#anyways uh this is. something ive drawn. and made. and posted.

[osteochondraldefect]

Sweet reward for obeying commands

[lucky-peoqle]

unwanted guests | d.m.

pairings: draco malfoy x hufflepuff!reader, somewhat platonic!weasley twins (fred is pretty flirty😁)x hufflepuff!reader, platonic!cedric diggory x reader, and platonic!zacharias smith x reader.

summary: y/n the hufflepuff american student promised her housemates, cedric and zacharias, that she would watch them practice for their next match, she was accompanied by the infamous gryffindors, the weasley twins. as watching her house, she starts hearing whooping and hollering, she soon gets annoyed with the group of slytherins and confronts them.

warnings: some swearing, blood, pansy bodyshames reader

a/n: hello, ive bee super busy with school !! im currently obsessed with hp again :) hope u all enjoy this,, its a bit longer than usual. this is set during goblet of fire !! :) very unedited and kinda rushed :/ sorry

the temperature was pretty cold on this particular fall day, as the y/h/c hufflepuff sat outside, writing in a journal she kept, looking up to answer her housemate and one of her best friend, cedric diggory's questions.

"so, will you come? zacharias thought it would be a good idea," he said, motioning to the blonde hufflepuff boy who was watching from afar.

"hm? oh, uh, sure! if it makes you two happy," she looked up from her journal, smiling at the brunette, then the blonde.

"great! i'll tell him when we get to lunch."

and with that, the bell rang, making the other people outside with you get up and head inside to the great hall.

the two of you got up, and started making your way to the great hall, colored robes passing you by. "did you ever open up the golden dragon egg?" you said, looking up at him.

"yeah! that reminds me, i have to tell harry about that. thanks," he smiled.

you smiled back, "potter? you're telling him how to open it?"

"why not, y'know. it's the least i could do," he shrugged.

"that's so sweet! i'm glad you two are getting along."

by now you were in the great hall, walking past the gryffindor table to your table, making eye contact with the golden trio and weasley twins as you passed by with your best friend.

you were in the same year as the golden trio, meeting them the first day on the train, them finding you american accent amusing, but they got use to it pretty fast. then they introduced you to ron's twin brothers, fred and george, they were drawn to you instantly, poking fun of your accent from time to time.

last but not least, you met cedric. you met cedric in the common room your second day of hogwarts. you had drifted to sleep, one of you housemates cats curled on your lap, and cedric had woken you, helping you back to bed. ever since then you had been best friends ever since.

you took your sear next to cedric, zacharias smith, another close friend of yours, sat across from the two of you.

"zach! good news, y/n is coming to watch us practice tomorrow," the brunette smiled brightly.

"great! i can't wait to show off to you, maybe it'll make you fall for me instead of that weasley twin," he said jokingly.

"who? fred?" she chuckled, "zach, you're kidding right? freddies just a friend. sure we flirt, but that's what friends do, right?"

"you have a weird interpretation of friendship y/n/n," zach stifled a laugh.

you rolled your eyes, turning your head towards cedric, who was looking at the ravenclaw table, that was standing next to your table. you followed his eyesight that was met with cho chang.

"ced is making googly eyes at his girlfriend again," you laugh, making him turn his attention to you.

"so what? don't act like i didn't see you smiling at fred weasley."

"i smiled at all of them! fred and i don't have feelings for each other," she huffed.

"suree," zacharias said in a sing song voice.

you shook your head, poking your food around your plate, looking across the ravenclaw table to the slytherin table. you saw draco malfoy joking with his friends, his cold grey eyes drifting to meet your warm y/e/c ones. his eyes grew colder once they finally met yours. you softly smiled at him and his eyes grew softer, and he quickly turned his attention back to his group of friends.

'huh, weird,' you thought, turning your attention back to cedric and zacharias.

the day quickly passed, ending like it always does. going into the hufflepuff common room, it being filled with muggle and non-muggle type plants, the warm fireplace going. you made your way up to your dorm you shared with hannah abbott. changing out of your robs and falling asleep quickly.

you woke up, the warm fall sun peeking through the window of your dorm. you looked over at hannah, who had been awake but reading, it was still a bit early so breakfast wouldn't be ready yet. it was saturday after all, so no need to worry about classes.

"morning," you mumbled tiredly to hannah.

"good morning!" she put her book down, "i came back late last night from study with ernie and you were out like a light!"

"yeah, last night was kinda of tiring," you chuckled, sitting up, "why are you up so early anyway?"

"i thought we could go down to the great hall together, we've been so busy and rarely get to talk, why not catch up on our way down there yeah?"

"sure! that sounds lovely," you smile, getting up from your bed.

the two of you got ready for the day, putting on your hufflepuff robes, and made your way down to the common room. only a few people were sat in the common room, a few waving and bidding you good morning as you passed by.

you two walked out of the common room and head up to the great hall. "so how have you been?" hannah asked beside you.

"i've been well! busy with getting cedric through the tournament, y'know..."

"yeah, that must be though."

"it isn't actually! im extremely proud of him, i know he'll win this."

"i really hope he does! finally a hufflepuff getting the recognition they deserve," hannah smiled.

"newt scamander is pretty cool," you smiled, "i take great pride in being as the same house as him."

hannah shrugged, "yeah, very interesting man, he is. isn't loony lovegood related to him?"

"don't call her that, she's very nice. but, i believe so, in some way."

by now, you're in the great hall, making your to your table. you continue to chat till hannah departs from you to sit with susan bones and leanne, who were chatting amongst themselves.

you quickly find cedric, who was chatting with justin finch-fletchley. you sat next to him and started putting food on your plate. he heard you and turned your attention on you.

"good morning y/n/n," he smiled brightly.

"good morning ced, how're you?"

"great! excited for practice today."

you two chatted for the rest of breakfast, by the end of it, you were stuffed. you looked at the slytherin table, remembering the look draco malfoy gave you. you spotted him, he was talking to crabbe, goyle, and pansy, laughing, smiling, he looked happy.

draco turned his head to answer someone's question, while doing so, he caught you staring. you blushed brightly, hesitating before giving you a smile. he returned the gesture with one of his iconic smug smirks.

you looked away, turning your attention to cedric, "practice starts soon, i should get ready. see you out there?"

you nodded with a smile, and he smiled back, getting up and leaving the great hall.

you got up after a bit of thinking, and made your way to your common room to grab your journal and scarf, since it would be chilly out.

once you did so, you made your way back up the stairs, going through corridor to corridor.

you were walking in peaceful silence, until you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist, and lift you up, spinning you around.

you let out a laugh as the two head headed boys laughed loudly, "fred weasley! put me down!"

"what's the magic word?"

"please!"

"no, but close enough," he said, dropping you, making you land on your butt.

"ouch! fred! george! what were you thinking?"

"we weren't! so what are you up to?" george chuckled.

"i'm going to watch cedric and zacharias practice," you smile, "wanna come? i wouldn't mind the company."

"sure!" the boys said together.

you're little group of three walked to the quidditch posts, your yellow and black scarf clashing with their red and yellow ones. fred had thrown an arm around you shoulder.

you sat down in the middle of the twins, fred's arm sitting around you. you were right, it was chilly, but it was nice. this was your favorite time of year.

you watched as cedric and zacharias flew around, catching the ball or passing it to another teammate. zacharias caught sight of you, and winked, motioning to the arm around your shoulder. you just stuck your tounge out in response.

the time you spent was fun, until a certain group of slytherins decided to crash the practice. you rolled your eyes as the began to yell and laugh at them, distracting the players.

"ignore them," george said, "they have no brains, nor can they play fair."

you chuckled at that, "you're right on that one."

the four slytherins were still yelling, it was very annoying. fred and george reassuring you to leave them alone and they'll get bored and leave soon.

you kept your temper, watching your house practice. it was going fine, until draco yelled something towards cedric that made your best friend look at him, the ball hitting him right in the face, knocking cedric off his broom.

you gasp as you got up quickly, looking over the railing, watching cedric get up from his spot on the ground, wiping his now bloodied nose.

you turn to malfoy, who was staring in disbelief, but always laughing. pansy parkinson was shrieking out laughter, it hurt your ears. you walk up to the four, george and fred calling out to you to stop.

"hey!"

the four turned towards you, laughing still.

"what do you want, l/n?" draco asked.

"you ass! cedric could have gotten hurt! he's never done anything to you! you distracted him on purpose so that you wouldn't have to face loosing to him in our next quidditch match against slytherin!"

"and so what? it's not like you can stop us from coming up here during their practice," pansy laughed. "you're just a pathetic little hufflepuff, well i wouldn't say little... your robes make you look fat."

you took a step back, you had always been insecure about your weight and body image. you began to tear up. george and fred too far away to hear what was going on. you opened your mouth to defend yourself, but nothing came out except a small squeak.

pansy, crabbe, and goyle all let out shrieks of laughter. you couldn't let them see you cry, so you ran. you heard shouting behind you. draco yelling something, and the twins shouting after you, following you.

you had lost them though, finding yourself in moaning myrtles bathroom. you said down the wall, letting out sob after sob. you sat there crying for a while, until you heard someone come in.

"leave me alone, you're unwanted here." you choke out, looking away from them.

"sorry about what pansy said back there, i told her since the start of third year, you were off limits."

you turn around, seeing the platinum blonde slytherin. "off limits?"

"from us bullying you, she's been jealous of you since."

"jealous? of me? what are you talking about?"

draco took a seat next to you, "i've fancied you for a while, just never had the courage to tell you. i thought you liked one of the weasley twins honestly."

you shook you head, "or were you just too ashamed to tell me since im a pathetic hufflepuff?" you sniffed.

"what? no, no! that's not it, i was just scared. I didn't want to be rejected, i guess."

"the thing back there with cedric, you're an ass for that."

"i know, i didn't mean for him to get knocked off his broom, i deserved to get yelled at."

you sat in comfortable silence for a while, not knowing what to say. pansy's words making their way back into your thoughts.

"pansy was right."

draco laughed, "about?"

"me being fat, my robes look horrible on me."

"don't say that! y/n, you're on of the most beautiful people i've ever seen walk this earth," draco said looking over at you.

"why the sudden urge to tell me about your feelings?"

"because it felt right... like yesterday and this morning, you smiled at me and it felt like it was time," he sighed.

you smiled over at him, and grabbed his hand. he intertwined your fingers and smiled back. he began to lean in, until his lips met yours, fireworks going off. you pulled away, your face bright read.

"who would of thought, me, draco malfoy, slytherin prince, dating a hufflepuff..."

"the world works in crazy ways," you smile, "i'm glad you came looking for me."

"so am i, y/n, so am i."

end.

[lake-arrius-caverns]

Nerevarine Rising

Chapter 9: Outlander Avenger

this took too long to post heehoo ive noticed that sometimes italics don’t save when im posting on tumblr? might have been a glitch idk but in that case it’s better to read on AO3 where the formatting is actually proper lol 

summary On their arrival to Vivec City, the twins part ways and Fahjoth finds himself drawn into the investigation of a very serious crime. 

content warnings violence, blood, minor character death

read under the cut or on AO3, cheers 👍

:: First :: || << Previous << || >> Next >> || :: Masterpost ::

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“Ey, Ribyna, have you ever heard of Ashlanders?”

“Yeah, why?”

Fahjoth paused, pulling a disgruntled pout. The sun had well and truly set now; the last vestiges of warmth had evaporated entirely, replaced by a nipping chill and creeping shadows that submerged their surroundings in deep blue blankets. Vivec City loomed in the distance, unlike anything Fahjoth had ever seen before. Instead of individual houses like he had seen in every other town he’d been to so far, the city was populated by rows of colossal cantons, square and blocky yet towering over them with a kind of intimidating grandeur. Walkways bridged the gaps between the cantons, stretching over the rolling waters of the Ascadian Isles’ open bay, and several flags and tapestries fluttered from the sides of the cantons, embroidered with differing patterns and art that Fahjoth couldn’t make out from a distance. 

Turning his gaze back to Ribyna as they crossed the bridge towards the first canton, Fahjoth gave an exasperated huff, though there was no real annoyance in his tone. “Oh, so it’s just me, then?” he questioned. “Being an idiot as per usual. D’you know, I made a right tit of myself to Cosades earlier. Told him I didn’t know what Ashlanders were, then he gave me a bollocking for being a dipshit. I mean, how was I supposed to know? Nobody’s told me!” 

Ribyna’s response was surprisingly terse. “Well, maybe if you kept your mouth shut more often instead of chatting a load of shit, you’d listen and actually learn something for once.”

Fahjoth blinked, taken aback by this harsh rebuttal. He was used to Ribyna’s blunt manner of speaking of course, but this was something else entirely. He had noticed her demeanour getting more subdued and her posture stiffening the closer they got to Vivec City, and chalked it up to weariness after their long walk. Now, however, he was not so sure. Was that a hint of nervousness he detected in her voice?

“Are you alright?” he asked, then frowned sympathetically. “Bit nervous about being in the big city?”

“What?” Ribyna turned back to Fahjoth and flashed him a scathing look. “No, of course not. Don’t be stupid.” 

“Then what is it?” He received no response, as Ribyna stopped walking and examined their surroundings, occasionally dropping her gaze down and squinting at the map she held. 

“Right, I’ve got some shit to do,” she announced, as if she hadn’t even heard Fahjoth’s concerns. Fahjoth was certain that this wasn’t the case. “I’ll see you later.”

“Whoah, hang on a second!” Fahjoth protested, disconcerted by Ribyna’s unexpected change of plans. “I didn’t realise we’d be splitting up. What are you doing, anyway?” 

“Just... stuff,” Ribyna replied vaguely. Fahjoth grimaced; perhaps it was best that he didn’t know the details after all, if she was here on business with the Thieves Guild. 

“Alright, fine,” Fahjoth said, relenting. “But where should I meet you?” 

“Uh...” Ribyna gestured aimlessly at the immediate canton, the details on its banners now impossible to make out in the dark. “The map says this is the Foreign Quarter. Just find a cornerclub or something in here and get a room sorted for us. I’ll meet you back here when I’m done.” 

“Right,” Fahjoth replied mutedly. Admittedly, he was disappointed; he had been assuming that he and Ribyna would explore Vivec City together, but now, he was resigning himself to being Billy-No-Mates for the next few hours, or however long Ribyna would take to do her mysterious errand. “See you later then.” 

Fahjoth thought Ribyna may have flashed him an apologetic glance before she turned away, but then she stalked away along the path flanking the canton and rounded the corner, disappearing out of sight. Heaving a sigh that materialised in the air as a faint puff of steam, Fahjoth turned and headed up the sloping path towards the canton’s upper door, slipping inside and into the warmth. 

The inside of the canton was well-lit with torches and rather cheerfully decorated, an array of potted plants sitting in the corners while colourful tapestries and banners hung from the walls. Fahjoth could see a variety of people going about their business, not just Dunmer but Imperials, Bretons, and Redguards, among others, and in that moment he felt a strange sense of almost belonging. Initially he was surprised, until he realised that he was in the Foreign Quarter, and he was left with a deep feeling of despondency instead. 

This grim reminder that he truly was an outlander was accentuated by the unrelenting glares he received from the Ordinators who patrolled the corridors, striking an intimidating presence with their gleaming gold armour and helmets, fashioned into the shape of a sharp elven face with a crest of hair atop their heads. 

“We’ll have no trouble here,” one of the Ordinators said in a low, rasping voice as he walked by. “Move along.”

Suppressing a shudder, Fahjoth began to wander around the upper floor of the canton, trying to look as if he knew where he was going as opposed to being totally lost. Fortunately, it didn’t take too long before he found himself at a door with a sign overhead reading The Black Shalk Cornerclub. Figuring that he was not going to find anywhere more ideal than this, he pushed the door open and stepped in with caution. 

The cornerclub was quiet, with only a few punters sitting around tables or standing in the corners of the room, deep in conversation. A Dunmer stood organising a collection of bottles behind the counter, while an Argonian sat at the bar nursing a drink of his own. Fahjoth approached, plonked himself onto a stool near to the Argonian, and offered him a smile of greeting. The Argonian, who had seemed quite tense as Fahjoth sat down, suddenly relaxed and gave Fahjoth a polite smile in return. 

“Can I have a mazte, please?” he asked the barman, reaching into his pocket for his coin purse. “Oh, and how much would a room be for the night for two people?”

“That’ll be twenty drakes for the room, sera,” the barman replied, pushing a bottle of mazte towards Fahjoth. “And ten for the mazte.”

“Oh, alright, cheers! I’ll take it then,” Fahjoth replied, handing over the coins with relief. He caught the Argonian’s eye and chuckled, a wry grin curling the corner of his mouth. “Ribyna reckoned it’d be more expensive than that.”

“Ribyna?” the Argonian questioned. 

“Ah, that’s my twin! She’s off doing... something,” Fahjoth answered, his voice trailing off thoughtfully as a mild frown settled on his face. “I’m not sure what. She wouldn’t say.” 

“I see. That sounds rather sinister.” The Argonian smirked. “Forgive me, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Fahjoth couldn’t hold back an awkward giggle. “You’re right, sorry. My name’s Fahjoth,” he said, holding his hand out, which the Argonian shook after a brief pause. 

“Huleeya,” he introduced himself, withdrawing his hand and taking a sip of his drink. “Well, I can’t blame your twin for being secretive. Not with this recent spate of attacks on outlanders.” 

Fahjoth’s smile slipped from his face. “Attacks?”

“Oh, yes.” Huleeya nodded gravely. “Not just attacks, but murders. Five outlanders have been found dead this week. Not only that, but two Ordinators have been found dead too. Killed in the same way — that is, with their throats slit.” 

“Gods alive... Do they know who’s doing it?”

“If they knew, they would have been caught already,” Huleeya replied. “The Justice Offices are looking for help in catching the killer, from what I’ve heard.” 

Fahjoth paused. Though this had given him a lot to think about, there was something else he wanted to ask. “Is that why you looked a bit...” — he gestured vaguely with a wave of his hand — “on edge when I came over?”

“Hm? Ah, no. It’s not that,” Huleeya said. “It just wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had trouble from the local Dunmer, that’s all.”

“What do you—?”

“Excuse me, outlander. I should get going.” Huleeya finished the remainder of his drink and stood up. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Fahjoth. You and your twin should be careful if you’re out wandering alone at night.”

“Ah... we will. Thanks, mate,” Fahjoth answered, watching as Huleeya said his farewells to the barkeep and took his leave. Once again, Fahjoth was left alone with his thoughts, and he began to get some very dangerous thoughts indeed. 

The Justice Offices are looking for help in catching the killer...

He bit his lip as he nursed his mazte, quietly wrestling with his own brain. To think that he would be able to go up against a serial killer who had slain two highly trained Ordinators was madness, and yet...

By the time he had drained the last of his mazte from the bottle, he had made his decision. Fahjoth stood up, trying to ignore the creeping feeling of foreboding, dropped off his supplies in his rented room and headed outside into the fresh night air once more. 

                              ——————————————

The Office of the Watch was much further away than Fahjoth had anticipated, and by the time he arrived, his legs — which had been trembling with nerves — were heavy and aching from weariness, which didn’t bode well for what he had to do. It had been a very long day already, and more than anything Fahjoth was craving a nice warm bed to fall into, but he’d come all this way. There was no going back now. 

After navigating the Hall of Justice — with some difficulty, assuaged only slightly by the directions given to him from irate Ordinators on patrol — Fahjoth eventually found himself at the doors of the Office of the Watch, which he knocked gently and waited to be given permission to enter. 

Peering around the door, Fahjoth was faced with a rather small and cluttered office inhabited by three Dunmer in the usual golden cuirass and boots, who were sitting at messy desks and perusing sheaves of parchment. One of them, a dark-haired Mer with a moustache and goatee, eyed Fahjoth as he crossed the threshold, the heavy bags under his eyes indicative of his tiredness.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “We’re very busy, as you can see.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Fahjoth apologised, “but I’m looking for an Elam Andas?”

“Yes, that’s me. I am Elam Andas, chief of Vivec's Order of the Watch. Are you here looking for work?”

Fahjoth bit his lip, knowing full well that this was his last chance to back out of his foolish and potentially suicidal mission, but he ploughed on anyway. “I heard you were looking for help solving these recent murders.”

The effect his words had on the office was startling. The officers stopped what they were doing, each of them fixing their red eyes on Fahjoth with dubious expressions. Fahjoth remained silent until Andas spoke again. 

“We cannot officially hire you as only Ordinators can serve the watch,” he explained. “But if you can find this killer and bring them to justice, we’ll see to it that you’re rewarded for your efforts.”

Bring them to justice? Now that was something Fahjoth was sure was well above his pay grade. He had been hoping to do a bit of investigation, to help the Watch with their search, but to be tasked with bringing down a serial killer himself? That wasn’t something he was at all confident he could handle. 

“Oh, I—” he started in alarm, but Andas cut him off. 

“I require no commitment from you,” Andas informed him. “In fact, I can’t even officially accept one. But if you’re serious about helping, I can tell you what we know so far about the killer and the victims.”  

