever. She wished she could talk to him.

As Sakura is taking the last basket of fallen sakura blossoms to the trees and bushes at the back of the shrine for disposal she sees Yato standing by the same place she first met him. That time she confused him for a bear.

“What are you doing here?” Sakura kept her voice firm and emotionless even though she felt otherwise.

“I just came here to apologize for everything I’ve put you through” Yato starts as he hands Sakura some purple hyacinths.

Sakura takes them with a shocked and hesitant but pleased expression.

“I asked the flower shop lady and she said that purple hyacinths mean deep sorrow and regret. That if I wanted to make it clear how sorry I was these were the ones to give.” Yato explains and then continues, “I’m sorry for lying to you. For not being honest about everything. For being a coward. But most importantly for being Yaboku.”

It’s not every day that someone apologizes for their existence so Sakura waited for Yato to explain further before she said anything in return.

“I know I’m the worst of the worst. I kill innocents and I don’t show regret. I destroy and taint all the beautiful things in the world for my own selfish reasons. But I promise you that the me you knew, the Yato you knew, wasn’t an act.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me, Yaboku. But please forgive Yato, he is a little stupid and naïve and new to all this being a good god thing but I promise that he means well and he’s trying his best.”

Sakura takes a moment to consider his words. “So what Im understanding is that you want to be the Yato-gami I know?”

Yato only nods.

“Then I suppose I’ll accept Yato’s apology” Sakura pauses as Yato’s face lights up, “but only if he promise me that he’ll give it his all to become the Yato I know he can be.”

“With your guidance I think I can do that”

[anika-ann]

A Cup of Truth (S.R)

Type: One-shot, a bit of coffee shop AU

Pairing: Steve Rogers x fem!reader    Word Count: 3000

Summary: Your favourite pretty blond comes in every day to get a cup of good ol’ joe. You flirt on occasion; mostly you, because your suit of armour – which people boringly call an apron – and his smiles give you confidence.

When the band of dumb goons picks your damn workplace to attack, your confidence flies out of the window. Well. Good thing that the resident Avenger heroes save the day including the one in his all-American star-spangled glory.

Prompt: “You can’t mask that ass. I’d know it anywhere.” (Bold in the text)

Warnings: hostage situation, violence, non-consensual drug use/injected, hospitals, slightly crack-ish humour (?) and some fluff

A/N: For marvelcapsicle’s challenge. Thank you for letting me participate, darling, may you gain more and more sweet followers in the future ♥

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

Here’s a thing: Steve Rogers had a lot of fight in him. Before or after injected with the serum, no matter his shirt size, no matter if he could swing his fists effectively or not, he would punch bullies in their face.

When it came to people close to his heart, that rule amplified tenfold. No one touched the people he cared for. And while he would not necessarily call all of them friends, he would go rabid should any harm come their way.

To be fair, the list of ‘his people’ who were still alive wasn’t long; he could almost count them on the fingers of one hand. Tony. Natasha. Clint. Thor. Bruce. Probably Fury. Really, his circle was a bit monotonous, people who could protect themselves just fine at most times, but simultaneously with high-risk job of being the first defence line for the world’s greatest threats.

And then there was you.

You, with your inviting smile whenever he appeared at your counter at the café he had discovered during his endless walks.

You, handing him a drink different to his usual ‘boring’ cup of joe once a week, because that was the deal you had offered and Steve, caught in his curiosity about today’s world and your adorable challenging expression, agreed.

You, with your pretty eyes, irises twinkling at his attempts at flirting, no matter how awkward and out-of-time they sounded, graciously returning the favour… if he was reading the situation right.

You, always grinning wide when discovering a doodle he had left on his napkin, taking it with you back to the counter.

You, blissfully unaware of his double life, genuine in your demeanour, dealing with plain old Steve Rogers, and perfectly safe; at least as safe as one could be on Manhattan.

You in a headlock, as five rogue SHIELD agents decided to crash into the café you worked at of all the damn places, choosing it with deadly precision and nearly driving the poor Captain America into a cardiac arrest.

Not that you had any idea your life mattered to the proclaimed Star-Spangled Man more than anyone else’s. You were the exception to the rule; you were the precious outsider Steve caught feelings for, the one that was not supposed to learn about his other persona for at least a while longer and sure as hell was not supposed to get herself in a mess like this one.

Steve stood frozen as Natasha had two men at gunpoint, Clint fighting another, the last one having been already knocked down by Steve himself. The only injured people were the few customers, scarce at the hour, and the employees; some bruises and insignificant bleeding wounds between all of them.

The worst problem still remained; Perez had his arm around your neck, visibly squeezing your windpipe at least partly if the colour of your face – one stained in tears and Steve could kill at the moment, kill with no remorse – was anything to go by.

He gripped his shield tighter, staring the man down with his jaw clenched and his heart beating its way out of his chest, the syringe at your carotid scaring him more than the reduced airflow to your lungs.

“It’s over, Perez! Let her- let the woman go,” Steve howled, knees slightly bend in posture allowing him to spring forward at any second, to throw his weapon, to punch the living daylight of the bastard that not only betrayed SHIELD, but put his hands on you.

Big, big mistake. He really shouldn’t have done that.

“I like her exactly where she is, Cap,” Perez snarled, a wicked smile on his bloody lips, only his eyes giving away a fraction of his fear. “Move and she gets a ticket straight to hell.”

Perez was outnumbered and he knew it; even if he managed to escape, they would find him easily with Tony Stark’s system of surveillance. Yet, he tightened his grip and with you involuntarily acting like a human shield for him, he started backing away, gaze flickering between the three present Avengers.

Natasha’s right arm twitched as if she wanted to shoot him on spot – but she didn’t want to risk leaving the other two without the threat of immediate death for even a second.

And then several things happened at once; Clint knocked his opponent down with the construction of his bow; Perez who saw it lost his nerve and swiftly slammed the needle into your neck, piercing your skin easily, as easily as Steve’s panicked shout ripped from his throat.

The next second, an arrow was sticking from Perez’ shoulder as he jerked back with a cry of pain and Clint put another arrow through his hand, adding one to his thigh for a good measure. Two gunshots sounded in the background, Natasha’s aim as unmistakable as ever.

Perez fell to the ground with a scream, not even reaching for the gun in his holster before Steve was there to knock him out with a brutal hit straight to his face with his vibranium shield. The crack sounding at the impact was like music to Steve’s ears, the blood spurting from Perez’ nose a pleasant visual.

Yet, it didn’t feel half as satisfactory as Steve hoped as you had stumbled and toppled over your own feet. He barely managed to slow down your fall, gloved palm shooting up under the spot between your shoulder blades, his other hand holding your shoulder. He supported your enfeebled weight as you practically lied over the unconscious man.

Steve didn’t bother paying attention to his surroundings, knowing that the noise around him was Romanoff and Barton apprehending the remaining thugs. Instead, his gaze scanned you head to toe, focusing on your face and neck when he couldn’t find any other injury.

You were pale, eyes misted, unfocused, skin worryingly cold to his touch.

“Hey-- hey! Can you hear me?” Steve demanded urgently, lightly patting your cheek.

At that, your pupils zeroed on him, wide with disbelief, and to his immense shock, a lazy smile spread on your lips.

“Steve?” you breathed out his name and blood crystalized in his veins, his heart, already panicking, speeding up. How did you know his name? Perhaps the drug, the whatever liquid in the syringe was taking effect and you were turning delirious? Shit, they needed a doctor-- “You’re the pretty blond. Steve. My flirty Steve… my hero. Everyone’s hero.”

Steve’s horror escalated with each word. Good news: you were still breathing and apparently quite lucid, even if your speech was more of a mumble. Bad news: his secret identity just blew up.

Luckily, he considered the good news much more important; and lucid he would like to keep you, so he shot Natasha and Clint a meaningful glare, wordlessly asking them to call help. He wasn’t sure whether it registered because both of the spies were staring at him wide-eyed as the woman in his arms just outed him like the café’s regular… one that flirted with her, no less.

Steve cleared his throat, focusing on his mission – to keep you talking. There was no much point in denying it, was it?

“Eh... yeah, it’s me. How-how did you know? I wear a mask-“

“Muscly… real muscly… and that ass,” you muttered and Steve nearly choked on his spit, certain that he just turned red all over, including the area you pointed out.

Wait, did that mean that you had been checking him out?

So not important right now.

“Oh, uhm- how are you feeling? We have to-“

“You can’t mask that ass. I’d know it anywhere,” you continued babbling as if you hadn’t heard him and Steve gulped, feeling his teammates, who still hadn’t called a doctor, what the actual hell- watching you with interest. ”…could bounce a penny off it… no, that ain’t right, a quarter off of it, that’s it… Dream of it sometimes… biting-“

Clint coughed loudly to cover his laughter, finally springing into action after that uncomfortable remark that gave Steve quite a visual he wasn’t sure how he felt about just yet.

“Alright, as amusing as this is, we should get her some medical attention…”

Steve only took his eyes off of you for a moment, shooting Barton a look that screamed ‘You think?!’

“I want to touch it… please lemme touch it—just once,” you pleaded quietly, swaying even in your practically horizontal position, straining your neck to catch a glimpse of the object of your interest. “The best I’ve even seen-“

“I think it’s ethanol she got injected with…” Natasha announced, sniffing the syringe with disgust in her voice. “High concentration.”

And Steve felt like he just got hit by Thor’s hammer… in his head. Seriously?

“…alcohol?” he asked, dumbstruck and utterly relieved, the heavy weight in his stomach lifting a bit. “You think she’s merely… drunk?”

“Well, alcohol straight to the bloodstream is seriously nasty on its own, S-“

“Alcohol nasty, yesss. And this really hurts,” your voice interrupted Natasha and Steve’s heart clenched uncomfortably when the surprised grimace appeared on your face, your eyes indeed clouding in pain, looking up at him, doe-eyed, so vulnerable and trusting.

“Hey, no sad Steeb! Your eyes pretty too. Little pictures you draw… so suuuper cute. I like your hair. You came in the day, wind blew, so messy-- like bed hair, wanna try top that-- I betcha I can do better-“

“Sounds drunk enough to you?” Natasha hummed casually and Steve didn’t even have to look at her to know she was smirking, while he was both fretting over your state and blushing to the roots of his hair because of your blunt compliments and unfiltered fantasies.

You turned your head slowly to Nat as she spoke, a crooked grin curling up your lips. “Hey, you’re pretty too-“

Much to Steve’s annoyance, the Russian spy had the audacity to chuckle and wink at you.

“Why thank you-“

“But prefer blonds,” you babbled again, lowering your voice conspiratorially. “He’s real nice. His biceps are like… huge. Bigger than my head-- ow, my head… spi-spinning- I think-? Whoa— oh… “

Steve called out your name in panic as you went limp in his arms, your body pliant, folding like a house of cards.

“I like her,” Clint noted as he jogged to Steve’s side, kneeling to take your pulse on the unharmed carotid with a furrow to his brows. “The medics are on their way, she’ll hold on until then.”

Steve sighed in relief when Clint nodded in affirmation again, feeling your heart still beating.

Steve’s grip on your tightened, hand sliding behind your head to cradle it gently rather than letting it dangle in such unnatural angle. He manoeuvred it so your cheek rested against his chest, his newly free hand sneaking under your knees so he could lift you with ease as he stood up.

“Nice, Rogers. Keep going like this, squads with weights, and you’ll keep that exceptional ass of yours in shape,” Natasha teased him, but when he turned to glare at her, she gave him a soft smile and beckoned towards your nearly motionless body. “She’ll be okay. Let’s go get her some help.”

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

Your head was pounding. The right side of your neck was itchy as hell and felt extremely stiff. The beeping sounding in your ears was a thing from nightmares, echoing in your aching skull.

You felt like shit and honestly, you could cry when you tried to open your eyes and the sharp light hit them, making you swiftly close them again.

A realization slowly crept at you that there was a presence of an intrusive smell too, making you want to puke— or was that just the brutal hangover? Because you felt unbelievably hungover on top of everything. The world seemed to be spinning even behind your closed eyelids and you couldn’t but groan, deciding to only curse the universe mentally since your throat resembled a Sahara Desert.

“Oh, hey gorgeous,” a female voice greeted you from your left and you snapped your eyes open with a startle, staring with shock at the beautiful redhead sitting by your bedside.

For few long seconds, you wondered if you died and went to heaven, because there was a non-descript angelic-like creature watching over you.  You quickly brushed that thought aside, because there was no way Heaven looked like a hospital room and provided you with such shitty sensations attacking your poor body.

So you asked the only logical question, ignoring the dryness of your mouth which soon cause you to cough.

“…who are you?”

A plastic cup with a heavenly cold liquid landed in front of you, the straw sticking from it directed to your lips as the stunning woman frowned discontentedly.

“Oh, you don’t remember?” she asked, seemingly hurt. “My heart is breaking! You told me I was pretty.”

You blinked slowly, finally adjusting to the light, finally able to talk without pain (that much pain, that was) and your head started pounding some more, embarrassment filling every fibre of your being.

What the- oh god, you had really got drunk, hadn’t you, and now you had a total blackout on what you had been up to in your questionable state.

“Eeeer… I did? I mean, you are… but-“

“But you prefer blonds, yeah, I know,” the mysterious woman finished your sentence to her liking and your eyes went wide. How did she- and who was she again, sitting in your hospital room like that? Had you really got so smashed that you didn’t remember her when you should have? When had you met? Shit, your mind was so foggy… “And you think Steve’s a bit prettier. And his ass is the best you’ve ever seen, so I get it…”

“The hell?!” you squealed in utter horror, sitting up straight as the words registered, a flash of blue, red and white flickering in the back of your mind, followed by a sharp stung in your temples. A nauseatingly strong pain resembling an intense cramp – only like ten times worse – shot up your neck as you moved so quickly, ripping a startled yelp from your throat.

A hazy image of the café you worked at blended into a picture Steve’s beautiful eyes – did this woman know your regular, your handsome flirty blond regular? –, sensation of gentle hands cradling your jaw, a sting in your neck—

“You need to be careful with how much you move. Your neck took quite a hit, they had to perform a surgery on you, you got a transfusion. They worried about your brain too. They’ve been monitoring you for four days now and this is the first time you’re awake,” your stranger explained patiently, voice full of compassion.

Your hand involuntarily rose to massage the incriminated place, still unsure of what the woman was talking about, the images in your brain confusing the hell out of you. You still had no idea who she was, but her face was starting to feel a bit familiar – you assumed that whatever had happened, she had been there too, possibly helping you.

And there was something in her green eyes, cautious yet somewhat calming, making it easy to trust her for some inexplicable reason.

“Steve’s gonna be pissed at me for missing it,” she added and grinned. “I made him leave to take care of himself before he could actually start taking roots in here. He’s been worried too. A lot.”

The amount of question marks in your head just doubled, but at the same time, your heart fluttered. Steve had visited you? Often, apparently? That was really, really sweet of him. The thought of him guarding you – and didn’t he have a physique of a bodyguard, once mentioning he was in private security when asked –, brought a dreamy smile to your face.

Perhaps it wasn’t only about flirting for him either…?

“Keep looking so lovestruck and I might forgive him that he hasn’t mention you before. Though I guess I can’t blame him, wanting to keep— anyway. I’m Natasha. Nice to meet you,” she extended her hand towards you at last and you automatically accepted it, telling her your name in return.

Even though that was probably beside the point seeing as she had been found at your bedside in a hospital.

“Hi, Natasha. Nice to meet you too… I think.”

The redhead burst out into a quiet laughter at your hesitance. “Fair enough. After Steve comes back and explains what exactly happened – because it’s not quite my place to tell you –, call me back for the good details. It’s fun to make him blush.”

Despite just only having met this woman, you decided that you kinda liked her and nodded in acceptance of her offer. Steve might be sweet – perhaps even sweet on you it seemed – but some harmless teasing could never hurt. Not when it apparently had something to do with his glorious ass.

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

Here’s a thing: Steve Rogers had a lot of fight in him. Before injected with the serum or after, no matter his shirt size, no matter if he could swing his fists effectively or not, he would fight for what mattered.

His teammates and friends certainly fell into the category. The somewhat relationship he had been trying to build with you was right there with them, definitely worth fighting for.

So, after revealing his identity – an action which become inevitable at that point, really – he had a delicate confession to make and a bold question to ask in an almost shy voice. He still asked it, because he would be damned if he gave up on you.

You said yes, your confession about certain harboured feelings matching his.

You said yes, you would like to go out with him very much, because you liked him too.

And no, it wasn’t just because he owned the best backside you had ever seen. Steve Rogers was, according to you, quite memorable and worth fighting for in general too.

(Steve, over time, might have developed a bit of a love-hate relationship with the fact you were getting along with Natasha so well. It was good news and bad news at the same time, seeing as it often resulted in the two of you teaming up against him. Once again, the good news won him over… because he simply loved how easily you fit into his world and how surprisingly well he fit into yours.)

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

S.R. masterlist

⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰

Thank you for reading :-*

It’s once a again a bit different from my usual writing; it’s short (like wtf me? short?) and it’s with a quote that is hard to do justice to... so I hope you liked it at leats a bit. Feedback always appreciated :-*

[chamomileteainabuttercup]

Dincobb Week Day 3 - New Experiences (SFW)

Welcome to my Dincobb Week fanfic posts! I've written stories and scenes of varying lengths and tones. For clarity I should say that most of these exist as miniature AUs of their own and have no continuity with each other or with anything else I've written about these characters, so in different pieces they may be described having different physical features, personal possessions, preferences, et cetera. (There are three exceptions which I'll note as such when they come out.) Thanks to @djarining, who helped me a lot with brainstorming and discussing my ideas!

For today I have two pieces, an SFW and an NSFW - the NSFW is scheduled to post an hour after this one.

New Experiences

Cobb keeps on saying he’s been cold before, it gets bitter cold out in the desert at night, and Din has kept on telling him that yes, that’s cold, but it’s not ice and snow cold, and if he’s going to take him on a trip he needs Cobb to trust him about the appropriate clothing.

He does need thermals, he does need thick wool socks, he does need a heavy parka, wool cap and mittens.

“What about you?” Cobb asks. “You may be wearing thermals under your suit, but I don’t see a parka.”

“I’m used to making do without one,” says Din, “but I have higher standards for you.”

“Have ‘em for yourself too, then.”

“All right then. I will.”

“Just see that you do.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Din says, smiling inside his helmet.

“I’m the boss of everyone, they just don’t know it yet,” says Cobb with a cocky grin.

Boss or not, he’s got Din to wear a parka over his beskar, which he doesn’t altogether like to do. The shiny breastplate is for show as well as for function. A symbolic declaration of identity and values. Well, everyone can still see the helmet, and he compromised on cutting off the parka sleeves just above the elbow so his vambraces are free and functional. This is meant to be a pleasure trip, just to show Cobb a different world as a treat, but he’s still not about to go anywhere without ready access to his grappling hook, flamethrower and whistling birds. Safety first.

He lands the small ship he’s borrowed from Boba on a small, flat-topped hill overlooking a frozen lake, its edges frosted white and its heart a turquoise blue. In fact, if you’re generous with your aesthetics, the lake is sort of heart-shaped. He wonders if Cobb will notice and appreciate that. They lower the landing ramp and step outside into a brilliantly sunny day. The air out here is so cold and crisp it stings your face. Cobb actually gasps. Din gives him a few moments to walk to the bottom of the ramp, then slowly, carefully, extend one foot and put it down and feel the crunch and squish of the snow under his boot.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It’s weird!” says Cobb enthusiastically. He sees his own breath condensing on the air and huffs out another cloud of warm mist. Then, “Ow.” He puts his mittened hand to his ear.

“You forgot to take out your earring?” Din asks.

“I was excited to see the snow,” Cobb says sheepishly. “And I love it. You gave it to me.” It’s the beskar dart tip from a whistling bird and Cobb is almost comically proud of how it looks glinting in his earlobe.

“Well, it’s gonna get real cold and I don’t want you to get frostbite. Hold still,” Din says. He pulls off his gloves, gives them to Cobb to hold and carefully removes the already chilly earring. He pulls up one of the hook-and-loop flaps of Cobb’s parka pockets, tucks the earring firmly down inside, presses it closed, then pulls Cobb’s wool cap down to cover his ears properly. “There.”

“This hat is crushing my hair,” Cobb grumps.

“A Mandalorian helmet couldn’t unpretty your hair, but you think a toque will?” Din asks, pulling his gloves back on.

“Aw, Mando, you think I’m pretty?” Cobb beams at him, more radiant than the sunshine on the snow crust.

“C’mon,” Din says, embarrassed. He does think Cobb is pretty but he has too little experience of romance to be able to say it smoothly. He grabs Cobb’s hand and pulls him along, heading down the slope towards the lake. Cobb slips and flounders and laughs. He starts to lurch forward, catches himself and throws himself backward, landing on his butt and then flopping on his back with his arms outstretched. “Come on,” says Din, with a chuckle. He reaches down and pulls Cobb up to his feet, leaving his outline in the snow.

“Hey, look at that!” says Cobb, twisting to look back. “It really takes a print, doesn’t it? Not like dry sand at all. It’s so crazy that this is water.” He scoops up a mittenful and crumbles it around.

“Try squeezing it,” says Din. Cobb squashes the snow between his palms. “See how it compacts? It’ll hold together.” He’s remembering the short period his first covert spent living someplace very like this, a little compound in the snowy woods. Unlike most covert locations, it offered both secrecy and open space for children to run and play. The snow forts they built and the snowball battles they fought were both educational for warriors in the making and tremendous fun for a motley assortment of kids in hand-me-down winter clothes and soft training helmets. The snow was the first thing that brought him out of his shell to play with the others. Up to then he had been his foster father’s shadow, dumb with sorrow, until finally the sight of them running, shouting, flinging snow had sparked his attention.

Buir had seen where he was looking as Din stood beside him holding tightly a fistful of his cape. He’d looked down at Din, his helmet impassive, nothing like his lost parents’ dark, expressive eyes and smiling, talking mouths. But there was something kind in the tilt of his head, and he gently jerked it in the direction of the romping foundlings. Buir barely spoke because his larynx had been crushed in a fight years before. Rather than speaking through the mic in his helmet, he would hold a little electrolarynx device to his throat when he really needed to speak aloud, but more often than not he used a modified sign language, finding it more convenient. That was what he told Din back then, but thinking on it now, he’s fairly sure Buir switched to relying on signing because the electrolarynx made him sound a lot like a droid, and he saw how uncomfortable that made the child he’d picked up. He didn’t need to say “Go on”; Din understood, and after hesitating a moment longer, he released his grip on the crumpled fabric and ventured out to play.

That was the day he learned to make snowballs, and it’s something he can teach Cobb now, how to press and mould the snow between cupped palms, how to roll it down the slope, picking up more and more snow as it went, turning it between the two of them to keep its shape even and rounded. It makes them both laugh just out of happiness and satisfaction. Cobb’s cheeks and nose are flushed a sweet rosy pink. His eyes are bright, their hazel colour almost gold where the sharp sunlight catches it, and he’s altogether so lovely a sight that Din is glad his face is hidden and he can stare as openly and foolishly as he wants.

Together they build a snowman where the ground flattens out; he gets an idea and labours back up the hill in the sliding snow into the ship’s hold and brings back a bucket to mould its head into a snow Mandalorian. After that success they make their way down to the lake, and after Din checks how solid the ice is, they venture out on its surface, skidding around a little. Cobb keeps grabbing hold of his hand, and although it actually makes both of them a bit less stable, Din’s happy to let him. When Din asks, “You want to try sliding?” he’s immediately game. They run and slide on foot, on knees, and on a few accidental occasions on their asses until they’re out of breath and glowing with warmth. It occurs to Din that apart from a little light Grogu-entertaining, he hasn’t really played in years. He still knows how, though. Panting and laughing, they stagger off the ice and begin making their way back up the hill, wallowing in the knee-deep snow, helping each other up by reaching down from above or by pushing from below (hands on butts). At the top they look back at their chaotic trail across the formerly perfect snowscape.

“What do you think of it now?” Din asks.

“It’s fantastic,” says Cobb. “I couldn’t have imagined what it’s really like. And there’s no one I’d rather be here with than you.” He throws his arms around Din and, to his surprise, kisses him smack-dab on the cheek of his helmet. He can’t feel it, of course, but he enjoys it symbolically, at least for a few moments until it becomes clear that Cobb’s lips are stuck to the frosty metal. He tries to pull away, gives a little muffled cry of panic and pain, and stares helplessly through the eyeslot of Din’s visor. “Hnnh!”

“Dank farrik — it’s okay, hold still. Just — okay, put your hands on the helmet, hold it, take the weight. Got it? Don’t let go or it’ll peel your lips.” He steadies it with his hands too and brings his head and shoulders down, pulling his head out of the helmet. He’s dazzled by the unfiltered bright light for a moment, then gets a proper look at Cobb, scarlet-faced and glaring with anger, confusion and embarrassment, still smooching the helmet. He has to bite his own lip hard not to laugh, but it’s not really funny, he doesn’t want Cobb to get frostbite or tear the skin off his lips. “Stay there,” he says, turns and runs up the ramp into the ship. In the tiny, cramped galley he draws a cup of lukewarm water from the tap, then rushes back, trying not to spill it. “Okay. It’s okay, just hold very still for me, got it?” Carefully, he pours water over the join between lip and metal, while Cobb breathes loud and fast through his nose. After a few moments the icy seal breaks and Cobb is able to gently, carefully peel his lips away from the helmet. They’re very red and they look like they’re sore and stinging. “You don’t look like you’re bleeding anywhere,” Din says hopefully.

Cobb cautiously runs his tongue-tip over his lips and winces. “No, but they feel raw,” he says. “Goddamn that was cold!”

“I think you’ll survive,” Din says.

“Well, sure, I’ll survive,” says Cobb. “But could you kiss ‘em better?”

It seems only fair.