After a moment of hesitation, Fahjoth nodded, and Andas gestured to the seat across his desk. Fahjoth obeyed, sitting and listening in silence. 

“There have been seven victims so far, five outlanders and two Ordinators, and all with their throats slit. Three of the victims were found in the Foreign Quarter, one near the Arena and one in the Hlaalu Compound. None of the outlanders had been on Vvardenfell for more than a week.

“Our Ordinators were found near the body in the Hlaalu Compound, and we think they interrupted the killer at work. Despite the fact that they were armed and on duty, their weapons were still in their sheaths when their bodies were found, which is unsettling. We’re likely looking at someone incredibly stealthy, or adept at illusion magic.”

It was times like this that Fahjoth dearly wished he could read and write. At least then he would have been able to make notes. 

“Finally... there is the matter of witnesses. We’ve had no official witnesses come forward, but one outlander reported being threatened by a Dunmer woman with a dagger in the Hlaalu Compound, around the time of the other murders. He couldn’t give us a very clear description as he teleported himself away to safety, but he told us she was wearing a skirt and netch leather armour.”

Fahjoth nodded, frowning as he tried to absorb all of this information, all the while his heartbeat had quickened uncomfortably with apprehension. Without further ado, he stood and excused himself from the office, heading back outside and into the late night’s chilly grip. 

Hearing about the victims, as well as Huleeya’s dire warning, had strengthened Fahjoth’s resolve. Someone was lurking in the shadows of Vivec City, slaughtering innocent people seemingly purely because of their foreign origins. People just like him.

His years spent away from Morrowind had left him as good as an outlander in the eyes of the native Dunmer, and if someone considered that fact alone a trait punishable by death, then they couldn’t be allowed to continue to walk free. Someone needed to deal with them, and if the city’s Ordinators couldn’t — or wouldn’t — then perhaps it would be up to him. 

Although... it would probably be a good idea to find Ribyna first, Fahjoth figured as he set off towards the city’s northernmost cantons, before he went blundering headfirst to his potential death. Again. 

The path ahead was dark and unsettling, and Fahjoth found himself throwing anxious glances over his shoulder every few minutes, flinching at the slightest unexpected sound and eyeing every shadow with mistrust lest he be ambushed by a dagger-wielding, skirt-donning Dunmer intent on ending his life. It was with relief that he made it to the first of his destinations and, incidentally, the last place he had seen Ribyna heading towards — the Arena. 

                             ——————————————

Unfortunately for Fahjoth, Ribyna was nowhere to be seen, so he lingered around the Arena for long enough to do some investigating, inquiring with a few inhabitants and Ordinators but turning up no new leads. Eventually he was forced to resign himself to the fact that he would be a lone worker in this case — a thought that inspired a well of dread in his gut — and moved on. 

The same was to be said with the Hlaalu Compound, where Fahjoth had checked in the hope that someone would have seen something about the attempted attack, but he had no luck there either. He then moved on to the Foreign Quarter where, to his surprise, an Orc was happy to assist. 

“I recall someone — maybe one of the sewer cleaners — saying something about seeing a Dunmer woman down in the Underworks. Wouldn’t be that odd, but... in the Underworks? That’s odd. Nothing down there but rats and sewers.”

Which led Fahjoth to his next point of investigation — the Underworks. 

                             ——————————————

The moment he stepped foot in the Underworks, the smell hit him like a brick to the face. Almost choking on the pungent stench of sewage water, Fahjoth lingered for just long enough to feel just a little more regret before he set off, trying to forget the misgivings he felt. He yanked his scarf up to cover his nose and mouth and navigated the Underworks as carefully as he could, every footstep deliberately placed to be as quiet as possible. He was well aware that the killer could be lurking around any corner, and the deeper he tread into the sewers the more he felt his legs begin to tremble.  

It was almost silent down here, the only sounds being that of the murky water sloshing against the smooth stone sewer walls and the occasional drip of moisture from the damp-ridden ceiling. Every so often he would hear a rat scuttling around in the darkness and his heart would jolt, requiring him to take a moment to stop and let his adrenaline levels fall after an unpleasant spike that set his pulse racing. 

As he progressed, however, more unpleasant thoughts began to surface in his mind. One possibility kept presenting itself to him, and as hard as he tried to reject it, he found that he couldn’t wholeheartedly dismiss it. 

“What are you doing, anyway?” 

“Just... stuff.”

He remembered that strange look on Ribyna’s face when he mentioned going to Vivec City. He could tell easily when his twin was apprehensive, and as brief as it was, it had been only too clear to see on her face back in Balmora. Was she nervous about returning to the scene of the crime?

But that was ridiculous! His twin wasn’t a murderer! 

What reason would she have to kill outlanders, anyway? The more Fahjoth thought about it, the more illogical it seemed. Least of all because he had never even seen Ribyna wear a skirt for as long as he could remember. So why couldn’t he simply disregard it? The fact that he even had doubts in the first place said enough, and he was even more nervous as he crept through the tunnels, dreading the possibility of seeing his twin around the next bend. 

So wrapped up was he in his own thoughts that as Fahjoth rounded a corner and exited a smaller tunnel into a larger section of the sewers, he didn’t even notice the figure standing at the end of the tunnel until he was looking straight at them. With a choked gasp, he flung himself back around the corner from which he had just emerged and pressed himself against the wall, his heart pounding in his chest and his stomach tied up in knots. After pausing to listen for any sign of the stranger’s approach, he deemed it safe enough to peer around the wall again and get a better look at the figure ahead. 

Even in the low light, he could tell that it was a Dunmer, and they were indeed wearing a skirt with what seemed to be a leather cuirass. This particular corner of the sewer almost looked like a base, with a scruffy bedroll laying on the ground near evidence of where a makeshift fireplace had been lit in the form of a charred mound of wood scraps. A pile of dilapidated crates and debris were strewn haphazardly around the alcove, in some cases holding — or failing to hold — contents like food and bottles of alcohol. Evidently, this was someone who had stocked up for some time. 

Fortunately, she hadn’t noticed Fahjoth yet. She sat atop one of the crates, perusing some sort of book or journal and occasionally making notes. A dagger — stained an ominous rusty hue — sat by her side, and Fahjoth’s suspicions were all but confirmed. 

How was he going to do this?

He could call it a day, back out quietly the way he came and return to the Office of the Watch with what he knew of the killer’s whereabouts. But even then, would anything get done? Would the Ordinators get here in time before the killer made another move, and claimed another victim?

Perhaps if he could sneak up behind her, he could get the advantage. He knew better than anyone that he was no master of stealth, but she looked fairly preoccupied. Perhaps if he was quiet and quick, then— 

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind did he become aware of a weight suddenly pulling vigorously on his foot. As he looked down, he silently squirmed and grimaced at the sight of a large rat digging its teeth into the chitin, shaking its head as if determined to pull his boot clean off. It made no noise other than a soft, squeaky growl, but the splashing of the water beneath its paws was unsettlingly loud and echoed due to the circular tunnel’s acoustics. If this kept up, it was only a matter of time before the killer would notice him. 

“Get off!” Fahjoth hissed, frantically shaking his foot. “Get off! Get off, you little c—!”

Unfortunately, the rat refused to budge. It was dragged along in the wake of Fahjoth’s mild kicks, which gradually grew more and more vigorous as he fought to free his foot of the rat’s vice-like grip. Leaning on the wall for balance, he raised his foot up off the ground, now aggressively kicking at the air when all prior attempts at gently shaking the rat off failed. The situation would have been comical had Fahjoth not been so painfully conscious of the murderer sitting barely 20 yards away from where he stood. 

At last, after what felt like hours, the rat let go. However, the momentum given to it by Fahjoth’s kicking motion caused it to gracefully soar away as it was flung off his foot and land with a tremendous splash in the deep sewer water in front of him. 

Instantly, Fahjoth froze. He pressed himself back against the wall, his breathing fast and laboured as he strained his ears for any sign of movement. Apart from the splashing of the rat as it swam away, apparently done with terrorising Fahjoth for the time being, all was silent. Then, as he dared to peek around the corner to evaluate the situation, a pair of red eyes stared into his own as he made direct eye contact with the Dunmer. 

Her reaction was instant. She leapt up from her seat, dagger in hand, and stormed the length of the tunnel towards him, already screaming abuse and profanities in his direction. Kicking hard off the ground, Fahjoth threw himself into motion, and with the Dunmer hurtling closer his options for where to go were limited. A brown and grey blur in his peripheral as he passed indicated that the Dunmer was giving chase, but with the advantage of having longer legs, Fahjoth half-sprinted and half-leapt over a nearby bridge spanning the sewer water before pelting down to the tunnel’s end. Whirling around once he came to a stop, the Dunmer was mere seconds behind him, so Fahjoth drew his sword and stood fast. 

Wielding a dagger which seemed to emanate a sickly red glow, his opponent lunged, landing a glancing blow against Fahjoth’s armour as he leapt back. But she was much faster than he had anticipated. He stumbled back and threw himself from side to side to avoid the Dunmer’s aggressive strategy of repeated jabs and slashes, breaking into a sweat and feeling his flanks ache with every shallow pant. One thrust of the dagger slid between the gap in the chitin protecting his arm, slicing through the sleeve and nicking the skin beneath. 

With a gasp, Fahjoth flung himself backwards. There was a dull thud as his heel collided with something on the ground and his balance was completely thrown off. 

His stomach lurched as he began a sharp descent, hitting the ground with a painful bump. The scraping and groans of the crates he fell against rang in his ears as the Dunmer was suddenly filling his vision, dagger poised ready to plunge into his throat. 

With his sword arm raised in a vague attempt to defend himself, Fahjoth reached to the side, grasping at nothingness in a frantic search for something, anything, that could— 

The cold sliminess of damp wood brushed against his fingertips. He fastened his grip, braced himself and flung the broken chunk at his assailant with as much force as he could muster. 

The jagged lump of wood, a deadly weapon in its own right in the right circumstances, struck the Dunmer square in the face. She staggered back with a howl of pain, clutching her eye while blood seeped from a fresh injury above her brow. With adrenaline coursing through him, Fahjoth sprung to his feet, clutching the hilt of his sword with fingers now damp from his own blood. 

The Dunmer lifted her gaze to Fahjoth again, her uninjured eye blazing with a chilling hatred, but before she could make another move Fahjoth had sprung. He rushed forward and thrust his sword into the Dunmer’s midriff, the tip of the blade piercing the thin, aged leather of her armour with surprising ease. Then he continued pushing forward, until his sword had been buried up to its hilt into her stomach and protruded out from her navel. 

The Dunmer froze, paralysed by the deadly blow, and Fahjoth relinquished his weapon and backed off, unable to do anything else but stare as she staggered to the side and fell. A sharp clang announced her collision to the ground as the sword’s blade hit the ground first, but once her momentum stopped and she lay still, total silence fell upon them. 

Silence, apart from the sound of Fahjoth’s ragged breathing. 

As he stared down at the lifeless Dunmer on the ground before him, Fahjoth only became conscious of how badly his legs were shaking when he tried to take a step forward and his knees almost buckled beneath his weight. Only one thought circled in his mind, over and over, as he silently watched the blood starting to ooze out from beneath her body. 

He had done this.

Someone was dead because of him. 

The more logical part of his brain insisted that if he hadn’t, it would have been him lying there in a pool of his own blood instead. But that didn’t make him feel much better about the fact that he had just taken someone’s life. 

There was a part of him that didn’t even want to approach the body to retrieve his shortsword, but at the end of the day, he had paid good money for that. And it wasn’t as if he had a backup. So with a trembling hand he grasped the hilt, slowly prising the sword out of the Dunmer’s body and wincing at the sickening sound of the blade gliding against flesh, squelching and wet. He cleaned the metal as best he could using linen from the makeshift bed, then sheathed his weapon and reluctantly searched the camp for evidence to present to Elam Andas. 

He didn’t find much of any substance. The journal the Dunmer had been reading was, of course, impossible for him to read. Quite apart from not finding any sense in the words, it was damp and smudged terribly to the point where it was barely legible. Still, perhaps the Office of the Watch would have better luck; he took it, along with an old rusty key and the Dunmer’s dagger, which left him feeling oddly nauseous and drained after his fingertips came into direct contact with it.

The damp stickiness of blood on his arm and staining his sleeve was impossible to ignore, as was the injury beneath it, so Fahjoth took a moment to attempt to heal it on his own. With the spell he had acquired from the Mages Guild in mind, Fahjoth closed his eyes and furrowed his brows in concentration; he racked every corner of his brain, searching for any spark that could ignite the spell that he could feel hesitating at his fingertips. But in his already worn-out state, the attempts only ended up draining yet more of his energy and left him with a considerable headache. In the end he conceded and admitted defeat, recognising a lost cause when he saw one. 

Then Fahjoth embarked on the long walk back to the Hall of Justice, craving fresh air and a warm bed above all else. It hadn’t quite sunk in yet that he had successfully taken on a serial killer and lived to tell the tale, but there was an odd light-heartedness in his chest as he traipsed back along the paths through Vivec City’s shadowy cantons, feeling somehow more confident than before.

                             ——————————————  

Fahjoth’s triumphant — albeit exhausted and bloodied — return to the Office of the Watch was met with disbelief at first, followed by amazement once he broke the news that the killer had been dealt with. Elam Andas was thrilled and accepted the dagger and journal as evidence without question, perhaps a sign of how desperate he was to believe that this Dunmer was no longer a threat. After expressing his gratitude he sent Fahjoth on his way, with a promise that Ordinators would be sent to clean up the mess and the reward of an enchanted belt to protect him on his travels, which Fahjoth accepted eagerly. Although he was pleased with the response to his daring deed, he was now more than ever looking forward to collapsing into bed after a very, very long day. 

With thoughts of only soft pillows and warm sheets on his mind as he entered the familiarity of the Foreign Quarter, it wasn’t until he came face-to-face with someone approaching the hallway to the cornerclub from the opposite way that he realised he had forgotten something — or rather, someone.

“Ribyna!” Fahjoth exclaimed, recognising his sibling even from a distance. But something was wrong. There was no wave or call of greeting from Ribyna, who walked silently over to him with a pronounced limp in her step.

“Ribyna?”

In the light of the torch that hung from the nearby wall, Fahjoth could see that Ribyna was in a dreadful state. Her armour was scuffed and damaged in places and her hair was a mess, but most worryingly was the copious amount of bloodstains that spattered and smeared her almost from head to foot.

“Ribyna!” Fahjoth gasped, rushing over to meet her and instantly beginning to fuss. “What the hell happened?! Are you okay?!”

“I’m fine,” Ribyna grunted, making a half-hearted attempt to push Fahjoth away.

“You’re covered in blood!”

“It’s fine. It’s not my blood.” Ribyna paused to wince, doubling over slightly and gritting her teeth. “Most of it...” 

Before Fahjoth could question her further, they were interrupted by the rapid approach of an Ordinator, his sword drawn and raised at Ribyna threateningly. 

“Halt!” he barked. “Murderous scum! You violated the law, outlander. Surrender and come with me immediately.”

Fahjoth's mouth fell open with horror. Murderous? Surely there had to be some kind of mistake...

However, Ribyna's silence was not encouraging. Instead of protesting her innocence, she reached into a pocket and tugged out a somewhat bloodstained roll of parchment, which she passed over to the guard without a word. To Fahjoth's astonishment, once he had finished reading it, he nodded and tucked the note away in his own armour.

“All of your papers seem to be in order,” he said, dipping his head to Ribyna. “You are free to go.”

And then he walked away, leaving Fahjoth utterly bemused as he stared at his still very quiet twin. 

“Are you gonna tell me what the hell just happened?” he questioned, and Ribyna huffed. 

"In a sec. Let's get inside first," she muttered, slipping away into the cornerclub without waiting for a response. Fahjoth, left with little choice, followed her in and then led the way to their room. The moment he opened the door, Ribyna pushed past him and dropped down onto the bed with a groan — much to Fahjoth's displeasure, as he had been hoping to do this exact thing first. 

“Well?” he prompted, lowering himself into a nearby chair and slouching back, relishing the chance to take the weight off his sore feet for a while. “What was that guard on about, calling you ‘murderous scum’?” 

It was a moment or two before Ribyna dragged herself upright again and turned her gaze to Fahjoth. 

“I joined the Morag Tong.”

Fahjoth, who had been in the process of removing his boots, froze motionless as he felt his blood run cold. “You what?!” he hissed, once he found his voice again. “You’ve— what?!”

“Yeah.” Ribyna’s tone was level as she stared back at Fahjoth, looking more tired than defensive. “Don’t start, alright? I’m knackered.”

“Don’t st—?!” Fahjoth bolted upright, keeping his voice hushed as best he could but fighting to quash the outrage that burned in his chest. “You’ve gone and joined a murder cult and you’re telling me to not start?!”

“It’s not a murder cult!” Ribyna protested. “It’s perfectly legal!”

“Just because it’s legal, doesn’t mean it’s not a—” Fahjoth stopped mid-rant, rubbing his eyes with exasperation. “Just... Ugh, what have you gone and done that for? Can’t you just do something... normal?! Like... I dunno, go join the Fighters Guild if you really wanna stab things!”

“No.” She slouched down, looking suddenly more tired than ever. “Look, maybe I’m fed up of being treated like the shit on everyone’s shoes, alright? Maybe I just... wanted a bit of respect for once.”

Fahjoth faltered, experiencing a flicker of sympathy for his twin. He knew that feeling all too well. “Beebs, you don’t need to become a murderer to be respected.”

“I was already a murderer,” Ribyna pointed out bluntly. Fahjoth felt a twist in his gut, memories from that horrendous day threatening to resurface in his mind. “At least this way I can get paid for it.” 

Fahjoth paused, struggling to find an argument and fighting to put into words exactly how he felt about Ribyna’s new career choice. Eventually, he heaved a sigh. “But... it can’t be safe. Look, you’re injured! I’m... I’m worried about you, Ribyna.” 

“Well, don’t be. Turns out I’m half-decent at killing people.” Naturally, Ribyna’s answer didn’t reassure Fahjoth in the slightest, but she ploughed on anyway with a change of subject. “Anyway, what about you? What have you been up to?” Now that she was evaluating Fahjoth properly, her eyes soon fell on the bloodstains that still blemished his clothes and armour. “Is that blood?!”

“Yeah... and this time, it is mine. Honestly, you won’t believe the day I’ve had, Beebs,” Fahjoth said, before he began to regale the whole story; meeting Huleeya, learning about the outlander killings, going to the Office of the Watch, venturing into the Underworks... 

By the time he had finished, Ribyna was staring at him with an incredulous look on her face. 

“Hang on,” she started, “you killed someone and you’re having a go at me for joining the Morag Tong? Hypocrite, much!”

“I— but— what?!” Fahjoth spluttered, affronted. “Th-that’s different! I’m not an assassin, I was stopping a serial killer—”

But he promptly shut his mouth once he noticed the wry grin curling at the corners of Ribyna’s lips. 

“I’m only messing,” she chortled, her smirk quickly becoming a proud smile. “Holy shit, that’s amazing, Fahji. Shame they didn’t pay you for it, mind.” 

“I don’t mind,” Fahjoth replied honestly, calming down again. “I’m just glad she can’t hurt anyone else.” He paused, feeling heat rising in his face as he prepared himself to confess to something. “Honestly for a little while, I was worried that the killer was gonna be you.”

Ribyna promptly cocked a brow. “You fucking donkey, why would I go around killing outlanders? I am an outlander!”

“I was just freaking out!” Fahjoth protested. “I was tired, and nervous, and you’d been acting proper shifty, and— well, I obviously wasn’t that far off, was I? Might not’ve been outlanders, but you were planning on killing people after all!”

Ribyna rolled her eyes, busying herself with removing her own armour. “Yeah yeah, alright, you’ve already said your piece. Come on, let’s get cleaned up and get some sleep. I’m absolutely wrecked.”

Though he still had plenty more to say on the matter, Fahjoth agreed, for both their sakes. He was looking forward to crashing just as much as Ribyna was, and once they had finished helping each other tend to their injuries and settled down for the night, Fahjoth was asleep almost as soon as his head had hit the pillows. 

—————————————————————————————

tag list  @boulderfall-cave , @padomaicocean (lmk if you’d like to be added!)

[patchdotexe]

explorers of arvus: heading back / 3.11.21

zoom and enhonse

LAST TIME ON ARVUS taure passed out and we are now down a healer! also we met a disciple of halvkar, and surprisingly did not murder her. this is fine. we have instantly gotten distracted by our various carts. cats. our various cats

DID ANY OF US CATCH TAURE, SHE FELL OVER sieron tried to catch her and smacked charlie+thorne in the face (he rolled a nat1, f) BUT the catboy is to the rescue bc silje is the designated Not Incompetent of the group today

CONSULT THE CHILD hewwo yrel yrel: her mind is being consumed by the serpent of nightmares. :D charlie: HELLO?????//

so, dendar(?) the night serpent is imprisoned beneath arvus! she was formed from the nightmares of the first sentient being, and sometimes she eats people's nightmares. if she's exceptionally hungry, she'll force nightmares onto people for her to feed off their fear. yrel thinks taure will Probably wake up. there's a thing on arvus mentioned by the locals called a "sleeping sickness" where people will fall asleep for a few days, sometimes longer, but will wake up. its magical in cause, the people afflicted by it have horrific nightmares, and its just kinda. a thing. wowza

(i have gone back to spelling yrel's name as yrel bc i think it looks nice)

OH HEY SOMEONE POSTED A THEORY ON ONE OF MY STICKMOLUS ANIMATIONS man i should get back to stickmolus sometime. once dsmp releases its awful grip on me.

i keep getting distracted by seeing myself in the camera preview. i have a tooth gap! what the fuck its cute?? K I KNOW WE'RE SUPER BLURRY IN FRONT RN BUT PLEASE HELP ME STAY FOCUSED I SWEAR -leo

we're gonna build a sled! to put taure on. thorne: i have a good strength score. ....i say, out loud charlie: i am four feet tall. [cue argument between thorne & sieron about them both being horcs but sieron has a +0 bc strength is his dump stat] OH, OKAY, THORNE ROLLED A NAT20 TO CARRY TAURE. NICE

[discussion about what to tell everyone at camp vengenace] thorne: the last thing we need to do is a witch hunt charlie: --and we already hunted the witch! the witch has been hunted.

time to discuss strategy! we need to figure out how to head back to camp vengeance, eg if we want to follow the path we already took or if we wanna do some trailblazing. looks like we're gonna try and take the most direct path! which means we'll prolly risk tangoing with some undead but im willing to risk it TINY HUT STAIRCASE sorry i just remember it now and then

nyx: [meowing at his cats] thorne: uh... why is silje meowing? jorb: silje's food bowl is empty jorb: you look at silje's food bowl and there's a divot in the middle and the food is all on the sides emotionally, we must bully the catboy silje saw something interesting and started meowing

thorne: ill take first watch silje: ill also take first watch. charlie: [quietly] gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyy (but, like, extended for 15 seconds)

silje: [takes watch] [rolls a nat1 and gets distracted by looking at his crush]

THORNE HAS LOCATED A DOG the dog does not give a shit about the tiny hut. THE DOG HAS PEED ON THE TINY HUT goodbye dog

EVERYONE IS ROLLING AT LEAST 1 NAT1 thorne: wow! that sure is a dog. thorne has drawn the worst possible dog. thorne has erased the worst possible dog. we dont speak of the worst possible dog its the dog version of honse. DONSE

sieron is now on watch! MAN we are havin trouble rolling today. at least kali's here to make sure sieron doesnt stare at a rock for 50000 years sieron sees a mouse! bottom text

charlie is now on watch! kali is havin a big ol thonk. nothing meaningful has come of this

i am perceiving some deer. sieron is not perceiving some deer. silje is perceiving some deer, but better the deer are fucked up and undead! silje has gone from "we should hunt these deer for food" to "we should hunt these deer for sport"

charlie: i do not feel like being jumped by five thousand skeletons

charlie takes first watch with sieron! WHY ARE OUR ROLLS SO TERRIBLE taure is super cursed right now. that's not very pog charlie: this place sucks. thorne: to be fair, we havent-- charlie: YOU'RE ASLEEP, SHUT UP

oh hey coolname galvanic finally partied. nice.

thorne is at watch! solar: hey, is leomund's tiny hut an orb? there's a critter digging around! AH, THE CRITTER IS UNDEAD. this could be a problem

solar: hey michael, how much does the horrific sin against god dog i drew look like this creature michael: [dice roll noises] about 50%.

michael: if anyone likes, they can make a nature check-- solar: ME MEMEMEMEME ME ME ME

its a bulette! aka a land shark. problem: they are not normally undead. this one is undead.

jorb: imagine if you could tame one of those and use it as a mount. leo: IT WOULD JUST DIG UNDERGROUND AND LEAVE YOU THERE

we are just calling it a weird dog

we're going to mail a letter to the heart of arvus. HEY, CHECK OUT THIS WEIRD DOG,

JORB FOUND ART OF A BABY BULETTE. WEIRD PUPPY!

solar: hey guys, check out this sick art of a bulette i found

silje kept a lookout for the weird dog but its just fucked off. goodbye, weird dog give it up for day 3!

man there's been like, three incinerations today in blaseball. what's up with that. I SWEAR IM MOSTLY PAYING ATTENTION its just been an eventful day in blaseball. also im wearing my garages bomber rn. jaylen is home wooOOOO the wind smells stinky. this is fine.

we're actively avoiding whatever combat michael keeps nudging at us bc we're carrying around an unconscious person and i SWEAR hes gonna throw something directly at us once he's done with our shenanigans

UHH MICHAEL ASKING FOR PASSIVE PERCEPTION LOL

huh. this place used to be inhabited? we're in the woods rn but there's some like, stone ruins? like, VERY ruins. like, not really any structures standing, but enough evidence to show there Were things. WE FOUND A STATUE charlie: i want to smash my face against the lore.

used to be a circle of standing stones, but most of em fell over or got overgrown. inside of the circle has been cleared, although v roughly-- ground's torn up statue is of fjolnir! warrior holding up a spear and shield. AH, THERE ARE CORPSES, a human got REAL fucked up here. one of the corpses is straight up impaled on fjolnir's spear. n ... not pog.

i am trying so, so hard to pay attention. but i also kinda wanna take a nap.

charlie: [stares at statue] [rolls a 4] i wonder if he had a dick.

okay so something rolled in, tore up the overgrowth inside the circle, and murdered a couple dudes. and was also super tall and human-adjacent. hrm.

oh my god why are we rolling so shit today. time to stealth away and hope we dont get casually dismembered

k: jorb's hair is so long... leo: K, PLEASE,

time for a break! i am very tired but im gonan see if i can push through a little further. nyx is petting his cat why do orangatangs look like that

first watch is thorne and sieron! have they even, like, talked thorne unhabby ): thorne's worried we were tresspassing when checking out the statue, meanwhile im thinking about that one time when sieron got bit by a groundhog

(oh my god this is from late 2018)

leomund's tiny hut, aka the anti-sea bear circle we are getting SO much mileage out of the tiny hut. SILJE HUMS A SONG WITH KALI cute........... FINALLY I HAVE ROLLED ABOVE A 14 wait no i rolled a 16 twice. anyway we are not dead

nearly at camp vengenace! boy howdy i hope camp vengeance didnt get burned down. AH FUCK TAURE IS UNCONSCIOUS SO WE CANT CAST FOR DETECT POISON kaepora nearly made us all shit ourselves but its okay he just saw some bison and thought it was cool Michael Is Consulting Several Tables

WHY DOES JORB'S CAMERA ZOOM LIKE THAT why am i hungry. i have so many questions

HEY, TALL GUY [smacks sieron]

camp vengeance looks better! like, nobody's Obviously Sick anymore, the medical tents arent overfilled, we did it! we saved the dayyyyyy time to report to ryder! taure's getting dropped off at the medical tent

man remember when charlie didnt wear pants

oh man, with taure unconscious charlie is now taking point with social interaction. wild. jk im making jorb do it bc im tired HAHA NAT 20 PERSUASION BC OF ME HELPIN SIERON man ryder is such a cock. he was totally ready to keep throwing troops at heaven's brazier to die until we managed to persuade him out of it. jorb: did we tell ryder about the vision? michael: you kinda just took a look at him and went STINKY BOY!

okay yeah anything that dies on arvus will just pop back up as undead. man, arvus sucks.

ryder: alright, dismissed. charlie: seeya, soldier boy! :D hahahahaha im gonna eat his knees.

SILJE NEEDS ENRICHMENT IN HIS ENCLOSURE

charlie: ive decided he sucks. silje: we've already arrived to that, you're late!

LMAO WE WALKED IN ON INGRID AND HER CRUSH they fuckin. nice. you go, you funky lesbian

jorb: we've got the tiny hut, we could go anywhere leo: we could go to SPACE! nyx: we could not go to space. leo: WITH A TINY HUT STAIRCASE, WE CAN,

we are 320 miles away from the spaceship that exists on arvus. nice.

michael: justin sees you-- roll a strength saving throw. leo: i cant wait to die! [rolls a 3] I AM CRUSHED BY MY DOG michael: he rolled a nat20.

BOSS ENCOUNTER: CHARLIE'S DOG (the small circle next to him is one of the medical tents.)

THORNE IS PACT OF THE GUN solar: PARRY THIS, YOU FUCKING CASUAL

sieron, to ingrid: seems like youve been doing well charlie: i punch sieron. sieron: sieron: the camp, of course.

man we have no idea if the heart of arvus is actually related to the prophecy or not. theres a Lot of stuff lining up, but not enough, and its hard to say how much of it couldve been literal?

solar & michael: [discussing exposition] me: [cracking up bc penn sent me a funny dsmp joke]

prophecies are weird.

charlie is just s she is just sitting here SILJE PLAYED CARDS REALLY GOOD AT ME nyx rolled a nat20 and took all my money

oh cool we can talk to yrel telepathically! time to hoist yrel. THIS IS SO SCUFFED thorne mentioned yrel and now we're trying to explain to ingrid that we have a magic talking snake charlie: I WANT TO GO HOME. thorne: we cant go, we have a GOD-KING to kill! "i think theyre insane, theyre talking to a snake" "ingrid, druids exist" "oh. im gonna go back to getting railed by my 7 foot tall girlfriend"

[trunkzbriefs]

Any Son and/or Briefs family headcanons? Spicy hot takes? Truths Toriyama and Toyotaro themselves can not handle? Straight up lies?

GODDAMN SORRY this took a while cause i suck at putting thoughts together. i apologize for my obvious briefs bias i have more hcs for them than the son family despite loving them both :pensive: anyway heres some random stuff

briefs hcs:

all of the briefs are pros at non-verbal communication. i hc that saiyans have their own language (and also in my own Mind Canon they still have their fuckin tails) and a lot of it is done through tail movement/body posture/grunts/etc. etc so theyve all sort of picked that up. even bulma, who doesnt have a tail, is pretty good at getting across what she means without actually speaking. they still do speak normally but it comes in handy sometimes considering that both trunks and vegeta are prone to running out of speaking energy or getting very frustrated with words, so having another way to communicate works very well for them

vegeta is fffffffffffffffffffurry. without getting too deep into my own General Saiyan hcs (thats why i made a whole ass four subspecies!!) i think that the entirety of planet vegeta tended to be very hot aside from the part where the castle was, where the temperature would drop. meaning that saiyans working in the palace would grow thicker fur around certain parts of their body, and in the royal saiyans theyd be Especially fluffy. he kept it down on earth, but he has thick patches of fur around the bottom parts of his arms and legs. kind of like snowy boots and gloves! he also has fur that grows in on his neck like a lions mane.

future trunks is an actions sponge, vegeta is a words sponge. vegeta will pick up words VERY quickly regardless if he fully understands the meaning of it or not (completely inspired by 'THATS RIGHT BOYS... MONDO COOL' in z) and future trunks will unintentionally mimic the actions of people - around people he looks up to he might take a few small mannerisms from but this extends to copying the disposition of anyone; he's just very adaptive. this is the most obvious (and funniest) when he's around vegeta bc it really shows like. yeah damn that sure is vegeta's son

vegeta & bulla have an intimidating bastard smirk naturally. their natural smiles are pretty frightening and they have to put effort into a 'normal' one. this also extends to current trunks, his default smile is the Vegeta Bastard Smirk but he learned to have a normal smile quicker than his father and sister. future trunks has a slightly unnerving natural smile (the fact that his pupils are always drawn so fucking small makes me hc that he just has a very intimidating look of 'cat thats about to pounce on an unfortunate trapped mouse' whenever he smiles) but he learned to look normal even quicker than current trunks since he's around humans a Lot and is sort of their uh, Hope. don't want to look scary to the people who depend on you!

bulma has some fighting knowledge and mildly good ki control. vegeta taught her it as a just in case so that she'd be able to defend herself against Bigger threats if he wasn't there and also so she could raise her own ki to alert someone to her if she had to.

vegeta is extremely clean and can not stand to have things disorganized for more than like... an hour before he has to tidy everything up. every time he goes down to the lab and bulma is passed out in a pile of bolts and circuit boards it kills him inside just a little bit

future trunks has little concept of power control. since his timeline was always in danger it wasn't really an important thing for him to learn. the amount of mugs he's accidentally crushed is impressive

vegeta tends to not sound like he's asking questions when he is. he doesn't add the proper infliction to the end of his questions and just sounds flat most of the time. it's confusing to people who dont know him well.

im not even gonna lie, im a BIG fan of the chill demon panchy headcanon so i love the idea that the briefs have a Lil bit of demon in them but just dont know it ghjnkm

[banging my fists on the 'hcs that not even got could take away from me' table] future trunks has OCD

vegeta doesn't really get labels but he's bisexual & "debatably a man", bulma is bisexal & bigender transfem (sometimes shes Wamen and other times its like "gender? no"), bulla is a nonbinary lesbian, current trunks is a bisexual trans man & future bulma forgot to explain the concept of gender and sexuality to future trunks so he's a little confused on that front and his gender & sexuality are "i have literally never thought abt these concepts in my life but i think men are nice. i refuse to think about gender though" (i actually have two main hcs for future trunks which are either gay trans man or more-feminine-presenting nonbinary bisexual)

son hcs:

goku is Not as fluffy as vegeta at all, but he does have fur on certain parts of his body. namely on the back of his elbows + ankles, down his back connecting to his tail, and on his shoulders. its inherented from gine!

gohan is learning saiyan language from vegeta! vegeta acts grumpy about it but he's glad to have someone to teach. when gohan learned that most of the history had been lost he basically wished shenron for a big ol book on saiyan culture and gave it to vegeta just as an act of kindness and vegeta was like [in an angry voice but very touched] "Ok. Sit down. You're learning." by extension gohan is also teaching the rest of his family!

i will take ox king being actually non-human to my grave so like, chichi has horns and a very short ox tail! gohan and goten both have horns, but they're hidden by hair. goten's horns are bigger than gohans.

goten also has a more ox-like tail, with a little puff of fur at the end. generally, gohan looks more saiyan-like and goten looks more ox/human-like.

although he keeps up his cheery demeanor very well, goku is still haunted pretty badly by like... everything that’s happened in his life. he still has frequent nightmares about cell & buu specifically.

gohan will freak out at worse, zone out at best, if he's even tapped on the neck. it reminds him of the whole 'getting his neck snapped on namek' so that area is pretty off limits to everyone

goten gets along really well with android 17. they both have a love for nature and 17s kind of like his chill uncle, so whenever he gets too stressed out or just needs a break you can find him face down on the ground outside of 17's place on monster island.

goku is really really good at remembering completely random shit. bulma uses this to her advantage whenever she's working and has him memorize random technology stuff. a week later goku can not remember what he had for breakfast that morning but as soon as bulma asks "hey do you remember what i told you last week" hes like "oh yeah sure i have no idea what it means but [blurts out three hours worth of technical garble]"

oh boy is this a headcanon that has a lot more depth to it than just a bullet on a tumblr post, but gohan has DID!

goku, like vegeta, doesnt get labels either, and does not even Try, ask him about any of it and hes like "i dont get the gender thing but i think lots of people look nice :)" gohan is gay and like vegeta, "debatably a man", goten + chichi are both bi nonbinary, & pan is a lesbian trans woman.

both:

bulla and pan are both into music! i think theyd mess around making their own stuff w/ launchpads

i have a general hc of ki mixing or shielding, essentially, if youre close enough to someone people wont be able to tell apart your ki and you can also 'shield' someone with your ki for a small amount of time. if vegeta has his energy low, his and bulma's energy are the same. same thing with goku and chichi! goten and trunks are near impossible to tell apart, and same thing with gohan and videl.

though goten and trunks are both protective over their younger siblings, gotenks is that protectiveness times a thousand. look at bulla or pan wrong for 2 seconds and you're going to have an angry gotenks in your face asking if you have any last words. i like to think that trunks and goten fused casually a lot, especially around the time where bulla and pan were young, so its basically goten and trunks own attachment to them PLUS gotenks' attachment to them as his own person combined.

i like to pretend end of z did not happen the way it did so uub, using nimbus, travels back and forth a lot. goku isn’t the only one who teaches him how to fight as goten, gohan and trunks all think of him like a little brother and love training with him!

fuck you letters to toriyama/toyotaro hot takes:

cell, as cool of a villian as he is, definitely should have had a creepier final form. or multiple- just something that really drives in the fact that he's made up of other's dna & fuckin ABSORBS people. also his first two forms should have had a different absorbtion method other than the tail thing (not the drinking thing thats fine) it just feels.   Weird. not good

it would have been far more interesting to keep the bitter attitude towards vegeta that future trunks had imo... in super trunks was going through a Lot granted but the fact tht he wasnt more confrontational to vegeta being a dick to him seemed kind of off considering his attitude in z i just.. think it would be interesting and far better if they had more of a back and forth 'family but lowkey hate each other' relationship

i dont want to rant about super so heres some super condensed takes, goku black arc specific because thats 90% of what ive seen of super:

mai is a fucking freak ass weirdo, why did they not just make another character to pair with trunks

trunks not flipping the fuck out at his timeline being erased feels... out of character. also trunks deserved the win against zamasu

future bulma did NOT need to die

trunks should have just stayed in the current timeline

please fucking let trunks and goten grow up. we SAW a version of trunks who looked 14 (history of trunks....) and the versions of goten & trunks we have r/n in super do not look 13/14 respectively what in the goddamn hell is going on in the character design department

super definitely should have taken place later down the line

supers version of bulma and videl look awful. why are they That stick like.

vegeta needs to kill frieza. just once.

fu has enough potential to be a very interesting mainline character and i am so sad he's not

i would actively enjoy a sdbh anime with more  budget that isnt just a promo anime and has a plot that makes sense... i think db should have more wild spinoffs

xenoverse deserved a better story that went FULL in on the 'what if' type of timelines- like they did in raging blast which is a FUCKING GREAT GAME

straight up lies:

dragon ball z is a good series

[the-sheep]

ID GO ABSOLUTELY BONKERS IF U TYPED OUT HIS ENTIRE HISTORY FBFBFBFB i would like 2 see it..........

alright right right

This ended up being A HUGE POST so all info is under the cut.

Unless you’re on mobile, in which case, enjoy scrolling.

It all starts on flight rising. Well, Heart starts on FR. It REALLY starts with my webcomic/animated series.

It wasn’t well drawn or animated at first, but it steadily got better. One of the plot holes, back in 8th grade, was “who created priscilla and Jake?”

It was mostly summed up to “Penny made all the bots its all simple” but i was a middle schooler and i needed a complicated (and edgy) story. 

Thing is I had already made Fandragons of a good chunk of my ocs on flight rising.

I bred two dragons to get my main characters, so why not just use them?

Christy Suggested the name Cavet, and I liked it.

Yeah this is my first digital image of him as a human and he DOES NOT LOOK RIGHT

no necklace, no beard, orange eyes…

horrific.

So I made human designs for them both, but Chrysanthemum remains forgotten, not even canon to Mechanical Fury anymore.

Here’s old art of her and Cavet back before she got wiped out from existence.

the art is bad btu the Heart gimmick is there

Here’s him in his second image ever. The one that pretty much defined his design.He also quickly gained a husband

Anyway he quickly morphed into a villain several time more dangerous than the main villain

He’s responsible for the deaths of not ONE, not TWO, but THREE children.

Two his kids, one the younger sister of a character that one of the dead kids liked.

One of his dead kids got his own story, the other was literally a main character.

Chloride, (Charlie) in all his glory, lucky enough to get resurrected as an android but after finding out he’s not who he thinks he is, has to attempt to live a normal Human life… when his two best friends are paranormal investigators, his love interest having lost their arm and their only remaining sister to the main villain.

He originally found out he was an android by finding his own blueprints, hearing his Mom cry about it, and then cutting open his face (for his signature scar) and running off. 

Running into Cavet’s husband, Nathair Liu. He stitches him up, know all about robotic n all that but he is.

also a secondary villain….

I hate the art in this video but its not my worst.

(Video was Vendy’s debut, too. tho Vendy was more Nate(logan/mind/princi/whatever)’s kid than Cavet’s)

Okay i’ve gotten off track.

Yeah at this point I was really loving Cavet, on FR, and wrote an entire long story between him and Skittles based on the events of Mechanical Fury.

This was where I got the idea for reincarnation.

I needed an explanation for why the same character was in two different universes, and it was perfect. In fact, it lead to an amazing way to end it. 

But what is in control of all this? What does he see in the in between?

Well, Death was packaged with two other red herrings to keep people from thinking she was more important than them from the start, when in fact, she was. One of the plot points is that Cavet dies. He continues causing havoc, but nobody can figure out why or how. he doesn’t have a body.

Except he does. Death.

She was scary, but that was just her, she was a literal robot grim reaper. Nobody suspected she was spreading a virus to make robots susceptible to Augap’s control everywhere she went. Not even her. Cav liked hanging out in the AI scape, AKA the robot afterlife or virtual heaven.

What a fun way to make a real grim reaper.