[mostlycompetentwriter]

Domesticated

M/F Pairing: Y/N x Bang Chan (Stray Kids) 

Genre: Married Life AU

Warnings: Smut, language, some mentions of cheating (but not with the main pairing)

Word Count: 19,922 (I might break this up later on)

Summary: Marriage was something Y/N had been dreaming about since she was a little girl. But now, ten years later, she’s married to her college sweetheart, but their relationship isn’t entirely perfect. There’s the issue of her new boss, aka her ex-boyfriend Seo Changbin, and Chan’s younger brother Felix who insists on calling her Medusa. Yet, through it all, Y/N is positive she wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

Notes: Y'all are really out here sleeping on husband Bang Chan and I won’t allow it anymore. Because Chan is 100% husband goals.

“Where do you see yourself in five years?”

I slowly exhaled after disregarding my somewhat passable resume, courtesy of one of those sketchy website builders, to look at the interviewer who waited for my response, pen poised over his expensive notebook. I swallowed hard as I struggled to compose myself under pressure. Because there was a professional answer somewhere in the back of my useless brain, but a dozen other responses, far more honest than his expectations, were waiting on the tip of my tongue.

Such as: 

Waiting at home for my husband because all I do is stare at the clock, counting down the minutes until he walks through the door. I kinda miss when we were in college and could see each other sporadically between long lectures, grabbing lunch at the Wendy’s on South Campus. Now, the most exciting thing that happens is the occasional blow job before we pass out on the worn mattress in our master bedroom.

Or

Sometimes Chan will host dinner parties at the house for his expensive doctor friends. He won’t spare me a single glance while I rush to fill glasses with rich-tasting wine, keeping an eye on Han Jisung because he can’t take more than three refills before he’s trying to dismantle the house. I’ll also have to ignore the really old surgeon who Chan admires because he likes to touch my ass when I pass through the living room. Maybe I was suited to be a sugar baby in another life.

Or

On the rare occasion when Chan actually uses his cock, he’ll pant in my ear the entire time because he’s worn out from long hours at the hospital. Chan will cum before me most of the time and I’m lucky if he’s cognizant enough to eat me out so that I can finally fall asleep from my post-orgasmic haze. Heck, I’ll even take his fingers on my clit if it means an assured eight hours of sleep.

Shit, I miss being young.

I cleared my throat, deciding on the professional answer because I highly doubt Seo Enterprises wanted to hire a desperate housewife.

I was sprawled out on the couch in our living room when Chan came home that evening. I barely acknowledged his rushed greeting, watching through narrowed eyes as he ran into the kitchen. “Babe,” came his anticipated whine. “There’s no leftovers?”

“I didn’t feel like cooking,” I said, turning over to bury my face in the throw pillows decorating the cushions. It really wasn’t that comfortable since Chan insisted we get the stiff, fancy leather futon as opposed to the appealing sectional that could actually recline. 

“You didn’t cook?”

Chan’s voice was closer this time but I still ignored him, sensing an impending headache. “I had an interview.”

“That was hours ago,” Chan pouted.

I sighed loudly. “The interview went great, honey, thanks for asking.”

“I’ve been at the hospital since 5 this morning,” Chan went on, weight dipping beneath the couch at the opposite end. “I didn’t even have time for lunch because Jisung almost fucked up a patient’s IV.”

“Remind me again why he still has a job.”

“Because he somehow graduated from nursing school and has a license claiming he’s qualified,” Chan said. “Plus, he’s my friend.”

“You have shit taste in friends,” I said, protesting when his hand landed a firm smack against my ass. 

“Minho tried to wreck the Corvette when he ran out of cigarettes.”

“Minho is loyal.”

“He still wants to fuck you,” Chan grumped. “Ten years after college and he’s trailing after your ass.”

“Darling, you don’t have to be jealous when I’m wearing your ugly ring on my finger 24/7.”

“It was my mother’s!”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Bang Chan,” I snapped while grabbing one of my support pillows from beneath my weight, launching it at my husband’s head. Sadly, Chan dodged at the last minute, much to my chagrin, smirking as he dug his fingers into my sides, forcing loud, high-pitched giggles as we both unceremoniously fell into the spotlessly clean floor. “Channie,” I groaned as he rolled on top of me, pinning my hands above my head before deciding to offer me a sloppy kiss with far too much tongue. “You’re fucking gross,” I said, biting at his lower lip in revenge.

“Yeah? Well, you’re fucking sexy,” Chan purred, nuzzling his head between my breasts. 

“Stop it, you oaf!” I grumbled. “My period starts tomorrow. My tits have been sore all day.”

“Maybe I should have a look,” Chan teased, a free hand working loose one of the buttons on my shirt.

“And what good will that do?”

“Well, I am a doctor.”

“You just want to see my tits so you have something to jerk off to in the shower tonight.”

“Shower with me then,” Chan suggested. “I’ll fuck you against the wall.”

“Will you have the stamina?” I questioned. “You poor thing, how can you get it up when you haven’t eaten all day?”

Chan frowned at my mocking tone. “Are you turning down my cock?”

“You’re only half-hard,” I said, lifting my thigh against the tight bulge of his scrubs.

Chan let out a sigh, but his smile was endearing. “What if I order takeout? Then we can fuck in the shower.”

“Channie,” I cooed. “You always know how to talk dirty to me.”

I stand by my belief that email was now an archaic form of communication, but the number of big businesses that forced their employees to make an account @ their company name was ridiculous. But if I wanted to find a job in this big ass city, then I needed to play by the rules. Surprisingly, my most recent application was progressing with far more success than I could have anticipated, and I had read over the new email from Seo Enterprises at least half a dozen times:

Dear Mrs. Bang,

Thank you for taking the time to interview with our staff yesterday afternoon. After carefully reviewing your file with our CEO, he has asked us to schedule one last consultation. Please let us know your earliest convenience.

“That must be a good thing,” Minho remarked, digging his spoon into my ice cream since his bowl was empty and I wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. 

“I guess,” I said, formulating a quick reply because I really wanted this fancy, high-paying Secretary job. I mean, sitting at home all day was definitely not high on my list of accomplishments.

“What’s the hurry anyway?” Minho asked as he licked his spoon clean. “Bang has enough money that you could just smooch off him for the rest of your life.”

“That’s not fair,” I said. “I want us to be equals.”

“Wasn’t that the point of marrying a doctor, Y/N?” Minho asked. “Otherwise, you could still be screwing around with me.”

“Except we aren’t 18 anymore,” I pointed out, frowning in his direction. “And says the guy who works part-time at his sister’s pet shop.”

“Hey!” Minho protested, shoving his spoon in my face. “I’m helping the strays. Population control and shit.”

“So what? You’re snipping some dog penises, good for you.”

Minho sat back with a disgruntled sigh. “What do you want to do after this?”

“I’ll bring Chan some lunch since he didn’t get a chance to eat yesterday,” I said. “Interested in accompanying an old friend?”

“Not really,” Minho said. “But I don’t have anything better to do.”

I maintained a long list of places that I truly despised and the hospital was number one. I always tried desperately not to let it show when I visited Chan because it wasn’t really his fault. I had a bad history when it came to hospitals and the memories lingered like the permanent smell of alcohol that Chan brought home with him on his scrubs.

“Did you see that guy in the waiting room?” Minho asked after I checked us in at the front desk. “He was seconds away from bleeding out on the floor.”

“Don’t talk about blood,” I shivered, hurrying to the elevator while frantically hitting the corresponding floor number.

“This reminding you of Freshman year?” Minho asked since he was a total airhead and missed out on the memo where I specifically told him to keep his mouth shut about that stupid Frat Party.

“There are five reasons why I hate hospitals,” I said, holding up my hand in front of his stupid face. “Don’t make me spell it out for you.”

“Is Freshman year one of them?”

“Shut the hell up, Minho.”

A quiet chuckle resounded through the empty elevator while I impatiently waited for our stop. “You’re feisty today,” Minho remarked once the doors reopened.

I ignored the nasty linoleum floors, heels clicking with every step I took in the direction of Chan’s office. “I’m eating with Chan and then we’re never coming here again.”

“Agreed,” Minho said, keeping pace with me while cringing at the gurneys being pushed through the hallways at an alarming rate. 

We had almost made it to the end of the floor when I heard a lazy voice call out my name from one of the surrounding rooms. I closed my eyes because I could recognize that voice anywhere since it basically haunted my worst nightmares. He might not know it yet, but Han Jisung was the last person I wanted to run into because maybe, just maybe, he was one of the five reasons why I hated this place.

“Guys!” Jisung gushed, smiling brilliantly. “I’d hug you but I just finished cleaning piss off the floor.”

“Jesus, Han,” I said, wrinkling my nose against the overpowering smell of ammonia. “Is Chan in his office?”

“He was supposed to meet with our new superintendent,” Jisung said, grinning like a complete idiot when he shoved his gloved hands towards Minho who now looked a few beats away from losing his ice cream.

“You’re really pushing your luck today,” Minho growled at him.

“The meeting room is the last room on the right,” Jisung said, finally proving to be useful for once in his life.

I grabbed Minho’s arm because he was close to decking Jisung in the face and I didn’t need the security guards to tell Chan that I let my best friend attack one of his nurses. “Come on,” I said, urging him away from the potential crime scene.

“He’s this close to finding himself with a bloody nose,” Minho complained. “You know what’s funny? I’m pretty sure Han Jisung wouldn’t even know how to help himself.”

“You’re probably right,” I agreed, straightening the collar of my blouse as I peeked in through the tight blinds obscuring the glass wall of the room Jisung had indicated. “There’s Chan...” I started, trailing off when I noticed that he was engrossed in deep conversation with an unfamiliar woman.

“Oh, she’s really hot,” Minho remarked, wincing when I shoved my elbow into his chest.

“Commentary is not necessary,” I said, folding my arms across my chest as I tapped my foot against the floor. Who the hell did this bitch think she was?

“Jealousy isn’t a good look on you,” Minho teased and I swallowed my pride, trying to ignore the way she reached out to touch Chan’s arm.

Thankfully, Chan finally noticed me outside, offering me a cheesy wave which I refused to reciprocate as he said something to the woman. I waited outside the door, attempting my best stern expression even if Chan completely ignored my efforts, encasing me in his powerful arms. “Y/N,” he cooed.

“Chan,” I choked out, struggling against his strength.

Minho snorted at the display. “I’m going to find the cafeteria. Text me when you wanna leave, Y/N.”

I waved him off once Chan eventually released me. I sucked in a few grateful breaths while holding up the takeout bag I had brought. “Is there somewhere we can go?”

Chan nodded, reaching for my hand. “Sorry I took so long, I was meeting with the new superintendent.”

I pursed my lips at that revelation. “She doesn’t look old enough to be a superintendent.”

“She’s around my age,” Chan said and I frowned because that just made everything worse.

The hospital’s staff room was small, the smell of coffee heavy in the air as Chan closed the door behind us. “Nobody should come in.”

“Good,” I said, choosing the only table that looked halfway clean before sitting down with a sigh. “I brought you lunch.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” Chan said, gratefully accepting the bag from me while he sat down on the remaining chair. I glared at him from across the table, watching as he dug into the cheap Japanese like it was his last meal on earth. “Is something wrong?” he asked over a mouthful of noodles. Something college Chan would have never done when we first started dating, but I suppose that’s what you get with marriage.

“I saw you were pretty close with your new superintendent,” I said.

“Oh yeah,” Chan replied cheerfully, stuffing even more food into his impossibly wide mouth. “She’s super smart. Like, Harvard graduate smart.”

“Of course she is,” I murmured. “Do you like her?”

“As a boss I guess,” Chan said, still horribly naive to the real problem. I cathartically drummed my fingernails against the surface of the table. 

“Are you coming home early tonight?” I asked him. “I’ll fix your favorite.”

Chan’s eyes lit up because, despite the food sitting right in front of him, he always got excited at the prospect of another meal. “Really?”

I nodded. “I’ll put the good whiskey on ice.”

Chan sat back with a dramatic groan. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? Where is all this coming from?”

“I’m just being a good wife,” I said, taking on a dismissive tone.

Chan grinned. “Do you want something, sweetheart? You know I’ll buy you anything.”

“No reason,” I chirped. “I just want you to remember how good am I to you.”

“Of course I know that,” Chan said, reaching across the table to squeeze one of my hands. “I didn’t just marry you for your beautiful face.”

“That’s not what you said when we first met,” I reminded him cheekily, enjoying the way his ears grew red. “Should I do a reenactment?”

“That’s not necessary,” Chan said, quickly dismissing the topic. “Did you hear back from your interview?”

“Oh I did,” I said. “They want me to come in and meet the CEO.”

“What for?” Chan scoffed, returning back to his meal.

“Well, I am taking on the secretary position,” I said. “Maybe he wants to make sure I have good phone etiquette.”

“Yeah?” Chan grumbled. “Or, he wants to make sure you look pretty for him so he has something nice to look at all day.”

“And what’s wrong with that?” I asked him because I loved it when Chan got possessive.

“I don’t want some rich bastard drooling over my wife,” Chan said, chopsticks clenched tightly between his fingers.

“Yeah? Well, it works both ways, you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh come on, Chan,” I sighed. “Your superintendent was totally flirting with you.”

Chan put down his chopsticks, eyeing me cluelessly. “No, she wasn’t.”

“Yes, she was,” I immediately countered, reaching down for my purse. “I watched her the entire time.”

“Were you spying on me?” Chan asked with a smirk.

“Minho’s probably waiting for me,” I replied instead, smoothing down my skirt as I stood up from the table.

“Don’t you think that’s too short?” Chan asked, pointing at my lower section as if personally offended.

“Work hard, honey,” I grinned, leaning over the table to peck him once on the lips, offering a cheeky wave on my way out the door.

My palms were sweaty and, despite my repeated attempts to wipe off the nasty residue on my skirt, the condition persisted. Hyperhidrosis, Chan might tell me, nerdy glasses falling down his nose. I grinned at a distant memory, one of the first dates I ever had with Chan. A younger, less confident version of my husband, frantically peeling his suit jacket from his body, complaining about the heat in the restaurant, only to cower moments later when he realized his armpits were totally drenched.

“Mrs. Bang?”

I looked up at the young man bowing in front of me. “Mr. Seo will see you now.”

I nodded, holding my tongue before I let the intern know that he sounded just like a passage from Fifty Shades of Gray. Oh, shit, what if I was about to meet Christian Gray in the flesh? Some sort of young, hot billionaire with the world at his feet, buying up other companies like they meant absolutely nothing.

It was a believable scenario, and I don’t know how I managed to get my feet to work, but I followed the intern with exaggerated steps. “The boss has been looking forward to this,” the intern told me, pausing outside the office door.

“He has?” I wondered, glancing around the grandiose lobby. Did I really make that much of an impression?

“You can go in now,” the intern smiled, politely holding the door for me as I wordlessly walked inside.

Of course, I was expecting something extravagant, considering the layout of the lobby, but I was still deeply impressed by the spacious, but oddly cozy interior. Could you really call this room an office? Considering how massive it was in size. I mean, was it really necessary to basically live in an apartment when you arrived to work every day? Complete with stylish hardwood floors that looked like something out of an edition of House and Home magazine. I’d bet my entire life’s savings that the CEO hired some kind of fancy architect to design the place because those engravings on the mahogany walls were quite difficult to achieve. “It’s nice isn’t it?” a disarmingly familiar voice asked, and I found the dark figure leaning against the desk in the center of the room, sleeves rolled up to show off his impressive arms. “I was surprised to see your application, Y/N.”

Fuck, Christian Grey would have been way better.

“Changbin?”

He met me halfway across the room, now completely visible beneath the low hanging lights, tan skin washed with a comfortable glow. “Shocked?”

“You could say that,” I said, suddenly feeling like I was 18 again in college, lusting after the object of my affections.

“Have a seat,” Changbin offered kindly, extending his arm towards the matching armchairs neatly tucked around the electric fireplace.

“Okay,” I nodded, unable to take my eyes off Seo Changbin as I stumbled over my heels like a complete lovestruck teenager meeting her musician idol for the very first time.

But, holy fuck, Changbin looked good. Why the hell did he not age or turn prematurely gray? I held back a whimper, eyes looking everywhere around the room except at Seo Changbin. How did I not put two and two together when I first got the notification for the Secretary position at Seo Enterprises? I mean, what are the chances that this Seo is my Seo...Or, at least, he used to be my Seo. 

“Y/N,” Changbin said, flipping through my file with lazy movements. Where did he get those pants from? They fit him sinfully good, hugging his thighs and if I look close enough, the outline of his...“How are you?”

I startled at the question, drawing my eyes up to meet Changbin’s familiar gaze. “Oh, I’m uh..” I trailed off anxiously, trying to put meaningful words together because he was making the English language harder than it needed to be. “I’ve been alright.”

Changbin smiled and I crossed my legs because that kind of smile could literally drench a girl if he wasn’t careful. “I was really happy to see your name on my list.”

“Were you?” I asked, fingers digging into the cushion of my chair.

“I’m always happy to see a familiar face,” Changbin said. “It’s been a while.”

“College,” I choked out, completely out of mind with anxiety, like the time Minho stole my phone and made me think someone had stolen it, even encouraging me to call the number only for him to hang up every time.

“You’re still beautiful.”

“Changbin...”

“I know,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s all in the past.”

“That’s right,” I said, wondering if now would be an appropriate time to snatch my resume out of Changbin’s veiny hands and flee the premises.

“And you’ve married Bang,” Changbin said, pointing to my wedding band. “Which isn’t surprising.”

“Five years,” I said, trying my best to think about Chan and only Chan despite the literal embodiment of my every erotic high school fantasy sitting right in front of me.

“This would be strictly professional,” Changbin said, holding up my resume. “You were our best applicant, but I thought you should know everything about this place before taking the position. Including me.”

“Is that so?” was all I could think to say in return to his unexpectedly thoughtful comment.

Changbin lowered my resume slowly. “The job is yours, Y/N.”

“I’d still have to talk to Chan first,” I said because there’s no way I could just start working for Changbin without Chan knowing everything about the situation. Unfortunately, I could just about anticipate Chan’s response.

“That’s fine,” Changbin agreed. “You can call us tomorrow.”

I allowed a shaky nod, wondering if Changbin knew how much of an effect he still had on me all these years later.

Chan might be one of the smartest men I know, but he was, at his core, just a man who was quite whipped for his wife. Like all men, he was a sucker for lingerie, which is why I slipped on my best matching set, squeezing myself in the little black dress that I knew he really loved. 

The hem barely touched the middle of my thighs.

I was also cooking his favorite meal, the smell filling the kitchen pleasantly as I stood at the stove. My plan was quite simple: dress pretty for Chan and surprise him with his favorite food to soften him up. Maybe then he wouldn’t have a complete meltdown when I broke the news to him about my newest employer. 

But I still shivered when I heard the door open. “Y/N!”

“I’m in the kitchen,” I called back to him, attempting several meditative breaths to try and keep myself together.

“Holy shit,” he cursed, freezing in the doorway as he undoubtedly took in the sight of his wife wrapped in a tight black number.

“I’m making dinner,” I said, flashing him an arrogant smile, amused by the way he openly gaped at me while still wearing his oversized doctor’s coat. A result of an excited, freshly employed Chan filling out his form request with sloppy handwriting.

“You look hot,” Chan told me bluntly, eyes glued to my body as he eliminated the space between us with a few quick-paced steps.

“I got the job,” I said, letting out a nervous giggle as I continued to push around the searing bulgogi with a shaky hand. “Consider this a celebration.”

“That’s great, sweetie,” Chan said, standing behind me to wrap his arms around my middle, pressing soft kisses to the back of my neck, roaming hands feeling my body. “I guess the CEO liked you.”

A hellish double entendre. “Yeah, he was really nice.”

“I’m glad it worked out,” Chan said, voice next to my ear. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured to get a job or anything. I’m proud of you no matter what.”

Was it his intention to make me feel guilty? “Channie,” I sighed, turning around in his arms. “I have to tell you something.”

Chan cocked a brow. “What is it?”

“The company I’m working for...” 

“Yeah?”

“The CEO is someone we know.”

“Is that it?” Chan chuckled, accent thick as those adorable dimples filled out his smile. “Who is it, babe?”

“He used to go to school with us,” I tried, hoping that maybe Chan could just learn how to read my mind and save me the effort of mustering some kind of courage.

“Minho?” Chan teased.

“We’re not exactly friendly with him,” I said.

“Well, I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but I’m not exactly friendly with Minho.”

“You jerk,” I huffed, half-heartedly pushing against his chest. “You really, really don’t like this person.”

“There aren’t many people I really, really don’t like,” Chan said. “Come on, Y/N, just tell me who it is. Are you afraid I’ll be upset with you?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Chan’s smile vanished in a minute. “Y/N.”

“Seo Enterprises,” I said. “The company name.”

Realization dawned across Chan’s face. “Are you saying...”

“Changbin,” I murmured, looking down at my feet. “He’s my new boss.”

Chan let out a rough exhale because he knew exactly who Seo Changbin was and I’m pretty sure he associated the name with deep hatred. “Are you fucking serious?”

I winced at Chan’s tone because he had quickly shifted from sweet, caring husband to angry, sinister Mr. Bang in the blink of an eye. “Yes?”

“The Seo Changbin,” Chan reiterated. “The guy you fucked for like six months Freshman year?”

“That would be the one,” I said, forcing myself to meet his gaze before immediately regretting the decision.

“Why the hell would you take a job as his Secretary?” Chan demanded, crossing his arms over his chest. Normally, I would admire the sight of Chan’s arms stretching the thin fabric of his t-shirt, but now I was just intimidated.

“Because I really wanted the job,” I said. “And I didn’t think it was that big of a deal.”

“Oh, it’s a huge fucking deal,” Chan said, glaring down at me. “You think I’m okay with the idea of you working for someone you once told me you were, and I quote, definitely gonna marry?”

“But I’m married to you,” I tried, attempting a sugary-sweet tone that usually broke Chan’s resolve.

Except for tonight.

“Yeah,” Chan nodded, “You are, and I told you I would take care of you. I have enough money to support both of us, you don’t need to work at all.”

“Chan, you know I’m not comfortable sitting at home,” I said.

“I get that, Y/N, but Seo Changbin? I could get you a Secretary job at the hospital.”

“Channie, this is a position at Seo Enterprises. One of their biggest assets is New York Publishers! It’s like the perfect opportunity to get my foot in the door.”

“Y/N,” Chan groaned. “I can’t stand the thought of you working for Changbin under any circumstances.”

“I get it, Chan,” I said. “But it’s different than college. I’m married now, and Changbin is nothing more than my boss.”

“Does he really get that?” Chan asked. “I’m putting my foot down, Y/N. I don’t want you working for him, okay? You can call them tomorrow and say you’ve got something better.”

“But Channie!”

“No, Y/N,” Chan growled. “You can look for something else.”

I frowned once I realized Chan wasn’t going to back down. It didn’t matter that I wanted the job or that I had dressed up and cooked for him. For the first time since we met, Chan was refusing to give me what I wanted. “Chan, you really don’t have the right to tell me what to do.”

“I’m your husband,” Chan said, justifying his unfair demands with such patriarchal reasoning. 

“Fine,” I muttered darkly, ignoring the way his hand reached out for mine.

“Don’t be this way,” Chan said, following me as I marched to our bedroom, slamming the door closed behind me. “Y/N!” Chan shouted against the door, knocking loudly on the wood. “This is my room too!”

“Not tonight,” I informed him tersely, opening the door only to harshly shove a spare blanket and pillow at his chest. “Goodnight, darling.”

“This is Y/N,” I said into the phone. “I’m calling about-”

“One moment, Mrs. Bang, we can transfer you to Mr. Seo right away.”

“But you don’t understand...”

“Hello?”

“Changbin!” I squealed loudly into the phone, wincing at my shrill tone. 

“Y/N,” Changbin said pleasantly, voice as deep and gravelly as I remembered. “Is this the phone call I’ve been waiting for?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, making myself comfortable at the kitchen counter since I was a notorious pacer when it came to difficult conversations. “It depends on what you’re expecting.”

“I’m expecting to hear a confirmation,” Changbin said. “This is a perfect position for someone with your qualifications.”

“I know,” I groaned. “But I’m calling because I can’t take the job.”

“Really?” Changbin asked. “Can I ask why?”

“Chan isn’t comfortable with the idea,” I said.

“Is that so?” Changbin inquired, innocently enough. “I hope it isn’t because of college.”

“T-that’s not entirely why,” I stuttered because Changbin was apparently intuitive now that he owned some big, fancy company.

“I hope not,” Changbin said. “It wouldn’t be fair of Chan to keep you from a potential opportunity because of something like that.”

“It’s just a lot right now,” I said. “I haven’t had a job in a year. My last position was really good, but the company went bankrupt and I was laid off, so I’m just trying to be careful.”

“You wouldn’t have to worry about anything like that here, Y/N,” Changbin said. “This is a great opportunity for someone looking for a fresh start.”

Did he read my Facebook bio?

“I’m sure it is, Changbin, but I can’t do something that would make Chan uncomfortable.”

“But he’s not the one taking the position,” Changbin pointed out. “I can assure you, Y/N, you won’t find another position like this.”

“God, you’re good at negotiating.”

“Take the job, Y/N. I promise you won’t regret it.”

I could blame it on my desperation later, but I actually really liked the position. It promised a lot, especially considering the publishing company attached to Seo Enterprises. That would be my ultimate goal, to spend my days reading promising manuscripts while sipping expensive Starbucks coffee.

“I guess I can’t say no.”

“Then I’ll see you on Monday.”

Message to Channie

I took the job. I’m sorry but the opportunity was hard to pass up.

It only took a few seconds for Chan’s contact name to flash across my screen with an incoming call. I muted the sound like a coward, ignoring him completely while I started the ignition to the Corvette. A one-year anniversary present from Chan who was somehow more excited than I was when he first handed me the car key.

I drove to Minho’s apartment because I didn’t want to go home and I really had nowhere else to go. Plus, at least Minho was a reliable friend who really didn’t care if I crashed on his couch while he shoved cheap wine down my throat. In fact, Minho might be glad to see me since he was constantly complaining about his new hours at the shop.

“You look like shit,” Minho commented when he answered the door, standing aside to invite me inside. I shrugged off my coat, tossing it against the wall before slumping down onto the cheap sofa in Minho’s living room. The only piece of furniture he could afford in his ridiculously small New York apartment. “What happened?”

“I took the job with Changbin.”

Minho’s eyes widened in surprise. “You did? I can only assume Chan is lying somewhere on his deathbed.”

“No,” I snorted. “I took the job even though Chan asked me not to.”

“Savage,” Minho exhaled and I rolled my eyes at him.

“It’s a great opportunity!”

“When do you start?” Minho asked, feet propped up in my lap as he made himself more than comfortable next to me.

“Monday morning,” I said, mindlessly taking the remote to scroll through his limited TV channels. 

“And Chan is mad?” Minho repeated, glancing at me for confirmation. “Can you really blame him though?”

“Why?” I frowned.

“I mean, Chan’s been in love with you since high school. He used to trail after you all the time, but you only talked about Seo Changbin.”

“You’re not being a good friend right now,” I said, remembering with perfect clarity the image of a sixteen-year-old Chan, hair untamed and clothes mismatched. Chan was a constant presence in my life, even if I preened after another boy who certainly had no intention of remaining faithful.

“Go home to him, Y/N,” Minho said with far more seriousness than I was used to hearing from my still immature best friend. The same Minho who couldn’t find work for an entire year after graduation because he was too busy sleeping with any woman that walked on two legs, living with various girlfriends while slowly draining his savings account.

“Since when are you the voice of reason?” I grumbled.

“Well, we all have to grow up one day.”

I hated the rare occasions when he was right.

The house was eerily silent when I unlocked the door, spotlessly clean just as I had left it which made me feel bad because it meant Chan didn’t even try to eat anything. “You always make me worry,” I muttered, toeing off my shoes as I decided to check the bedroom. 

When Chan had first bought the house, he wanted it to look as close as possible to the random design I had pointed out at the local fair when we were Sophomore students. The plaque had deemed it the “house of the future” and I was enamored with the idea of the future back when my whole life was waiting right in front of me. A big dreamer who was already making wedding plans the moment Chan got down on one knee and proposed with his mother’s wedding ring.

“Channie,” I whispered into the darkness, cautiously tiptoeing my way to the side of the bed where Chan was facing away from me, sheets tucked in around his waist to leave his chest exposed. “I’m sorry.”

Chan let out a sigh. “What are you sorry for, Y/N?”

“I hurt you,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I took the job with Changbin and I didn’t think about how it would affect you.”

“I fucking hate him,” Chan said, tone bitter and laced with venom. “I hate what he did to you Freshman year and I hate that he was the first person you loved.”

“Chan,” I sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I was really young and stupid back then. I should have never slept with Changbin. But he was just a fantasy, even when we were together, and I certainly never really loved him.” I leaned in closer, brushing his hair away from his forehead. “I’ve always loved you first. You mean the world to me and I’m sorry that I went behind your back to work for Changbin. But he’s definitely nothing more than a mistake from a past full of them. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Chan shifted from next to me, rolling onto his back. His eyes were looking at me like I was literally his entire world. “I’ll always worry, sweetie. You drive me insane these days.”

I grinned at the use of his pet name for me, reaching out to run a soothing hand along the defined lines of his stomach. “Don’t worry about me, darling, when you’re the one with a supermodel for a boss.”

“Fuck, we’re both screwed,” Chan said. “Does she drive you mad with jealousy?”

“Of course she does,” I said. “She has bigger tits than me.”

“Well, I like your tits,” Chan insisted. “Don’t even think about bringing up plastic surgery again.”

“It would be to your benefit,” I pointed out. 

“And the detriment to my savings account. Plus, I don’t want some old bastard fondling your tits while he pumps silicone in your chest.”

“Of all the things to worry about,” I sighed. “Does this mean we’re okay again?”

“You could probably step on me and I would still thank you for it, sweetie.”

“What if I sit on it instead?” I asked, moving my hand down to squeeze his flaccid cock.

“Makeup sex?” Chan gasped. “You don’t have to sell yourself out like this, babe.”

“Yeah? Well, I want to,” I said while proceeding to straddle his waist, smirking when Chan’s hands instantly moved to my hips. It was almost like a magnet, the reaction automatic after years of marriage. “You’re already hard,” I teased, reaching back to palm him over the sheets. 

Chan always slept in boxers which I certainly appreciated because it made the rare nights of our passionate lovemaking even more accessible. Chan lifted my shirt, groaning low when he saw that I was wearing nothing but a pair of satin panties. “This is why I’m already hard.”

“You don’t see me walking around the house in underwear,” I quipped playfully.

“It’s comfortable,” Chan whimpered, moaning when my hand found the smooth velvety head of his cock. 

“Something you never did when we were dating,” I said. “I spent weekends with you in the apartment.”

“Wanted to make a good impression,” Chan grumbled, eyes closed as he rolled his hips in time with my careful strokes. 

“So you don’t have to impress me anymore,” I said, glancing back at his cock, hot and heavy in my hand. “But I guess you still do.”

Chan moaned even louder at my words, fingers tightening in my wrinkled shirt. “Don’t make me cum yet.”

“Why not, darling?” I asked him cheekily, twisting my wrist just right, watching as a stuttered gasp fell from between his gorgeous pout.

“Wanna cum inside,” he said, biceps straining as he pulled me closer, kissing me with a desperation that only demonstrated just how gone he really was.

“Yeah?” I smirked, tongue tracing the ridges of his full lips. “I guess you deserve it after putting up with my bullshit all day.”

Chan nodded fervently and the sight was oddly endearing. It reminded me of when Chan and I first met in high school, a nerdy sixteen-year-old boy who had just transferred schools all the way from Australia. He had a thick accent, foreign and rich, just like the untamed mass of curls covering his deep brown eyes. Chan wore thick-rimmed glasses and he had a light dusting of freckles like the main character from Freckle Juice, one of my favorite childhood novels. He was nerdy and shy, sitting alone in the cafeteria at lunch and walking between classes with his shoulders hunched like he was afraid one of those horrible jocks would try to steal his bag again.

“Y/N!” he whined loudly, forcing me out of the memory.

“Alright, Channie, you want inside?”

I sat up on my knees to work down my panties, ignoring the way Chan’s fingers tried to interfere, pulling at the fabric like he could possibly make them disappear any faster. I grabbed the hem of his boxer shorts, teasingly pulling them down his thighs before brushing a kiss across the weeping tip of his cock, precum bitter on my tongue. For a moment, I admired his thick erection, remembering how nervous Chan was the very first time we had sex back before we were even old enough to drink alcohol.

I held his cock as I positioned myself over his lap. “I’ll do all the work tonight,” I said, listening to Chan’s sweet moans the entire time I slowly lowered myself onto his cock, enjoying the way he always filled me so deeply.

“Oh yeah, sweetie,” Chan grunted, hips moving messily as he tried to find a rhythm. “I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

 “Really?” I asked, swallowing down a moan when Chan hit just right, movements growing more and more confident as I returned every thrust. “I thought I was in charge tonight.”

Chan’s hands gripped my waist firmly, eyes wide open as he focused on where we were connected. “I’m always in charge.”

“Definitely,” I said, bracing my hands against his firm chest for balance because I was weak for this version of Chan. A complete contradiction to the one I first started dating, sweetly doting as he did everything in his power to make me happy. An image of a beautifully innocent Chan looking up from his position between my thighs. “It’s good?”

“So good,” I whispered aloud, peppering kisses across the pale expanse of Chan’s creamy skin, laving my tongue against a sensitive nipple which forced a temporary break from his regular tempo.

“Don’t play dirty, sweetie,” Chan said, giving me no warning before he was pushing me onto my back, hovering over me with his irresistible bedroom eyes. His hands spread my thighs wide, giving himself more room to fuck inside, movements growing faster with every step closer to what was beginning to feel like an intense orgasm. I’m talking about the kind that I could feel between my legs for days after I tried to walk straight again. “Do I need to touch you?”

“Fuck, I think you’re doing just fine,” I said. “Where the hell did this come from?”

“You woke up my competitive side,” Chan said, hitting deep like we were suddenly 20-years-old again sneaking quickies between lectures. Back then, Chan could literally fuck me against a wall, my legs wrapped around his gorgeous hips while he knocked the breath out of my lungs. Thank god, Chan decided that college would be his glory years, working out aggressively in the gym until he had muscles filling out the places where he had previously been soft. But I would always miss his pudgy stomach, even if his ass was now something out of a porn magazine. 

“Well fuck,” I moaned. “I’ll have to do this more often.”

“I’d do it all the time if I wasn’t working until 3 in the morning at the hospital,” Chan said.

“Good point, should I come in at lunch then? You can lock us in one of the empty rooms.”

“Oh shit, sweetie, you shouldn’t talk that way,” Chan growled and it was one of the sexiest sounds I had ever heard.

“I’m close,” I warned him, digging my fingers in his scalp as his teeth teased against my collarbone.

“Me too,” he said, breaths uneven as he punctuated his words with a series of harsh ruts that sent my eyes rolling into the back of my skull. His fingers found my clit, thumb pressing down hard enough to trigger one of the best orgasms I had experienced in a long time.

I tightened around his stuttering cock, moaning when I could feel his cum deep inside, warm and wet. “Shit, you’re so good at that.”

Chan pulled out slowly, eyes growing wide at the sight of his cum leaking down my ass. “Left a fucking mess though.”

“We can shower later,” I said, grabbing his arm to encourage him to lie down next to me, burying my face against his chest, scarlet-red from the exertion.

“Was the dick that good?” Chan teased, running his fingers soothingly along my spine.

“Your dick is that good,” I replied. “The genetics are strong.”

“I’ll be sure to tell my parents,” Chan said, giggling as I shot him a warning glare. “I love you, sweetie.”

“Mmm, I love you more.”

1 Week Later

Lee Felix is the spawn of the devil and nobody could convince me otherwise. Because ever since we first met, when Chan invited me over to his house for a project, Felix had decided that I was his number one enemy, deeming me “Medusa” because he was enamored with Greek Mythology. But the unfortunate nickname had stuck throughout the years, even when Felix visited our college between breaks, forcing me to sleep on the couch while he shared the bed with his step-brother. 

Recently, Felix had just finished his Master’s program for some kind of fancy Philosophy degree that would probably do him absolutely no good in the real world. But Chan was proud of his baby brother, inviting him to stay with us after graduation until Felix could stand on his own two feet. The decision was met by my instantaneous protest leading to an argument that I inevitably lost because Chan was still using Changbin as a winning point. However, even before my employment with Seo Enterprises, Felix was the cause of at least 95% of our arguments and I was not exaggerating in the slightest.

The sound of the doorbell ringing was suddenly a lot louder than I remember. “Death is here,” I said solemnly, ignoring the way Chan scoffed at my claim. I followed behind him somberly as he opened the door, letting out an excited cheer when he saw Felix waiting on the other side. Felix dropped his bag and practically screamed, which would likely wake up the entire neighborhood, jumping into his brother’s arm as the two embraced right in the middle of my foyer. 

“Could you be any louder?” I snarled at the younger Bang. 

“Maybe I could, Medusa,” Felix shot back, eyes narrowed as he picked up his bag. 

“Come on, Felix,” Chan said, nodding at the kitchen. “I bet you’re hungry.”

Felix nodded, putting on his best smile for his ignorant brother, shoving his bag harshly at my chest as he walked by. “You can take care of that for me, right Medusa?”

“You little bitch,” I muttered, meeting his glare with one of my own.

The only thing worse than going out with Felix was including Han Jisung in the equation. For whatever reason, Jisung and Felix always riled each other up, chugging down alcohol like it was fucking water or something. However, Felix wanted to see Jisung again and Chan never said no to his little brother. This is why I was currently seated next to Chan at a cheesy bar in downtown Harlem, listening to Felix and Jisung try to talk over one another as Chan looked on with fond eyes. The only good part of the night was the fact that even Chan had allowed himself to get a little tipsy which meant he was doing his absolute best to feel me up in public. I always found it amusing, knocking his hand away when his eager fingers started to trail up my skirt.

“Felix,” Jisung whined. “How can you say that?”

“Oi, there’s no way you can put Nickleback and Green Day in the same fucking category.”

I rolled my eyes at the stupid argument, smacking Chan’s hand when he started to finger the waistband of my skirt. “Chan!” Jisung pouted. “Tell him that he’s wrong.”

“Tell the philosophy major that he’s wrong?” Chan asked, accent on full display as he reached out to playfully ruffle Felix’s hair. “You can’t even answer the phone at the receptionist’s desk.”

Felix loved the attention and I hated it when he came over only to occupy Chan’s every waking hour with his never-ending thirst for affection. But I wasn’t going to let him get away with it tonight. I cleared my throat, stretching my arms back behind my head because I knew how good it would make my breasts look in the rather low-cut shirt I had chosen for tonight’s affair. I glanced over at Chan, smiling victoriously when I saw the way his eyes had glued themselves to my chest. Even Han Jisung was looking, which would normally annoy me to no end, but I was putting on my best behavior tonight. “Chan!” Felix shouted, trying to regain his brother’s attention. “Did you hear that I scored the highest honors on my research project?”

And just like that, Chan’s attention was redirected to Satan, eyes glowing with pride. “That’s amazing, Felix!”

“I can tell you all about it,” Felix said arrogantly, tossing me a cocky smile which left me absolutely incensed. “The board was so impressed, they offered to publish my results in the University’s magazine.”

“Are you serious, Felix?” Jisung asked which was an even bigger blow because the only two things occupying Jisung’s thoughts were women and alcohol. 

So I decided to push my luck, tugging down my skirt before shifting over in the booth to plant myself directly on Chan’s lap, wrapping my arms around his neck before nuzzling into his warm chest. “Channie,” I cooed while glaring at Felix from the corner of my eye. 

“Do you want something, sweetie?” Chan asked, smile blinding as one hand wrapped around my waist, leaving the other to tease the bare skin of my thighs. 

I reached for Chan’s beer, shoving the glass at him because nothing made Chan hornier than thighs and alcohol. “Should I come to see you at work tomorrow? Like we talked about before?”

Chan’s eyes lit with recognition and I smirked victoriously when I felt him grow hard in his tight jeans. “I’d really like that.”

And to seal my victory, I leaned forward to kiss my intoxicated husband, ignoring the sloppy way he reciprocated, breath musty with the taste of beer. Felix growled lowly from across the booth and Jisung let out a wolf whistle at our blatant display. But I was on cloud nine, satisfied to have won Chan’s attention because it meant Felix was going to be quite unhappy for the rest of the night.

“Medusa, aren’t you going to make me breakfast?”

I groaned as I glanced over at the alarm clock which informed me that it was only 9:00 AM. “Fuck, Felix, go back to sleep.”

“But I’m hungry,” he whined, reaching across the bed to tug on my arm.

“It’s Saturday,” I hissed, barely clinging to the wonderful promise of more sleep which would do wonders for my hungover state.

“Chan wouldn’t be happy with you,” Felix reminded me. “Should I call him at work?”

“Get out of here you little maggot,” I snapped. “I’ll fix you some damn breakfast.”

“Now!” Felix ordered like he had every right to make demands of me, but I didn’t want Felix to say anything to Chan because that would only lead to another needless argument. 

“You’re a fucking menace,” I said, throwing off my bedsheets while briefly mourning the loss of my precious sleep. But I don’t want anyone to ever say that I was a bad wife, especially when I put up with Lee Felix just to make Chan happy. 

Felix was already seated at the counter when I finally drug myself out of my bedroom, groggily reaching for a clean pan from the cabinet. “You get eggs and bacon,” I told him. “I’m not a gourmet chef.”

“Whatever,” Felix said, ignoring me completely in exchange for his cell phone. Which Chan was now paying for to help “lessen Felix’s financial burden.” 

“Chan,” I remember telling him. “You’ll spoil him if you keep doing things like that. He’ll never want to leave!”

“What’s wrong with that?” Chan had shot back as if the idea of living with his younger brother for the rest of our married life was perfectly acceptable.

“A million things,” I muttered now, cracking one of the eggs against the side of the pan. 

“I hear you’re working for Seo Changbin,” Felix abruptly spoke up, and I could practically feel his eyes on me. “He cheated on you, right?”

“It’s really none of your business,” I informed him brusquely, grabbing a spatula while wondering if I could teach Felix a lesson if I hit him a few times.

“My brother isn’t happy,” Felix continued as if my warning meant nothing to him. Probably because it didn’t. “I think it’s a bad idea, but your satisfaction always comes first, right?”

“Why the fuck did Chan tell you this?” I gritted out while aggressively slamming the fridge closed, pack of bacon gripped tightly in my hand.

“He tells me everything,” Felix said smartly. “Because he trusts me.”

“Good for you,” I huffed over my shoulder. “I’m glad you have such a close relationship with your brother.”

“Jealous?” Felix taunted, expression smug when I roughly placed down a glass in front of him.

“Is orange juice, okay?” I asked him in a faux sweet voice.

“It’s fine,” Felix shrugged. “But whatever is most inconvenient for you.”

“What a sweet little boy you are,” I said, pouring him a generous amount. “How long do you plan on staying here?”

“Chan says I can stay for as long as I want,” Felix said, narrowing his eyes. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”

“Of course not,” I muttered. “Two Bangs are better than one.”

“That’s right,” Felix said brightly, taking a sip from his glass. “Ugh, does this have pulp in it?”

“Drink your fucking orange juice, Felix!”

The invention of video games was a godsend because they could occupy Felix’s attention for hours, leaving me in relative peace as I tried not to let him destroy every last bit of my resolve. I was currently having a bath alone in the sanctity of my bathroom, shoulder-deep in soothing bath salts which I kept well-stocked in the cabinet underneath the sink. The aroma was pleasant, sending me to a place somewhere far away to where Felix’s were strictly prohibited.

For the entirety of the day, Felix had been doing his best to get on my nerves. I cooked him breakfast and lunch, cleaned his disgusting laundry, and even held my tongue when he requested I drive him to the mattress store because the guest bedroom was unsatisfactory. But it had always been like this between us, ever since the day I first met Felix and tried my best to make a good impression. Unfortunately, Felix idolized his older brother, deeming any girl unworthy of his time and efforts, including myself. Of course, above anyone else, Felix thought I was the worst possible choice, reminding me every second that his brother deserved someone smarter, richer, and prettier. 

Suddenly, my phone vibrated loudly on the edge of the bathtub and I hesitantly glanced at the screen, half-expecting to see Felix’s name displayed like a caution sign. Surprisingly, it was Chan who had sent me a message to ask where I was, which meant Felix had lied through his teeth and said I’d gone somewhere. 

To Channie

Bathroom.

It was only a moment or two later when the door opened and Chan stuck his head inside, offering me a pleasant smile as he locked the door behind him. “You’re home early,” I remarked, vacantly staring up at the ceiling.

“It’s Saturday night,” Chan reminded me. “I thought the three of us could go out to eat.”

I groaned in protest. “What about takeout?”

“You love going out,” Chan said. “I’ll even let you pick the restaurant.”

“I have way too many problems right now,” I said. “I’m avoiding them by staying in the water for as long as I can.”

“Sweetie,” Chan said, taking a step closer. “You should’ve waited for me.”

“Why?” I asked him airily. “You’re one of those problems.”

“Me?” Chan asked, choosing to sit down on the edge of the tub. “What did I do wrong?”

“No arguments tonight,” I said, letting out a deep sigh. “This is the most relaxed I’ve been all day.”

“Aren’t you being overdramatic?” Chan asked, reaching down to flick a trail of water in my direction. “I was in surgery for 6 hours today.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve dealt with Felix since 9 this morning.”

“Ah,” Chan sighed. “I figured it had something to do with my brother.”

“Just forget it,” I whined. “You know we don’t get along.”

“I do know that,” Chan said. “But I wish you both made a better effort. We’re family after all.”

I shivered at the idea of Felix belonging to any family of mine. “You can keep him on your side, then. I grew up as an only child, look at how much better I turned out for it.”

“You told me you had imaginary friends growing up because you were so lonely,” Chan teased.

“Asshole,” I muttered. “That’s sensitive information that I told you in confidentiality. You should know all about patient-doctor confidentiality. Didn’t you have a whole lecture on it?”

“Y/N,” Chan lightly chastised, reaching for a towel on the rack next to the counter. “Get dressed, we’re leaving in an hour.”

“You’ve condemned me to death,” I complained, watching through lidded eyes as he stretched out his arms.

“I’m serious, Y/N, at least try to get along for my sake.”

“That’s all I ever do,” I muttered to his retreating form.

Hwang Hyunjin is a willing accomplice to the devil himself who never misses an opportunity to throw out some lascivious comments about my appearance. He was Felix’s best friend and partner in crime, sharing his goal of making my life as miserable as possible. He was also coming out to eat with us tonight and no matter how much I whined to Chan, he remained adamant that Felix should spend some time with his friends. “He’s only young once,” Chan told me, ignoring the way I glared at him with every ounce of hostility that I could muster.

“Did you paint those pants on, Y/N?” Hyunjin asked the minute he sat down in the backseat next to Felix.

“I did, actually, thanks for the unnecessary observation,” I told him shortly, still focused on the staring contest I was having with Felix in the rearview mirror.

“Don’t mind her, she’s probably on her period,” Felix said and I took in a deep breath because I was very close to turning around in my seat to choke the life out of Felix’s pencil neck.

“How have you been, Hyunjin?” Chan asked, one hand on the steering wheel as he calmly navigated us through the permanent traffic of New York.

“I applied for a job with Amazon,” Hyunjin replied. “I don’t wanna brag, but I definitely nailed the interview.”

“Yeah right,” I muttered under my breath. Hyunjin had the worst people skills in the history of mankind. He was almost as incompetent as Han Jisung, but ten times worse because of his sarcastic attitude.

“You’ll get me Amazon Prime for free, right bro?” Felix giggled and I resisted the urge to mock the sound.

“I’m proud of you, Hyunjin,” Chan said. “I know you worked hard.”

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Hyunjin said. “But the chick who interviewed me was really hot and I think I appropriately swept her off her feet.”

“Big tits?” Felix asked because that’s all those stupid boys cared about.

“Of course,” Hyunjin said. “But I’m still waiting for you, Y/N, whenever you’re ready.”

Felix scoffed. “You could do better than Medusa.”

“How about some music?” I snapped loudly, reaching down for the radio knob to block out the sounds of Felix and Hyunjin’s voices.

Monday mornings were the worst thing to ever happen to mankind next to Lee Felix. I was sipping at my morning coffee, cold now because Felix had spent way too much time ordering me around the kitchen before I left home. But it was better than nothing and I desperately needed caffeine to get through the day. “Morning, Y/N,” Changbin greeted me smoothly, suit well-pressed and fitted to hug his arms and thighs just right.

“Sure,” I said in reply, trudging to my chair in slow motion. 

“Are you always this lively in the mornings?” Changbin remarked, leaning against my desk as he looked through his mail.

“Just on Mondays,” I said, booting up my computer so that I could answer the dozens of emails likely waiting for me, most of which would come from annoying sponsors who wanted Changbin to be on their dumb podcast. 

“Well, you still look gorgeous,” Changbin said.

My cheeks flushed at his comment. “You still need to call Mr. Kim back, he’s left another voicemail.”

“Just one call?” Changbin smirked, eyes dancing dangerously. “Have you been scaring everyone off, Y/N?”

“I did just as you asked, sir.”

“You don’t have to call me sir,” Changbin chuckled, carefully engrossed in his cell phone now as he graciously returned to his own office.

I shivered as I glanced at my computer screen. Changbin was still as notoriously flirtatious as he had been when we were younger. In fact, it might be worse now that he had finally grown into his sharper features which made him look ridiculously attractive. “I love Chan, I love Chan,” I quietly repeated to myself, even as a distant memory suddenly forced itself back into consciousness.

An 18-year-old Seo Changbin walking inside my lecture hall wearing a dark button-up tucked into the tightest pair of skinny jeans he probably owned. Every eye in that lecture room had suddenly turned to him because he was an irresistible force, impossible to ignore. “Y/N?” 

Be cool Y/N, I softly chastised myself as I offered him a friendly smile. “Hi, Changbin.”

It was purely coincidental that Changbin had ended up at the same University as me, but that didn’t stop my fragile teenage heart from declaring it as something akin to fate. “It’s been a while,” Changbin said, pulling out the chair next to mine.

I swallowed hard because my mouth was as dry as a desert. “I didn’t know you were enrolled here.”

“It was my first pick,” Changbin said. “My father is an alumnus.”

“Really?” I asked, ignoring the arrival of the professor in exchange for mapping out every single one of Changbin’s gorgeous features.

“This class is just for gen ed,” Changbin said, pushing a hand through his neatly styled black hair.

“Oh, same for me,” I nodded. “I heard it was pretty easy.”

“Is that right?” Changbin asked while flashing me an award-winning smile. Roll out the red carpets because this boy was cool enough to be in an action film co-starring Tom Holland and Ancel Elgort.

But what were we talking about? “I’m majoring in English.”

“Political Science,” Changbin returned. “And Business.”

I deflated a little because, in comparison to my lousy arts degree, Changbin seemed like a certified genius. He would be educated in the art of entrepreneurship and big money while I struggled to comprehend the meaning of Great Expectations. “Have you met anyone else from high school?”

“Not yet,” Changbin said. “What about you?”

“Well, Bang Chan’s enrolled here too...” I started, only to trail off when I realized that Changbin probably had no idea who Chan was since he never paid attention to him in high school. Actually, Changbin would have been more likely to join the football jocks who liked to steal Chan’s stuff only to tie his underwear to the flagpole outside the gym.

“The nerdy Australian kid?” Changbin chuckled. “That sucks.”

“Oh,” was all I could manage since Changbin obviously didn’t know that Chan and I were friends. 

“You don’t hang out with him, do you?” Changbin asked, peering at me closely like I was seconds away from losing the honor of his company.

“We have lunch sometimes,” I said, which was only partially true since I did like to meet up with Chan in the dining hall around 2:00 because it was never crowded. But Changbin didn’t need to know that I had spent the night in Chan’s apartment listening to him record one of his mixtapes because Chan had a newfound interest in music. 

“You could do better,” Changbin sighed. “Hang out with me instead. I’ll treat you to the nicest fast food joint on campus.”

My heart was racing, palms clammy as I nodded my head rapidly. “Lunch?”