I never really kept track of the transition from “cute robot char” to “cute real god char”

and i guess it never happened. Heart still thinks of her as she was, as cute little Litty. Except when she’s not. He gave form to the literal concept of DEATH. And became her friend. She still calls him Papa, sometimes.

In any case, Cavet’s doodles started being more and more revolving around his angst with the reincarnation.

in fact, i had a few character in the same boat as him, as I had made a couple dragons into MF characters as well.

I called them The Artifacts. It didn’t seem rounded out with only four, so I added a 5th. To give me more leeway in case I make a character i like enough to bring with them.

and turns out. I did.

I was sad enough about Cavet losing the love of his life, betraying him, creating a rift between them with his descent into obsession.

So he came with them.

They’re inseparable.

after a few lives of getting revenge on him for killing his sons and some adult humans and a BUNCH of robots, (not even counting his crimes in the vampire life he committed because he thought he lost Liu forever) Soul revealed to him something about Heart’s 6th life, which Mind doesn’t remember.

But he was there.

Long story short, he was Captain Shuggazoom. Yeah 10 lives of stuff he forgot before he started remembering his past lives. Messed Heart up.

ANYWAY BACK TO DEVELOPMENT!

I went around, making original characters to fill in Heart’s lives. I put him in a LOT of stories, but a notable one is My Old Ask Blog, @ask-musical-monsters

In which Heart is our lovable Tweedle, Bean.

He’s the bird. (this is also the blog where Willow was made!) (also a character i referenced when putting antauri on the baldi blog)

I still hadn’t abandoned MF so Bean has a lot of influence from Cavet. 

I REALLY liked bean. It occured to me here-ish that Heart isn’t constrained by being my oc. He can be whoever he wants and nobody will care. 

So of course I immediately declare him purple guy. No drawings of him, but I know I said he was purple guy at some point. Also at this point in time I started organizing the lives by number order, and making a simple arc for Heart and the others to follow.

1000 lives. 

I made a brief description of heart’s 1st life, but made it purposefully very superfluous so i can change it whenever i want. All i know is he had albinism, and a desire to live forever.

That summer I got an amazing idea. I would take advantage of the Baldi’s basics trend with a ASK BLOG.

It was a mathematically calculated success. I did as many things as possible to generate more audience. MAIN thing being posting as often as possible, and being REALLY funny. 

But knew I wasn’t going to like adding to the ask blog if i didn’t like the main character

I already knew he was going to be Baldi, but I wasn’t sure exactly how to characterize him either. 

Turns out making him heart solved both of those problems. He’s always been Heart.

And Princi has ALWAYS been mind.

Even if they don’t always show their artifacts, they always were the same people as all these other things ive made. They have a DEEP connection to both each other and me.

At some point, I re-re-discovered SRMTHFG. The first few seconds I saw SK I knew he was Heart. It was so perfect it scared me.

HE EVEN DOES THE POSE!!!!! RED EYES!!!! AAAH!!!

I got an idea for a storyline based on formless and regret and monkeys… so.. uh

Anyway that kinda brings us to today, where the events of the blog have happened based on Heart things, and i can play around with Heart as much as I want.

And Willie’s next life? Well, 23 is my favorite number. It’ll be cool, but I’m not sure how. All I know is 23 wears a striped shirt, and is a vamp again.

In summary, Heart is the most important character I’ve ever made, and I will never come close to anybody as wonderful and as complicated as him. He’s the greatest formless, the best villains, the heroes, and one character i want to hold out for finding irl.

 I love them even in scribbles i find on bus seats, in fanart of him, love her in songs i hear, in flowers i see in the wild.

Whoever they end up being, it’s safe to say I’ve fallen in love with Heart. 

If you want me to describe his in universe story, I’ll need a seperate post.

Other Heart Resources:

The Spreadsheet

The Playlist

[slo-liveblog]

hmm, that’s a good question! i know you probably just mean “how did you feel about that scene because normally you don’t like ashe”, which could probably be answered in a sentence or two, but im going to go into excruciating detail about this anyway.

i guess the exciting thing about the star-shaped carrots scene was how completely out of left field it was for ashe. of course, it’s not like him performing nice, cutesy acts of courtesy for the rest of the group is anything new. that’s his default- when he’s not out to murder them, of course. but for one thing, his overzealous kindness... usually only extends to claire? i could be wrong but he really only seems to go out of his way to make claire specifically happy, probably because of how he mentions that she’s gullible and could easily be strung along to his benefit if he earns her trust. he did interact with leon before, and the way they got along well was definitely interesting, but it was only for like one scene and really only extended to showing they had some chemistry as conversation partners. so suddenly, when we’re pretty safely accustomed to how ashe acts- cheery, nosy, talkative and kind (even more so with claire) when he’s manipulating someone, then erratic and violent when he shows his true colors- he completely flips the script. as ive mentioned a lot, his reactions to leon’s breakdowns are almost uncanny compared to the way im used to seeing him behave. it immediately begs the question of why? what could make him act so completely differently, as if he’s lost and no longer in control of the situation, because of leon of all people? of course, it quickly becomes apparent that it’s because leon reminds him of his sick sister, but that raises even MORE points of interest.

i think the biggest elephant in the room for me personally is, leon and claire... are very similar. like, there’s definitely a line being drawn between ashe and wilardo VS claire and leon (sirius is a whole other story but that’s for another post) in terms of their priorities and what they’re willing to do for their goals. leon and claire are both constantly chastised for being easily fooled, naïve, softhearted, small minded, etc. etc.

so we see ashe completely fall apart over leon being sick, right. the important thing about the star shaped carrots is that ashe didn’t do it intentionally, unlike most of his kind gestures that seem to be done specifically to earn people’s trust. of course, we don’t have an internal monologue for ashe during that part of the scene so we can’t know for sure, but judging by everything else going on (his expressions, his flashes of memories of lilia, he’s clearly distracted when he’s talking, how he realizes later that he didn’t even get info out of leon when he talked to him) i think it’s safe to assume he was being genuine when he said he was distracted and only did it out of habit. so a question that popped into my mind was what if CLAIRE, who’s very similar to leon, were to get sick? like, what kind of batshit reaction would he have to THAT? and would he still be able to kill someone that reminded him so strongly of his sister? but then, there’s another alarming thought right there- we ALREADY know that claire probably reminds him at least a little bit of his sister. the kaleidoscope scene... and how he is reminded very strongly of his sister, but then immediately recommends they give it to claire.... sure is something. the biggest difference between claire and lilia that we know at this point, maybe something that’s genuinely made him feel more comfortable with killing her, is her health. she’s active, fit, and fully capable of taking care of herself- probably traits that allow him to distance himself from her to some degree, but i do think there could certainly be the angle of “this is what lilia could have been like if she’d had the chance” if the game wanted to take it there. not sure if it will though. but i definitely believe her kind, innocent personality contributes to why he’s so nice to her. whether it’s conscious or not, i don’t believe anymore that it’s solely for the purposes of manipulation, for a whole host of reasons.

so now we have reason to believe that claire could resemble lilia, at least in ashe’s eyes (throwback to when i thought they were the same person lol), and the main factor separating them is that claire is incredibly tough and healthy. but then... ashe kills her. so it’s like... he can’t be completely distancing himself from this. we KNOW he has the capacity to recognize the similarities between other people and his family members, that they’re living their own lives with their own goals and aspirations, and then still decide that his family’s lives are worth more. he’s trading claires life to give lilia the things she has now. but it’s not even just passing recognition of that fact now, because ashe is having a full blown emotional reaction to leon. and the idea of that eventually rippling out to how he views claire is... a lot. like, it makes me think of wilardo- he recognizes that his wish, aspirations and life aren’t inherently more important than anyone else’s. he apologizes to claire when he kills her, because he knows he’s making a conscious choice to prioritize what he wants above someone else’s life, and thus robbing claire of her own chance to get what she wants out of life. but honestly, i still don’t think ashe is quite there yet, let alone far enough down that thought process to actually decide not to kill anyone. he’s probably very firmly rooted in the belief that whats he’s doing is worth the sacrifice of others, so im not sure if i actually expect his hesitance with leon to bleed into the actions he takes. we might have to wait for his conclusion to see that hesitation fully realized, to go beyond an inconvenience and into straight up self doubt. but the humanization is there and super fucked up to see happening to a character that’s been almost entirely unflinching in his goals so far.

so uh, i guess in short, the star shaped carrots scene caught me completely off guard and makes me super interested to see where they go with the ideas they’re setting up. it made ashe easier to connect to, definitely. and it’s also just a fucking cute and heartbreaking interaction between two characters i was really excited to see talk more

[lihikainanea]

Guys. Guys. I uh....I got carried away. I’m almost sorry except....I’m not. This took on a life of its own and I just cannot deal.

I mentioned it in my previous post but originally, this portion was planned to be all smut because I was in A MOOD. But when I started writing it, I realized that I just...I really love these two and their dynamic, so more of that ended up coming out in this round. I’m a sucker for these hooligans and how sweet they are, I can’t wait to see what happens next wait shit I’m the author what the fuck.

Anyway, I have maybe one part left in this; I want to do a morning after. That being said, if you want more BFF!Bill then by all means, send me prompts. I can’t get enough of him either. I created him and that bish still fucks me up.

You know the drill, Parts  1 + 2, Part 3, and Part 4. Originally inspired by the nani ask to @ill-skillsgard thats over there in the first parts.

But listen, hey, I want you all to be safe here, so trigger warnings: there’s a brief mention of the date rape drug being slipped into her drink. Nothing happens from it, but it’s mentioned and I want this to be a safe space for you all.

If you think I missed a trigger, please, let me know. I don’t ever want anyone to be triggered by what I write because it lacked a proper warning.

Name’s Leilani, by the way. No it ain’t my real name. Pronoun is she. I’m angry smol human but on here I’m quite friendly.

Tags: oh god people asked me to tag them and I feel way too self-indulgent doing so??

*******

You almost wished he’d hurry up, be just a little more rushed in his movements. Not because you wanted the whole thing over with, not because you wanted something a little rougher, but because something fast and unbalanced on the pleasure scale was a lot more familiar to you. Too many men had poked and prodded at you a little too roughly and a little too soon, and while it had always been consensual, there was nothing that was pleasurable about the jackhammer, hurried pace that dominated the majority of your experiences. Men who skipped foreplay altogether, had little to no knowledge of female anatomy, men who were so scared you’d change your mind that they went fast, came first, and left right after.

The way Bill was savouring you, though, was driving you insane. You had never quite been with a man who made your pleasure his sole focus, who seemed to be enjoying giving you pleasure as much as you were enjoying receiving it. He took his time, and nothing in his movements was tentative. Every touch, every kiss, was something you could feel. It was confident, it was sure. It was gentle and kind but definitive in letting you know that he was exactly where he wanted to be right then. Everything he did lacked hesitation of any kind. His sole focus was on you, on making sure you were enjoying what he was doing. On making sure that you were finally getting the pleasure that, in his mind, you deserved every time.

But the pace, and his undivided attention, also made you feel vulnerable in a way you hadn’t anticipated. You had been vulnerable with each other before on so many occasions, sure. You weren’t afraid to be emotional, to be raw with one another. You were the one who put Bill back on his feet after his girlfriend--the first girl he fell so, so hard for--broke his heart and left very suddenly. He had been a mess for weeks, not eating, not sleeping, spending days in bed in a catatonic state. You had set up camp at his place, coaxing him to shower, to eat a little something, to talk through it or just cry his heart out. Bill had been the one your friends called when a girl’s night out went south, after a jerk at the bar slipped something into your drink. Your friends had noticed your strange behaviour and followed you into the bathroom, where the last thing you remembered was throwing up neon orange and passing out. Your friends, they later told you, had called him in the wee hours of the morning. He left the set he was on immediately, ran through the bar and had busted the door down of the women’s bathroom to find you on the floor, bleeding from a gash in your forehead where you smacked the toilet on the way down. He wrapped you in his jacket, tucking you into his chest as he carried you out. Bill never mentioned anything, but that night he ordered Uber rides for all of your friends, tracked their routes and requested that they text him when they arrived home safely. He was the one to drive you to the hospital, propping you against him as he held his scarf to your bleeding head. You had thrown up, both in his expensive car and directly on him, but he held your hand while the doctors connected you to an IV and stroked your cheek while they stitched you up. He slept with you at the hospital that night, contorting his large frame into an uncomfortable chair and keeping a solid hold of your hand. Afterward, he had donated half of his earnings from his latest movie into the patent that was pending for a nailpolish that could detect the drug in someone’s drink.

Everything about Bill, about your friendship with him, had been about comfort. About safety. And now, it was that same comfort you felt in every kiss, every move he made against you and to you.  It was reassurance that you were safe, that he wanted you to feel good.

And you did feel good, so good. As he ground his hips into yours, kissing you until you were lightheaded while you were still trembling slightly from your earlier release, the only thing you could think of was chasing that high again but making sure he was right there with you this time.

You threaded your fingers in his hair, scratching at his scalp lightly and he moaned into the kiss as he placed his forearms by your head, giving him better leverage to grind against you. You reached your other hand down between your bodies and palmed firmly at the large bulge prominent in his jeans, and his hips surged forth. He broke the kiss with a grunt, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth as he tried to control his urge to drive you into the mattress. You removed the hand you had buried in his hair to lightly trace his cheek instead, down his jaw, and finally tugging his lip free from his teeth. His mouth was on yours again in an instant, the intensity matching the way his pelvis was grinding into your palm with much more urgency. Popping open the button on his jeans, you danced your fingertips along his happy trail, scratching ever so lightly with your nails. He moaned loudly against your lips, hips jutting forward again of their own volition.

“Fuck,” he grunted, “You could kill a man, you know that? Kill him de-” his sentence was cut off abruptly in favour of a drawn out moan when you reached your hand into his boxers and took a firm hold of him. He ran a hand through your hair and clenched it lightly in his fist, pulling your head back and smothering you with his lips again. He licked into your mouth, caressing your tongue with his, moving his warm lips against your own until you both were out of breath.

You whimpered when you felt him twitch under your hand, and you weren’t sure how much more you could wait.

“Bill,” you moaned against his lips, “Please, fuck, please don’t make me beg for it.”

The look in his eyes when he pulled back slightly to look at your face was enough to almost put you over the edge again.

“What did I tell you about begging, tiger?” he placed a sweet kiss to the tip of your nose, giving you a genuine smile that flashed his dimple, and you suddenly couldn't wait a second longer. Your fervour took him a little by surprise, he jumped ever so slightly as you started to yank at his pants. He helped you take them off of him, shimmying out and kicking them away as he moved to crawl back over you. He settled between your legs again, both of you moaning when he felt your wetness slide along the length of him. He ran his finger lightly down the bridge of your nose and your eyes fluttered closed.

“You feeling good, tiger?” he asked.

“Yes,” you replied, pleasure drunk and stupid on it. He kissed your cheek, then your earlobe, before placing his lips at your ear.

“Eyes, sweetheart.”

You turned your head, opening your eyes and bumping your nose against his. You grabbed one of his hands and laced your fingers through it.

“Yes,” you whimpered.

“Good,” another slow kiss, “I’m glad. Do you want to keep going?” 

“Bill please, make me come again,” you begged, and your own response would have embarrassed you if your mind hadn’t gone completely blank except for the need to feel that again.

His eyes closed, and he rested his forehead on yours, squeezing your hand tighter.

“Say that again.”

You only whimpered, tilting your pelvis up to rub your wetness against him. A firm hand stopped you.

“I won’t make you beg, sweetheart, but fuck say that again. Please,” he pleaded.

You indulged him, moving a hand to claw desperately at his back, drag down his spine and dig your nails into his hip bone, pulling him towards you.

“Please Bill,” you whined, “Please make me come again. God you made me feel so good.”

He groaned, low and deep in his throat before you felt him line up against your entrance. He gently took your chin in his thumb and forefinger, kissing you softly, before checking in one last time.

“You want this?” he whispered, close enough that his lips still touched yours when he spoke.

“Yes,” the desperation was getting worse, you could feel your insides throbbing just at the thought of being stretched so deliciously around him. You felt yourself clench around nothing, so empty that it ached.

“You’ll tell me to stop if you change your mind?”

“Yes. Bill...” it was almost a sob. You felt the tip of what you so desperately wanted bump against your entrance and then he was pushing in, agonizingly slow, so that you could feel every vein, every pulse, every single inch of him. It was a stretch, he was bigger than most of the men you had been with, but he had spent so much time making sure you were ready that the only thing you felt was pleasure. With a drawn out groan and one last push of his hips he was seated fully inside you, his face buried in your neck and his arms wound tightly around you. You had never felt so full, with his hips flush against yours and you felt your walls clench involuntarily around him. 

His arm shot out, gripping the headboard until it almost splintered.

“Fuck,”  he swore. You felt him twitch deep inside you, and then you suddenly started to feel that delicious pressure low in your belly again. It was already starting to build, his tip resting heavily against that spot inside you that had you squirming. You just needed...friction. You needed friction. 

You ran your hands down his tensed back, pressing down firmly, and you wrapped your legs around his waist. You used your heel to gently tap at his backside, rubbing your clit against his pubic bone in a silent plea to get him to move.

“I just....” his face was still buried in your neck, his chest heaving against yours, his hand still gripping the headboard in a vice, “I just need a minute.” He rested his full weight on you in an effort to render you rather unable to tilt up and grind against him, but all it did was put more pressure on your clit and caused you to clench around him again.

A string of Swedish curse words, some new to your ears, left his mouth.

Removing his hand from the headboard, he wove it with yours and dragged his hips back, thrusting into you slowly. Your head fell back against the pillow and you moaned loudly, spurring him to bring his face back to yours and lay a kiss on you that had the pressure in your belly building even faster. Your walls fluttered around him as he rolled his hips forward with every thrust, rubbing his pubic bone against your clit as his tip repeatedly pressed down against that spot inside you that had your toes curling.

“You’re so tight,” he ground out, “So wet for me.”

You were a mess, legs shaking, and the only thing you could do was moan as you started to feel your insides clenching more frequently around him now. His hips faltered in their pace.

“God I can feel how close you are again, sweetheart” he moaned, “You’re so sensitive.”

You whimpered, almost embarrassed at how easily he was working you over.

“Don’t hold back, kid. Just let go,” he coaxed. You gasped, feeling that coil winding so tightly it was ready to burst again. His lips at your neck, his delicious words at your ear, were getting you there that much faster.

“Bill...” you tried to warn. He licked at your mouth, taking your lips in a ferocious kiss and tangling his tongue with yours before pulling away

“That’s it, tiger,” he groaned, “Just let go. All over me.” He thrusted a few more times, angled deeper.

You were powerless to stop it. Your second orgasm of the night tore through you and your back bowed roughly off the bed. He caught you as you surged forward into him, wrapping his arm around your back to support your body and keep your chests together. You clenched repeatedly around him and he let go a grunt so rough that it was nearly a yell, fisting the sheet in his hands as he tried to stave off his own release. When you finally went limp against him, he kept you close and guided you back to the bed. Wiping the hair from your face, he used every ounce of willpower he had left to still his hips.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re so good for me,” he soothed. You could barely breathe.

“Hey, tiger,” he said, and when the haze wasn’t clearing from your head, his voice got a bit more firm, “Look at me, kid.”

You dragged your eyelids open, almost wincing, and looked at him.

“You’re okay. We’re okay,” he said, continuing to trail a delicate finger around your features. You came back to your senses slowly, and he waited patiently until he saw the spark return to your eyes. The spark, and then a glint of ferocity that he knew well. Grabbing a fistful of his hair, you crushed your lips to his forcefully.

“More,” you demanded, once you had separated from his mouth. He was still buried deep in you, but hadn’t moved an inch while you came down from your high. You could feel him throbbing, twitching inside you, and you noticed now the tight clenching of his jaw, the way his fists held sheets so tightly balled up that his knuckles were turning white. He needed his own release so badly it hurt.

“More?” he looked for confirmation. Your eyes already bore into his and you didn’t look away, didn’t even blink, as you raked your nails down his back.

“More,”  you confirmed emphatically and it was all the encouragement he needed before he started moving against you again, slowly at first, as he felt you involuntarily jerk your hips towards his.

You were already so sensitive, so buzzing, that it didn’t take much to get you right back to that edge again. He had a knack for making sure his pelvic bone ground against your clit with every thrust, and with every push forward you felt him slamming into that spot nestled deep inside you that felt like it might explode. You felt like you might explode, not only had you never had this pleasurable of an encounter with any man, but Bill had catapulted you off the edge twice already in releases that were nothing short of earth-shattering. Maybe it was his weight on you, maybe it was his breath on your neck, his voice in your ear, maybe it was the reverberations in his chest that you felt against yours when he moaned his own pleasure so loudly--but nothing, no toy, no man, not even yourself, had ever made you so pleasure drunk.

You knew he was close the way his hips took on a more frantic pace. His large hands grabbed at you, still careful to avoid your love handles that you had told him you hated being grabbed, but he palmed at your thighs around him, grabbed at your hair, your chest. You had a vice grip around his back, needing the closeness, as he drove into you with more fervour. His moans were sinful and loud, unrestrained passion in your ear. The sound of his pleasure only drove you further until you were soaring higher. He fisted your hair, pulled your head back none too gently and crushed his lips to yours before tearing them away, biting anywhere he could reach as he felt your tell-tale fluttering around him again.