“Whatever you want, love,” Changbin said, close proximity knocking every rational thought clean out of my head.

It was like my best fantasy coming to life right before my very eyes, and after our lecture ended I asked Changbin to wait for me while I made a phone call to Chan. “Y/N!” came his cheerful voice from the other end. “Guess who got to dissect a liver today?”

I wrinkled my nose at the nasty image. Chan was studying to enter the medical program which meant a lot of his daily life centered around the human body and all sorts of things that could go wrong with it. “Chan,” I whined. “You’re talking to someone who can’t stand the sight of blood.”

“I know,” Chan sniggered. “Does this mean you’re not gonna want to eat lunch with me today? You know I’ll pay, of course, I got a raise at the cafe.”

“Well,” I started, desperately searching for the right words. “I actually have to meet with my professor for this essay I’ve been having trouble with.”

“No problem,” Chan said. “I’ll bring you takeout for dinner. Doesn’t your roommate have practice tonight?”

I glanced back at Changbin with a guilty conscience. Why did Chan have to be so sweet all the time? “Yeah, that’s fine.”

“No liver talk, I promise,” Chan giggled and I hung up the phone before he could make me feel even worse than I already did.

“You want to get some lunch?” Changbin asked with his hands dug inside his pockets as he stood in front of my desk.

“Like, with me?” I asked warily because I wasn’t sure where the line stood on professionalism when it involves eating with an ex-boyfriend.

“Who else?” Changbin said. “I figured we could use a break from the phone calls.”

“I don’t know...” I answered hesitantly because Chan would probably lose his shit if he discovered I went out anywhere with Changbin.

“It’s not a big deal, Y/N,” Changbin said. “My job is to make sure my employees are well taken care of.”

“I guess,” I sighed, reaching down for my purse on the floor. “One lunch together won’t hurt anything.”

But Changbin seemed awfully smug, patiently waiting for me to gather my belongings, stuffing my phone with an unanswered text from Chan inside my side pocket. It’s almost like the universe was conspiring against me, doing its very best to try and force me into the worst situations possible. Here’s an irrational thought: what if Chan happened to decide to go out for lunch today? He might find me with Changbin and I couldn’t think of a worse scenario. Of course, I suppose it doesn’t necessarily have to be Chan who finds us. For example, if his younger step-brother was to suddenly wander in the building at this very moment...

“Medusa!”

Curse you, universe!

“Felix?” 

“I brought us lunch!” Felix chirped brightly, holding up a picnic basket as he waltzed right up to my desk with far more confidence than necessary.

I blinked my eyes rapidly, unable to process the idea that Felix was standing in the middle of the company’s lobby. “Is it poisoned?” I asked, trying not to alert him to any possible wrongdoing.

Felix ignored me, turning around to face Changbin with a critical gaze. “Seo? Is that you?”

“Felix,” Changbin acknowledged, frowning as if he was the last person on earth he wanted to see, and I could share the sentiment.

“Fuck,” Felix cursed, taking a step back. “You still look really young. I was surprised when Y/N told me you were her new boss.”

“I didn’t tell you that,” I said, opening the flaps of the basket only to let out a disgruntled sigh when I realized he had only brought a bag of chips and a tray of cookies.

“And what are you doing these days?” Changbin asked.

“Freelance work, mostly,” Felix replied as if he really needed to lie to Changbin about his lack of a suitable occupation.

“I forgot what you majored in,” Changbin said. “It was hard to keep up since you changed your concentration like a dozen times.”

I couldn’t hold back my laugh, even when Felix sneered in my direction. “Philosophy.”

“Interesting,” Changbin said, nodding his head. “I’m actually surprised to hear that. You never settled on anything.”

Seo Changbin needed to be careful because his charm points were dramatically increasing the more he mocked my husband’s step-brother. “I actually just finished my Masters.”

“Really?” Changbin said. “This coming from the same boy who used to party with Hwang Hyunjin at all the Fraternities, even if they were on a different campus.”

“It was just Freshman year,” Felix defended himself. 

“Well,” Changbin started, “I’m glad to hear about your graduation. Y/N and I were actually just about to head out to lunch.”

I winced at his words, withering under Felix’s accusing watch. “Is that so?”

Changbin carefully studied the two of us. “I’ll be waiting in my car, Y/N.”

I grabbed my bag while pushing the picnic basket back in Felix’s direction. “I swear to god if you tell Chan about this, I’ll castrate you in your sleep.”

“We’ll see about that,” Felix growled, and that was the moment I realized that I was treading very dangerous waters.

Changbin drove us to a charming restaurant about two blocks away from the main company building. He pulled right up to the sidewalk, handing his keys to the waiting carhop as if he had done this about a thousand times. But I guess that was pretty likely considering just how well-off he was ten years later. “Impressive,” I remarked to him, reluctantly accepting his outstretched hand as he helped me out of his car.

“Yeah?” Changbin said, offering me a wink. “Maybe I’m trying to impress you.”

“You’re a dangerous man, Seo Changbin,” I told him, bowing slightly to the waiting doorman who kindly ushered us inside.

This was why the pretty girls always lusted after Changbin. When we were both still in high school, Changbin epitomized the phrase #BoyfriendGoals because he was super attractive, incredibly smart, and athletic enough to earn himself a shining record after an impressive baseball season. And I was just as mindless as the rest of the zombies chasing him down in the parking lot at school or squealing his name in the hallways between classes.

“I eat here all the time,” Changbin assured me, flashing the hostess a dazzling smile while handing her his card. 

“Right this way, Mr. Seo,” the hostess curtsied, ignoring the long line of waiting patrons who apparently didn’t matter as much as my new boss as she led us to a private table. “Your waitress will be with you shortly.”

“Thank you,” I said politely, eyes wide as I took in the gorgeous chandelier dropping from the high-domed ceiling.

“Close your mouth, Y/N,” Changbin said. “You act like you’ve never been somewhere like this before.”

“Not exactly,” I said because the nicest place Chan had ever taken me was an Olive Garden and that had ended poorly after Chan accidentally knocked his shoulder against a poor server on his way back to the table causing an avalanche of salad and breadsticks.

“Bang should be taking you to places like this all the time,” Changbin commented, perhaps a casual observation to anyone else.

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “Chan and I prefer to keep things low-key.”

“Should I have taken you to Applebees instead?”

“How funny.”

“I’m kidding, Y/N,” Changbin said, reaching down to adjust the buttons on his coat sleeve. “You’ve changed a lot since college.”

“Since we dated you mean?” I asked with an arched brow.

“Well,” Changbin started, “if you want to think of it like that.”

“Hmmm,” I briefly meditated, studying Changbin’s expression carefully. “How else should I think about it.”

Changbin tsked, raising a hand to signal for a nearby waiter. “I don’t mean to suggest anything.”

The waiter approached our table with purposed steps. “How may I help you, sir?”

“A wine menu?” Changbin asked, nodding generously when the waiter returned with his requested selection. 

“You make a beautiful couple,” the waiter gushed while he pulled out a thick leather wallet, flipping to a fresh page.

“Oh! We’re not-”

“-A bottle of pinot noir, please,” Changbin said, returning the menu without bothering to correct the waiter’s observation.

“Right away, sir,” the waiter agreed.

I held my tongue until he was further away, bothering an older couple who were probably complaining about something to do with their food. “Changbin,” I warned him. “You should be careful.”

“It was a harmless mistake,” Changbin said. “How can I possibly come between you and Bang?”

I worried my bottom lip between my teeth because it sounded less like a dismissal and more like a challenge.

The sun was already setting by the time I returned home thanks to one of Changbin’s business partners who refused to leave the office building until they had a chance to speak to him. I was low on patience, tired from an exhausting day of dealing with telemarketers insisting our company needed the latest software for our clientele. There was only a limited number of times I could tell somebody to fuck off before inevitably shouting into the other end that I was in no way interested in whatever useless product they were trying to shove down my throat, complete with some kind of scammy discount and an opportunity to be represented on their website.

To make matters worse, my feet were blistered from wearing heels all day and my shoulders ached from slouching over my computer to answer emails and monitor the progress of Changbin’s latest project. My only saving grace was the message Chan had sent me earlier telling me that he had already clocked out at work, which meant I could probably guilt him into giving me one of his trademarked messages. I mean, all I wanted to do was curl up next to Chan in bed and sleep for the rest of the day.

But it looked like my desires would have to wait because as soon as I unlocked the door to the house, I could immediately sense that something was wrong. Taking a deep breath, I cautiously walked into the living room to find Chan and Felix busy with some kind of video game on our HD TV, volume high until I walked in the room. Chan waited until I called his name, reaching for the remote to mute the TV before tossing his controller onto the coffee table. From across the room, Felix’s eyes were alight with mischief.

“How was work today?” Chan asked with a tone that I only ever heard when my husband was feeling particularly pissed off about something, and I had a sneaking suspicion it involved me in some capacity.

“It was fine,” I said, deciding to play it safe while I kept my complaints to myself.

Felix smirked in my direction, whistling to himself as he reached for his game controller. “Felix told me something interesting today.”

“Oh did he?” I asked, wondering just how much pain Felix could tolerate if I marched over to him right now and hit him with an umbrella.

“He said he tried to have lunch with you.”

“I was busy.”

“With Seo Changbin?”

Felix was definitely going to die tonight. That little snitch deserved every ounce of punishment I was starting to formulate inside my head. “He invited me out instead.”

“I got that,” Chan snapped and I knew my husband was in a foul mood. I’m talking about the kind of mood that usually sent me scampering for the safety of the bunkers. Like the time some drunk asshole rear-ended Chan’s precious convertible while we were sitting in downtown traffic. Or the time when we were Freshmen in college and Chan confronted Changbin after finding out that he had been cheating on me.

But this time the problem was me which meant I couldn’t just hide from Chan and wait for things to go back to normal. “Honey,” I attempted to reassure him. “It was just lunch.”

“Yeah? But that doesn’t seem like keeping things strictly professional to me, Y/N.”

“He’s my boss now, I can’t just tell him no.”

“Actually, you can,” Chan disagreed, now refusing to look at me. “How would you like it if I ate with my new superintendent?”

“Depends on if she offered to pay or not.”

“Y/N.”

“Chan,” I pouted. “I’m really sorry! He just surprised me.”

“It makes me wonder what else you might be doing with him,” Chan snarked.

Meanwhile, Felix calmly continued to play his video game while wearing the biggest shit-eating grin. “Are you accusing me of having an affair?”

“Why not?” Chan shrugged. “Since we’re keeping secrets from each other.”

“It was just one lunch,” I shouted. “He’s never done anything like this before. Most of the time I’m alone in the lobby taking his stupid phone calls.”

“And that’s all I should ever hear about,” Chan growled. 

“You’re making this into a bigger deal than it needs to be,” I scoffed, rolling my eyes before remembering just how much Chan hated it when I did that to him.

“Y/N,” Chan addressed me sternly, deciding to abandon his seat on the couch to crowd me in the foyer. “If this was anyone else, I wouldn’t make it into a bigger deal, but this is someone you used to fuck while running around campus bragging about it to everyone who would listen...which was usually me!”

“He doesn’t mean anything to me,” I said. “I already told you that!”

“You’ve said a lot of things recently,” Chan said. “I’m not sure what to believe anymore.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s your brother’s fault since he’s always looking to cause a fight between us,” I said, glaring at Felix while he continued to play the part of the perfect little angel that Chan always considered him.

“Don’t drag Felix into this, he has nothing to do with anything!”

“Oh, don’t be stupid, Chan,” I huffed. “We fight more about Felix than we do about Changbin.”

“Stupid?!”

Oh, Jesus, Y/N, when are you going to learn to watch your big mouth? “Channie, I’m tired of fighting all the time. I feel like we’re always fighting.”

“Yeah? Well, you give me a lot of reasons to stay mad at you.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I groaned. “We never fought this much when we were dating.”

“Is that so? You think our marriage is the problem?”

I froze at his implications. At this point, Felix might as well drag out a bucket of popcorn because this was probably the most interesting drama he had watched all year. “Chan, you can’t honestly believe that.”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Chan said, shaking his head. “But maybe I’ll give you some time to think about it.”

“Chan!” I whined, fighting back tears as I watched him turn his back on me. For the first time since we had met, Chan was leaving an argument unresolved, choosing to lock himself away in our bedroom while I struggled to keep myself together in the middle of our foyer. 

“Goodbye, Y/N,” Felix whispered into the silent room, waving his fingers at me because he had gotten exactly what he wanted.

Felix’s birthday often turned into a multiple-day affair because he always wanted the best that money could buy. Since Chan and I still weren’t speaking to one another, Chan was taking the brunt of party preparations which meant Felix was practically over the moon with excitement. And why shouldn’t he be? He hit the metaphorical jackpot because he somehow got me in the doghouse while he soaked up all of Chan’s attention. 

“Y/N,” Felix whined. “My toast is burnt!”

“Sorry,” I murmured softly, taking his plate even though the bread looked perfectly fine. Meanwhile, Chan chose not to say a word, heavily engrossed in his laptop and doing his absolute best to pretend I was invisible. 

“What about this, Felix?” he asked, tilting his laptop screen so that his brother could see whatever it was that probably cost hundreds of dollars. On the other hand, I couldn’t even find the courage to ask Chan for his credit card so that I could replace the broken stool at our counter.

“That’s perfect, Channie!” Felix grinned, hanging off his brother’s shoulder like the little pest he was. 

Our Amazon shopping cart was steadily filling with Felix’s party supplies. But I guess it was just Chan’s account now since he had changed the password without telling me. I tried to order a new curtain for the bathroom, only to repeatedly watch the warning screen pop-up with every refresh of the page. “Who do you want at your party?” Chan asked Felix.

“Hyunjin, Jisung...” Felix started, listing out each name while I winced every time because our house would probably end up completely trashed at this rate.

“Whatever you want,” Chan said, apparently forgetting the last time Jisung came over only to break one of my grandmother’s expensive vases. Since it was my stuff, he probably didn’t care. “I have to leave soon,” Chan said, wordlessly clicking on the ‘place your order ’ button before logging off.

“Will you be gone all day again?” Felix pouted, jutting out his bottom lip and offering his very best puppy dog eyes.

23-years-old my ass.

“I’ll do my best,” Chan promised his brother. “Do you need anything while I’m out.”

“More chocolate cereal?”

10-years-old more likely.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Chan cooed to Felix, ruffling his hair before snatching his coat from my outstretched hand, refusing to even acknowledge my existence. 

Felix waited until Chan was gone to lean in across the counter. “You two are so cute, Medusa.”

“I fucking hate you,” I said, aggressively attacking the grease stain on the stainless steel pot I was currently washing.

“Whatever,” Felix shrugged. “Will you ask Minho to come to my birthday party?”

“There’s not a fucking chance in hell that I’m asking him,” I snapped.

“Why?” Felix posed the question as if he felt absolutely no shame. “I like Minho and I want him to be there.”

“Fuck off,” I retorted, drying my hands against the rough texture of the dishtowel.

Felix sniffled, reaching for his phone and holding it up to his ear. “Channie? Yeah, Y/N was being really mean to me-”

“-Jesus, fine, I’ll ask him,” I quickly interrupted the little Devil. “How old are you turning again?”

“24!” Felix grinned. 

“Then act like it,” I muttered while dialing Minho’s number.

There were only two rings before he answered. “It’s too early on Saturday for this bullshit, Y/N,” came Minho’s pleasant voice from the other end.

“You sleep too much anyway,” I returned. “I have something to ask you.”

“It better be pretty fucking important.”

“Will you come to Felix’s stupid birthday party this Friday?” I asked him, ignoring Felix’s bright smile as he tried to listen in on our conversation.

“Did you buy booze?”

“I’m sure Chan will buy the little bastard all the booze he wants,” I said, pushing Felix out of the way.

“What time?” Minho asked. “I’m a very busy man, Y/N.”

“The hell you are,” I snorted. “9:00 PM. Don’t be late! I’ll be the pathetic piece of trash sitting on the couch alone.”

“It’s about time you learn, Y/N,” Felix remarked, giggling when I threw the dishtowel at him.

“Still in trouble with hubby?” Minho asked. “I hear you have to stay separated for a year before the courts grant divorces these days.”

“You’re an asshole,” I said. “Should I put you down on the guest list?”

“Of course,” Minho said. “Underlined because I’m a VIP”

I hung up on him before he could dig his grave any deeper.

“Don’t burn that,” Felix scolded me, hovering by my side to play the part of Gordon Ramsay while I sweated my ass off to cook everything on his stupid party menu.

“It’s not burnt,” I grumbled. 

“I hope you’re not wearing that to my party,” Felix said, casting a critical eye over my outfit. 

I reached down to adjust the waistband of my skirt. “What’s wrong with it?”

“This is a classy party, Y/N, and you look like a hooker.”

“Go help your brother or something,” I said, doing my best to be nice since it was Felix’s birthday. I could manage some form of kindness even if he didn’t deserve it.

“Chan’s fine,” Felix waved me off even though I was certain I saw Chan struggling to hang up lights on the balcony just moments ago when I went to change my clothes.

I glanced at the clock above the stove. “Your fellow party animals will be here soon.”

“You’re not cool enough for those references,” Felix told me as he straightened his tie. 

“I wasn’t trying to be,” I said, wiping my forehead with a nearby towel. My makeup was probably smeared but I didn’t care. Who was I hoping to impress anyway? The only person I dressed up for was Chan and he could care less about my appearance.

And it was only a few minutes later when the doorbell started to ring. I took a deep breath to try and reassure myself that I could make it through tonight without another Advil. “Someone’s here!” Felix squeaked, knocking his shoulder against mine in his haste to answer the door.

“No matter who it is, I’ll still be in hell,” I muttered, closing my eyes when I recognized Hyunjin’s voice mixing with Felix’s.

“Y/N!” Hyunjin sang, poking his head in the kitchen as if he owned the place. “There you are! Looking all pretty for us.”

“That was the goal,” I half-heartedly quipped back, turning off the stove once I declared Felix’s stupid Tteok-bokki cooked enough.

“Your legs look good,” Hyunjin said, abruptly leaning in closer. “Are you even wearing anything under that skirt?”

“Hyunjin!” Felix shouted his friend’s name from the living room. “Come check out the decorations.”

Hyujin blew a kiss in my direction, tossing me a poor excuse for a wink. “Bye, Y/N!”

Maybe one more Advil wouldn’t hurt.

The party was in full swing by the time Minho finally arrived, greeting Felix with some kind of cheesy handshake. It was too late for me and I had already resigned myself to the futon of isolation in the living room, mourning the loss of one of my good dishes thanks to Han Jisung deciding to request something fancier than our regular set. “Sorry, Y/N,” Jisung had apologized. “I’m sure you can easily replace it.”

“Yeah, I’m sure my dead grandmother has another lying around somewhere,” I snarled in his direction, ignoring his wide-eyed look of disbelief as I searched for the broom.

Minho eventually finished his conversation with Felix, offering me a sympathetic look while occupying the last remaining chair. “Y/N?”

“Oh, I’m doing just fine,” I told him.

“You look miserable,” Minho informed me, throwing up his feet on my glass coffee table even though I had told him countless times before to keep his dirty socks on the floor.

“Chan hates me,” I said. “Felix is happy.”

“Ah,” Minho nodded. “Trouble in paradise?”

“It’s all Felix’s fault,” I sniped. “He found out I went to lunch with Changbin and told Chan because he knew it would lead to an argument.”

“He still doesn’t like you?” Minho snorted as if the idea were amusing.

“Felix has hated me since the beginning of time. He was brought to this Earth to cause me misery.”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” Minho said. “Where is Chan, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” I sighed. “If he wasn’t with Felix, then you might want to check the balcony. I think I saw him sneaking the Advil bottle out there earlier.”

Minho snickered. “You don’t even realize it, but you two are grossly similar. I’m sure Chan would have preferred a quiet dinner out somewhere.”

“Well, Felix always gets what he wants,” I said. “It’s been this way since high school.”

Minho considered me for a moment. “In his defense, Chan has always been Felix’s best friend. They’ve been attached at the hip since they were kids, but then you came into the picture. Suddenly, Chan isn’t as interested in spending all his time with Felix any more.”

“Are you saying I need to find Felix a girlfriend?”

“Y/N,” Minho said softly. “I’m just saying, maybe you need to think about things from Felix’s perspective for once. You were an only child, so you can’t understand what it means to share a close relationship with a brother.”

“Hmm, well you’re like a brother to me,” I teased him.

“Ugh,” Minho gagged. “You’ve had my dick in your mouth before, Y/N, please never say that again.”

“I was trying to be sweet,” I said. “But you ruined it.”

“Did I?” Minho smirked, glancing up at something behind me. “Are you having a good time, Felix?”

“We’re out of beer,” Felix interrupted, face suddenly mere inches from mine. 

“You shouldn’t drink like a fish.”

“Medusa,” Felix tried again, holding out a ring of car keys. “Make yourself useful and buy us some more beer.”

I rolled my eyes but acquiesced. “Whatever you want, your majesty.”

I hated winter in New York City because the sidewalks were icy all the time and I was constantly in danger of rolling my ankle. Nevertheless, I tolerated the snow and wind by trading my heels for rain boots and wrapping my body in the thickest coat I owned. Normally, I might consider walking to the convenience store, but tonight I knew my fingers would be nothing but frozen icicles if I attempted that perilous journey.

Thankfully, the traffic was fairly light this late at night which allowed a relatively quick drive to the store, parking my corvette at the sidewalk. I walked inside with a muffled greeting to the store attendant, searching down the aisle to where the beer was stocked in the freezers. “He didn’t even tell me what he wanted,” I scoffed, deciding on the expensive Corona from the bottom shelf since Felix always liked things more when they cost a lot of money.

“Having a party?” the store attendant joked, accepting my debit card after ringing up the cases. 

“Something like that,” I said, wondering if that was always his assumption if someone bought more than one bottle of the nasty smelling beverage.

Meanwhile, it had started snowing again when I walked back outside, popping the trunk to store the beer until I finally returned home. I switched on the ignition and turned on the heat to its fullest setting before sitting back in my seat to wrap my arms around myself, fighting off a series of chills. The action reminded me of Junior Year when Chan and I used to make late-night trips to the gas station near his apartment complex. We’d buy all sorts of unnecessary snacks, driving back together because we had planned a movie marathon of Harry Potter. Chan always complained about the films I liked, but he watched them anyway because he knew I enjoyed them.

I came to a stop at a red light, frowning when I noticed that nobody was coming in either direction. “Change already,” I ordered the traffic light as if it could possibly accommodate my request. 

“I’ll teach you patience, Y/N,” Chan once told me after we waited nearly an hour in a heavy downpour outside the comic book shop because he just had to have some kind of rare edition figurine.

The traffic light eventually turned green and I rolled out into the intersection, never noticing the reckless SUV until mere seconds before it crashed into the side of my car.

I had the worst luck in the world when it came to relationships. First, there was my tired rendezvous with Minho in high school, blowing my best friend in the bathroom because he’d always fuck me with his fingers afterward. Then, there was that slimy bastard Seo Changbin who I willingly gave my virginity to, thinking he was the love of my life. That was before I found out he was cheating on me with some sleazy cheerleader thanks to a couple of photos surfacing on Facebook. My heart was instantly broken, pride in shambles as I spent an entire week hiding out in my dormitory ignoring all phone calls and text messages as I cried over a boy who never deserved my attention in the first place.

I plucked a few strands of grass from the ground next to my feet, savoring the first taste of sunlight I had allowed myself since that unfortunate discovery. Who the hell did Seo Changbin think he was anyway? Playing with my heart like that as if it meant absolutely nothing to him. 

At least I wasn’t sad anymore, having spent enough time crying over the destructive boy. Now, all I could think about was smacking that stupid smug grin off his face while thoroughly purging my built-up frustrations...“Y/N?”

I turned around quickly at the sound of Chan’s voice, rising to my feet to brush the loose grass and dirt from my jeans. “Channie,” I said, nervously wringing my hands in front of me. Chan was probably mad at me since I had been ignoring him all week.

“Are you okay?” he asked instead, tone surprisingly gentle as he stopped in front of me.

“Not really,” I told him honestly.

“I didn’t think so,” Chan said, features hardening. “I’ll beat the shit out of Seo for you.”

I shook my head. “That won’t do any good.”

“But if it makes you feel better,” Chan said, reaching out to delicately swipe his thumb under my eyes. “You aren’t sleeping.”

It was more of a statement rather than a question, but I still felt the need to reassure him. “I promise that I’m okay.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Chan said, offering me a kind smile. “I can tell, you know?”

“Yeah you’re good at that,” I groused. 

“I’m pretty good at a lot of things when it comes to you,” Chan admitted, eyes holding a pure kind of affection as they appraised me.

“I’m glad I have you,” I said, letting out a sigh as I allowed my head to rest against the center of his chest. “You don’t think I’m stupid for trying things out with Changbin?”

“You’ve always liked him,” Chan said with a bitter tone that sounded more like a jealous lover rather than a friend.

I chose not to say anything. “I hope the two of them make each other miserable.”

Chan chuckled. “Is this your form of revenge?”

“I don’t think it’ll work out in my favor,” I said, pressing myself even closer to Chan, pausing when my hand drug across his stomach. “Holy shit, Channie, you weren’t kidding about the gym.”

“Did you not believe me?”

“Who are you trying to impress?” I grinned, propping my chin against his sternum to make it easier to look into his eyes.

“It’s always been the same person,” Chan said vaguely, dimples on display as he considered me. “I hope Seo didn’t destroy your faith in relationships.”

“It wouldn’t be entirely his fault,” I sighed. “All my relationships have been complete failures.

“Y/N,” Chan whispered, brushing a light kiss across my forehead. “Maybe it’s because you’ve never tried the right guy.”

The memory was laced with something warm, an association that stood in stark contradiction to my current condition, slowly opening my eyes to a pulsing room, somehow much too bright for my pupils to adjust. Was I alive? I wondered because I couldn’t really feel anything which was certainly disarming. But then there was a familiar smell, rancid and burning, and it made me feel like I was definitely not in any sort of happy afterlife. There was also the problem of the blurry figure slowly coming into focus next to me, fiddling with an array of wires twisting together with the sounds of a machine distantly clicking in the background. I watched through hooded eyes as the now perceivable person in question handled an impressively large needle, pinching my skin painfully at the juncture of my elbow. 