“Come for me,” he commanded. You moaned, digging your nails into his shoulders. His hips surged, faltered, and drove deeper.

“Now, tiger,” he said with urgency. And then, you were crashing again. Like a freight train. You gripped him, helplessly holding on as you spasmed and cried out, your body feeling like it was moving independently of your mind. 

He couldn’t hold back anymore, the sight of you coming undone for the third time that night, and all the little noises you made, pushed him over the edge. He gave a few more thrusts before groaning loudly, nearly ripping the bedsheets bundled in his fists as he came. His back popped, his leg cramped up and he was pretty sure he may have cracked a tooth with how hard his jaw clenched. He jolted for several moments, the aftershocks tearing through him, as you soothingly ran your fingernails up and down his spine. They found their way to his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as he panted in your ear and collapsed against you.

“Thank you,” you said, your voice taking on a frail tone, “thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you,” you kissed any part of him that you could reach. His hairline, his cheeks, his chin, his nose, his jaw, his neck.

“That was....” you started to say.

“Oh my god.”

“That was incredible,” you kept your tone low, not wanting to spoil the intensity of it all.

“Oh my god,” he repeated.

You laid like that for awhile, waiting until each of you caught your breath. When your breathing had slowed, he moved his face to yours and gently caressed your features. You reached up and moved his hair away from his forehead.

“Are you okay?” he asked. 

“Mmmm, yes,” you closed your eyes and hummed happily, wriggling further into the mattress. You felt him gently bump his nose against yours, and you opened your eyes, staring into his, knowing that he needed that eye contact to confirm. 

“I’m good. You?” You kissed him lightly, and were rewarded with that boyish smile and the dimple that accompanied it again. He nodded.

“Did that feel good?” he asked.

“Good?” you replied incredulously, “Bill, I think I’m going to need a chiropractor to reset my spine, I came so hard.” It earned a chuckle, and you drew him back in to keep him close as exhaustion suddenly overtook you. He held you like that for awhile, his weight pressing into you, and it was a comfort. After several minutes, and only once he was sure you would be okay with the loss of contact, you winced as you felt him slip out of you and leave the bed. Floating in that in between state of consciousness and deep sleep, you barely registered a warm wash cloth between your legs, a cool one being pressed to your forehead. He disappeared for a few moments when you had passed out cold, you heard the shower running and the clang of a few pots and pans in the kitchen, before the bed dipped down under his weight and a hand was gently running through your hair.

“Come on tiger, sit up for a sec,” he coaxed. You turned your head into his hand, urging the head scratches, but ignored his plea.

“Can’t sit up. Too fucked out.”

He chuckled, easing an arm under you and slowly bringing you upright. You caught whiff of something--food something, and shit you were starving now--and opened your eyes. He was waving a plate under your nose; two grilled cheese sandwiches, one with the crusts cut off. Your hand immediately snatched it.

“Yeah, thought so,” he said, smugly. You munched on your sandwiches in comfortable silence, still maintaining contact in some way--he brushed the hair from your eyes, or you swiped at a crumb stuck on his lip. When you were done eating, he placed the plate on the floor and put a glass of water in your hand, urging you to drink it. You listened, handing the empty glass back to him. Sitting on his haunches, he reached a large hand up and cupped your jaw, gently forcing you to look at him.

“You feel good?” he asked, his thumb stroking your cheek. You placed your hand over his.

“Yeah. Yeah, I feel really good,” you said. You placed a gentle kiss on his palm. “Thank you, Bill.”

He smiled at you, dragging his thumb across your lips. You kissed that too, before grabbing his chin and bringing his face to yours, placing a gentle kiss on his mouth.

“Happy to help. Now come on, let’s get some sleep.”

He nudged you into lying down, scooting in close behind you. He wrapped an arm around your rib cage, opening his hand over your heart and tucked his legs up under you.

“This okay?” he asked, burying his face into your neck.

Your only answer was to scoot further back into him, pressing your back to his chest, and enclose your hand around his. The last thing you remember is him pressing a gentle kiss to your ear before coaxing you to sleep.

[macbookpro-hard-drive]

weak [connor m. x fem!reader]

like what i do? consider buying me a coffee!

look i know ive been like. dead. but i sorta pushed myself to finish this in order to post Something

im so sorry ive been so inactive hhh ive been busy with work and college and 

warnings: 

         The first time you met Connor Murphy, he’d been leaning against a washing machine with a book tucked underneath his arm, fumbling with his wallet. The soft swears spilling from his lips seemed to fill the air, and part of you wondered whether you should just come back and do laundry later - considering the demanding weight of the basket in front of you was starting to become grating - or if you should just go in and do your laundry, despite the intimidating air he seemed to carry around him. The weight of your laundry basket barked at you, and you made up your mind and walked in, apparently immediately grabbing his attention. He looked up, saw you standing there awkwardly as you made eye contact before hurrying over to an empty washing machine to start making sure you had sorted shit correctly. The sound of a heavy sigh grasped your attention, your shoulders jerking slightly as heavy footsteps grew closer. You looked up, and there he stood - taller than you and built like a beanpole, hair pulled back into a low, lazily crafted bun.

        He didn’t say anything at first, sort of looking down to his wallet for a moment. Then his eyes caught yours as he shut the empty leather wallet, and jammed it into his pocket. You immediately grew tense as you nearly dropped the shirt you’d pulled out, and then your nails dug into it as you watched this complete stranger approach you. He sighed, then frowned, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

        “Fuck, sorry - hey, uh, do you have any extra change? Fuck, sorry - I don’t have anything smaller than a twenty and, uh-” he paused, “I ran out.”

        “That wasn’t smart,” you said without thinking, before immediately growing flustered. You dug into the bag you’d swung carelessly over your shoulder before heading out to do laundry, pulled out the coin purse you kept full of spare change - which was mainly shit that your parents kept sending you, as a ‘just in case’ you need it for whatever reason, despite the fact you’d been fine and more collecting coins rather than using them - and tossed it to him. The weight crashed into his chest, and he looked from the little black bag to your face.

        “What the fuck do you have in here?” He asked. Maybe your bag was growing a little heavy.

        But you failed to suppress a small smirk and answered him anyway. “Coins.”

        His eyes flutter from you to the bag and then back to your face. “... Gold coins?” He asked, unzipping the little pouch. Then he paused, before finally replying to you as he strode back over to his laundry. “Thanks.”

        “I want that back, y’know,” you said.

        “Yeah. Whatever. Sure. I’ll pay you-”

        “The rest of the bag, dumb ass.” You clicked your tongue, “don’t pay me back.”

        “Whatever.”

        So you continued what you were doing silently, debating whether you should plug in your headphones and turn on a podcast or something - or maybe see if this stranger will watch your shit just in case and run back to grab your laptop and plant down somewhere and see if you can knock out a bit more of one of your papers. You stood there in silent debate, realizing that this dude still had all of your change in his hands right as you went to find your quarters. You looked back to him, and he was just standing there, toying with the zipper mindlessly. He didn’t look back to you.

        “Yo. I’d like to do laundry, dude.”

        He looked back to you. “Oh. Yeah. Right.”

        The next thing you felt was your bag hitting your chest, and you watched this dude smirk as he turned back to what he was doing, now finding his phone and fumbling around aimlessly with it instead. You debated asking his name - but in the end, you really didn’t care at that time. He finished his laundry, thanked you for your shit, and then walked out - hopefully with a plan to fold that shit once he got back to his dorm room. You plugged in your headphones, and left the sound of three brothers distract you from the bullshit amount of time you’d be sitting here. Could you leave? Sure. Did you trust it? Absolutely not - not after the last time when some asshole stole one of your hoodies. Sure, you got it back - but not without a few stains that you immediately struggled to wash out, causing for you to waste a fuck-ton of change with multiple washes.

        The next time you met Connor was late at night inside a coffee shop that wasn’t too far from your campus. The one in the building was closed, and you’d rather go buy a cup from wherever rather than try to find any coffeemaker and make it for yourself. Honestly, you just didn’t want to wake anyone up with the smell of burnt coffee - that would be a string of apologies you didn’t want to have to make. So you sunk into your boots, shoved your wallet into your sweatpants pocket, and set out to the nearest place you could find that was open - a small local joint, according to your phone. You were relieved to find that it was in fact open, and escaped into the shop, the sweet smell of coffee greeting you. The tired eyes of the barista greeted you, and you felt bad for coming in so late - how much longer was this place open anyhow?

        She let out a soft sigh, stretching as she walked over to greet you. College student. You could feel the exhaustion radiating off of her. You glanced at her name tag - Joanne - before she finally greeted you. She rolled her shoulders back, the soft pop audible even to you as she forced a smile, “welcome to the Bean Hut,” she said, “what can I get for ya’?”

        You glanced to the menu, rocking back and forth as you searched for something. You rattled off your order, trying to keep it as simple as you could so that she wouldn’t have to strain herself too much - because jesus, you were actually starting to get concerned for her health. You glanced over to the emptying case of different treats. She caught your gaze as she punched in your order, pausing as she debated something internally.

        “If you want something, get it. We throw away what we don’t sell,” she said, “waste of food but, fuck, what can you do?”

        “How much is the banana nut bread?” You asked. She rattled off a price, so you bought a slice for your roommate and a chocolate croissant for yourself, watching her unfold a paper bag with THE BEAN HUT printed on the front in stereotypical hipster coffee shop font. After a moment, you hurried and unfurled your money, handing it to her as you heard the front door of the shop open with a jingle, and glanced over your shoulder while taking the bag from her.

        You hadn’t introduced yourself to him before, as you didn’t have the chance to, but you immediately recognized the stranger as being laundry-boy. How many lanky dudes with man-buns were there on campus anyhow? Besides, you really couldn’t forget how fucking cold his eyes were. He scanned your face, taking in each detail as he tried to pin something to you because you were familiar but he just couldn’t pinpoint where.

        “Welcome to the Bean Hut-” Joanne had begun, only for Connor to glance from her to you, “oh. Connor. The usual?” She asked. 

        “Yeah - hot chocolate and a-”

        “A vanilla bean scone,” she finished, already in the process of punching in his total, “I know.”

        You looked over to this Connor, jamming your hands into your pockets, “are you gonna need some extra change this time, Connor?” It was dumb and it was nothing but it was enough to get his attention, as you caught his eyes flickering to you for a second as he opened his wallet.

        He pulled his card out of his wallet, handing it over to Joanne to run. He sort of smiled and said, “thought I recognized you,” before turning to face you. “I’m good. Thanks.”

        You weren’t sure if he was being friendly or what. That’s just how this dude seemed to speak - sorta unwavering, always with cold eyes and his hands hidden away in his jacket or jean pockets no matter what. But you just sort of forced a smile, rocking back and forth on your heels as you glanced over to Joanne, busy at work with making your drinks. “You come here a lot?” You asked, looking back to Connor.

        “Yeah. Usually.” 

        “Busy?”

        “No,” he sort of shrugged, “I just like the hot chocolate.” He left it at that, not pushing forward. You were a stranger - he didn’t have to spill his entire life story to you. This was just a fluke in fate, a mistake where your paths crossed again and it probably wasn’t meant to happen. At least, that’s what Connor thought - you looked like you were nothing like him, bundled up in warm sleepwear while he was stuck looking like he was going out for the night again. Connor didn’t do that. Connor didn’t like going out with his roommate to parties, he didn’t care for drinking unless he was home or somewhere he couldn’t fuck things up. You sucked in your cheeks, giving him a once-over.

        The first time you’d seen Connor, he’d only been in a t-shirt and sweatpants - the usual college attire, you’d come to learn - but now he stood before you in jeans that were baggy at the knee and ripped (factory ripped, you’d decided at the lack of fraying), leather jacket over a unzipped hoodie over plaid, and worn leather boots that you could see staring to stretch away from the soles, begging to be replaced soon. You finally spoke up, cutting through the awkward silence that had drawn between you, “going somewhere?”

        “Didn’t change.” He looked over to you, “are you working on a paper or-”

        “Yep,” you popped the ‘p’, “research paper. Physics. It’s boring.”

        “Boring?”

        “To most people, yeah.” You shrugged, “I mean, it’s cool and all, but I don’t even need it for my major. I just wanted the science credit-”

        “So you chose physics.” Connor stared at you with bewilderment, “y’know, there’s easier classes on campus-”

        “I took AP Physics my senior year in high school. I’m not going in blind, hon,” you tried to suppress the smallest little smile. He just stood there, watching you badly fighting back a smile, and then the crumple of a paper bag caught his attention as Joanne slid a medium-sized coffee-cup over to you, and then a bag to Connor, before turning back to her job.

        You barely had the time to take your drink and turn before Connor stopped you. “Hey,” he’d called, causing you to glimpse back at him over your shoulder. “It’s Connor.” He said, reaching back to the counter behind him, “my name- I mean,” he stumbled over his words, “Connor Murphy.”

        After a moment, you smiled. “[y/n],” you said, “nice to meet you, Murphy.” Then you were gone, the soft chime of a bell marking your exit as you took your walk back to your dorm. Connor Murphy. You committed the name to memory. Something told you that you’d meet him again - somehow. You lifted your cup to your lips, fighting back to urge to tear it away as the burning liquid spilled onto your tongue as you let the warm caffeine seep into your body, into your entire being. You’d have to go back sometimes. Maybe you’d run into Connor again. 

        If you were honest, you’d never been that much of a party person. Or, well, rather - you’d never been a ‘let’s go party with complete strangers and get wasted’ kind of person. Parties with friends? You were down - but now you were sitting in the corner of a room with a red cup in your hand, guarding the drink with your life. You’d lost sight of your roommate, slightly cursing that fact since she’d asked for you to keep an eye on her if she started drinking - which had happened almost ten minutes after the two of you arrived. On the better side of the spectrum, she’d worked up the confidence to finally talk that guy in her intro to theatre history class that you could tell was into her, and maybe they’d be making out somewhere. On the other hand, you’d get up and find her sometime soon, ditching your drink for the night because it was shitty beer, not even the kind of stuff that you could normally stomach. You’d hoped that maybe someone would have pitched in, maybe brought wine coolers or something with any more flavor than that sad grain water shit. But you’d stopped looking after a while, dodging between drunk freshmen and listening to girls coo over the smallest things - which made you fight back a smile, because drunk girls were always adorable in your opinion, some getting more giggly, and on the rare occasion you’d had one asked if you’d eat and try to feed you peanuts when you’d admit that you hadn’t. It was a sweet notion - fuck anyone who said that drunk girls were embarrassing. You’d punch a fucker for harassing a drunk girl, or any girl.

        The music seemed to increase in volume after minutes, leading you to finally push yourself out of your seat, finding the kitchen and dumping the shitty beer into a sink before you wandered with the intent of finding your roommate. To your surprise, she’d been sitting out back with journalism-dude’s arm around her shoulder, laughing at some video on his phone, headphones shared between them. You only smiled as you turned, wandering around inside with the hope of finding somewhere quiet. Bedrooms were a no-go, since you didn’t want to walk in on anyone fucking (the risk alone was too much for you, because how do you walk away from that sort of thing? You weren’t sure.) and bathrooms were only a somewhat safer bet. After a while of wandering, you’d finally found an unlocked bathroom that seemed empty when you knocked. And lo and behold, you opened the door to find a certain scrawny dude sitting in the bathtub, phone now pressed to his stomach as you pushed your way inside.

        “Are you fucking stalking me?” Connor said, staring at you with furrowed brow as he watched you shut the door behind you.

        “Shut up, Murphy.” You hesitated to lock the door, but glanced back to him, “mind if I-”

        “God, fucking please,” he scowled, before shifting slightly, giving you enough room to sit beside him if you wanted.

        You weren’t about to turn the offer down. The door clicked locked, and you crossed the tiny bathroom to sink into the spot next to him, snagging your phone from your back pocket in the process. “So why are you here?”

        “Roommate dragged me here.” Connor looked over to you, clicking his phone on and off mindlessly, “some shit about wanting to get out and enjoy college. You?”

        “Same thing, I guess,” you shrugged, “roommate’s crush was gonna be here and she wanted to talk to him. So I came along to make sure she doesn’t get into trouble-”

        “And now you’re doing that by hiding in a bathroom.”

        “She’s with that dude and they’re watching something together. She’s safe for right now, dude. I’m not shitty like that,” you frowned, “c’mon, Murphy. Do I seem like the kind of girl to just abandon her friend like that?”

        He shrugged, looking back to his phone for a second. “[y/n], right?” He asked, finally looking back over to you. You nodded. He shifted again, pressing his back against the corner as best as he could. “What’s your story?”

        “My what-” You’d started, “Murphy, what the fuck-”

        “I’m just trying to make fucking conversation.”

        You stared at him, watching as he rolled his eyes and went back to his phone without a word. Fine. “I was raised in a town not too far from here, I took a bunch of AP classes in high school so that I look pretty fucking good on applications, and now I’m here. Nothing special.” 

        He glanced over to you, not really responding at first. And finally, he sucked in a breath, and put his phone down as he finally turned his attention to you. “Guess we have that in common.” He said, and you perked a brow at that. “The ‘nothing special’ shit.”

        “Spill your story then, Murphy.”

        He smiled a little at that before looking away, licking his lips before he finally settled on a starting point. “Uh, I guess - I’m from out of state, I have a sh-” He stopped there, “I have a pretty okay sister and okay parents,” he said, both feeling a bit strained for him to say. “I, uh, dealt with some shit in high school, aaand now I’m here in a bathroom at a party.”

        You shifted, trying to find comfort in sitting against the edge of the tub and the wall. “I feel like you’re leaving out details. C’mon. Spill shit.” You paused for a moment, “you say something, I say something. Go.”

        Amusement flickered in his eyes as he smiled again, “alright. I took tap for years as a kid. Loved it,” he said softly, “and then I threw that out.”

        You nodded, pursing your lips together. What could you tell him? “I have a dog at home. Her name is Pepper and she’s the best girl in the world.”

        “I played baseball as a kid.” He drummed his fingers against his leg, “and threw that out later, too. It was fun, though.”

        “Nice.” You hummed for a moment, mentally scrolling through your library of things to tell. “I was in a production of Cinderella when I was ten as one of the stepsisters. It was the best fucking shit, and I kicked ass in the role.”

        He chuckled at the thought. “I wrote a lot of shitty teen poetry in high school.”

        “I still write a lot of shitty teen poetry in college,” you smirked as you brushed hair from your eyes. “Shitty teen poetry is fun, Murphy.”

        You watched him shift against the uncomfortable tub and wall. “I smoked a lot of weed.” He shrugged, “I don’t smoke as much anymore.”

        “Surprise, surprise.” You rolled your eyes, “never saw that one coming, Murphy.” Before he could protest, you elbowed him, “I’m kidding. You only somewhat look like a stoner.” You let out a heavy breath, trying to come up with another fact. “I have a little brother. He’s in high school.”

        “I have an annoying little sister. She’s also in high school. Jazz band.”

        “He’s on the soccer team - but he has been thinking about taking art classes again. He used to draw a lot.”

        “I draw a lot.” Connor said, “considering I’m an art major.” He smiled at you, “tell your brother to go for it.”

        “I’m undeclared.” You let out a sigh, “not sure yet. Maybe I’ll major in English or something.” You couldn’t fight back a smile, “can you draw me?”

        “Can I? Yeah, definitely, if you’re paying.”

        “Guess my poor college ass is just gonna have to take a rain check, Murphy.” You finally stole a glance at the time. “I should probably go check on Tessa. Walk me out, Murphy?”

        You pushed yourself up and out of the tub, spine popping in the process as it ached from the awkward curvature of the tub and wall. You stepped away, only to be surprised when Connor rose too, stretching as he stood, shirt riding slightly above his hips and giving you a glimpse of a sliver of skin. You tore your eyes away from that. You almost expected him to notice and greet you with a crooked smile and a “like what you see?” But he didn’t, double-checking his pockets for his phone and wallet - you begun to doubt that he would have even noticed your little glance. You unlocked the bathroom door, stumbling out into a quieter hallway with Connor in tow, and you wandered downstairs. When you couldn’t spot your roommate, you fished out your phone, only to find a single text there for you.

        Tess: journalism guy coming back w me, sorry

        You groaned slightly as you turned back to Connor, about to say something when he merely showed you his phone, sort of pinching at the bridge of his nose with annoyance. You understood why the moment you read the text.

        J: wont be back tonight. enjoy the dorm to urself.

        “Great. Our roommates are fucking,” you clicked your tongue, “or that’s just a really fun coincidence.”

        “He never shuts up about Tessa.” Connor jammed his phone into his jeans pocket, “c’mon. You’re staying with me, I guess.” He took you by the wrist, guiding you out of the party.

        “Cool. Fun. Sleepover with art major Connor Murphy. I’m down.” You said, excitement just oozing out of you - absolutely. Completely. Good thing he was guiding you, or you’d probably melt into a fucking puddle. You were glad Connor couldn’t read minds. He didn’t need to hear your stupid snarky shit.

        “You’re taking Jer’s bed,” he shrugged, “he won’t care. And if he does, then tough shit for him.” He released your wrist, letting you fall into step beside him. “Sorry.”

        “For what? Our roommates happen to be into each other. It’s just a coincidence, Connor.”

        He didn’t verbally respond. He only shrugged at that, and the two of you continued on your walk towards your dorm. Thirty minutes later, you’re standing in his room and he’s already stripped off his jacket without a second thought, before he started digging through his clothes. You didn’t expect for a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants to hit you a second later, as he looked over to you, eyes flickering down to the shirt that’d fallen to the floor. Minutes later and he turned away from you, making some comment about how he would say something about the bathrooms, but he didn’t need to risk someone finding ‘some girl on their floor’ right now. You only shrugged, turning away and changing as quickly as you could. His shirt and pants were longer than you expected, honestly - and maybe that was because he was a tall dude. 

        “That’s J’s bed.” Connor motioned toward one, “take it. He can deal.” He threw himself onto his own bed, comforter shifting.

        You walked over and set your phone down on the nearby nightstand before finally sitting down and watching Connor. “You draw, right? Can... I see some of your work?” 

        He just sorta glanced over to you as he plugged his phone in, the soft chime filling the pause in the air. Connor shrugged as he stood, walking over to his desk, picking up one wire-bound sketchbook that’d been sitting in the corner, holding it out to you. “Class shit.” He shrugged again, before picking up a smaller, Moleskine one that had been carelessly thrown on top of his laptop, and he tossed that one to you as well. “Pocket sketchbook. I draw random shit in that one.” And he gingerly picked up another, a landscape one, and walked that one over, sitting down beside you. “Aaaand watercolor shit.”

        You set the watercolor book and his pocket sketchbook on the bed beside you, flipping open the wire-bound one he’d first handed to you. Pages upon pages of tonal work - different objects, all with shadows dancing in different places - greeted you before gesture drawings saw, messily scribbled down with features often ending up slightly smudged. Connor watched you flip through the pages, before shutting the book once they turned blank. Next was his watercolor - one he seemed a bit more careful with, from how he brought it to you with careful grasp. You flipped it open slowly, a picture of a landscape there to greet you: lush greenery, mountains, and a lake. For some reason, you couldn’t shake the small home-y feeling you’d gotten from it. When you flipped through the rest of the pages, there were other landscapes, and some paintings of birds, and then the last was a vague sketch of a figure, done completely in greys. You shut the book, and Connor took it from you to deliver it back to it’s place on his desk.

        The last was Connor’s pocket sketchbook. You slipped the band off, opening it to find the first dated image was from over a year ago. Page after page was filled with the most mundane things - a girl with an ice cream cone, her grin wide and hair being blown in the wind; a sleeping dog,, a boy with an arm in a cast seated at a desk, trees, sometimes even pill bottles.

        “That’s from when I was fucking sick,” he scowled, “and my mom wouldn’t let me out of the house to do anything.” He tapped the sketch of the NyQuil bottle, “so I drew the shitty cold medicine she’d brought me.”

        You nodded, flipping through. Every so often, you’d find pictures of the same girl: some of her lost in music, some of her just curled up in an chair. When you finally looked up to say something to Connor, he licked his lips, already knowing your question. 

        “That’s my sister, Zoe.” He shut his eyes, shifting uncomfortably beside you.

        “She’s pretty,” you sort of hummed, “you’re really talented.”

        He sorta chuckled at that. “Thanks.” He slipped the sketchbook from your hands.

        “Kinda sad I don’t have anything to show you, unless you wanna read some shitty poetry.” He snorted at the comment. You elbowed him, “c’mon. I’m not kidding. You showed me your art, I can show you some of my amazingly shitty poetry next time we meet.” And then you paused, looking to where you’d set your phone down, and picked it up. “You,” you began, “should give me your number.”

        “Why-”

        “C’mon, Murphy. The universe obviously wants us to be friends or something.” You picked up your phone, pulling open the contacts, “why keep fighting that?”

        He couldn’t really argue with that. He took your phone from your hand, closing out of your contacts and opening messages, punching in his number before sending a text. Barely a second later, his phone buzzed, and he shoved your phone back into your hands. “Done.” He stood, stalking across the room back to his bed.

        You rolled your eyes at the string of emojis he’d sent himself, all taken from your most recently used. Original. You set your phone down, before finally crawling into his roommate’s bed without a second thought. “Night, Murphy,” you’d called out, and then a lamp flickered off, and eventually you managed to fight the foreign feeling of another person’s bed enough to drift off to sleep.

        Connor was a welcome figure in your dorm room - one floor below where his was. He’d often swing by after his classes, glad to find you curled up in bed with your laptop set on top of your lap desk. At first it was Connor sliding in after he came from classes. Later it turned to Connor bringing you a hot chocolate and a chocolate croissant, and more dumb conversation to keep you company while your roommate was usually out. Other than Connor’s visits, the two of you had started heading over to the library for study sessions, or out to a coffee-shop just to sit around and people-watch while talking about whatever life shit the two of you could come up with. Sometimes it’d be about his sister and things he did when he was a kid, other times it’d be you gloating about your brother’s soccer skills. 

        Connor had stretched himself out across the end of your bed, phone resting on his stomach as he stared up at your ceiling. You’d been invested in this story about some shit one of your friends had gotten into back during your freshman year of high school, typing at your laptop without pause the entire time. He marveled in your ability to multi-task, honestly, because he knew he would have veered off into typing at least half of his thoughts up by mistake. You slowly trailed off, voice growing soft as you stared at Connor, his focus intensely placed on your ceiling.

        “You okay?” You asked, stretching a leg out to nudge his arm. He finally glanced back over to you, propping himself up on his elbows.

        “Are you staying here for Thanksgiving?”

        You were caught slightly off-guard by the sudden question, but shook your head anyway. “No - why?”

        “Just... wanted to ask.”

        “Are you?”

        He shook his head after a moment. “Mom wants me to come home.” He paused, “but if you were staying, I could have probably gotten out of it-”

        “Do you not want to go home?” You interrupted him, closing your laptop and moving your lap desk aside. “I mean - you could come with me if you want, but you’d have to put up with my dad asking if you’re my boyfriend.”

        “No - fuck, I mean, I want to go home. Just...” He paused, “I don’t know. There’s a couple assholes I’m not looking forward to seeing.”

        “You’re from out of state, right?” You asked, forcing a small topic change. Connor had appreciated it, and simply answered you with a nod. “How are you getting home? I don’t see you driving anywhere, so...” You sucked in your cheek, “flying? Bus?”

        “Flying. I’ve uh... got a flight to catch Friday after-”

        “I can drive you? To the airport, I mean,” you clarified, “y’know. So you don’t have to Uber or anything.” 

        He stared at you. You writhed slightly in discomfort, shifting blankets around you before breaking your gaze away from his. “Okay?” He said, “why?”

        “... Because we’re friends? Because I might be heading out that way anyway since I literally pass by the only airport around here when I drive home, and I thought “well, gee, I could give my friend a ride” since I care about art major Connor Murphy, my snark-master of a pal?” You smiled, “unless you’re leaving from somewhere else?”

        “No - I mean, I am leaving from-” He stopped for a moment, “yeah - that’d be great... thanks.” 

        Zoe picked him up from the airport. She’d been leaning against her car that’d once been his, arms folded across her chest as she stood, waiting for him to finally move his ass and get out there. The sound of his bag rolling behind him filled the empty silence that he’d grown used to, the weight of his carry-on luggage starting to grow more and more frustrating with each step. He’d only thrown a couple books in along with his sketchbook, and now he was regretting it because his neck was stiff and his spine was stiffer and - fuck, did he ever mention he hated flying? His ears had popped and everything was still slightly muffled despite the fact he’d tried almost every trick he could come up with. The idea of a hot shower was utopian to him. Zoe didn’t greet him with a hug, but with her usual steely eyes as she popped the trunk before sliding back into the driver’s seat.

        Great. A fantastic start to Thanksgiving break. Only more thrills would await him. He shoved the handle of his luggage down, almost carelessly throwing the bag into the back of his sister’s car. With a slam of the trunk, Connor ignored the glare that Zoe threw him as he climbed into the passenger seat, his carry-on bag nestled in the floorboard between his legs. His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He was greeted with a picture of you, smiling with your arm around some kid - “hope you had a great flight! 2nd fave art geek here thanks u for ur wise advice of ‘go for it’” - and he smiled slightly at your nickname for your brother. 

        Zoe caught a glimpse of his phone, barely a millisecond before he clicked it off. “Who’s that?”

        “Just a friend,” he shrugged. 

        “When’d you meet her?”

        “... September. Laundry girl.” He said. Zoe nodded. For the few times Connor had spoken to his family (as for the most part, they left each other alone, and it had usually been Cynthia calling Connor for an update in how he’s doing before passing the phone to Larry and then to Zoe), he was glad to see that Zoe remembered his little story of you.

        “Oh.” Zoe pressed her lips together. He looked over to her, watching her expression. She was thinking - probably trying to figure out as much as she could from that little glimpse of you as she could.

        “If you want to ask something, then fucking ask.”

        Zoe landed on one of the most obvious questions. “Is she single?”

        Were you? He didn’t recall you having a girlfriend or a boyfriend or anything. Besides - you’d probably spend more time with them than with him, right? Connor was... fine company, but definitely not better than a partner. “I don’t think so.”

        “Is she your type?”

        “I don’t have a-”

        “You like cute girls who aren’t afraid to say shit to your face, geeky boys who are shy - but if any of them are shorter than you then you’ve probably thought about dating them at least once.” Zoe looked over to him, “you have a type, Connor.”

        As he sat there trying not to gawk at how bold her statement had been, at how sharp her tongue was, his phone buzzed once more. When he looked down to see your name, he was glad to see the words “(but if you ever need an out, i’m here <3)” printed across the screen. He fought back a smile as he texted you his thanks, trying to ignore the glance from Zoe that would surely be followed up with more questions. To his surprise, she kept her eyes on the road and her mouth shut. Which, in his experience, usually meant that the moment they got home, she’d probably casually drop the “Connor has a girlfriend” bomb in front of their mom and then she would take to questioning him. To his surprise, she didn’t. At least, not until halfway through dinner while Connor was still prodding at the vegetarian lasagna his mother had made, absentmindedly answering her questions.

        Then Zoe said it, casual and cool after a long sip of water. The moment she set the glass down and begun to clean up around her, it just slipped out casually, “Connor has a girlfriend.”

        Before he could refute it, his mother was already beaming at the mere aspect of him having a anyone in his life. “Connor, is this true?” She was ecstatic and it slightly hurt him to crush her hopes.

        “No, uh, she’s just a friend,” he said, glaring at Zoe as she strode past to put her dishes away, “we, uh, met when doing laundry. Her building’s water got turned off for a few days,” he began to sink into his seat, “and she helped me out.”

        “What’s her name?” Larry piped up, surprising Connor. He was sure his dad wouldn’t care enough to ask questions. But the moment your name rolled off his tongue, his father nodded, mulling over your name alone. “Sounds nice.”

        The rest of the conversation was dominated completely by questions, making Connor dig up all the information he’d learned about you. The fact you were from not-too-far from campus, your little brother, what your parents did, your major - the fact you were smart and took Physics made his mother smile, because something about the idea of him (potentially, in her eyes) having a smarty-pants girlfriend pleased her. Most likely because it meant you could maybe help him and cue the whole study-dates turning into real-dates montage as the two of you fell for each other, since she had always loved the prospect of movie romances. He shoveled the rest of his meal into his mouth, thanking her before escaping to the solitude of his somewhat-empty room.

        Then came the day he ran into Jared Kleinman and his friends, overhearing the nerdy boy brag about “all the pussy he was getting at college” arrogantly. Fucking hell, Connor felt bad for whoever Jared’s roommate was - either the poor dude was legit getting sexiled over and over, or he had to deal with Jared trying to talk big game. Of course, as fate would have it, Connor couldn’t just walk into one of his favorite ice cream parlors, get his favorite flavor, and walk out - Jared had to spot him.

        “He-ey, Connor!” He called out, Connor glancing over his shoulder before paying for his cone and crossing the room, jamming his free hand into his hoodie pocket. Jared didn’t give him a moment to greet him or anything, “How’s college?”

        “Fine.”

        “Meet anybody?” He smirked a little, “I mean, I’ll be surprised to hear anyone would approach your psycho ass, but there’s always miracles.” He snorted.

        “Does it matter?”

        Jared feigned pain at the remark, “C’mon, Connor,” he immediately lowered his voice, “there’s no shame in being a virgin.” With a click of his tongue, he leaned back in his chair, now smirking again his stupid arrogant Kleinman smirk. Now he remembered why he couldn’t fucking stand Jared.

        Before he thought it through, he replied, “Yeah, well, good thing I have a girlfriend then.”

        Immediately he regret it as Jared immediately lit up, smirk never leaving. “Really? You got some proof there, Connie?”

        He nodded, and internally thanked the fact that you had a habit of taking selfies of the two of you - and was even more glad to find that he hadn’t deleted the few you took with his phone after he sent them to you. He never could have brought himself to do it - but he brandished his evidence, which was a picture with you pressed into his side, beaming with joy that you’d managed to steal his phone long enough for the picture. The phantom touch of your hand at his waist returned as he remembered just how close you’d actually been to him. “Her name is [y/n],” he said, watching Jared take in every aspect of the photo, just trying to scan the smallest hint that he was lying.

        Apparently, he found none. “Okay, then,” he said, “how long have you two been dating?”

        “Almost four months,” he lied, “we, uh, met in a gen ed class.”

        “Y’know, you could be lying, Connor. You two should Skype with me sometime,” Jared draped one arm over the back of his chair, “or, better idea: maybe you could bring her here for spring break. I’m sure your family would love to meet her, huh Connor?”

        He was gonna fucking kill him for being so fucking smug. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll talk to her about it.” Which translated to he’d have to convince you somehow because he can’t just let Jared know he lied.

        He waved Jared off, ignoring the cold drips of ice cream running over his fingers as he escaped to the safety of his - well, Zoe’s - car. The moment he turned on the engine, the gravity of everything he just said crashed down onto him. There was no way you’d actually agree to fake-date him, right? At least whenever Jared called or whenever you were here with him. And then the two of you could part ways and pretend the entire thing never happened and he’d come up with some elaborate reason why the two of you broke up. Connor let out a heavy sigh, picking up his phone and opening it to your contact info.

        This was going to come crashing down around him, wasn’t it?

[wonderlustlucas]

joie de vivre - kim yugyeom

⇢ prompt “What an odd individual. What an odd joy.” ⇢ pairing yugyeom x female reader ⇢ word count 10.7k ⇢ genre fluff & comedy ⇢ warnings swearing & a gross amount of fluff ⇢ summary (i couldn’t come up w a summary but camille did so here u go heheh) In this sweet and relatable story of hopeful romance and inner girl power, you find yourself meeting and getting to know the effervescent boys of GOT7. With exotic food orders and the unmistakable heart-fluttering that defines young love, Joie de Vivre delivers a humorous and cleverly fun take on the awesomeness of your favorite K-pop stars.—beach!au ⇢ a/n wow i can’t believe i’m finally posting this. since july i have deserted & gone back to this damn chapter so many times & i’m just so happy i can finally post it. nevertheless, considering it’s almost christmas & i have zero summer vibes left, this is probably going to be on hold for a looong time since i have so many autumn & winter inspired works i wanna write, so i apologize for the tease. i’d also like to give a big shoutout to my friend camille who edited this for me (along with helping me in various other ways) since i didn’t have time:) & last but not least, i wanted to have this up for yugyeom’s birthday but couldn’t make time, so happy belated birthday to my love, i hope your year is full of all the happiness in the world❥

i ii iii iv v vi vii

moodboard

Contrary to all the whining and complaining that ensues at the start of each grueling summer year, it truly is the beginning of the most thrilling months.

A time when, despite the startlingly tremendous surge of obnoxious, vape-induced teenagers hoarding the boardwalk like flies drawn to an outdoor barbeque, and the influx of ignorant young children flopping through the ocean waves like they are training to become fish, there is always a milieu of genuine elation hanging in the air.

This constant joy—whether it is emanating from the relaxation that oozes from unwinding vacationers flooding the beach and boardwalk, continuous hours wasted away doing nothing and days melting into one another, or simply the enkindling of town—makes up for all the downsides that arise with the start of summer.

Over years of enduring this unnamed cycle of life, you have come to appreciate that there are four types of joy; the expected, the unexpected, the habitual, and the unknown.

The expected—a joy with which you are familiar and the elation it will give you.

The unexpected—aware of the plan, but not expecting the joy that will result from it.

The habitual—occurring so frequently that, while still appealing, is more of a routine rather than a new and exciting experience.

And the unknown—any choice resulting in a different ending, a different joy.

However, despite recognizing these, the unknown sort of joy is the most enigmatic because, named for this specific reason, you never know when it is happening or when it will be.

Even so, one such occurrence is most certainly not a habitual joy. Rather, a royal pain in your ass: when Kim Jinae, in an effort that you could never grasp entirely, decides to wake not only herself but also the two of you up at a time that you should most definitely still be dead asleep nearly every day during your months off.

“You know,” you huff, deeply inhaling the morning ocean hair to fill your lungs. Your body is sagging in sheer exhaustion as you follow her peppy steps—how is she still so fired up?—a few feet behind, sneakers skidding lazily against the worn wood of the boardwalk. "I really miss when your shift was in the morning, and we worked out at night. I hope you know I hate you for guilt-tripping me into this."

Jinae scoffs, coming to a stop and whipping around. “I’m sorry, but who wants to spend the whole damn day down at the beach? And who guilt-tripped who into switching shifts?”

You huff heavily, accepting defeat because she's right, but you would never tell her. You look away to peek at the waves approaching the shore nearly a football field away that reflect apricots and azaleas on the horizon from the remaining sunrise. Your irritated thoughts are replaced with the wonder of today’s plan. “Speaking of, what are we doing today?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs. You make a mental note to never ask her anything again because—Lord knows—Jinae is zero help. “I assumed we were just doing the usual.”

You sigh, following her silently down the wooden steps from the boardwalk, the ocean now faintly hushed behind you. You wipe away a bead of sweat dripping down from your hairline. “Can you make breakfast before I have to leave?”

Jinae mutters something under her breath, then twists around to face you. “You’re a real brat, you know?”

You beam. “Learned it from the best.”

Your first joy, practically your best friend since you could walk, quite possibly your soulmate—Kim Jinae.

While some days do in fact seem to drag on endlessly, working only four hours a day and four days a week during the summer months is a bargain worth paying for and an opportunity sent by the heavens. It pays what your parents don’t, you tell yourself when service is slow and customers bark at you as if you’re the one doing the cooking. A little extra in the cookie jar, you whisper under your breath after covering eight tables at once, shifting uncomfortably in your uniform as perspiration dribbles down your spine while darting from the sweltering kitchen to each consecutive table.

However, most days seemingly fly by. After all, eight to twelve are prime breakfast hours, and so the quaint diner is not half as cruel as some prior jobs. Not to mention, it is right on the boardwalk, which makes meeting up with Jinae for the rest of the day well spent at the beach even simpler.

Upon setting down the check for your last table and offering a polite farewell, you scan the room curiously until, after a few seconds of concern, your gaze lands on a certain busboy setting down silverware on a recently cleaned booth. "Hey Markipooh," you coo, greeting the unacceptably gorgeous brunette and sliding across the tiled marble floor to stand beside him and to help finish laying out paper placemats.

Mark Tuan—the Devil in Disguise. During your first few days at the new job, you were quietly aware of the only other employee that took advantage of the locker room, initially an exceptionally attractive blonde who had not even graced you with a glance since you started.

That was, until hardly a week later, you found yourself packing up for the day when he entered to do the same.

“Woah, you’re a brunette now.” It slipped out before your brain could truly even process the sentence, gears positively malfunctioning in your head because God, he’s hot but God, you’re an idiot. He blinked, running a hand through his darkened locks and eyeing you curiously for an agonizingly long heartbeat before he straightforwardly said, “It’s pink, actually.”

Oh, so he’s sarcastic. “Hilarious,” you retorted, watching curiously as he made way for his own locker. “I’m glad to see that you do in fact talk, though.”

He laughed lightly, a percussion that made your heart soar. He disregarded a chiming notification from his phone to stare intensely back at your inquiring gaze, saying, “Is that what keeps you up at night? Whether or not your incredibly hot co-worker is mute?”

You wrinkled your nose. “Don’t flatter yourself, you're not that special.”

And so, it came to be that the busboy was not who he seemed to be. Like two puzzle pieces that fit together seamlessly, you clicked with Mark so quickly that even Jinae seemed to impatiently grow jealous. Tirelessly cunning, Mark is a perfect force against your own quick-wittedness. However, he is a precious munchkin of a boy when he wants to be. The fact that he has not only been to but has lived in so many places in the span of twenty-four years, plus his expansive knowledge of more languages than you could ever possibly grasp, has heartily drawn you in until, you have realized your second joy—Mark Tuan.