“Han Jisung,” I began, startling him from where he was checking the IV. “Just put a fucking needle into my arm. What hellish realm have I descended into?”

“Y/N!” Jisung squealed loudly, leaning down to press a sloppy kiss against my forehead. 

“What the hell was that for?”

“For not dying,” Jisung sighed in relief. “When you came in, there was nothing but blood and glass everywhere!... Oh, and Chan may or may not have a fine against him for beating the living shit out of the asshole that hit you.”

“Why are you so loud?” I groaned, palming my forehead because the room was still swimming into focus. “What happened?”

“You probably don’t remember,” Jisung said. “It was a pretty bad concussion, but you were in a car accident.”

“I was?” I questioned, struggling to recall anything past a few minutes ago when I first realized that incompetent Han Jisung was sticking pointy objects into my veins.

“Chan was so upset,” Jisung said. “He wanted to do the surgery, but the superintendent wouldn’t let him.”

“Surgery?” I repeated. “I had surgery?”

“Cuz’ of your ribs,” Jisung said quietly as if finally realizing that he probably shouldn’t be saying all this to me at once, especially if the persistent beeping of the heart monitor was something to be concerned about.

“What’s wrong with my ribs?” I asked, somewhat panicking as I felt down my chest, noticing the thick bandage wrapped around my upper body. 

“Chill, Y/N,” Jisung placated, reaching around me to adjust the monitor. “Now I can’t get an accurate reading!”

“So sorry to inconvenience you,” I said with a hoarse voice, reaching up to quickly wrap my hand around my throat. “Is there something wrong with my voice?”

“Well, you’ve been out for three days so...”

“Three days!”

Now I was definitely panicking, full-on hysteria as the heart monitor loudly detected the irregular contraction of the muscle thundering aggressively against my chest. It was enough to alert the doctor on duty, walking into my room to check on his patient, scolding Jisung harshly as he filled a syringe with a clear liquid. “Don’t worry, Y/N,” he said kindly, injecting the fluid into my IV. “Just relax.”

My eyelids fluttered closed, overwhelmed by a disjointed sense of calm that gradually pulled me back under the current of drug-induced bliss.

“Sweetie.”

My eyes flew open at the sound of his voice, the best wake-up call in the whole world. I slowly turned my head to the side, taking in the sight of my disheveled husband, eyes blood-shot with heavy dark bags haunting tight circles against his pale skin. “Channie?”

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Chan sniffled, fresh tears swelling his cheeks as he leaned in closer to grip tightly to my hand. “It’s all my fault.”

I considered him closely, wondering what he could possibly mean by accepting blame for whatever was causing him obvious pain. I faintly remember Jisung telling me about am accident, but it was difficult to really think back any further, like a wall had enclosed around my brain, refusing to allow anything else to come into consciousness. But Chan didn’t need to cry, he was usually the best part of my life, waking up in bed together to share sweet kisses or eagerly waiting for him to come home and swoon over my newest K-Drama obsession. “Why are you sad?” I asked him, reaching out to do my best and wipe away those nasty tears.

“You wouldn’t answer your phone,” Chan cried, heart-wrenching sobs that broke my heart with every heavy inhale. “I didn’t know where you were.”

“Is that why you’re upset?” I asked, wiping away a few mischievous curls that had wandered into his eyes. 

“I found you in the intersection,” Chan whispered. “And the car...” he trailed off with a choking gasp as if the details were too horrific to describe. 

“I’m here now, Channie,” I said, desperate to relieve his sadness. “I didn’t go anywhere.”

Chan nodded furiously, pressing a wet kiss to the back of my hand. “I can’t lose you like that, sweetie.”

“Well, I plan to stick around for a while,” I said, earning me a half-smile in return. “Channie,” I whispered, glancing around the room conspiratorially. “Is there anything good to eat in this place?”

This time Chan did laugh and it was the best medicine I could possibly have.

“Vitals?” Chan asked, lingering around the poor nurse who clearly wasn’t expecting this much attention over one patient when she clocked in this morning.

“I already checked them,” the nurse informed him, writing down something on the chart clipped to the edge of my bed. I sipped my water as I watched the two of them, wondering if Chan had been this overbearing the entire time.

“Temperature?”

“98 degrees.”

“Blood pressure?”

“122/75”

“Respiration?”

“Chan,” I whispered softly, immediately drawing my husband’s attention who was at my side in an instant. “I think the nurse knows how to do her job.”

The poor woman shot me a grateful smile as she re-clipped my chart, hurrying out of the room as if she couldn’t possibly escape fast enough. “Sorry,” Chan said, taking his seat next to me. “I’m just worried.”

“I get discharged tomorrow,” I told him. “Pretty sure that means I’m just fine.”

“But your leg,” Chan whined, fussily messing with the large cast, tucking the blankets in securely.

“It’ll heal,” I said, frowning as I picked at the squishy jello the nursing staff had brought in earlier. “Isn’t there anything else to eat?”

Chan tsked. “That’s good for you, Y/N. It’s full of necessary vitamins.”

I should have known better than to ask my doctor husband if I could possibly have something that actually had flavor to eat. No matter how much I begged and pleaded, Chan refused to waver from the nasty daily meals I was brought, much to my disappointment. “I’d kill for a burger.”

“Too much fat,” Chan said, turning down the idea before I could possibly try to negotiate.

“It physically hurts me to eat,” I tried. “I think they’re secretly plotting my death.”

“Y/N,” Chan scolded lightly. “There’s a reason why we serve this to patients, alright?”

I frowned at him but shoved a spoonful of the nasty substance in my mouth, earning me a pleased smile in response. “Happy?”

“You can have better food tomorrow,” Chan said, pausing as he reached down to check his phone notifications. “Minho is here,” he grumbled. “I guess I’ll go get him from the lobby before he gets lost.”

“Thank you, darling,” I chirped, accepting his brief kiss.

“I’ve seen worse,” Minho declared, ignoring Chan’s disbelieving scoff. 

“You obviously weren’t here when she was first brought in,” Chan growled to him.

“How are you feeling, Y/N?” Minho asked, disregarding Chan who had gone back to check the dozens of machines somehow monitoring my every possible bodily function.

“Hungry,” I grimaced, pointing to my discarded container.

Minho lifted it curiously, bringing it his nose before he let out an unattractive grunt. “Is this garbage?”

“Don’t encourage her,” Chan said, reaching for my chart for the millionth time that day. “I’ll be right back, Y/N.”

“Okay,” I said, rolling my eyes once his back was turned.

I waited until Chan was gone before desperately reaching out for Minho. “You’ve got to help me, Minho! I can’t stand another day of jello and mashed potatoes. Get me a Big Mac and I’ll give you the number of one of my work acquaintances.”

 Minho raised an interested brow. “Scale?”

“Oh, she’s definitely an 8...please!”

“That’s impossible to turn down, Y/N,” Minho grinned. “Give me ten minutes.”

I snatched his sleeve before he could walk away. “Make sure Chan doesn’t see.”

“So ask Han Jisung to fuck something up, got it.”

“You’re my best friend in the entire world. The rest of my life will be spent in your servitude.”

Minho offered me a brief salute and I solemnly nodded my head while ignoring the way my stomach growled.

It was growing dark outside and I’m pretty sure Jisung had accidentally given me too much of whatever pain medicine I had been prescribed. I could barely keep my eyes open as Chan settled next to me on his chair. “Y/N,” he said softly, picking at an invisible string on his suit pants. “I want to talk to you about the fight we had.”

My exhaustion vanished in a flash. “Okay,” I said, even though I had been hoping Chan would just forget that the fight even happened.

“I owe you an apology,” Chan said. “For acting like a jealous prick. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

“It’s my fault too,” I said. “I know how you feel about him, but I still went out anyway.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Chan said, swallowing down the lie even though I could always read him like a book. “But every time I think about Seo Changbin, I can’t help but remember Freshman year.”

“You act like he broke your heart instead,” I tried to joke, but Chan was everything but amused.

“Yeah, he did break your heart, Y/N, and I’ll never forgive him for it. He was an arrogant bastard back then, and I’m sure that hasn’t changed much.”

“Not really,” I agreed, recalling our prior lunch arrangement.

“And I’ll never be okay with the fact that you work with your ex-boyfriend, but since you love the job so much, I can’t possibly fight with you anymore,” Chan said. “I should trust you as my wife.”

“I’m not remotely interested in Changbin,” I said. “It just sucks that he’s got good connections.”

“But if he tries anything on you...”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured him. “I would never do anything to hurt you, even if his thighs look super good these days.”

“Y/N.”

“I know, Channie,” I giggled, reaching for his hand. “Trust me, alright? I don’t plan to work there forever. Fingers crossed for a promotion to the publisher.”

“I’ll pray every night if I have to,” Chan said. “As for Felix...”

“Don’t worry about him,” I said. “I know that I should try harder to get along with Felix.”

“It’s a two-way street,” Chan countered. “I’ve spoken to him about everything.”

“You have?” I wavered. “What did he say?”

“Well, he feels really bad about the accident,” Chan said. “I think he realizes how much better things would be if you guys were on friendlier terms.”

“He really looks up to you,” I said, recalling Minho’s words from before. “I hope he doesn’t feel like I’m trying to steal you away.”

“Felix and I have always been close,” Chan said. “We both had a hard time moving here from Australia. But at the end of the day, we could rely on each other..”

“High school wasn’t very good to either of you,” I said.

“Well, except for you of course,” Chan said, attempting a smile. 

“They were mean to you, Channie,” I said, “and you didn’t deserve any of it.”

“I’ve gotten over that,” Chan insisted. “But Felix always took everything harder than me. He wasn’t very social until college.”

“He should have stuck to being an introvert,” I said. “Look at the kind of friends he ended up with.”

“Are you saying Hyunjin is a bad influence?”

“Have you been around for our interactions?

“I’ve definitely noticed, Y/N. Remember what happened that one time when we went camping-”

“Anyways,” I loudly interrupted. “It seems like we both have a lot of things to work on.”

“But that’s why we talk about it,” Chan said, pressing a soothing kiss to the wrinkled crease of my forehead. “That’s what married couples do, right?”

“Ah, Channie, when did you become a walking cliche?”

“Should I be more serious, then?”

“You’re getting there with the doctor’s jacket.”

“Really?” Chan asked, sitting back in his chair. “Is this your way of asking us to try some kind of kinky roleplay?”

“I don’t know, but it might be interesting. Can I call you Dr. Bang?”

Chan was positively beaming. “You can always call me Daddy instead.”

“Darling, I think they accidentally gave you my prescription of morphine.”

If anyone were to ever ask me, then I’d tell them that signing hospital discharge papers was about as difficult as applying for a loan. “How many more are there?” I wondered, scribbling a messy signature at the bottom of the last sheet Jisung had brought for me to sign.

“I think that’s it.”

“You think?” I snorted, watching Jisung sort through each page carefully like he really had no idea what he was holding.

“Each year they add more shit for the patients,” Jisung explained. “I’m pretty sure they do it just to confuse me.”

“Everything confuses you, Jisung,” I said, patting his arm sympathetically. “Has Chan come in yet?”

“He’s on his way with Felix.”

“Goodie,” I grumbled. “Are you working late today?”

“Someone has to help since Chan insists on taking the day off,” Jisung said.

“I hope they aren’t planning on letting you do the surgeries.”

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

I kept my mouth shut, deciding to let Jisung live in his deluded fantasy world where he could somehow manage to cure patients of their ailments as opposed to causing them. Unsurprisingly, since the moment I had first met him, Jisung had always been completely sure of himself even if he was whole-heartedly wrong. For example, when we were all seniors in college, Chan refused to speak to Jisung for an entire week after the two of them received an F on their group project. Apparently, Jisung forgot to submit the lab report on time and waited an additional week before approaching the professor to politely ask if he could still bring it to her after class.

“Channie,” I tried to console him. “You know Jisung didn’t do it on purpose.”

“Yeah, but my GPA will still suffer the consequences,” Chan had sulked, whining about how difficult it was to maintain a friendship with Han Jisung.

Yet, when Chan was first hired by the hospital, Chan sent in a very persuasive reference for Jisung, encouraging the higher-ups to offer him a nursing position. The three of us went out to celebrate Jisung’s new job offer, nursing shots of bad vodka while eating rather terrible sushi. “Chan,” a very tipsy Jisung had said. “I love you so much, man.”

“Oi, keep your hands to yourself,” Chan had grouched despite wearing the biggest grin on his face...

“Y/N,” Jisung interrupted my recollection. “I think Chan just got here.”

“Finally,” I sighed. “I thought I would never be able to get the smell of alcohol out of my nose.”

“Thank God you’re here,” I said the moment Chan and Felix walked into my hospital room. “I’m pretty sure I had to sign my life away to leave this place, but it’s totally worth it.”

Chan rolled his eyes playfully. “I see you’re feeling better this morning.”

“I’ve been better for days,” I said. “But my doctor wouldn’t allow me to so much as breathe the wrong way.”

“Is that so?” Chan asked, reaching down for my discarded bag. “Your doctor sounds like a real asshole.”

“Yeah, but he’s pretty hot. I’d totally fuck him if I wasn’t already married.”

“It sounds like you have a thing for doctors?” Chan asked. “Does this husband of yours know that?”

“He probably does,” I said. “But I feel like he’ll probably leave me to masturbate on my own for months because of this dumb cast.”

“Y/N,” Chan scoffed. “It’s important for you to heal properly.”

I groaned loudly. “Why are you so responsible?”

Chan carefully handed me my bag. “Make sure you have everything. I’m going to talk to your surgeon one more time before we leave.”

It was difficult to prevent myself from protesting, finally realizing just how quiet it was with just me and Felix in the room. “Hi, Felix,” I said, awkwardly adjusting my blankets once Chan had disappeared from sight.

“Y/N,” Felix said, gaze focused on some unidentifiable point on the floor.

“What have you been up to?” I asked, trying to sound cheery because I didn’t like the look of despondence on Felix’s normally bright visage.

“I owe you an apology, Y/N,” Felix said with a vulnerable tone I had never heard from him before. “It’s because of me that you got hurt.”

“Felix,” I hesitated because this was uncharted territory for the both of us, a distant cry from our usual taunting banter. “You don’t need to do that. Everything’s fine now.”

“Your leg,” Felix whispered as an unexpected tear slid down the side of his face.

“It’s just a fracture,” I shrugged. “I’ll be just fine in a few months.”

“Just a fracture,” Felix parroted back, voice thick with emotion. “Why aren’t you mad at me? Because you should be. I’m always getting in your way.”

“Is that what you think?” I asked, surprised to hear Felix’s true feelings. “Felix, you aren’t in anybody’s way. You know I don’t really care that you’re staying with us, especially after you just graduated. I just wish you’d be a little bit more respectful.”

“Because I’ve always been jealous of you, Y/N,” Felix said. “Especially since Chan likes you more than me.”

“Felix, you know that Chan loves you. He would do anything in the world to make you happy.”

“He’s always chosen you over me,” Felix said. “He stopped hanging out with me on weekends in high school, and he even went to the same college as you even though he was accepted into Harvard and Yale.”  

I was shocked by Felix’s true feelings, a rare moment of vulnerability that he was choosing to share with me. “Lixie,” I said. “Why have you never said anything before?”

Felix shivered at my use of his nickname. “I didn’t want to. You guys are so happy together and I didn’t want to hurt Chan.”

“Ya! Felix,” I frowned, “your feelings matter too. And if you really feel that way, then we need to talk about it together.”

“I’m just a burden,” Felix gruffed.

“No, you aren’t,” I insisted. “You’re part of our family, and if you’re ever feeling uncomfortable, then you deserve to be heard.”

“You don’t really mean that do you, Y/N?” Felix asked with glistening eyes. “I don’t want you to say these things just to make me feel better.”

“Felix, when have you ever seen me lying to someone just to protect their feelings?” I asked. “I always speak my mind, and this time I’m putting my foot down. When we get home, we’re having a movie marathon, just the three of us. And this weekend, you and Chan can go somewhere together out of town. I’ll have Minho stay with me instead.”

“Really?” Felix asked, swiping a sleeve under his bright red nose. 

“We’re in-laws you know,” I said. “That means we look out for one another.”

“Y/N,” Felix giggled and, for once, I didn’t feel the slightest bit annoyed. 

“Lee Felix, don’t you ever let me catch you crying like this again, understand?”

Felix nodded, smiling so brilliantly that I was reminded of when we were much younger and he was just an innocent little boy who idolized his older brother.

“Careful,” Chan said, holding the door wide with one hand while keeping a firm grip around my waist. 

“I’m not gonna break,” I grumbled, pausing in the doorway as I let out a grateful sigh. It was a huge relief to be back at home and not stuck in that hospital room surrounded by questionable smells. 

Chan carefully led me into the living room and I gave him my crutches before collapsing on the futon, ignoring the rigid fabric because I had never been happier to hug one of the matching throw pillows. “Comfortable?” Chan asked, helping me prop my leg up on the coffee table. Meanwhile, Felix lingered in the doorway, grasping my bag tightly between his hands.

“Come join us, Felix,” I said. “You’ll let out all the heat.”

Felix nodded, eyes wide as he locked the door behind him. Chan sent me a curious look as if he wasn’t sure what I was hoping to accomplish by inviting his younger brother into the same room. “I have something for you.”

I clapped my hands together eagerly. “Is it something loaded with carbohydrates and fat?”

“Not quite,” he said, handing me my cell phone. “Seo Enterprises called earlier today. I already contacted them about the accident, but I guess they need to hear from you.”

“Great,” I grimaced, dialing the number from memory. It rang for a few moments, and Chan and Felix were both messing around with the TV, probably trying to figure out what to watch. Because the only thing the two brothers argued about was whether action movies were better than romance.

“Seo Enterprises, this is Eliza speaking how can I help you today?”

“Hi,” I immediately cringed, wondering how many cool points I could possibly lose in one day. “This is Y/N, can I speak to Mr. Seo please?”

“I can transfer you right away,” Eliza spoke promptly as if she had already been prepared to receive my call.

“Y/N!” Changbin’s voice now answered. “I’m glad to hear from you.”

“Yeah, I’ve been having a lot of bad luck recently,” I said. “I guess you know about the accident.”

“I heard,” Changbin said. “How are you?”

“I’m alright,” I said. “But I might need some time away from the company. Apparently, a broken leg is a pretty big deal.”

“Take as much time as you need, Y/N,” Changbin said. “I’ve hired a temporary secretary until you’re ready to come back.”

“I don’t know, Changbin,” I said. “It might take several weeks. Maybe you should just hire a replacement.”

“There’s no need for that, Y/N,” Changbin countered. “I still believe you’re the best person for the job.”

“Well, if you’re sure...” I trailed off, shaking my head furiously at Chan when he held up our used copy of The Notebook.

“I’m definitely sure,” Changbin said. “Call me when you want to come back. We still have a lot of things I want to do together in the future.”

“You’re too indecisive,” Chan said, finally taking a well-deserved seat next to me on the futon. 

“And you have terrible taste in cinema,” Felix retorted.

“Yeah? Well maybe we should just let Y/N pick,” Chan suggested, mouthing a sweet kiss against my temple.

“I think Felix should decide,” I said, cuddling up closer to Chan’s side. 

“Really?” Felix asked, appearing entirely surprised that I would allow him such freedom.

“Why not?” I sighed happily. “I’ll even watch that weird anime movie if you want.”

Felix scoffed but a faint smile remained as he grabbed the remote. Chan chuckled and leaned down to press another kiss to the top of my forehead. “I’m proud of you, sweetie,” he whispered.

“It’s only because I love you so much,” I said while shrugging indifferently, but Chan could always read through me.

“Hmm, well I love you more,” he said, brushing his fingers through my hair as the opening credits rolled across the screen.

[guigz1-coldwar]

'Breakdown': New chapter for "Redemption in a Spirit in a Cold War" is out !

"Breakdown"

"I don't want to be alone!"

Chapter Summary: Precautions have to be made from Yirina, Park & Zasha after the assassination attempt on Portnova at the University of London and by trying to find more about something, a little thing caused great troubles for Yirina...

Link of the Picrew used !

To read it on AO3, click here!

Words : +3300

Taglist : @snowgoldwaylon , @clxudtea , @efingart

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a surprise...yeah, we could say that, but no one was expecting this to happen and obviously, no one was even thinking of it at each second when we stepped out of the apartment to pay a visit to Portnova & attend one of her maths lecture. Who was going to pretend that there was a Perseus agent in the university who would hurt Portnova? No one and by luck, I was the one to find out about it, having left the class for some air but quickly returned inside just after that guy nudged me without apologizing.

Thankfully, we avoided the assassination attempt that 'Bellamy' was going to do on Portnova despite not been able to catch him to know more. With that, we got no choices but to leave the university along with Portnova who had to cancel her class, get myself & Portnova heal at the university nursery as the guy made my nose bleed and once it was done, we took the bus to get to the only place we needed to go right now and even if we weren't going to work today, things changed...our destination was Century House itself.

We arrived at the place 20 minutes after we failed to catch this Bellamy Petrov in the restrooms, going directly right into mine & Park's office with Zasha & Portnova to discuss the events and what we could do.

"Fuck, we got lucky that we decided to see Yiri today," Zasha was the first to talk once we were all four in the office. "No one couldn't know but...shit, you're okay?" They asked, looking at Portnova who was directly going to sit one of the chairs in front of Park's desk.

"Yeah, it's just that headbutt that guy did to me, it still hurt," Portnova replied, her left hand holding her head on the side as Zasha was putting their hands on her shoulder.

"I still feel it too, he wasn't joking at all," I stated, closing the door behind me as I was the last one to enter the office. "But now, that's meaning a lot of things: Perseus agents are here and they know that you're alive," I added, moving to lean against my desk.

"Do you think that Lukas Ritter and that I.B arrived in town?" Park questioned, looking at me as she was behind her desk, ready to sit on her chair.

"I don't know but if Perseus agents are in London, that can prove that they either already here or they will be coming soon," I responded to her, giving my theories about the situation to her. "Right now, we have to think about what we could do," I continued, crossing my arms and looking down at the ground.

"Now that Perseus knows well of my status, I think that things are going to change, I presume?" She presumed and I, Park & Zasha nodded to her in a few seconds after looking at each other.

"At first, I don't think that you will be able to return making your classes, it's too dangerous," Zasha spoke up, sounding to protect Portnova at all costs.

"Yes, it's too risky to let you doing this while Perseus is still around," Park followed Zasha's idea as I was thinking the same about it, it was too dangerous for her. "You'll have to either stay hidden or having to join us temporarily in the MI6 until the situation is safer for you," She proposed to Portnova.

"Uhm...not sure that staying hidden is a good idea," I heard Portnova muffling in a low voice as her right hand was in front of her lips.

"Wait, you want to work with us for the moment but..."

"Zed, we both know the risk about it," Portnova gently cut Zasha in their words, looking at them with a little grin. "And besides, I know how to defend myself, I was KGB, remember?" She continued, seeing resistance on her face as if she wanted to make a little laugh but the situation wasn't funny in fact.

"Zasha, she's right, she has to work with us, she will be safer here," I joined Portnova on it, knowing that she was safe around these walls, "And she could join your cryptographer team for the time being," I told them, making a small smile on my face to them.

"Fuck, yeah, you're all right," Zasha muttered to us, putting their arms on the chair armrests, sounding almost in defeat to acknowledge the truth to let Portnova work in the MI6. "But it's only temporary, I don't want her to get hurt," They insisted on that part.

"Of course, it's just for the moment, the MI6 will find a way to make the situation get better for us," Park affirmed to them, sitting on the chair, going comfy inside of it as if her day exhausting, "As for now, Portnova will be working with us, that's the best thing we can do," She confirmed, followed by nodding from me, Zasha & Portnova.

"And what now?" Zasha demanded, looking at me & Park

"We're not supposed to be here but I think that we will try to get ourselves to work for the few hours in front of us before going back to the apartment," I responded to them, moving away from my desk, taking the occasion to put back a file that I mistakenly fall when I sit on the desk. "To see if we don't have any major news from the others," I clarified.

"Good," Park breathed, passing her hands through her black hair before taking another deep breath, "Portnova, Zasha, you should go see your team for the few hours we got, we'll try to see you from time to time," She suggested to them, causing the two to go up from their seats.

"Fine," Zasha said in a low voice, gesturing at us before they start to walk away with Portnova out of the office, me opening the door for the two and once they were out, I closed the door,

"As I said, we got to get to work even if we're not supposed to work today," I mumbled about it, keeping my hands on the door handle of the office. "And...well, where to start?" I asked Park who only raised her shoulder to me.

"Honestly, I don't know a goddamn clue, Yirina," She replied to me, adding to her raising shoulders and looking at the paperwork on her desk. "We've been looking through everything and there's nothing new except what happened today,"

"We can try to look up about this Bellamy, maybe finding something on him in the files," I proposed, my eyes on her desk before looking at mine, seeing the paperwork on it. "It's sure that this guy is maybe mentioned on them,"

"That's something that could help us, good thinking, Yiri," Park complimented, taking in her hands, a pile of files about Perseus and putting it right in front of her, "We should get started on this now," She said and I nodded, moving to sit at my desk to do the same thing as her.

And it was my day all over again...looking through every one of the files that were on my desk wasn't going to be an easy task but if we could find anything about this Bellamy, it could help us by a lot to learn about him even if it's something small, it's still something to know. As Park's files on her desk were mostly about Perseus's recent operations across the globe from 1970 to now, including the things that we took down in the early months, I had the eldest ones with me.

The first operations of the Perseus Collective did in their existence going from 1944...to 1970. The attempt to steal the American nuclear secrets in Los Alamos, some little operations during the '50s before the big attempt in 1968 to steal an American nuclear bomb in the Vietnam War...during 'Fracture Jaw'. Seeing that name on a file, looking up at the reports written by the CIA, recognizing Adler's handwriting on it...it was like seeing myself back into that helicopter, Badger 9-1 with Adler & Sims, M16 in hands.

"You & Sims are making a pretty good team,"

"The bodies I'm looking at aren't seeming Vietnamese to me,"

"Shit, we're going down!"