And here you are, hardly two months later.

Instead of replying verbally, Mark only glares at you coldly before, finally, "You're going to use that against me for the rest of my life, aren't you?"

You grin mischievously at the mathematics major—well, the mathematics major working on his Master’s, as he likes to remind you at every chance that presents itself—and follow him once he makes way to the otherwise empty locker room.

“Probably,” you chuckle while slipping the suffocatingly hot sneakers off your feet. You check the door behind you once more before peeling your top and bra off and replacing them with the navy-blue bathing suit top shoved haphazardly into your locker. You add, “It’s really funny seeing you get annoyed.”

“It’s really funny seeing you get annoyed,” Mark mimics under his breath, voice uncharacteristically high to impersonate your own, as you slip a plain tee-shirt from high school over your head. “I had to become friends with the spawn of Satan, of all people.”

You laugh, shimmying out of your pants and underwear and swiftly pulling up the matching bathing suit bottoms. “You know I love you.”

“Nuh-uh,” Mark grumbles from somewhere behind you. You are too preoccupied with trying to fold your clothes as nicely as possible into your bag. He continues, “Don’t pull that shit on me. Just ‘cos you’re a senior now doesn’t mean I’m gonna deal with your crap.”

“Just because you’re a senior now,” you mimic as he had, only he interrupts your shenanigans with a hard punch to your arm as the two of you head outside. “Anyway,” he sighs, ignoring your scowl and pausing to inhale the briny aroma that never seems to leave the thick ocean air, “I don’t know what your plans are, but some of my friends are working at a joint that opened recently, and I was hoping you’d come?”

“Is this just another sneaky plan to hang out with Jinae?” You chuckle, digging into his side with your elbow. He gasps, “Hey! Maybe I’m just being a nice friend.”

“Oh, yeah, a friend,” you snort. At the genuine pout that clouds his expression, however, you stop and hook your arm through his. “Don’t worry, I promised I would be your wingwoman, didn’t I?”

Mark sighs, shrugging. Then he says, “Why couldn’t I have fallen for you instead?”

With a noise of amusement and disbelief that sounds like something between a snicker and a choke, you rest your head against his bicep momentarily before glancing up at him. “You’re too hot for me.”

“Sure, and pigs fly. I’m actually kind of worried that my friends are going to pounce on you.”

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. Speaking of, who are these friends of yours?”

“Oh!” Mark exclaims, visibly brightening, his white teeth dazzling as he smiles. “So there’s six of ‘em. We all ended up meeting each other at the studio for the first dance class.”

“Pause,” you interject, surprised. “They all go to the same school as us?”

He nods eagerly. “They’re all getting their Master’s, too. Youngjae just graduated with Jinae, and I think BamBam is in your class. Yugyeom is a grade below, I believe.”

Your jaw nearly hits the floor. “BamBam? Like, the—”

“The really cute, bubbly loudmouth?”

“Yeah! You’re friends with BamBam?” You gape. What a small world, you think. When you glance up you happen to notice Jinae waving like a madwoman several feet ahead. You wave back, however, Mark’s snort interrupts you. “What?” He says. “Am I not cool enough to be friends with him?”

You giggle. Though it is tempting to agree, you do not feel like delving into a full roasting session. You instead opt for, “No, shut up and stop being insecure. I was just surprised. I never spoke with him, but we had calculus together.”

Mark only hums in agreement. You assume that by reaching Jinae he has suddenly clammed up. You clear your throat. “Jinae! Mark has plans for us!”

Whether Mark notices it or not, you certainly catch the way Jinae’s face brightens, her enchanting brown eyes scrunching in delight. They’re so into one another, you think, just as she gushes, “No way! Let’s go, then! Where at?”

Your gut truly twists as a result of the saccharine sweetness between the two, an indisputable and perpetual attracting force that all people but the pair can recognize. In an instant, you clear your throat after a disgustingly long amount of time passes of them just staring at each other before you end up with a cavity. “C’mon, then. I’m not going to wait all day.”

Mark jolts, turning to you as the apples of his cheeks bloom pink. He scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah—Yeah, let’s go.”

You cannot help the satisfied smirk that comes with him rushing ahead and Jinae positively melting into a pile of mush. You snort, patting her flushed cheeks and following Mark’s speedy path ahead of Jinae’s delayed trailing.

Like most shops and grills lining the boardwalk, JJ’s—as you learned several minutes later once the two bounced back after whatever happened moments ago—is just the same.

With an entirely open entrance, aside from two small table-and-chair sets halfway on the boardwalk and halfway under the ceiling and walls painted butterscotch orange, the grill is squeezed between an unnecessarily expensive jewelry store and a bustling candy shop. The mouthwatering aroma of bulgogi and honey soy filling your senses is a grand contrast to the briny odor from outside. It’s so small you wonder if customers even order to stay, yet it is not cramped in any way—within a space of ten feet, give or take, there is shelving on each set of parallel walls, wide enough to dine at, with two metal chairs tucked in front, a black refrigerator stocked with cold drinks, the counter, which is checkered marble and decorated with a change jar and a vase of snapdragons, is to the right of a sliding barn door painted with doodles of the beach and a lighthouse.

Beyond the counter is a small kitchen with deep fryers to the left and three large aluminum dishes full of fried chicken resting on an island in the middle of the room. The archway that leads to an unknown area occupying the rest of the space is blocked by a plain maroon curtain; with one last scan of the quaint space and another deep inhale, you conclude that, even before tasting anything, this may be your new favorite place to eat.

Your captivated daze is cut short by the voice working behind the counter.

“Mark-hyung!” None other than BamBam calls from his perch on a stool, silver hair pushed up and over his forehead in a messy comma-shaped style. Mark scoffs, “Stop calling me hyung in front of my friends. It makes me feel old.”

“Is that Mark?” Shouts a disembodied voice as BamBam hops from his seat and slides open the drawn-on door. You glance to Jinae, whose baffled expression most certainly mirrors your own, just as said voice bolts over to greet your eldest friend.

“Mark!” Roars an unreasonably attractive brunette, shoving BamBam to the side so roughly that you lean back a bit just to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.

“Jesus, you guys are so fake. Stop putting on a show. My friends are normal,” huffs Mark, sending the loud newcomer a condescending glare. Just as you begin to think you have gone invisible, he twists to you with a beaming boyish grin that reaches his eyes. “Jackson, BamBam, this is ___,” he says, introducing you and resting his palm on the small of your back. “and Jinae,” he adds.

“Hello!” Shouts another figure who you had not spotted working behind the counter. Like BamBam and this Jackson, he too is classically handsome, and you practically feel your stomach twist into knots at the sudden intensity of it all, not one but four strikingly gorgeous young men—where have they been your whole life?—in one room that is most definitely tinier now, and you cannot breathe, and there’s still three more you have yet to meet?

“Hey.” BamBam’s chirpy voice—having not heard it since sophomore year, you reckon that it matches the sweetness of his facial features—interrupts your short-lived tizzy of emotions. “weren’t you in my calculus class?”

“Yeah, that would be me,” you nod, smiling in response to his own heartwarming grin. “I didn’t know you lived around here.”

“Youngjae?” Jinae’s gasp cuts into BamBam’s potential answer. Evident surprise is laced in her tone as the aforementioned employee rounds the counter. Your gaze flicks back and forth from her and Mark to his three friends, not knowing where to focus. You decide on Jackson—Hell, he’s nice to look at—and find yourself thanking the heavens that fate has made it so Mark entered your life and has ultimately led you to a much too small grill, containing way too many blessed genes all at once.

“You look lost,” says the brunette god himself, catching on to your hazy staring and shuffling to stand beside you, “not that I blame you.” You laugh lightly, dragging your gaze from the distracting way his dark hair falls over his forehead to Jinae and Youngjae bubbling away, something about not having seen one another since graduation, and how they both will be working on their Master’s. Finally you look to Mark, who stands beside BamBam with an expression of delight gracing his features, watching two separate groups of friends intermingle.

“Yeah, this is a bit much,” you admit at last, refocusing on him once the cogs inside your brain begin working again. “I like it, though.”

Jackson grins widely and you positively swoon. He laughs. “Sorry to break it to you, but if you’ve survived three years avoiding Bam, your life is probably going to go downhill from here.”

“Hey!” The plump-lipped model—oh, he could definitely be a model parading down the runway with that face—cuts in, his brows drawn together in mock irritation. You choke, making a noise of surprise when he continues, pulling you into a tight side hug. “This is the beginning of the best chapters of their lives.”

“Keep dreaming, bud,” Mark snorts, slapping his shoulder. You watch from under his chin as BamBam frowns, shooting your friend a glare that could most definitely kill if it weren’t for the dazzling grin that follows.

“Where’s everyone else?” Mark questions as BamBam unwinds his arms from around you—why do they have to be hot and nice?

“Dad and Dad are trying to fix the sink and Yugyeom is...” Jackson says. Rubbing at his bottom lip, he trails off, looking to Youngjae and BamBam. “Where is Yugyeom?”

“I think he went to get chocolate milk,” Youngjae chuckles, dark hair falling over his eye as he does so. “You know how he is.” You look to Jackson, whispering, “Who’s Dad and Dad?”

“Jaebum and Jinyoung. They own this place, plus we’re all pretty certain that they’re an item, so we call them that. They’re in the back,” he explains, nodding to the archway. At this, you hear the muffled noises bustling from behind the curtain that you had not noticed beforehand.

“And Yugyeom?”

“Oh,” Jackson smirks again—trouble—and makes his way back to the counter, “He’s the big ol’ goof. You’ll like him.”

“You guys have bubble tea, right?” Mark changes the subject as Youngjae and BamBam follow Jackson. With them not clustered around you any longer, you take another moment to glance all around, pausing your meandering to glance over the options on the menu. Fried chicken, tacos, rice bowls, kimchi fried riceballs... kimchi cheese fries? You jab your elbow into Jinae's side, nodding to the overhanging menu, "Kimchi cheese fries, dude."

"That's definitely not part of my diet."

"Oh, fuck the diet," you hiss, earning a sharp glare, but you roll your eyes nevertheless.

"No, the bubble tea menu is just there for fun," Jackson snorts, finally responding to Mark’s question and grinning like a madman. Youngjae is howling, smiling so bright you fear his whole jaw may break. "Hilarious," Mark grumbles, turning to you for backup. When he finds you mirroring Jackson's expression, though, he frowns. "This was a mistake."

"Oh, lighten up," you coo, ruffling his parted hair, but he smacks your hand away with a huff. You roll your eyes and look to BamBam, who stands ready for your order. You say, "I'll have a large black milk with tapioca and, uh, hm—a chicken rice bowl."

"Sure," he hums, tapping the screen. "That's gonna be fifteen ninety-one.”

"Make it ten," Jackson butts in, grinning like he just won the lottery. Oh, you're burning up now. You smile to the floor but hide it as you fish for money in your pocket. "Thanks," you manage to croak out, passing the cash to BamBam. After he’s finished, he smacks Jackson on the shoulder, muttering something about his discounts for hot girls putting them out of business, which causes the elder to howl in faux pain while shuffling to the archway to yell back your order. You watch the entire episode with an amused smile that can’t seem to leave your face. You shake your head and at last move to sit on one of the barstools while Jinae orders.

“Should I pay for hers?” Mark whispers, leaning onto the ledge with an expression of apprehension etched onto his face. He chews on his lip. “Yeah, that’s sweet,” you grin, and with an encouraging squish of his cheeks, you push him forward.

You watch, utterly zoned in and praying to every god out there that he does not turn into an awkward pile of mush. The grin can’t seem to leave your face when he steps up beside her and—

“Oh my God, he’s become a man,” says a voice from beside you suddenly. You nearly jump out of your skin, jerking in your seat. “Holy fucking shit!” You wheeze, clapping a hand over your heart but, alas, this does not comfort the additional torment your essential organ faces once you look up to said tormentor.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” the boy-man-squish giggles—he giggles—with pinkpinkpink, heart-shaped lips pulling back to reveal quite possibly the cutest and most endearing smile you have ever seen.

And, just like that, you sit there, dumbfounded, positively enamored by this—this attacker, with every last working brain cell stuttering to a halt to admire him. “Oh,” you laugh—or was that another wheeze?—with a cough, then you clear your throat, squinting in some sort of weak attempt to make eye contact instead of gawking at his windblown, light golden brown hair that, conveniently, falls right into his eyes. However, as soon as you focus on the darkness of his irises, you realize you are totally, unquestionably screwed, lost in the depths of his nearly black eyes—obsidian is a better word—and even though there is nothing astoundingly exceptional or different about him, you simply cannot help feeling absolutely overwhelmed within a matter of seconds.

“That’s okay,” you finally force out. “I just didn’t see you come in.”

He smiles softer this time, and while your heart still jumps at the expression, you force yourself to look back to Mark and Jinae before a heart attack ensues. You come to find you missed whatever proceeded Mark’s initiative. However, judging by the threatening smiles and rosy cheeks, you assume it had to have gone well, and so your interest that's burning like a wildfire to peek at the boy that remains beside you proves to be preeminent.

Upon twisting back around, you take notice to the plastic twenty-two-ounce convenience store cup, full of what looks like chocolate milk, gripped lazily in his hand, an outrageous juxtaposition to his height and strong features. Condensation drips from the bottom and onto the tiled floor. You ask, hardly without thinking, “Are you Yugyeom?”

“That’s me,” Yugyeom hums, eyes scrunching into precious crescents as he smiles. “How’d you know?”

“They were talking about where you were earlier,” you say, waving your hand to the others. “Mentioned chocolate milk, so I assumed that was you.”

“Of course. That seems to be my only known trait,” snorts Yugyeom, sending his friends a condescending glare despite them being deep in their own conversations. You snort out a laugh, covering your mouth with your hand when his eyes fly back to soak in your reaction. You compose yourself, then say, “That’s not true. Jackson called you a goof.”

“Wow,” he sighs, frowning, and you watch with a grin etched onto your face as he slaps a hand over his chest. “What did Jinyoung say? Do I have to kill him?”

Snorting quieter this time, you shake your head. “I haven’t met him, so he didn’t say anything. Homicide is not necessary today, bud.”

Yugyeom beams—fuck, it is so unfair to be this good-looking—lifting his cup up to take a long sip. “Hold up,” he pauses, chewing on the straw, “are you ___?” Upon hearing your name fall from his lips, you sit up straighter in your seat as if being on a name-basis suddenly changes things. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Mark has a habit of talking about you and Jinae when he’s with us, seeing that you’re his only other friends,” Yugyeom says proudly, diverting his gaze to the aforementioned boy who is settled beside Jinae at the other seats. He takes another sip of his drink. “Well, it’s mostly about your friend, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget how many days he went on about there being a girl in the locker room.”

Your mouth falls open. “No way!”

“Totally serious. He was annoyed about not having the room for himself for a while, but he always whined about you being pretty, and then one day he started complaining about how sarcastic you are and how he can never win with you, so I guess his little crush ended. And then he met Jinae,” Yugyeom explains, grinning mischievously. “And we all know how it is now.”

“I’m—wow,” you whisper, flabbergasted, mostly from the clarification but also, deep down, hearing the unfairly tall boy use the adjective pretty while talking about you. “I’m glad they met, then. He’s too stinky and old for me.”

“Wait, aren’t—”

BamBam’s sudden calling of your name interrupts whatever the blonde was about to ask. You nearly stumble out of the barstool but relax upon realizing he has only placed your order on the counter, ready for you to grab. “I got it,” pipes Yugyeom from beside you and, heart hammering in your chest, you watch with starry eyes as he places his cup beside you before skipping over and taking your tea and a disposable paper bowl from the counter.

“Thanks,” you smile appreciatively as he places the order in front of you. You twist to sit correctly in your seat. Instead of staring at the wall, you watch curiously as the iced chocolate boy shimmies onto the chair next to you. You clear your throat. “You were saying?”

“Hm?—Oh! Yeah, aren’t you in the class above mine?”

You nod, tearing open the chopstick packet and diving right into the dangmyeon and honey soy chicken. “That’s what Mark told me.” You pause, stuffing food into your mouth. “Although, if I were to judge you by your height,” you chew, letting out a mesmerized sigh at the unacceptably delicious flavors,  “I would have thought you were older.”

Yugyeom, smiling charmingly once more, breaks into laughter. “Would you want to try that again without your mouth full?”

You gape, kicking his shin before silently realizing you’re not close enough with him to do that. Grumbling, you say, “What else am I supposed to do when you’re trying to talk to me when I’m eating?”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll leave you be,” he chuckles to himself, taking a slow sip of his milk, and you look back to your meal, digging down to the rice and prodding tacky clumps into your mouth. Your neck suddenly begins to prickle at the notion that you’re being watched. With another mouthful, you slurp up a dangling noodle before building up the courage to look at the blonde only to find him already watching you intently, a lazy smile softening his features.

“You know,” you say as he raises a brow. You take a sip of your tea for effect, nearly choking on an unexpected tapioca ball. You continue, “A stranger watching you eat is rather uncomfortable, especially when it comes to noodles.”

“What else is there to do? Talk to Mark and his girlfriend?” Yugyeom retorts playfully, nodding to the pair, and you smack yourself when the idea of pushing away a stray strand of hair that falls into his left eye arises. Instead, you follow his gaze to Jinae and Mark cheerfully talking away.

“Point taken. Don’t you work here, or something?”

“I get out at one,” he confirms, chuckling when you oh-so-gracefully miss your mouth. Rice lands on your bare thigh. His gaze trails the grains and, upon realizing your lack of clothing, his cheeks flush cherry red, and you fight back a laugh. Deciding to save him from his internal, middle school boy panic, you continue, checking the time on your phone, “It’s one now. Yet when I got here, you weren’t working.”

“I had to get my iced choco.”

“But… don’t you need to work?”

“Eh,” he twists to look at the three behind the counter. “They don’t need me.”

“I don’t think that’s how jobs work, but okay,” you laugh, picking up the dumpling—Jesus, why is everything so good?—and, panicking over the fact that the conversation is ending, you opt to continue, devouring your meal in silence.

Barely two swallows later, a hand slaps against your shoulder and you drop yet another mound of rice as you lurch in surprise.

“Do you like swimming? In the ocean?”

Jackson, looking way more handsome than your average employee should—you’d love to meet the parents of everyone in this room—grins mischievously down at you, dropping his hand.

“Of course. My parents practically threw me into the sea the day I was born,” you joke, slapping yourself on the back when he rears his head to let out a roaring, high-pitched laugh. “Why?”

“On days when we get out at the same time, we always head down and stay until, like, seven. Do you guys want to come with us?”

“Oh.” Nearly choking on the lack of a response, you twist to look at Yugyeom, who watches with the same gentle smile that has not left his face. You cough, turning back around. “Definitely! That’ll be fun. Who is us, though?”

“Me, Jackson, Youngjae, and Bam,” Yugyeom interjects. Once more you turn and offer him a thankful smile before glancing back to Jackson, then past him to Mark and Jinae still chattering away over their meals like two doves sharing a bird bath. You sigh, half out of the dejection that comes with achieving the role of a third wheel but partially over the greedy realization that this means you may have these new friends to yourself. You clear your throat, glancing back between Yugyeom and Jackson before you say, “Are you the type of guys who like to yell ‘shark’ when we’re swimming?”

Jackson smirks. “Shit, are you not into that?”

Within the span of the time it takes for the foursome to change behind a dumpster outside of the grill and join you on your walk down through the sand, you have come to learn four things.

One—these five boys together are louder than any colony of seagulls fighting over a half-bite of a sandwich (if you have ever been the victim of that scene).

Two—Youngjae and Mark are co-parents to a fur child.

“You’re a dad?” You initially hissed, nearly dropping all the belongings you carried. “Coco is a dog,” Mark sighed, clearly exasperated by your conclusion-jumping. You rolled your eyes. “You never told me you had a dog.”

Three—Mark’s friends have a very in-depth plan to give him and Jinae their final push.

“You have to stay as distant from them as possible. We’re going to be your new best friends,” Jackson whispered once you fell in step beside him. “How do you plan on getting them together?” You whispered back, laughter lacing your tone at the idea of scheming on their future relationship. Jackson paused, blinking. He looked to Yugyeom on your side, who casually shrugged.

“We’ll have to leave during random times so they’re left alone together,” BamBam piped up from beside Jackson, nodding to the aforementioned pair walking ahead.

And four—when you are not used to it, insecurity has the claws of a vulture and the weight of an anchor.

And yet, insecurity may be the wrong word. Whatever it is, it sparks a small fire in your tummy, and butterflies are gradually coming to life at your obvious delay, barely there until you proceed to remove your tee. At this, you are startlingly aware of the quick glances thrown your way, and this is when it grows. Or, were there even glances? Had you imagined it? Yeah, that’s what happened, you tell yourself, laying your blanket onto the lumpy sand with unexpected accuracy that only comes with years of doing so. No, they’re staring, definitely staring. An internal panic—an unknown panic—now a forest fire, heart thumping against a glass ribcage. No, nobody is even looking.