"At least, the nuke didn't blow off!"

Sentences in my head, hearing those through flashbacks in my brain more I was looking at this file in front of me and it was giving a damn headache as if a fight was going on inside of me and in an instant, I literally threw the file away from my desk in anger, impossible for me to look at it one more second because it was fake but feeling so real that it was making me angry to tell myself that...Vietnam wasn't really for me, I never did it...but Adler forced me to think in that way...

"You're okay?" Park asked me, worried in her voice as I put my head inside the palm of my hands.

"No, why should I be okay?" I asked her back in a low voice, slowly turning my head towards her, seeing her getting up from her seat to grab the file on the ground. "No, don't put it back, keep it," I ordered, shaking my head to her.

"Why..." She started before she looked at the file closely, discovering what the file was about, "Fuck, I didn't know that,"

"Don't think that it was a good idea to give me back the old files," I exclaimed, putting my hands back on the desk, palm against it. "Even if I managed to get over it, there's still something to make me do a step back," I stated, looking at Park whose eyes were still on the file. "It will be continuing until I'm done to fight against Perseus and try to forget Adler off my life,"

"I know but I'm here for always," Park reassured me, putting the file on her desk before looking back at me.

"Yes, I know...I know that you're always here for me and the same for me," I whispered, knowing well of our love and our promises...promises that are very important to me. "What a life..." I spoke to myself, my eyes drifting on my desk at the other files that I didn't check, having found nothing about this Bellamy.

"I'm sorry, Yiri, I'm sorry," Park apologized in a low & sad voice, already feeling that she was talking about what she did.

"No, please, don't talk about it, it's breaking me to think about it," I advised her, looking away from her, not in shame but to hide the upcoming tears off my face in case. "Even if you did it because it was the only way or because you were forced, I don't care, I still love you...I love you," I affirmed to her, telling her the truth about it as I never told it to her directly. "I just don't care because I love you, that's it," I added, starting to feel a tear on my left eye.

"I...I...I'm sorry," She insisted despite the loss of words in her, causing me to close my eyes, the tears falling them, making me want to leave the office to be alone.

"I need to wash my face, I need to be alone," I told her in a clear & sad voice, getting up from my chair in an instant to leave the office.

I didn't look behind me to make sure that she wasn't going to follow me behind as I was leaving the office to get to the bathroom, not even looking up to see the others in the eyes as if I was afraid of everyone around me, as if I was again a whole stranger in London. I walked, heads down to reach the bathroom which was, hopefully, empty of anyone inside, no one inside the toilets or near the sinks.

The first thing to do...was to pass some water on my face, that was looking all-white through the mirror, surely because of what this file about Fracture Jaw makes me think about again and thinking that water could help me destress a bit but each time I was checking myself, my face was still looking the same, prompting me to put more water on my face, keeping the sink on, passing my hands through the water coming down, cooling my hands and passing them through my face.

It wasn't helping me at all: I was still feeling dizzy & weak right now in this restroom, my head hurting me as if someone was playing loud music in my ears, like torture to me and causing me to put my hands above them to cut it out but it was useless, the 'music' was inside of my head... music that was torturing me before it stopped like that, with nothing else...until I heard him...the man that did all of this...

"Bell, we have a job to do."

"No...no...no." I covered up my ears again, my ears starting to ring as if there were bells inside my ears and my voice wasn't angry at all, I was like pleading with him to stop but I was still hearing him again, saying that phrase. "Stop...please, stop!" I ordered, looking down at my feet as my tears were going to drop for good from my eyes and I was only seeing myself as weak...more broken than before...

"Bell, we have a job to do."

"Stop, stop." I started to cry in the bathroom, impossible for me to control the tears coming out and everything else, there was nothing to stop me now, my only thing to do was to enter one of the toilets, lock down the door and then, sit down on the ground, releasing every fiber of tears out of my body, lamenting myself for what I am...and what I've been through...I can't control things myself now...just crying...alone...

I closed my eyes, suddenly finding myself...back on that cliffside but everything was looking so different from the last times I was here in my head: it was just me...wearing the uniform I was wearing that day in Solovetsky and...Adler in front of me, looking away on the horizon, realizing that I was 'Bell' and no longer a simple spectator of the scene...I was reliving that scene again as one of its actors...

"Heroes has to make sacrifices and I'm asking you for one more," Adler started, throwing his cigarette in the sea before making a step in front of him. "I hope you understand..." He stopped himself to half-turn to me, seeing his right hand surely grabbing his gun and I was going to do the same...before discovering that...I didn't have any gun with me at all, not even a pistol or a knife.

"No..." I whispered, checking myself before Adler turned his head around me.

"It was never personal!" He exclaimed as he started to draw his gun at me, but I wouldn't let him do what he wanted to do, causing me to try to grab his gun off his hand, starting a close fight with him. "You're trying but you can't resist, Bell!" He bragged himself, a smile on his face as he was slowly getting the advantage on me, his gun, aiming slowly towards my face.

"I'm not a loose end," I affirmed to him, managing to knee kick him right in the guts with my right knee, making him step behind, almost close to falling down the cliff but he somehow succeeded to hold off as I was going back to charge at him.

"That's what you're thinking, not me," He said to me before doing an uppercut right below my chin with his left fist, sending me to fly on my back behind me.

"I'm not an asset, I'm..." I wanted to clarify myself with him while getting up but then, I heard & saw 3 gunshots, the time stopping before I looked down at my chest...3 bullet holes...at the same place that Arash Kadivar shot me. "No..." I whispered again before falling on my knees, my body wanting to give, seeing Adler staying up & looking at me with disapproval.

"Bell...always obstinate to think about yourself...what a shame..." He told me, shaking his head and biting his lips before he looks at his pistol in his hands. "When I tell you to make a sacrifice, you comply, end of the story," He added before he pushed me with his hands on my back, impossible to move anymore, only seeing the blue skies.

"You...you could have...give me...a chance..." I tried to speak up but that pain in my chest, the wounds...it was giving me too much strength to speak and trying to hold on. "I gave you...all I had..." I confessed in a low voice but his face was staying as before...untouched by my words

"You do...and now, you're useless, like a loose end," He admitted, sitting down near me before he put his hands inside one of my pockets, knowing what he wanted to take...

"No..please..." I pleaded with him, trying to move my hands but he put his right hand above mine, his other hand in my pocket.

"Ssshh, let me talk," He ordered in a clear voice, getting out of my pocket, Park's picture...the one she gave me. "Very stupid, she thought she could save you but I couldn't let it happen," He revealed as I was hopeless, not able to move to avoid him getting away like that, "I could have made one stone, two birds but I'm not a fan of happy endings," He continued, taking the picture towards the blood that was getting out of my chest.

"Park..." I whispered, seeing him passing the picture on my blood, soaking the picture.

"Loyal to the Crown...and Bell, pathetic from her," He sniffed about, having in his hands the bloodied picture of Park before he throws it away in the sea. "You need to die alone, everyone will forget you, everyone, you were just a pawn, a loose end," He claimed before he got up from his spot back on his feet. "You don't even deserve a goodbye from me," He added before he starts to walk away from me.

"Adler...come back..." I ordered him but my voice was so low that he couldn't hear me, seeing him disappearing in the path to get here, leaving me all alone in that cliffside, the only thing I was seeing was the blue sky and its cloud, hearing the birds around and crying to be alone...wounded...dying...alone...

"I don't want to be alone."

"I don't want to be alone," I repeated to myself as I opened back my eyes, finding myself still crying in the toilet on the ground, hands around my head, crying alone, still releasing my tears out of my body until I heard loud knocks at the door of the toilet.

"Yirina, open up, it's me!" It was Park's muffled voice behind the door as she was still knocking on it.

"Park...Park!" I moved quickly to unlock the door for her before I opened it and I saw her, standing up in front of me but her presence couldn't help me to calm down, still crying. "Park!" I cried, looking at her with the saddest look I could do.

"I'm here, I'm here," She kneeled at me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and putting my head against her chest, her voice sounding sad...bad...mostly sad to see me like that. "Yiri, I'm here for you, I'm sorry," She said, trying to reassure me but it was useless, my tears still falling out of my eyes.

"I don't want to be alone, please," I pleaded with her, my voice filled with sadness, my hands going around her to hug her, wanting to keep her with me. "Park, don't let me down...don't let me...down..." I told her, breaking down for good.

"I'm here, I will never let you down, never!" She affirmed in a clear voice, feeling one of her hands passing through my hair on the top of it. "I'm so sorry, Yiri," She apologized, feeling her voice breaking down before I could feel a tear, on the top of my head, she was crying too now...

"Yiri, I swore it, I will never leave you alone...never alone,"

[consumedkings-archive]

a kiss after a long time apart + misolde xoxo

hi dove thanks so much for letting me consume my day with thoughts of Them : )) this went long but mostly because these two don’t know how to shut the fuck up !!! and thank you for making this gorgeous header for me with our little dark comedy sitcom vibes ;--;

i. parental disaster ✤ michael hughes x isolde khan

words: 3.2k

prompt:  “a kiss after a long time apart” taken from this list!

rating: mature, nothing explicit just some teasing insinuations

warnings: pretty much none! the biggest warning is the fact that somehow these two manage to ever keep their clothes on for anything. also softness, and isolde’s parents being nosy, and soli being in her feelings for .0000005 seconds

It shouldn’t be bothering her so much that he isn’t answering her calls.

It shouldn’t be, but it is, because while her parents chatter happily in her living room, she’s been trying to figure out how she can give Michael some kind of warning before he drops by. He always does, when he’s been gone for a while; comes straight from the airport to her house, sauntering in like he isn’t suffering severe jet lag, with that boyish smile on his face.

Of course, her parent’s arrival isn’t unannounced. Isolde had just—forgotten. Which is unlike her, in every sense of the word, unlike her in so many ways but no matter which way she looks at it, the fact of the matter is: her parents told her they were coming to visit, she had confirmed, and then promptly forgotten about it.

Isolde has a glass of wine in her hand that’s mostly untouched when, over the sound of music playing and pleasant chitchat, a car door closes and her mother says, “Oh, is that Michael?” with such warm surprise that it’s astounding Isolde doesn’t about fall over herself trying to get up from the couch.

A warning. He just needs a fair warning, is all, so that he’s not stressed out, since they hadn’t talked about it at all. That’s all. She’s not worried. That would be silly.

By the time she’s set her wine glass down and is picking her way through the tangle of family’s suitcases, Michael has already swept through the door and announces, “Honey, I’m—oh.”

He slows in the foyer, his gaze darting from her to the family members she’s collected in her living room: her younger sister, her father, and her mother. Michael clears his throat and shifts on his feet, the jovial expression quickly muting itself into what she can only imagine is his best fast-paced attempt at professional.

Avery chirps from the floor, “Hi, Mike!” and he waves—or does his best, anyway, when it seems like his brain is trying to calculate too many things at one time.

“Michael,” and she’s hurrying, her own frantic energy translating into a gesture that is only hands fluttering aimlessly, unsure where to land, “my parents are here. My dad, Basir, and my mother, Isla, and—well, you know Avery already, uh—”

“That’s cool,” Michael replies, and then closes his eyes for a minute like he regrets the words instantly. “I mean—that’s great, Soli, I would have showered first or somethin’, if—it’s really nice to meet you—”

“It’s okay, really,” Basir assures quickly. “We’re not worried about it. Isolde said you were away on business. We just got in a few hours ago ourselves.”

Her dad says it like that’s supposed to be comforting, or something, which she knows it isn’t because both her mother and father look perfectly pressed and as though they have been there for days already.

She can see the gears grinding laboriously in his brain, so she says, “I’m going to help him bring his things in,” and then promptly turns Mike around and pushes him into the kitchen. Too late, she thinks, they know his shit isn’t in the kitchen, but she’s already committed to their path, and the sliding door separating the kitchen and the living room will afford them some privacy.

This isn’t the way that she wants this to happen. She’d wanted plenty of time to prepare—calculated risks only, the kind that she’s sure she’s going to win because there’s no way she won’t. It’s not even a matter of being worried that her parents will like Michael; they will, of course. It’s a matter of him liking them.

And maybe a little about them liking him.

“I tried calling,” she says, once the door is closed, “I tried calling like—eight times, Michael—”

“I was on a plane!” It’s not anger hiking up his voice, it’s distress; he’s rummaging around in the cabinet, looking for something to calm his nerves. “And you know I like to just drive—”

“Straight here, I know.” She opens a different cabinet than the one he’s digging through and plants the bottle of whiskey he keeps there in his hand. It’s quickly followed by a glass to put it in, though she’s sure he’s considering the logistics of just drinking it directly from the bottle. “And you don’t check your phone because you’ve been working for weeks straight. Anyway, they’re only here for a few days, and they’re very excited to meet you.”

Michael makes a miserable little noise around a mouthful of whiskey. Fingers rake through his hair, tousling it all out of place as he stands in the middle of the kitchen looking entirely out of place. His brows furrow, and he presses his palm to his forehead like he’s trying to focus. “Okay, alright, uh—your dad is Basir, your mom is Isla, dad’s a diplomat and mom’s a professor of...P-...Uhh...Fuck, it’s—you’ve told me before, I know what it is—”

“Michael.”

“—does start with a p, right? There can’t be that many degrees that—”

“Mikey.”

“Yeah.”

Isolde cups both sides of his face in her hands. “It’s not the SATs, you don’t need to have an essay answer ready.” She takes the glass out of his hand and takes a swallow. “Also, it’s political science and psychology.”

“Oh,” he replies dryly, “if that’s all.”

“She also sometimes does independent studies for comparative world religions, or Latin, if there’s enough interest. She’s vegetarian, and my dad is not. He prefers whiskey over any clear liquor and my mom only drinks wine, except on special occasions.”

He watches her for a moment, the corner of his mouth ticking upward. “You wanna keep that glass? Sounds like you might need it more than me,” he prompts, and she finds herself smiling in spite of the way things could not have gone any less than she planned it.

“You were gone for longer than usual,” she says by way of avoiding acknowledging her stress. There’s a bit of a pout in her voice, and she busies her hands with pouring more alcohol into the glass so that she doesn’t sound so pathetic when she adds, “I missed you.”

“You did?” His voice bleeds with amusement, the cat that ate the canary, as he noses her cheek. “Isolde missed me? Tried and true reptilian ice queen—”

“You know what? They can have you back.”

Michael flashes a grin at her. He’s sidled close, crowded her up pleasantly against the counter. “I missed you too.”

He’s close. Not as close as she’d like—their ritual of shucking his clothes the second he walks through her door after a long business trip so that she can drag him straight into the shower foregone in lieu of their guests—but close enough that when his nose brushes hers, she’s reminded that she hasn’t had the chance to kiss him in quite some time.

But when Michael leans in to kiss her, she tilts her head back, just out of his reach.

“How much,” she idles, their company forgotten, “did you miss me?”

“I had plans to show you,” he replies lowly, “you know, before I found out I’d have to behave.”

“You always have to behave.”

“When it’s so fun to have you scold me?” He tilts his head. “C’mon, doll, you know me better than that.”

Isolde’s eyes narrow playfully, and when she opens her mouth to respond the only thing stopping her from reminding him what happens when he decides to inspire a scolding out of her is the sound of the sliding door creeping open and her dad’s tentative voice.

“Soli?” His voice is light, coddling. “If now’s a bad time, you know you can tell us. We won’t mind.”

Oh, right. That.

“No, daddy, it’s fine,” she replies instantly, turning as Michael disengages from her to fetch another glass out of the cabinet. “I was just—”

“Debriefing,” Basir interjects, not unkindly, because he knows her. A smile crinkles the corner of his eyes, the gesture warming his expression. “Your mother is wondering if Michael needs help finding his bags in the kitchen.”

“Oh, we’ll get those later.” Isolde takes the last swallow of whiskey out of the glass she’s commandeered from Michael. “Out in a minute, just making a drink.”

“Should I give your mother your wine, then?”

“She’ll get more use of it than I will.”

He waves his hand, sliding the door shut again, and Michael sets his new glass next to hers.

“He seems nice,” is what he offers after a minute.

“He is nice,” Sol agrees, reaching up and patting Michael’s shoulder. “And you’re going to have ample opportunity to experience it for yourself.”

He grimaces—surely, in anxiety and not in detesting the incoming interaction—and presses a quick kiss to her temple.

“I can’t wait.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

All in all, it goes well.

Of course it goes well. Isolde knows that it will—even if the abrupt way the whole meeting has come about is enough to make her want to rip her hair out—but it’s still a comfort to watch it play out; Michael sitting on the couch close to her as she tucks her knees up beneath her on the floor and goads her father into playing her in a game of chess, Avery watching from the sidelines and her mother surveying with the same kind of amused, watchful gaze that she always does.

Isla asks Michael a lot of questions. She asks about his family, pleasantly gliding over it when it seems like he doesn’t want to express a lot about that particular subject, and what he does for work—another subject that he manages to delicately step through—and does he like living in Hope County? It’s very beautiful, has he ever wanted to live anywhere? Does he travel often for work? Is he an only child? Does he want children of his own?

“Mother,” Isolde scolds, pushing the black bishop into place. “Please do not interrogate Michael about if he wants to procreate with me or not.”

“Not you particularly,” her mother defends, “but just in general.”

“It’s important to know.” Basir frowns, watching as Isolde dispatches of his rook. “You should always be on the same page, you know.”

“Perhaps you should focus on this page we’re on now, before I checkmate you.”

He grumbles and takes a sip of his drink. Absently, Isolde reaches up behind her, fingers affectionately finding Michael’s as she studies the board.

“So,” Isla continues sweetly, “children?”

“Michael,” Isolde says, “you don’t have to answer.”

“I don’t mind,” he laughs, and when she looks at him over her shoulder with a scrutinizing gaze, he lifts his eyebrows. “I don’t mind.”

“Fine.”

“I don’t have a set number,” Michael allows, his fingers tangled with hers as she preoccupies herself with the chessboard. “I always think I’d be happiest with whatever my partner wants.”

“Good boy,” Basir praises, beaming. He waves a finger “You can always negotiate for a different number, but not if you try and set it in stone.”

Isolde sighs. “We will not be negotiating for children.”

“Why not? It could be fun.”

“You could make it a game,” Avery suggests, pulling the throw blanket more securely around her shoulders. “Soli picks the number, Michael coerces and negotiates.”

A laugh billows out of Mike behind her, and he says, “Nah, that’s too easy. I’d get whatever I wanted. Wouldn’t be any game.”

Isolde makes an indignant sound. It’s all play, because it’s cute that Michael thinks he can get whatever he wants when he wants it (and maybe there is a bit of truth to those words, but he doesn’t need to know the extent of his own power just yet). She squints at him.

“I’ve made men cry before, you know.” Michael mmhms at her. “Lots of men.”

“And I think that,” he agrees, giving her shoulder a little squeeze “is very attractive.”

“That’s what you want, my love,” Isla chides at her, coming to a stand and taking Sol’s glass out of her hands to carry it into the kitchen for refills. “Someone who likes even the most vicious parts of you.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Later, Avery has retired to bed—buzzed from a single glass of wine, no less—and her mother is talking to her about how busy it’s been at work, but Isolde is wrapped up watching her father make big, dramatic hand gestures while he smokes outside with Michael. The scent of the clove cigarettes her father favors drift in from the screen door out to the porch, and paired with the sound of crickets chirping in the late evening, she feels a pang in her stomach; something like longing, or nostalgia, but for the moment she’s in right then and there.

Perhaps sadness, that it will come to a natural end.

Her mother’s fingers card through her hair affectionately. “You seem tired, beloved. You both do.”

“I’m sure he’s fine, he does this often,” Isolde replies, glancing away from where her father is perhaps two cigarettes deep into some story he almost certainly shouldn’t be telling Michael, flip-flopping between Turkish and English in his excitement. “Or he was, until whatever’s going on out there started happening. How does daddy manage to sit on a plane for something like nineteen hours and he’s got all that energy still?”

Her mother makes an amused noise, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and pulling herself into a stand, sighing. “He’s perpetually propelled by his love for you and your sister, I am sure.”

“That’s a nice way to say manic.”

“It’s nice seeing you happy,” her mother continues, glossing over what is only a true statement about her father’s frenetic energy. “For ourselves, I mean. It’s one thing for Avery to tell us about how happy he makes you—”

She snorts. “What a gossip.”

“—another entirely,” Isla interrupts, “to see it in real-time.” She brushes the hair away from Isolde’s face. “You were always prone to loneliness, my girl. Ever since you were a baby, you preferred it over our attention.”

The words make Isolde’s chest feel tight. Prone to loneliness is something that only her mother could say and it not be an insult, only an objective observation. Stinging harder still is the knowledge that most of the time, being around people does feel stifling to her—except with Michael.

Isla flashes her a smile and makes her way over to the screen door, sliding it open and leaning against the doorway. “Basir?”

She can see her mother’s caught her father right on the tail end, because he stops and looks at her with bright eyes. “Yes, my darling? I was telling Michael about that French ambassador who—”

“I am sure Michael would love to hear the end of the story in the morning,” her mother coaxes. “It’s late. Come to bed.”

“Oh, alright. If you don’t mind, Michael,” her father tacks on, looking back at Mike, “waiting for the end.”

Michael’s eyes flicker, meeting hers through the doorway, an easy, lopsided smile sliding onto his face. “Don’t mind at all.”

“First thing tomorrow, then. And,” Basir continues, ushering in after her mother, “I won’t keep you up anymore, darling. Come on, come on, bedtime.”

There’s more chatter like that as they exit, murmured goodnights and the aggressive bear hug from her father that comes when he’s had more than one shot of whiskey; Michael closes and locks the sliding door and makes his way to where Isolde is tucked up on the couch. As he settles in beside her, their fingers interlock on the back of the couch and she takes in a little breath.

Handsome. He’s painfully, excruciatingly handsome, maybe even more so because she just watched him weather the storm that is her parents, noisy and nosy but well-meaning. The sigh that he lets out when he’s settled on the couch makes her think that he’s finally letting a breath out he’s been holding, even though he’s got no reason to be stressed about her parents liking him.

“I like them,” he tells her. “Your dad’s funny.”

“Don’t let him hear you.” Isolde drapes her legs over his lap, setting her mostly-empty glass aside. “He’ll never stop trying out his jokes on you.”

Michael laughs and leans in to brush their noses together; he doesn’t go right for a kiss, not straight away, and there’s this little thread of anticipation that pulls on her heart when she remembers how long it’s been since she’s had a real kiss from him. Weeks. That’s something criminal, isn’t it?

“Haven’t kissed you,” she murmurs after a moment, “not proper, since you got back.”

“Well,” Michael coaxes, “what on earth are you waitin’ for, then?”

“Thought maybe you’d want to use your negotiation skills for more than a kiss.”

The brunette grins, leaning in the rest of the way to close the distance between them and kiss her; at last, at last, something inside of her says, relieved to have him there at last, and she reaches up with her free hand to tangle her fingers in his hair and keep him there.

There’s no rush to it. It’s an unhurried, leisurely re-mapping, re-familiarizing, though she hasn’t forgotten and neither has he. Isolde kisses him like he’s been gone for weeks and that he’s not ever going to leave for that long again, which isn’t true—but she can pretend, for a little while, that it is.

And it’s a little alarming, how her chest aches when she realizes how long he’s been gone, how much she’s missed having him around, how much she—

“I feel like,” he says against her mouth, between what are now sparse liplocks peppering his words, “maybe I don’t have to negotiate for more—”

“Michael,” Isolde hums sweetly, “shut up.”

“Boy, but you’re sexy when you boss me around.”

“I’m about to get a lot sexier if you don’t start kissing me like you mean it.”

He pulls back, that little smile still on his face, his arm sliding around her midsection to pull her more comfortably against him. But he doesn’t go back to kissing her; he trails his mouth along the slope of her jaw, and kisses the hollow below her ear before he says, “I always mean it when I kiss you, Soli.”

Oh, no, she thinks, her throat feeling tight. She’s not going to cry, that would be fucking stupid, and she’d rather fucking die before she lets Michael see a tear slip out of her—but it’s the same kind of feeling, the overwhelmingly bittersweet feeling knowing that this moment is going to end and she’ll have to remind herself of it, later.

“I know,” she replies, softer this time when she kisses him. “Now stop ruining the moment with your sappiness and pitch your deal to me already.”

“Alright,” Michael puffs, “three kids, get started on the first one now—”

She groans, but not without affection, and he hauls her up into his arms bridal style to begin carrying her back to the bedroom.

He says, pleasantly, “We could at least get some practice in.”

“Sure, baby,” Isolde murmurs, pressing her face into his neck. “Whatever you want.”

And she doesn’t have to see the smile to know he’s got it plastered on his face when he says, “Told you it’d be too easy.”

[kinglazrus]

A Helping Hand

Phic phight 2020

Submitted by @trainernick: Lancer telling Danny he knows his secret and admitting trying to help him throughout high school (maybe at prom or graduation) - wholesome found family

Summary: Everyone says prom is supposed to be one of the best nights of Danny's life. And even though he wrecks his suit, ditches his date, and gets attacked by Skulker, it sort of is. But not for the reasons everyone says it should be.

When Lancer sees his student feeling low, he does what he can to make sure Danny knows there are always people rooting for him.

Hurt/comfort

Word count: 3923

People like to talk about milestones. They divide their lives into neat little segments and mark the years with special occasions. First steps, first words, first day of school, first car, first kiss, first job. Lots of firsts. They're important. But they aren't the be-all, end-all of those experiences. People keep talking after their first word. They keep walking after their first steps. They continue to learn, and drive, and kiss—if they're into that sort of thing—and work, and work, and work until that's all they ever do.

The firsts matter, but they don't matter so much that you can never do any of those things ever again.

Some milestones can't be repeated, though. Or, at least, people build them up so much and make such a big deal out of it that even if you can repeat it, it'll never be the same. They make it sound like if you do it wrong then you'll never get to do it right. That's how Danny feels about prom.

It doesn't matter how often he tells people there will be other parties, that this won't be the only time he ever dances with his peers, that this won't even be his only prom because he probably won't be able to graduate this year. Prom is big. Prom is important. Prom is special. He has to do it right or else he'll never get to do it again.

Danny tries his best.

He gets a date, one of his best friends, Sam. It takes him a few weeks to ask her out, because he can't figure out how to do it. He wastes hours writing out what he wants to say. Four days before prom, he sees Sam in the middle of a ghost fight, grinning like mad, hoisting a bazooka on her shoulder, ectoplasm stuck in her hair, and Danny blurts the question out right there because holy shit she's beautiful. It totally throws all his careful, romantic planning out the window, but she still says yes.

He gets a suit. Black jacket, black shirt, purple vest, purple tie, because he thinks Sam will like it. She calls him a dork as soon as she sees him in it, which means she does like it, very much so. He gets a corsage of blue poppies for Sam's wrist, to go with his boutonniere. He gets Jazz and Dani to watch the city for the night so that nothing will distract him from the dance.

He does everything he can to make sure he does prom right. But, in the end, he still gets in a ghost fight.

Danny leans his head back against the wall of the shower stall in the boys' locker rooms. His lungs burn, his body aches, and his knuckles are bruised. The water's turned up as hot as it can go. It succeeds in getting the worst ectoplasm out—cold water would have set the stains—but now he's completely soaked, and his suit is still ripped.

Looking down, he catalogues the damage, both to his body and his rental suit. A gash on his right shoulder to go with the torn seam of the sleeve. The left sleeve is ripped from cuff to elbow, his cufflink lost somewhere on the street outside. There's a matching slice in his arm, stretching from his palm around to the outside of his elbow.

The cut stings in the hot water, same with the wound on his shoulder, and he should probably take care of both before he loses too much blood. But he has a couple minutes to spare.

His pants got out of the fight okay, minutes a little tearing on the knees, the skin beneath scraped and red. He doesn't think the store is going to take the suit back.

There's a knock on the stall door and Danny lifts his head. Through the foggy glass, he sees Tucker.

"You good, man?" Tucker asks.

Danny swallows, glad he doesn't taste blood. Skulker really held nothing back today. He calls back, "Yeah, I'm good. Suit's a little torn, though."

"Why'd you fight in your suit?" Tucker asks, a hint of laughter in his voice.

"I think Skulker borrowed some of Vlad's tech. He shorted out my powers for a little bit, but," Danny raises his hand and forms a swirling ball of ectoplasm in his palm, "they're back now."

"Okay. Lancer's doing a headcount. I told him you had gone to the bathroom just before Skulker showed up, so I'll let him know you're safe."

"Thanks. I won't be long."

Tucker's silhouette does finger guns and he clicks his tongue twice, then leaves. Danny waits until he hears the locker room door closing before he stands up. The ectoplasm in his hand turns blue, its temperature dropping a few degrees, and he drags his palm along the cut on his left arm. Ice seeps over the wound, sealing it shut and stopping the bleeding. It also works fantastically at numbing the entire limb so it doesn't hurt to move.

After rotating his arm a few times, testing its mobility, he does the same to the gash on his right shoulder. It's only a temporary measure, until he can get home and get Jazz to help stitch him back up. Sam and Tucker used to be in charge of doing that, but Jazz is by far the better seamstress, and leaves fewer scars behind.

Danny shuts the water off and heads toward the lockers. Rather than going for his own locker, he stops in front of Tucker's. Danny usually has extra clothes for emergencies like this, but he used them last week and hadn't brought them back since. Tucker keeps a few spares, though, because of the last few times Dash and Kwan stole his clothes while he was in the shower.

Turning his hand intangible, Danny sticks it through the locker door and grabs a shirt from the top shelf. When he pulls his hand out the shirt unfurls, and he stiffens.

"You've got to be kidding me," he says. It's a black button-up shirt, which is perfect. But it's also covered cartoonish pictures of Danny Phantom's face. Reaching back into the locker, he tries to find another, but this is the only one. He could use his gym shirt, but he needs the long sleeves to hide his left arm.

With a groan, Danny strips, laying his jacket, vest, tie, and shirt out on the benches. He and Tucker are around the same size, so the shirt fits, for the most part. It's a little tight across the shoulders and bites into his skin when he bends his arms, but it'll do. As long as he doesn't get into another fight and tear this shirt up, too.

Danny pulls his jacket and vest back on, although he does neither up, and drapes his shirt across his arm. With his left hand facing down, you can't even he's injured. Minus the scrapes on his knees, but if anyone asks, Danny will just say he tripped running away from the ghost

When he exits the locker room, Danny looks left and right, checking to make sure the hallway is clear before slipping out. His wet shoes squeak on the floor, and water drips from his hair onto his nose. He probably should have tried drying off. Especially since the water from his jacket is now seeping into Tucker's shirt. But, Fentons are stubborn, and Danny's already on his way back to the gym.

Prom posters featuring smiling members of the dance committee stair down at him as he walks, silently judging him. Their blank eyes follow his every move. Somehow, Danny feels like he's failed them.

He expects the dance to be back in full swing by the time he makes it back, because Casper High is just like that sometimes, but he couldn't be more wrong. The music has stopped. No one's dancing. There's a massive hole in the outside wall, letting in the cool night air. A wave of shame rolls through Danny as he remembers he did that.

His gaze drifts up to the ceiling, where there's another, smaller hole. That's where Skulker burst through, shouting about the glory of capturing his prey on such a momentous occasion. Seconds later, Danny blasted him through the wall and took off after him. Without even a single glance back at the chaos he'd caused.

Paulina, Star, and other members of the dance committee hustled about, directing people to help with the cleanup so they could get things started again. City protocol said to wait for an official cleanup crew, but this was prom, damn it, and Paulina wasn't about to let a couple ghosts ruin her chances of getting crowned queen.

He finds Sam and Tucker quickly. They're helping Elliott move one of the larger chunks of concrete. The front of Sam's dress is covered in dust and her corsage it crushed.

Another wave of guilt pushes Danny out the door. He backs into the hallway, gives the ruined dance one last look, then turns and heads for the front door. There's no point sticking around and risk ruining things even more.

The cold air and his wet clothes shill Danny to the bone when he gets outside, but he doesn't mind. The benefits of having an ice core means he can weather the cold better than most people. But, being half-human still, he's not infallible. Danny sits down on the front steps, slipping his hands into his pockets, and sighs. Maybe he should just go home.

Since Danny doesn't have his license—he never had time, with all the ghost fighting—Tucker gave Sam and Danny a ride. So, if he does leave, he won't be abandoning Sam without a way home. Going for a fly sounds pretty nice right now. There's not much he can screw up when he's miles above the city. Although, if anyone could find a way, it would be him.

The only thing he can ever seem to do right is fight ghosts. It's not too late to make a career out of it. At this point, it's basically his job already, and it'd be nice to get paid for it. Maybe the G.I.W. are hiring.

Danny laughs. It's a bitter, self-deprecating sound.

"They'd probably cut me open first," he tells the open air.

"Modern Prometheus, Mr. Fenton, that's quite the accusation."

"Holy sh–" Danny jumps, nearly toppling off the step, and whips around to see Lancer behind him. "Mr. Lancer! Uh, what are you doing here?"

"Checking on my student," Lancer says. "I wasn't satisfied with Mr. Foley's assurances and wanted to make sure you were safe myself."

He steps forward and looks down at Danny, frowning. "Are you... dripping, Mr. Fenton?"

"Uh." Danny glances down at his soaked clothes. "I fell in a puddle."

"While you were in the bathroom?"

"I went for a walk and then fell in a puddle."

"It hasn't rained in three weeks," Lancer says.

"So crazy, right?" Danny chuckles. He silently wills Lancer to go away, preferring to be alone right now. Instead, Lancer does the complete opposite and sits down next to Danny.

"Is something bothering you?" he asks.

"What makes you think that?"

"I've worked with teenagers for a long time, Mr. Fenton. I can tell when things aren't okay. And I think, by now, your tells are somewhat obvious to me."

Danny refuses to meet Lancer's gaze. He's probably the last person Danny wants to see right now. Not because he hates Lancer, but because he cares too much what Lancer thinks. While he didn't like the man much during freshman year, things changed over time. Lancer started actually believing in Danny. He's the only teacher who never gave up on him, who always had their door open.

Lancer even leant Danny his ear on more than one occasion. Danny tried to avoid this as much as possible, but there were some things he just couldn't talk to his sister or friends about.  And Danny's willing to admit, although somewhat grudgingly, that he's become attached to his English teacher.

"Prom's ruined," Danny finally says.

"Is that so?"

"I mean, yeah. Sk– uh, that big metal ghost dude kind of crashed the party. And then Phantom fucked it all up."

"Language," Lancer says. He gives Danny a critical look. "Why are you blaming Phantom?"

"He kind of destroyed a whole wall. He could have just, I don't know, thrown the ghost back through the hole that was already there?" If only Danny had thought of that at the time. But in his desperation to not ruin prom, he went ahead and ruined prom.

"I think Phantom did a fantastic job," Lancer says.

Danny gapes at him.

"Yes, the wall was damaged, but no one got hurt. And your classmates are displaying wonderful teamwork skills by clearing out the debris so the dance can go on. It wasn't Phantom's fault the ghost decided to interrupt," Lancer says. "Although I have to say, it's extremely lucky of us that he was so close by. In fact, it was almost like he was there before the ghost arrived."

Lancer smiles. Something about it puts Danny on edge. It's a familiar smile, a fond one. It's the smile he gives students who do exceptionally well. It's the smile he gives Danny when he does well.

"Oh, yeah. That's really lucky, yep. Must be because of how often the school gets attacked. I mean, if I were him, which I'm not, I'd probably hang around the place that gets attacked the most, too," Danny says, a little too quickly. He was cold seconds ago, but now he's uncomfortably warm.

"Which you're not," Lancer repeats slowly. His gaze is intense and critical. Danny can only bear to meet it for a few seconds before he has to look away.

He tries to distract himself, looking at the cars lined up along the street. There are a few limousines amongst them. Danny would bet his ghost half on one of them being here for the A-listers', who came together as a group rather than bringing dates. There were so many cars already parked by the time Danny and his friends got here that Tucker was forced to park his old Camaro around the block.

It's a pretty nice car, despite how old it is. A hand-me-down from Tucker's dad, they fixed it up together, making it good as new. Danny tries to picture doing something like that with his own dad. Jack would probably deck the car out in ghost weapons and stamp the word "Fenton" across it.

They could call it the Fentonmobile.

"Danny," Lancer says.

The use of his nickname gives Danny pause. Lancer never calls him Danny. It's one of his most frustrating traits. Every student is always Mr., Ms., or Mx. As annoying as it is, Danny can't deny that it feels nice at the same time. Like Lancer actually respects them as people, doesn't look down on them the way most adults do.

After everything Danny's been through, he thinks he warrants a little basic decency.

Lancer continues. "I know."

Everything stops. Every thought in Danny's head comes to a screeching halt. He stares at Lancer. Maybe he heard it wrong. Maybe he doesn't mean what Danny thinks he means. But the longer Danny stares, the longer Lancer stares right back. At first, dread fills him. His secret is blown. This is it. The G.I.W. are on their way.

That dread quickly drowns in a tidal wave of relief, because Lancer knows. And he isn't hurting Danny, or calling him a freak, or doing anything.

"You know," Danny repeats in a breathy whisper.

"I know."

Danny slops backward, burying his hands in his hair. He lets out a soft laugh. "You know. How long?"

"Almost three years now," Lancer says.

Danny's stunned into silence. Three years. That's nearly as long as he's been a ghost. He had his accident a couple months into freshman year and started fighting ghosts a few days after that.

"I," he pauses, "am a terrible liar. Aren't I?"

"I'm surprised you've lasted this long," Lancer says.

Danny laughs sharply. Sitting back up, he turns to face Lancer proper, running his hands through his hair again. It's a nervous habit he's never been able to kick. "What gave it away?"

"Your first weeks at Casper High, I thought you were a talented student with a lot of potential. You managed average grades on your first couple of assignments, but I could tell you were struggling in the environment. Not a fan of classroom learning?" Lancer asks, quirking his eyebrow.

"It's hard to focus. Sometimes," Danny admits.

"But you managed. And then you disappeared from school for two weeks. When you came back, your grades plummeted. I blamed it on the stress of your accident, at first, which I excused. But then your delinquent behaviour started."

Danny winces. He knows exactly how he looks to other people. A problem child, skipping school, not doing his assignments, barely studying. Coming to class with bruises on his knuckles. Tetslaff tried to "set him straight" once. She said some good physical activity would help him channel his issues and convinced his parents to sign him up for volleyball.

Tetslaff kicked him off the team after his third missed game.

"To me, my students are my children. I want to see them succeed in every way they can, and do what I can to make that happen. In that way, I failed you freshman year. I'm ashamed of how I reacted." Lancer pauses. He looks away from Danny, tipping his head back to search the sky instead.

Danny wonders what he's thinking. He wishes he knew.

"I'm even more ashamed of the fact that if I hadn't seen you transform, I might not have changed my attitude at all."

"You saw me transform," Danny deadpans. First Jazz, and then Paulina—although she was possessed at time, Danny still counts it—and now Lancer. How many times is this going to happen? He asks, "Where?"

"Here, at school."

Danny sputters in disbelief. "What?"

"You were in the middle of the cafeteria, Danny. You stood on a table and cried 'I'm going ghost.' I'm surprised more people didn't see you," Lancer says. He shoots Danny an amused grin.

Danny blushes, burying his face in his hands. "I thought it was cool," he mumbles into his palms. It made him feel like a superhero. Until he wizened up and stopped shouting out warnings to every ghost within earshot.

Lancer had a point, how did people not see him more often? Maybe there's an entire cult in Amity Park of people who have seen Danny transform. They could call themselves the Phentons. Or the Fantoms. Or the Keepers of the Great One. Frostbite would probably like that last name.

"Why are you telling me this now?" Danny asks.

"Because I think you need to know there are people on the sidelines who are willing to help you, who have helped you, even if you don't realize it."

"How do you mean?" Danny already knows he has people looking out for him. Jazz, Tucker, and Sam always have his back and they've helped him more than he can ever thank them for. He's going to miss Sam and Tucker next year when they move on to college and he's stuck repeated senior year.

Lancer reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he smooths it out on his knee and passes over.

It’s a schedule for April, May, and the first week of June. Two dates are circled. April 18th, today, and June 4th, the graduation day. The weeks between are full of markings. Squinting at the thin writing, Danny reads "Packet One: Biology" written over next week. Skipping over the rest of the schedule, he finds "Packet Two: History," "Packet Three: Applied Math," all the way up to "Packet Six: English" the final week before June. They're all classes Danny is taking this year, including ones he already failed last semester.

"What is this?" Danny asks.

"A study guide, of sorts. I spoke to the other teachers about your grades. Because of 'special circumstances,'" Lancer makes finger quotes, "they agreed to give you a chance to redeem your grades. You did well on your exams overall, but it's your course work that failed you. Each of your teachers has put together a packet of bonus assignments that, if you finish successfully, will earn you a passing grade in each class."

Danny's breath hitches. "You mean..."

"With any luck, I will not be seeing you again in these halls next year."

Danny's eyes burn. He lowers his head, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. He tries to stay quiet, because the last thing he wants to do is cry in front of a teacher, but he can't help it. The tears won't stop. A few gross sobs fight their way through his hiccups. Lancer rubs Danny's back as he cries, a soothing gesture.

"Thank you," Danny says, as soon as he can gather the breath for it. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and shoots Lancer an elated grin. "I hope I don't see you here next year either."

Lancer smiles in return. "We could head back, if you'd like. The dance should be starting up again right about now. Ms. Sanchez certainly knows how to whip a cleaning crew into action. I never expected such leadership from her."

"I did kind of ditch Sam," Danny says. He hopes she's not too mad. "But I kind of need to take care of something first."

"The ghost? I always did wonder what you did with them after capturing them in your... lunchbox?"

Danny laughs and shakes his head. "It's a thermos. But, no, he'll be fine in there for a while. I actually, uh," he trails off. Sheepishly, he pulls back his left sleeve and shows Lancer his injury.

"The English Patient, Mr. Fenton, you need medical attention!" Lancer shoots to his feet, digging his phone out of his pocket.

"No hospital!" Danny shouts. He scrambles up after Lancer and covers his phone. "My body's different. They'd notice something. I just need some stitches and my healing will take care of the rest."

"That's reassuring, I suppose." Lancer lowers his phone. "I have keys to the nurse's office, and I'm no slouch with a needle."

"Oh. I can just take of it myself, at home. Or get Jazz to do it."

"Nonsense, Mr. Fenton. What kind of teacher would I be if I let you go home in that state?" Lancer beckons for Danny to follow. He only hesitates for a second before complying.

Danny doesn't want to see Lancer in these halls again, but he certainly hopes graduation won't be the last time he ever sees the man. It's nice, knowing there's another person out there who has his back. Someone who can give him a stern word when he's being stupid, and a helping hand when he's lost. It's almost father-like, now that Danny thinks about it.

He stares at Lancer's back and thinks. Lancer looks the kids of Casper High and sees them not just as students, but as his children. Danny doesn't mind looking back and seeing a parent instead of a teacher.

[shiftynightshade]

“So have you guys found anything on the new students yet?”

Hermione shook her head, her already frizzy hair seemingly defying gravity and even frizzier. “That’s the thing. There’s nothing about any magical academies in Japan!”

Harry frowned. “That’s rather suspicious; they’re probably lying about that as well.”

Ron stared at him as if he were crazy. “But Dumbledore himself let them in; a bunch of teens couldn’t lie to him, could they?”

‘Well Umbridge was let in, and she lies to Dumbledore more than Lavender preaches Trelawney.’

Harry shrugged, but did not spare the two a glance, instead opting to stare at the transfer students over at the Slytherin table, joking and laughing at something Todoroki had said, going by the satisfied smile on his face.

‘I didn’t think that the bloke could even smile.’ It was definitely an improvement to their tenseness that morning though, all five of them bent over a newspaper in foreign letters. The words “Breakout” And “Tartarus” being prominent.

Iida’s loud chuckles brought Harry back to the present; the Slytherin’s hand chopping up and down quickly became nothing more than a blur.

A loud smack echoed throughout the hall and hysterical laughter erupted, Iida bowing with a furious blush across his face, but he was still laughing. Harry stared before turning to look back at Todoroki, who removed his hand from the lower half of his face to reveal a steady stream of blood trickling down from his nose, slightly filling the crevice in his lips as it dripped down his chin.

“How are they laughing while their friend is bleeding?” Hermione said, her voice taking on a slightly disgusted tone. Ron beside her shrugged. “Who knows with those snakes? They probably take pleasure in hurting others.”

Surprisingly it was Dean and Seamus that spoke up, Dean’s eyebrow risen in disbelief. “Actually, they aren’t that bad, that Iida bloke helps other students with studying and reminds them to take breaks at the library and on more than one occasion I’ve seen Midoriya fall down the stairs and lay at the base for a solid five minutes before saying “Why has god forsaken me?” then getting up like nothing had happened.”

Seamus nodded as he placed his goblet down. “I saw Uraraka climbing the side of the stairs instead of the actual stairs and not once did she slip!” Seamus quickly swallowed another mouthful of pasta, the evening light shining in through the windows and bouncing off pieces of cutlery. “And I’m pretty sure that I saw Asui relaxing in the lake outside.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You sure you’re not under an imperious curse?” He muttered. And if he stabbed into his food with more aggression than necessary, no one mentioned it. A few minutes passed in tense silence, the sound of laughter and cutlery scraping against plates surrounding them and filling the hall.

An ear-splitting crash from the doors as they slammed against the walls silenced the entire hall, every student's head-turning to stare incredulously as Filch ran through, his breathing laboured. “Fire!” He wheezed. “The forbidden forest is on fire!”

Gasps rang out, students turning to stare at each other. “The fire is very strange though!”

Dumbledore stood, eyes concerned. “What do you mean Argus?”

Filch shook his head. “The fire’s blue!”

Harry stared with wide eyes. “Blue fire?” He hissed, turning to look at Hermione, only she was staring at the transfers. Harry turned to look at the transfers, who all had shock and anger swimming in their eyes, eyebrows drawn and frowns marring their faces.

The hall's doors slammed shut again, the thunderous slam made several students jump.

Umbridge stood in shock, her pink and fuzzy form trembling from either fear or cruel excitement. Either way, it made Harry uncomfortable. He turned to look back at the Slytherin table, narrowing his eyes when he saw the transfers huddled together, clearly whispering about something.

Slow and deliberate footsteps echo from the hallway, easily cutting through the tense silence in the Great Hall. The transfer’s eyes widened.

The next few moments happened in slow motion.

Iida’s eyes narrowed before suddenly flying across the hall and slamming into Filch, the speed quicker than a golden snitch, the two landing on the other side of the Gryffindor’s table just as a large column of blistering fire burst through the doors, multiple students screaming in terror.

As soon as it started, the fire sizzled out of existence, only the destroyed doors and sapphire embers displaying any evidence of what had just occurred. Low laughter filled the hall, amused and husky.

“Well well well, what do we have here?”

Harry stared at the ruined archway, a singular figure standing amongst the destruction. Psychotic blue eyes glowed with delight, a cruel smile that even Draco or Bellatrix couldn’t ever hope to match stretched purple scars, the staples and piercing in his face dragging his skin in multiple directions.

“Merlin’s beard…”

‘Death Eaters?’

Multiple members of staff stood from their chairs, wands pointed directly at the intruder. Dumbledore glared at the death eater. “Who are you and what do you want?”

The stranger merely laughed a low and grating sound, he dropped into a low showman’s bow, one hand on the stomach and the other stretched out.

“Me? My name’s Dabi and I’m here on the behalf of the League of Villains.” Dabi straightened with a crazed look in his eyes. “There is a set of particular students we want, and we will take them.” He flexed a hand, purple scarring and withered skin mutilated and held together with staples. “With, or without your permission.”

Dabi tilted his head, some ash falling from his black hair. Hermione grabbed Harry’s wrist. “I think they mean you, Harry.” She said lowly, Ron nodding from beside her.

A shot of red light left Dumbledore’s wand, crashing with a shower of sparks into Dabi’s chest. Only for him to move not a single inch, instead, he giggled. “What was that? It tickled.”

Everyone stared in shock. “T-that’s not meant to be possible.” Neville squeaked, eyes wide with terror. “He doesn’t even have a wand!”

“Very well, if that’s how you want to play.”

Dabi spread his arms out wide and tilted his head back. “Let us show you how we Villains play.”

As if on cue multiple ‘arms’ of purple smoke shot out violently from behind Dabi, filling the hall and sending multiple students screaming.  Harry hacked into his fist, choking on the smog as it whirled around the students.

With too much effort, Harry reached around blindly and grabbed Ron and Hermione, his gut dragging as if he was in a port key. With a scream, he suddenly felt the cold wind and the heat of fire crash against him, Ron and Hermione’s screams filling the air as they crashed into the forest floor.

As soon as it started it ended, the chaos of the great hall suddenly replaced with the crackling of the fire. Stumbling to his feet Harry looked at the burning forest around him, the heat stifling and smoke trailing lazily into the air.

“Dean!”

Jerking to look over his shoulder Harry watched as Seamus scrambled over to Dean’s limp form. “Dean? Dean!”

Seamus shook Dean a few more times, sighing relief when he let out a small grunt. “Guys! Dean’s hurt!”

“Let me see.”

Jumping Harry whipped around to see Uraraka walking toward Dean and Seamus, only a few scratches marring her skin.

With a simple nod, Seamus rolled Dean over from his side, his head lying in the other's lap while Uraraka knelt beside the wizards, Dean’s eyes opening blearily. He hissed in pain. Uraraka frowned, hand pressing gently against Dean’s ankle, then looking up to check his eyes. “His ankles sprained and a minor concussion by the looks of it, but other than that he should be okay.”

Seamus sighed and nodded his head. “You hear that Dean, you’re gonna be okay.” Dean merely nodded. Uraraka inhaled then exhaled, seemingly unbothered by the fire. “Do you trust me?” She asked, handheld in front of her.

Seamus and Dean shared a look before shrugging. “You haven’t given us a reason not to.”

Uraraka nodded and inhaled deeply, hand coming to rest on Dean’s arm. A shimmer of pink glowed from her hand, and Dean began to float.

Jerking Harry drew his wand and pointed it at the girl, who merely stared at him with an unimpressed look on her face.

“Really?” She huffed, ignoring the shocked look of Seamus, moving to stare at Ron and Hermione, who also had their wands drawn. “You’re going to attack me, in the middle of a forest, while we’re surrounded by enemies?” Harry scowled.

“What are you talking about? You’re clearly with them!”

A disgusted expression crossed Uraraka’s face. “Me, with them?”  She scoffed. “Please, why would I side with the villains that kidnapped and try to kill my friends?”

Ron’s wand wavered before he hesitantly lowered it. “She does have a point mate.”

Hermione shot Ron an incredulous look. The redhead shrugged his shoulders and pocketed his wand. “I mean, I don’t like the fact that she’s a Slytherin, but I’m pretty sure that houses don’t matter when it comes to life or death.”

He stared at Uraraka. “You said that they tried to kill your friend’s right?”  

Uraraka nodded, arms coming to cross against her chest. Ron turned to look at Harry and Hermione, who both still had their wands pointing towards the transfer. “Well, then that’s good enough for me,”

He smirked. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?”

Uraraka smiled. Harry rose an eyebrow and said, “Where’d you get that from?” Ron shrugged and turned to look at the fire that burned in the distance and around them. “I do read you know.”

“Well how about we don’t just stand around waiting for something to come and kill us and instead get a move on?”

Harry looked past Uraraka to see Seamus hoisting Dean onto his back, grunting in surprise when he obviously didn’t struggle with the boy’s weight. “Okay that’s weird, why is Dean so light?”

Uraraka smiled. “I simply lowered his gravity to make him lighter for you to carry him!”

Hermione spluttered. “There’s no spell for that other than Levicorpus! And it certainly doesn’t work the way you used it”

Harry nodded. “So what are you?” He asked. Uraraka sighed. “Now’s not the time for that, I’ll explain later.” Harry rose an eyebrow in disbelief. She groaned. “Stop being a dumbass Potter-Kun, Finnigan-Kun is right; we’re sitting ducks waiting for villains out here.”

A loud boom and crash echoed through the forest, the ground beneath them rumbling none-too-gently. Uraraka grunted and stared up at the sky. “Stay here!” Her stern and fierce tone froze them in place, and before Harry could rebut her, she had placed her hands on her arm and was steadily floating into the air.

A minute later and she was dropping back to the ground with a huff. “Shoto’s in that direction!” She pointed somewhere towards the edge of the forest.  Hermione stuttered. “Does he have those weird abilities like you?” Uraraka nodded.

“C’mon!”

The brunette dashed off, leaving them no choice but to follow.

[searchingforenadi]

please stop bleeding on the floor

well, this is it, guys - this fic is here to stay, so join me on this disastrous ride!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

the brief summary: Your customers won’t stop bleeding in your shop. You realize this might be a problem. (second person!OC, TYL).

xiii.

You spend the next few days finding as many creative ways as you can to use up the fruit: fruit smoothies, fruit jam, candied fruit, fruit cake.

You are now sick of seeing fruit wherever you go.

A pair of customers walk through the front door. It’s Tsuna, you notice, and a young teenage boy with a riot of dark curls. 

“Hi,” you greet, giving a polite nod. The teenage boy saunters ahead to check out your display of sweets. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Tsuna smiles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, nice to see you too.”

“Hey, Tsuna!” the teenage boy calls, pointing eagerly to one of your cakes. “I want this one!”

Tsuna rolls his eyes and says, a little fondly, “Sure, that’s fine.”

You walk over to the display. He’s pointing to your raspberry cake - a new addition from your surplus of fruit. 

“Slice or whole?” you ask, and it’s a good business choice because suddenly, the teenage boy whips his head to Tsuna. 

“Tsuna - “ he begins pleadingly. 

“Slice,” Tsuna says firmly, ignoring how the teenage boy wilts in response. 

You give a sympathetic look. It’s not easy being young and fifteen. 

Feeling a little more generous (and petty, you are definitely feeling a little petty), you add an extra slice in the to-go box. 

“It’s on the house,” you say, handing the box over. The teenage boy accepts it with wide eyes.

“You don’t have to - ” Tsuna begins to say, only for his young companion to cry out -

“Yes! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” you say, because teenagers are some of your best customers, and you're banking on this one coming back sometime soon. 

You turn to Tsuna, as if the past few minutes never happened, and ask, “And for you?”

He smiles resignedly, waving a hand back and forth. “I’m okay, thank you.”

“What?” the teenage boy asks, aghast. You take the offered cash and hand back some change. “You’re not getting anything?”

“I already told you, Lambo,” Tsuna says, huffing. “Dessert here is too heavy for me.”

Heavy? 

“Heavy?” you repeat aloud, unable to stop yourself. 

Tsuna pauses.

“That,” he says slowly, eyes moving to the side. “Is not what I meant to say.”

Lambo snickers behind his box of cake. 

You don’t question any comments made over your products, you remember, and the violation of your rule has you scowling. 

“I mean,” Tsuna continues, a hand moving to tug at the tie around his neck. “I”m used to lighter snacks, since I’m from Japan, and the food there is really different - ”

“Not to say that it’s bad here,” he adds on. “I’m sure everything is really delicious and - ”

“Tsuna,” Lambo says, a gleeful look in his eyes. “You’re rambling.”

“Right,” Tsuna says, somehow a meter farther away than before. He inches closer to the door. “I’ll be outside, Lambo.”

And then he’s gone.

In that silent pause, you decide that today, you have obviously failed as a business owner.

(But you know exactly what he’s talking about. You’ve grown up on tiramisu and red bean mochi because your parents used to haphazardly stuff everything into your mouth.

The reminder makes your chest ache and your stomach growl. You haven’t had taiyaki in years.) 

“Ugh,” Lambo says, rolling his eyes. “Why is he always like that?”

You very pointedly do not comment on this conversational trap.

“Stop by sometime,” you tell him instead. “We have specials every day.”

Lambo beams, clutching the box of cake like it’s a lifeline, and that’s when you know you’ll be seeing him soon. “Got it!”

He waves goodbye and you wave back. When the door closes shut, you sigh, viciously mussing up your hair. 

There is a lull of quiet. You glance down at the counter, then to your display of desserts, full of decorated cake and bread. 

“Heavy, huh,” you breathe out. 

You’ve spent years learning how to bake but you’ve never once learned how to make anything from your mom’s home country. 

You stare at the counter.

I don’t need to do anything, you think, tapping your fingers on the counter top. It was a harmless comment. 

You continue to stare.

Then, with a mutter of defeat, you grab a nearby notebook and pen.

This is probably a sign you should call your mom.

xiv.

You mom is, of course, delighted by your call.

“And what’s the occasion,” she says, in English, very pleasantly. “Are you getting married?”

“Mom, please,” you say. “I’m still in my twenties.”

“And those years will pass by as soon as you blink!” your mom insists. Suddenly, you feel eighteen again, standing against your parents to go to culinary school instead of university.

“I’m surrounded by old people, Mom,” you say instead, because ten more years have taught you the tactic of evade and conquer. “And little kids.”

For the briefest moments, your mind unhelpfully provides several examples of people your age, but you wave it away. The idea of seducing your regulars is so absurd, you hold back a snort.

“Sure, if that’s what you say,” your mom says airily. “Just keep your eyes peeled.”

Safe behind a phone, you roll your eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Anyway, I’m thinking about - ” you pause to consider your next words. It doesn’t seem wise to mention that you feel challenged by a possible member of the local gang and his opinions on your products. 

“About expanding my horizons,” you finish, appropriately vague.

“Uh-huh,” your mom says. “Like?”

You shrug. “I realized I haven’t made a lot of the snacks we used to eat years ago. You know, like anmitsu, or dango, or - ”

“Or taiyaki,” she says wryly. “Yes, I know.”

It suddenly hits you that, just like these snacks, you haven’t really thought about the country your mom used to call home. 

Does your mom miss it? Does she miss Japan like you miss the States, a dull, aching feeling that you only remember in the early mornings? 

Is she upset that you’re here, in Italy, rather than there, in Japan? Has she ever mourned over how you can’t speak Japanese, but chased after Italian instead?

Does she feel like a part of her has forever been left behind?

“Right,” you say, swallowing. “I, uh, I want to try it out. Making them, I mean. I think it’d be fun.”

Your mom laughs, bright and clear.

“Why not?” she asks, and you can hear the approval in her voice. “I could ask your grandma for her recipe on mochi.”

Your nose scrunches. “Mochi? Mochi is so… difficult. I was thinking something easier, like, dango.”

“Sure, you can start there,” you mom says. “I’ll still ask her for the recipe. For dango, just look one up online.”

“Okay,” you say, flipping to a new page in your notebook and sketching out ideas. “I’ll send you pictures when I finish.”

“You should!” your mom says, another laugh bubbling through the speaker. “It’s good that you’re trying.”

You know she doesn’t mean anything by those words. Still, the sting in your chest is unexpected.

“Yeah,” you say, a little hoarsely. “I think it’s time I try a little more now.”

xv.

The recipe for dango calls for rice flour, and that’s a problem, because you don’t have any on you in the shop. 

You close for the day and rush to the closest food market - your hours don’t give you much leeway on weekdays.

By the time you return home, the sky is dark and your stomach is ready to riot. You scarf down a quick meal and, rolling up your sleeves, you march into the kitchen, ready to make some dango even if it kills you.

The first time goes terribly. You boil the dango for a little too long and, taking a bite, you make a noise of disgust. The consistency is too tough and you can still taste some flour.

You try again, mixing the ingredients, and remember when you used to eat dango on Saturday afternoons with your mom, when you went to the local Japanese market. 

When you try it again, the consistency is better but the dough is too bland. 

Your mind turns blank as you chase after the flavor from your childhood memories. By the time you're satisfied, you glance at the time and wince. You should have been in bed two hours ago.

You pack up the remaining dango and shuffle into bed - you can reassess the taste in the morning.

The next day, after setting up the shop and helping out several customers, you try out the latest batch of dango with a fresh palette.

It’s… decent. You pop in another one and realize the texture isn’t always consistent.

The realization that you are now a novice in a field of baking is grating. 

“I’ll get it right,” you mutter, to the absolute silence of your shop. “I’ll get it right and then they’ll all be sorry.”

xvi.

A few days later, after you’ve made more dango than you can count, a young teenage boy saunters through the door.

“Hi again,” you say, recognizing the wild set of dark curls. “You were here before, right?”

He grins. “That’s right. I’m Lambo, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” you say with a smile. 

“We have fresh crepes today, with different fruits, if you’re interested,” you continue, pointing to the special today, written on the board above you. You’re nearly done with the fruit basket and you are determined to get rid of it all today. “There’s raspberry, strawberry, grape - ”

“Grape,” Lambo blurts out, hands gripping a backpack. “I’ll have the grape one.”

He pauses, then adds, a little sheepishly. “Please.”

Your smile widens.

“Crepe with cream and crushed grapes,” you say, accepting his crumpled cash. “You want that to-go?”

“Yeah,” Lambo answers, eyes already drawn to your counter of displayed pastries.

You hold in a laugh and get started on the crepe. A few minutes later, you wrap it up in plastic foil and pass it over. 

Lambo accepts it with gleeful eyes.

“Thank you!” he calls, already biting into the crepe. 

“No problem,” you say, wiping down your pan. “Stop by again sometime.”

“I will,” Lambo says, like it’s a promise, already halfway down with his crepe. “See you!”

You watch as he leaves the store, his gangly limbs walking past the windows. 

Out of nowhere, a terrible idea hits you.

You look down at your tupperware full of dango.

Provoking local criminal authorities, you remind yourself, is a one-way ticket to trouble.

You still can’t stop staring at your dango.

xvii.

That weekend, late in the afternoon, as you’re beginning to close, Yamamoto peeks his head through the front door.

“Sorry!” he says with a grin, a hand on the back of his head. “I’ll come back next time.”

You wave him inside.

“It’s okay,” you say, because you’re not going to turn away one of your pillars of revenue. Yamamoto enters the shop with a smile. “The usual?”

You pause when you get an actual good look at him.

“That would be great,” he says, as if completely ignorant of the tears in his suit and the dirt on his face. A nasty bruise is growing along his jaw, and his arms are carefully wrapped around his side.

Like every other time, you very quickly pull out the tiramisu cake. There’s enough for two more slices and, after a moment, you slide the entire thing into a larger box.

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Yamamoto says, blinking, as he pauses from pulling out some cash. “I don’t think I have enough to cover all of that.”

“It’s on the house,” you tell him firmly, although you would rather ask him to go see a doctor rather than stroll by for some cake. 

Yamamoto tilts his head, eyes studying you, before he gives a bright smile.

“Thanks!” he says, taking the box and passing over the money. “I’ll try not to eat them all at - “

He abruptly turns to the side, a hand over his mouth, and lets out a cough. Something red hits skin, and onto your counter as well.

Yamamoto lowers his hand, and you both stare at the blood in silence.

You have several choice words. They begin with - again? - and end somewhere along - I am very tired of cleaning up after you and your suspicious friends. 

Instead, because you are very aware of the sword on Yamamoto’s back, you snatch several napkins and silently pass them over.

Yamamoto accepts them, a little bemused. 

“Thanks,” he says again, his voice slightly hoarse. His eyes glance down at the droplets of blood on your counter. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” you tell him, when, in fact, it probably isn’t okay because you’re fairly sure this is a sign of internal bleeding. “It happens.”

Yamamoto laughs, before quickly covering his mouth with the napkins. 

“I guess it does,” he says, readjusting the box in his hands. There are little specks of red on the case, and you can only hope Yamamoto won’t just leave them there. 

Yamamoto remains silent, for the briefest of moments, eyes trained on you, and smiles again. This time, it’s smaller - quieter. 

“I’ll see you later then,” he says, waving his free hand, before exiting the shop. 

You wave goodbye again and, as soon as the door closes shut, you release a heavy sigh.

Crouching down, you open the cabinet under the counter and pull out some rags and bleach. You shake the bottle and find, to your dismay, it’s nearly empty. You’re getting good at cleaning up blood. 

Minutes later, you stare blankly at your spotless counter.

You… are getting very good at cleaning up blood.

-o-o-o-o-o-

we were so close to having a chapter without any blood D:

this time, no Gokudera, but he’ll have his time soon enough. instead, we now have teenager!Lambo! 

our scenes today are a little more tame, but i wanted to expand on MC, to show that they’re their own person, with their own agendas/feelings. (who, also, is often motivated by pettiness and spite.)

[trassellynn]

The Haunting of Kree Manor - Chapter 3

Here we are with the third chapter!  You can find the Ao3 link here.  Warnings: Horror, presence of blood, swearing. Text undercut. 

THE HAUNTING OF KREE MANOR Chapter 3. INEJ: The masked figure (Part 2)

On the fourth day, I took the occasion to spend as much time as I could outside of the house, helping Jesper and Wylan with gardening. I knew the masked figure could reach me everywhere, as long as I were on the island, but they had attacked me only when I was alone, so I felt a bit safer when I had my friends by my side. There was a surreal atmosphere, none of us, neither Jes, talked much that day. I bet we all carried fearful secrets, dark thoughts, and we really wanted to tell each other everything, getting free from those burdens, but there was something, in that place, that made the words die in our throats. So... we worked. Silently. Unable to talk, but in desperate need of each other's company. In the afternoon, I finally took courage to go inside, to make some tea. It was my turn: Jes had made some lemonade that morning and Wylan had prepared sandwiches for lunch. I went inside from one of the back doors, walking across a long aisle. Passing by the living room, I noticed a large figure sitting on one of the sofas. “Matthias?” He was terribly pale, his blue eyes fixed on the floor. He was cradling a sleeping Aenya in his arms and his lips were moving, but no sound came out of them. I approached him, sitting next to him, and I gently touched his shoulder. He seemed to awake from a terrible nightmare. “Inej?” “Are you okay?” I felt a bit stupid, asking that question. It was obvious he wasn't okay. He was wearing only a pair of pants and a white undershirt, like he had just jumped out of his bed, and there was a mix of shock and fear in his glance. “I...” he hesitated. “No, I'm not okay... I was sleeping and... and I saw something... I mean, I woke up and then I saw something... someone...” “Someone?” I asked, a painful grip on my throat. “Who?” The Fjerdan shivered, looking at Aenya, like he was checking she was still there. The baby slowly moved her little head against her father's chest, sighing. At least, her dreams seemed to be quiet. “It was a woman,” he whispered. “A terrifying woman... and... I couldn't move... she was over me and I couldn't move a single muscle...” I thought a bit about his words: “Well... I don't know if this is the case, but I heard about experiences like this... it's a sleep disorder... something like this...” “I heard about it too...” he replied. “Lena once explained me how it works... I... I don't know, maybe this is the explanation... I hope so...” I caressed his huge arm: “Yes... it's the most rational solution...” “And yet... it seemed to be so real... I wasn't afraid for myself...” He lowered his eyes, looking at the little girl in his arms, and my heart jumped a beat, thinking about things that could hurt that tiny creature. I gently rubbed her soft, rosy cheek with my finger, paying attention to not awake her. I didn't know what to answer. Yes, sleep disorder was the most rational solution... but that house... that house seemed to be beyond rationality. The masked figure that haunted me... I constantly tried to tell myself it wasn't real, but I vividly remembered its grip on my shoulder. I wasn't dreaming, in that moment. And my senses couldn't fail me so badly. “Should you need anything,” I finally told him. “Just ask. I'm here for all of you.” His lips slightly curled up: “Thank you, Inej. The same for me.” “I'm going to make some tea, now, I think we all need it. Do you know where are the others?” He nodded: “Nina and Kaz are tidying the loft, while Kuwei should be in the library with Inga. Do you want me to call them? I'm sure Aeny won't be bothered if I do it.” “Okay, thank you,” I smiled. “See you in the kitchen later.” I felt a thrill running down my back, when I entered the aisle that led to the kitchen. The memory from last night was so vivid, I expected to see the masked figure appearing in front of me, ready to haunt me again. But the aisle was empty. When I entered the kitchen... when I walked through the threshold I suddenly found myself into the darkness. I don't know how but... in a matter of moments, all the lights went off, even thought it was a sunny afternoon. It looked like someone had covered the windows with a thick, black curtain. It looked like... I had just walked into a dark hole, like darkness had caught me and wrapped me with its coils. I wandered with my hands ahead, looking for light switch, looking for the table, the stove, any point of reference... but I found nothing. And I realized... I wasn't in the kitchen any more. I was elsewhere, in a dark, hollow place... blind... vulnerable... And for a moment... for a moment I felt that grip, their grip on my neck... that cold hand, those crooked fingers... I opened my mouth to scream, but I was anticipated by a furious growl. The darkness vanished immediately, the light came back. I was in the kitchen, next to the stove... and Trassel was behind me, his teeth still bared. I immediately realized he had just saved me. I walked towards him, I fell on my knees and I hugged him, hiding my face into his soft, white fur. “Thank you,” I whispered, my voice broken, my eyes wet. “Thank you...” I had a weird dream, that night. I was on a lonely stage, in an empty theatre, and I was dancing. I couldn't stop. There was no one around, and yet I knew I had to keep on dancing, I felt that, if I stopped, my friends would have been in danger. Shadows were lurking all around me. But I couldn't stop. There was blood, on the stage... bloodstains on the wooden floor. I couldn't stop. “Inej...” A far, feeble voice called my name. I couldn't... I couldn't stop... “Inej!” I woke up in a badly enlightened room. An empty room I didn't remember I had ever been into. Jesper was staring at me, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes widened. Something cold and wet touched my wrist. I soon realized it was Trassel's nose. “Inej, what are you doing?” “Jes... Tras...” I murmured. “I... where are we?” The sharpshooter cupped my face with his hands. He was... visibly worried, anxious, even a bit scared. “We're in a shitty, empty room at the fourth floor and you were...” I absently looked around and I gasped seeing the bloodstains on the wooden floor. Like in my nightmare... “Jes! Oh, Saints there's blood on the floor! I dreamed about this, I...” “Inej... you are bleeding...” “I... what?” “Your feet...” An intense stab of pain completely awoke me, making me realize: my feet were bleeding. I had walked in my sleep, reaching that room, and danced for hours, barefoot on the old, wooden floor. A feeble cry came out of my mouth, while I frantically grabbed Jesper's nightshirt. He took me in his arms, while Trassel started smelling the bloodstains. “In my bathroom there's a good medical kit,” Jesper whispered. “We'll fix this, don't worry.” “What time is it?” I asked, as he took me out of the room. “It's almost five in the morning.” I let a painful sigh out. I had danced for at least four hours. My wounds weren't too bad, but Jes had to bandage both my feet and, when the others discovered what happened, they persuaded me to rest. I didn't want to stay inside alone, so I took Trassel with me and I decided to spend some time in the little reading room at the fourth floor. It was a very cosy, nice room, whose window offered a quiet view on the lake. I tried to read for a while, but soon, the terrible, past night forced me to take a little nap, crouched on the soft armchair, Trassel laid at my feet. His presence seemed to work a bit, since no terrifying dreams came to bother my sleep, but quiet didn't last long. Suddenly, Trassel started barking furiously, giving me an abrupt awake. I winced, blinking, and I brought my hand to my eyes, to rub them. My fingers met something smooth and solid, something that wasn't my skin. Trembling, I cupped my own face with both of my hands. A cry came out of my mouth: I was wearing a mask. Someone put a mask on my face while I was sleeping. Or it appeared from nowhere, who knows. I tore it off, tossing it away, and I looked around, expecting to see the figure who was haunting me those days. However, there was no one in the room, apart from me and Trass. The wolf wasn't even paying attention to me: he was jumping in front of the window, barking, scratching the glass with his nails. There was something that bothered him, outside. I stood up from the armchair, hissing in pain when my whole weight pressed on my injured feet, and I limped towards him. My dark eyes widened: a little, blonde figure, wearing a light blue dress, was walking on the roof, laughing. “Inga!” I screamed, opening the window. “Inga, what are you doing? It's dangerous!” I immediately understood something was wrong: she didn't hear me, she didn't even turn her face. She was talking to an invisible presence and seemed to be unaware of everything that surrounded her. “Inga!” I had to do something. Whatever had taken her on the roof, it hadn't good intentions. I went out of the window, kneeling on the shingles. I took a deep breath, then, bared my feet, mentally preparing to a necessary torture. The slippers I was wearing gave me a slight relief, but they weren't good to walk on that surface. Clenching my teeth, I started moving as rapid as I could, proceeding on all fours when the pain became unbearable. “Inga!” She was a few metres ahead me. Step by step, she was approaching the edge. Screaming in pain, I made a couple of long jumps. She stretched her arm forward, trying to catch something over the edge. One more step and she would have fallen down. My hands grabbed her by her waist, as I fell on my knees. In that moment, she finally awoke. A loud, terrified scream came out of her mouth. She turned around, wrapping her arms around me and hiding her face against my shoulder. She kept on screaming for a while, trembling, wetting my sleeve with her warm tears. “It's okay...” I murmured, caressing her long, blonde hair. “It's okay, I'm here...” I soon realized I was trembling too... And then... it came. The seventh night. The last night in the house. It wasn't meant to be the last, in our original plans, but it made us realize we couldn't stay there any longer. I went to sleep at one o'clock, but, nearly an hour after, I woke up in another room. Again. I had no idea where I was. The floor was a plain, dark surface and the walls were... mirrors. I was surrounded by mirrors. And my clothes... my violet nightgown had been replaced by a black, period dress, a dress I had never seen before. There was a single door, in that room. I ran to it, frantically grabbing the handle. “No...” I whispered, my voice broken. “No, no, no...” It was closed. I was trapped. “Help!” I cried, starting to desperately punch the door. “Please, someone help me!” “Dance” said a cold, ghostly voice behind me. I turned around, feeling like my heart was about to get out of my chest. The masked figure was there. I was trapped in a room with them. This time, I had no way to escape. “Dance.” they repeated, stretching their clawed hands towards me. Their voice stabbed my ears, like thousands sharp, little ice splinters. “Let me go!” I screamed back, my back pressed against the door. “Stay away from me!” “Dance!” they insisted, angrily. “Dance until... death!” They started to walk, slowly approaching me. I hadn't my knives with me, I had nothing but my bare hands. I took a defensive position, ready to face them once for all. I knew I had no chances, but, at least, I wouldn't have been a prey. I wouldn't have died before fighting with all my strengths. Their claws snapped towards my throat, but I avoided them, I rolled on the floor to the left side and, in a matter of moments, I stood up again, fists raised. A pang of pain and a wet sensation under my right foot made me realize one of my wounds had reopened. But I didn't dare to look down, nor to mind it. The masked figure pointed at me and, before I could do anything, I was lifted into the air and thrown against the door. A fierce pain on my right elbow, my shoulder and my head. I fell to the floor, dazed, a whistle tormented both my ears. I tried to stand up, even thought I felt my legs weak and unstable. I didn't even realized it. My mouth opened and I yelled, I called a name. The figure bended over me. His crooked fingers a few inches from my neck. “Kaz!” Suddenly, the door opened and I lost my balance, landing in someone's arms. I immediately recognised his scent. “Kaz!” I screamed. “Close the door! Close the door!” He did it, using the handle of his cane, while he was hugging me with his free arm. My ear was pressed against his chest and I could hear his heartbeats. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse. I parted from him, trying to regularise my breathing. The period dress had disappeared, I was wearing my nightgown again. “My... my foot...” He didn't even let me finish my sentence: he took me in his arms, lifting me up. “We're going to leave from this cursed place” he whispered, a mix of shock, fear and anger in his voice. “Now.” “Kaz... I can walk by myself...” He didn't listen. Limping as fast as he could, he walked down several stairways, until we reached the ground floor. Somehow I was not surprised, finding all our friends there, in the same moment. They all looked terrified, shocked, they all felt it was time to leave. Only Wylan, Kuwei and Inga, who hugged a very upset Trass, wore a pair of socks, the other were all barefoot like me. Jesper and Matthias weren't even wearing a shirt and the Fjerdan's right arm was bleeding. Nina, who was holding a crying Aenya in her arms, wore a pink, badly fastened peignoir, that exposed part of her lingerie.  She immediately widened her green eyes, seeing me in Kaz's arms. “Inej! Are you...” “Let's go!” Kaz interrupted her. “Let's go away from this fucking place!” “That was exactly what I was going to suggest!” Jesper replied. “Kaz, put me down,” I told him, as he opened the front door. “I can walk.” “You cannot walk on the ground with an open wound” he replied. “Let me carry her on my back,” Matthias proposed. “Don't tell bullshit, Helvar, how can you take her with that arm?” “A single arm is enough, to me, to hold Inej. We'll proceed faster.” Kaz opened his mouth to reply, when a furious growl, that came from inside the house, made us winced. Whatever was hiding into it, all the beings that tormented us those days, weren't happy to see us leaving. Kaz finally accepted to let Matthias carry me on his large back and we started running across the large garden. The air was filled with rangeful howls and screams. Running through the woods was the worst part of our escape. The branches of the trees looked like into claws, ready to grab us. I could swear I saw many of them moving. I suddenly heard a scream and I looked back, seeing Wylan had just stumbled, falling on the ground. For a moment, I had the impression something was dragging him backwards, but Jesper rapidly helped him to stand up again and, hand in hand, they rapidly reached us. We had nothing with us. Only the few clothes we were wearing. And Kaz's cane. Seeing the boats made me feel a slight relief, but I knew we wouldn't have been safe until we put as much distance as we could from us and that cursed island. “Love, you cannot row, with that arm” Nina told Matthias, once we sat on the boat. “I'll do it for you. Keep Aeny.” I took the other pair of oars, giving a quick glance to the other two boats, to make sure we all had made it. We had. Me and Nina started rowing, taking a little time to synchronize our movements, while Matthias was calming down Aenya, cradling her and whispering her reassuring words. I instinctively took a quick look at the shore, that was further and further away. And I saw it: the masked figure, standing still, their hollow eyes fixed on me. They seemed to let me go with a promise: I wouldn't have escaped them twice, if I had come back.