You cast an inspecting glance over your newfound group, all mindlessly busy with their own belongings, until—there it is!—there's a fleeting peek from choco boy. You gulp, catching the way the right side of his mouth quirks up. Once you catch his agonizingly long stare, you look away, focusing on flattening the edges of the blanket until you realize, fuck, your boobs, practically spilling out like the Niagara Falls broadcasted on television for all to see with this position. Scrambling to stand upright—fuck the blanket—you skip on the sunscreen orgy and hurry towards the white blanket of froth that forms as the tide gradually approaches the shore, sighing in relief as your toes come into contact with the nippiness of the waves.

So. That’s what it was. Who it was. Shivering against the waves, you trudge on, dodging a wailing child who stomps madly toward his mother. You sigh blissfully as the burning temperature of your skin—whether it be from your fizzing nerves or from the sun beating down relentlessly—drastically cools once you duck through a wave.

In the past you were able to brush off passing thoughts of those around you, those watching you and possibly judging you, by starting up a conversation with Jinae, and even when Mark began joining you, he was so enamored by her that you knew you had nothing to worry about.

However, this is the first time in years you are at the beach with a group predominantly male.

Pushing back your now saturated hair and kicking your legs to stay afloat, you spin to look for your crowd, squinting at the shore that fades into liquid gold, vivid in the brilliant light, and search through the masses of gaudily colored umbrellas and chairs until you catch sight of your blanket and what looks like Mark practicing a backflip in the sand. Mark, Jinae, Youngjae, BamBam… fuck. Recounting, with your fingers this time, and still coming up with a measly four, you shudder into a silent panic all over again, rifling through the clustered vacationers for two certain boys. However, once you do in fact locate the duo resurfacing after diving with aesthetic synchronization under a wave, it seems to only benefit in their search for you, seeing as the older of the two beams like a star and quickens his pace.

“Thought we lost you there for a second,” Jackson greets. At this, you conclude that you may never get over his smile, and you force yourself to turn to the horizon in order to gather your thoughts. “Well,” you grin, looking between him and Yugyeom, both tanned honey gold from daily exposure to the sun, “You found me.”

“What happened back there? You looked like you saw a ghost,” Yugyeom continues, staring up at him. You wonder whether or not the glint in his eyes is innocent but brush it off as simple, playful banter. “I don’t know,” you lie, shrugging. “I think I just got really hot.”

Jackson hums, oblivious to the unexpected tension that has you longing to swim off to another nation and never return. “Do you think it’ll work?”

Yugyeom shrugs, finally breaking eye contact in order to look to his hyung. “Yeah, I mean, at least in the beginning. Don’tcha think they’ll catch on eventually, though?”

In the midst of focusing on jumping up with the current of the waves, you process their words, realizing you really do not even know what they are talking about. “Does this have to do with Mark and Jinae?”

“Mhm,” Jackson starts. “While we’re here, Bam and Youngjae are conveniently going to take a nap.”

“Oh, smart. You guys are really serious about setting them up, aren’t you?”

“At this rate, they aren’t going to do it themselves,” Jackson chuckles, running a hand through his darkened locks, pushing wet strands back. Your gaze absently follows the action. Barely a heartbeat later, salt water is splashed at your face, stinging at your eyes, but you are quick to squeeze them closed. Upon opening them again, you come to find Jackson, eyes wide and honest, and Yugyeom, biting down on rosy lips to hide his laughter.

“Did you just—” splash.

He does it again!

“Oh, you ass!” You yelp, lunging forward and reaching out for the younger boy’s shoulders. No matter how new of a friend he is, this is war. You fight against the strong tug of the ocean at your body. Cackling like a hyena, Yugyeom dodges your weak attempt of a punch, smacking away your insistent hands and shit, you can’t touch the floor anymore. In a split-second decision, you dive beneath the surface and peel open your eyes as much as you can despite the salty sting prompting you to close them. You swim toward your assailant, wrapping your hands around his leg, just above the knee. When you dig your nails lightly into his skin, you nearly choke on a mouthful of water at just how muscular his thigh is. When he starts to squirm away from your grasp, all mouthwatering daydreams about the thighs your new friend possess disappear, and you regain your pose, releasing his leg for hardly a second, just long enough to dig your fingers instead into his side and resurface.

“Stop!” He whines, thrashing away from your tickling. He splashes more water your way as a result. Once he finally trips over his own feet and his head submerges under an approaching wave you finally relent, backstroking away from him to an amused Jackson. “What a thot,” you grumble, rubbing the sting away from your eyes and warily watching the child as he recovers from your attack. “I met you guys hardly an hour ago and suddenly we’re close enough to beat one another up.”

Jackson shrugs, flicking your shoulder, and you shoot him a warning glare.

“I told you we’re going to have to be your new best friends,” he says.

“You! I could’ve died!” Shouts a bewildered Yugyeom as he swims over, looking way too gorgeous for someone who just got knocked by a wave. Despite his playful exaggeration, you smack away the finger he waggles in your face with an eye roll. “You splashed water in my face! Twice!”

“You were staring!”

“Staring? Staring at what?” You snort, unable to even recall what was happening before he suddenly splashed you. “I—hm. Nothing,” he sighs, the apples of his cheeks blooming pink. He looks down and focuses on the ripples of the water. “Never mind.”

“Ooh. ‘Kay,” you laugh awkwardly, looking to Jackson, who mirrors your puzzled expression. Finally letting silence settle in comfortably, you look to the shore in search of Jinae’s obnoxious rainbow umbrella to find all four lying on their towels.

“Anyway, I’m going to see how things are going. Try not to kill each other,” Jackson smirks—how dare he—before moving with the current to shallower waters.

Now what?

Praying to every god out there that conversation will come as fluidly as it did back at JJ’s, you look to Yugyeom, only to witness him with his leg held to his chest as he pulls a shell from between his toes. You wrinkle your nose, laughing, “Did you just pick that up with your foot?”

“It bit me!” He whines, frowning.

“The shell bit you?”

“No,” he caves, grinning stunningly. “It’s a hermit crab.” As he speaks, he moves closer to you, rolling the small cerith shell onto his palm before holding it out to you. “Aw,” you pout, pushing your wet hair away from your face to lean closer as the crab hesitantly taps Yugyeom’s hand with its claws. “They’re so cute.”

He snorts. “Not when they bite you.”

“That’s called karma,” you smirk, cupping your hands for him to drop the crab into. “People who splash their new friends and practically blind them get bitten by crabbies.”

“You’re very dramatic,” Yugyeom says, watching you the same way you adoringly watch the hermit crab. Your attention, however, is not so fixated on the small crustacean in your hand as it is on the slow rise and fall of Yugyeom’s chest—right there in front of you. Tears of water race down the toned muscles of his stomach each time the water level climbs and retreats. You’re just in the middle of ogling when you take notice to the sharp, black edges of tattoos on his sides, more so to the intricate pattern you can only partially see on his right. No, you scold yourself. What are you doing? You just met him today. Shaking your head to rid your mouthwatering daydreaming, you say, “So are you, Mr. I-splashed-you-for-staring. By the way, let me see your tattoo.”

“You’re not going to have it pinch me, right?” He chuckles cautiously, casting a wary glance to said it, and you laugh, gently letting the waves take the hermit crab out of your hands with a shake of your head. “I said I wanted to see it, not pinch it.”

Rolling his eyes, Yugyeom finally lifts his toned arm up to offer a better view to the precise design of a flower, a rose, on his side. You ignore his quiet intake of breath when your fingers subconsciously trace at the detailed ink. “It’s so pretty. I’d kill to do something like this.”

Yugyeom shrugs. “You should, then.”

You scoff, finally stepping back. “I wish, but then I’d have to deal with my parents. They already threw a tantrum when I got my first.”

“Can I see?”

“Oh,” you chuckle, heat rising to your cheeks—God, how old are you?—at the realization that answering his question would take a bit more effort considering you’re shoulder-deep in the ocean, “I’ll have to show you when we get out.”

“Sure,” he hums with a pretty smile, looking around quietly as you drop beneath the surface to once again cool the heat scorching your body. Then, when you come up, he says, “Do you want to get out now?”

“Yeah. We should tell Jackson we smacked each other or something,” you grin, beginning to head back to shore with him trailing a few steps behind. Once you get to the point where the waves start to break, you cross your arms over your chest to keep the girls in place, angling your body to avoid being knocked to the ground for an inevitably sandy, humiliating death.

“Oh, yeah, we’ll think of something,” says Yugyeom.

The sarcasm lacing his tone has not even registered in your brain when his hands are on your waist, shoving you forward until you helplessly trip over the force of the current, flailing ungracefully into the sand with a cry that only gets smothered with the wave passing over your head. That son of a bitch.

When you surface and rub the stinging water from your eyes, you watch unamused as he reels back in laughter, louder than any of the children around you, and with him not paying attention you grab at his ankles, tripping him into his own sandy misery and ignoring all the judgmental stares from bothered teenagers sent your way. Although, you realize much too late that you should have taken him falling on you into consideration. This still does not prepare you for an elbow in the gut and his unfairly giant build squashing you further into the sand. To make it worse, as a wave recedes and another surges forward, all you can focus on is the gritty sand smearing your skin as you tussle in battle with Yugyeom.

“You are,” you spit, finally shoving him off once you’ve gained some safety from the waves, “a royal pain in the ass.”

Unable to contain his laughter, Yugyeom stays on the ground. You wrinkle your nose grossly at the sand not only coating your hair but also his lightened locks. At his lack of a reply, you scoop up a handful of wet sand and slap it onto his stomach. “Hey! That wasn’t cool,” he whines, reclining up on his elbows and glaring at the glop of sand spreading over his abdomen, torso heaving with laughter, “c’mon, that was pretty funny.”

Your irritated façade finally breaks once he flashes an unfairly adorable, boyish grin, and you finally join in with his laughing, scooping up more soppy sand and dribbling it on his toned arm. It does not hit you until he only frowns playfully instead of stopping you how unexpectantly intimate yet natural it is for someone you just met. “I like the tattoo,” Yugyeom suddenly states, poking at the lavender and coral shaded scallop shell right above the waist of your bottoms. You jolt in surprise, cheeks burning at his friendly gesture that only further supports your earlier thoughts.

“Thanks,” you smile. With the last bit of sand glopping onto his stomach, you cringe at your own state of filthiness. “c’mon, we should wash this off. And no more tackling.”

With another quiet laugh, Yugyeom stands to his feet, watching sickeningly as wet sand slides off his body and back into the shallow water with an unpleasant plop! Then, much to your surprise, he reaches his arm down to help you up. “I think your knee went up my ass,” he giggles once you’re up, walking ahead and using the waves to wash off. you grimace at the thought while walking out further to rinse out your hair. “Yeah, and you nearly pulled my top off,” you scoff, cupping water into your hands and scrubbing the sand off your skin. “You’re like a little kid.”

“And you complain too much,” he fires back once you start heading back. This time you keep a watchful eye on him in case he tries to pull another stunt. You gasp playfully, slapping a hand over your heart. “Ouch.”

“Don’t worry,” Yugyeom says. You look over to catch his playful expression. His lips are curled up into a sly smile and his dark eyes twinkle mischievously. “it’s hot.”

You blink, suddenly overwhelmed. Walking alongside the unfairly tall boy you look back to your feet, wary of holes dug and left exposed as a tripping hazard by reckless children. You scoff. “Since when is being a bitch hot?”

“Technically I paused in between those phrases, so I could’ve been talking about the temperature,” Yugyeom says, smirking like the little jerk he is as you lean down to pick up your towel. “What are the first three letters of assuming?”

Scowling, you contemplate kicking up a shower of dry sand if Jackson was not snoozing peacefully next to your own layout. Instead, you punch his arm and watch in satisfaction as he grimaces. “Ha, ha. Very funny. Please leave me alone now.”

“I need help putting on suntan lotion, though,” he pouts just as you plop down onto your blanket, towel wrapped snugly around your shoulders.

“Jesus Christ, how old are you?” You groan, falling back and glaring upside down at him, biting back your laughter when he lets out a loud sigh. “Please? Just my back.”

“Oh my God. Fine, you big baby. I’m not moving, though, so pop a squat.” Finally giving in, you lean up with a defeated sigh, scooting over to leave enough room for his tall ass. You watch disgruntledly as he drops beside you, crossing his legs with his back faced to you. Once he passes back the bottle, you give it a good shake before twisting the cap off. Spraying routinely over is skin, you mutter an apology when he breaks out in goosebumps. “Here,” you mumble, tossing the bottle into his lap before rubbing the greasy spray further over his back and shoulders. You cringe for a millisecond before quickly swiping over the lowest area at the waistband of his bottoms and slapping his shoulder. “Begone, thot.”

When he spirals to face you, you are momentarily whiplashed, and you almost—almost—tell him that he’s so pretty with the mole under his eye and indisputably gorgeous face. However, you quickly remind yourself, oh yeah, you have only known him for a few hours. Fortunately, he replies to your banter, concluding your drool-worthy trance.

“I’m not moving. Just because you called me that.”

You watch, dumbfounded, as he casually flops over and onto his stomach, burying his face between crossed arms without another word. “You—You’re despicable. You have a whole towel to yourself. Leave me be,” you protest, poking his ribs with your foot, still wrapped cozily in your towel.

At your insistent jabbing, he finally pulls an arm away and seizes your ankle, holding it still with an amused smile while he stares up at you. He looks way too hot for someone so incredibly, undeniably annoying. “Yugyeom,” you whine defeatedly, poking his thigh with your other foot. You watch the confidence only grow over his features. You say, “Stop being an ass.”

“Jesus Christ, I thought we were here to set up Mark and Jinae, not you two children,” BamBam suddenly grumbles from beside Jackson, leaning up on his elbows and scowling in your direction. “We’re the same age as you,” Yugyeom retorts, looking to him with a glare. You wait for him to deny BamBam’s accusation, heart thumping loudly in your chest, and yet he doesn’t. “Shut up or I’ll kill you,” BamBam grumbles, realizing it’s not worth the fight. He returns to his interrupted napping.

Laughing, you accept defeat as well and remove yourself from your towel’s shielding concealment, crumpling it into a ball as a pillow and placing it down a few inches from Yugyeom’s head. You lay on your stomach beside him. “Your friends threaten to kill you a lot.”

“It’s because I’m the baby,” he grumbles, resting his head on his wrists to look at you. You do the same.

He continues. “It’s whatever, though. They’re just jealous I’m taller than them.”

“No, you’re just annoying,” faintly, you hear BamBam mumble. Laughing, you cover your mouth with your hand. “I agree with him,” you whisper, the smirk growing harder to hide when Yugyeom frowns in playful hurt. “Shut up,” he grumbles, kicking your ankle with his own. “Don’t you need sun lotion?”

“I put some on before work.”

“But you went in the water,” he pouts, “and that was hours ago.”

“It’s fine,” you smile, heart warm at his concern. “It’s almost four, anyway. The sun isn’t as strong.”

“Oh,” Yugyeom seems to accept this, eyes traveling to your shoulder and lingering there long enough until you feel the heat spread from your head to your toes. Then he looks back to your face, expression soft. “You don’t actually mind if I nap here, right?”

Smiling against the dampness of your crumpled towel, you quietly say, “I don’t mind. As long as you don’t kick me, or something.”

“I can’t make that promise,” he smiles once more before finally resting his forehead on his forearms. You study what you can see of his relaxed silhouette for a moment before messily tying up your damp hair and comfortably burying your face into the towel with a peaceful sigh. What an odd individual.

What an odd joy.

Two hours and a series of blurred insignificant events later, you find yourself lying on your back. A hand jerks your shoulder and brings you back to blurred consciousness. “What?” You grumble, your mind hazy as a result of a long, hot nap that has your brain momentarily reeling at where you are. “It’s a little after six. I’m leaving. Are you good?”

Squeezing your eyes as a sort of fine tuning to get your mind back into business, you finally blink up to Jinae. Holding beach items in her arms, she tells you she's heading back up to your apartment. “Um,” you pause, straining to sit up and scan to see if the others are up. “I’m good. I’ll see you tonight.”

Once she’s off, a tired sigh escapes from your lips as you flip back onto your stomach. You easily drift off for another fifteen minutes or so before waking once more, this time to a screaming baby. Rubbing sandy knuckles over your eyes, you look to your side. Yugyeom, still fast asleep, remains spread out across your blanket, right hand positioned into a small hole in the sand an arm’s length away. You wonder if he dug it in his sleep.

“He sleeps like a dead man. Once we left without him and he came to me and Mark’s apartment at, like, two in the morning ready to kill us,” a voice grumbles ahead of you. Jackson is lying just as you are with a messy case of beachhead, strands dried and awkwardly sticking up in all directions. You laugh, momentarily looking away from the brunette to the dimming sun, which is much lower in the sky at this point. You finally respond, “I can tell. Every time I woke up, he was still knocked. Also, I didn’t know you were Mark’s roommate.”

Wrinkling his nose, Jackson glances over his shoulder to the other three boys still passed out on the sand. “Is that good or bad?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just hear a lot about you. And now I have a face to match all the stories with.”

“Gosh, what does he say?”

You contemplate it for a moment. It's not like Mark has ever really talked shit. You decide on messing with him. “He says when you sleep, you talk about feet.”

Mouth hanging open, Jackson absorbs your bullshit before his face drains of color, spewing nonsense like a child caught in a lie. “What? Oh my God, you’re joking. You’re joking! Shit, you probably think I have a thing for feet or something. I swear I don’t, oh my—oh my God, bro. I definitely don’t talk about feet.” In an attempt to hold back your laughter resulting from his panic, you force your gaze elsewhere. You focus on Youngjae’s hair billowing from the light breeze until Jackson has exhausted himself breathless.

“I was joking,” you finally cave, but only when you glimpse the deep puppy frown he holds. “All he’s ever said it that you’re too loud in the morning.”

It takes Jackson a few seconds to process your trickery. He blinks. “Wow,” he heaves, sitting up onto his haunches. “I see how it is. You have betrayed me. I guess we’re enemies now.”

“Ha!” BamBam roars somewhere behind. “You really had him!”

“That was pretty good,” pipes Youngjae, sitting up and lifting his sunglasses to push back his hair. He pokes Mark beside him. “Yo, your side girl just flamed Jackson.”

“Side girl?” You snort just as Jackson flails to stand up, kicking sand in the process.

“No, she didn’t!” Jackson shouts defiantly, hands on his hips.

“What’d she say?” Mark grumbles tiredly, blinking to keep his eyes open. He reclines on his elbows.

While Youngjae fills him in, you look to Jackson, who shoots daggers your way but fails to hide his own humored grin. You stifle a laugh as Yugyeom stirs beside you. He mumbles, “What’s all the commotion for?”

“She,” Jackson says, looking at Yugyeom and pointing a finger at you, “is a bitch.” He smirks, flicking your forehead on his way back to his towel. You stick out your tongue. In response he adds, “But a smart bitch.”

“I thought we already established that.” Yugyeom sighs. You shoot him a glare, and he returns the gesture with a sleepy smile that extinguishes your urge to smack him.

“Hey,” you wrinkle your nose. “Since when is it ‘national attack ___ day?’ For a group of guys, you sure are babies.”

Jackson gasps. “Shit, she’s Jinyoung in female form.” He shakes BamBam by the shoulders. “We can’t let them meet. They’ll be too powerful.”

“You’re so whiny,” Yugyeom says sharply. All eyes fly to him. He shrugs. “They’ll be too powerful.”

“Oh shit,” BamBam snorts, moments before Jackson shoots up and charges for the younger boy. Yugyeom flounders away in time to run away. You dodge the sheet of sand sent your way with a prepared duck and watch the two sprint up the beach. “Tragic,” Mark comments as Yugyeom stumbles face-first into the sand and Jackson hops on top of him to choke him in a headlock.

“Well, that’s my queue to go,” you quip, patting around for your crumpled tee shirt, finding it, and pulling it over your head. “This was fun. We should do it again sometime.” Shaking the sand out from your blanket, you become startlingly aware of the sudden silence hanging over the four like fog. You realize before Mark even speaks up that, chances are, this will be a regular thing.

He hesitantly says, “Well, I was thinking… maybe we could—”

“Yes. I know what you’re gonna say. I don’t think Jinae would mind hanging out, either. Anyway, I feel like I’ve known everyone for years, and the teasing is kind of fun,” you say, cutting him off. You return the smile he tries to hide before swinging your bag over your shoulder and waving to the others. “See you tomorrow, then.”

“Wait!” Youngjae yelps. You watch with wide eyes as he jumps up and gives you a warm hug, encasing his arms around you only for a moment but still long enough for your heart to warm. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” you smile, patting his cheek and waving once more to BamBam and Mark. You start up looser sands when Jackson finally separates from Yugyeom after shoving him once more into the sand for good measure. “Careful you don’t kill him!” You shout over, watching with a laugh as the older boy whips his head up like a dog summoned by the shaking of the treat bag.

“Are you leaving?” He shouts, bouncing away from Yugyeom and jogging to you. Abs. “Yeah,” you say once he has reached you. “A shower is calling my name.”

“Are we hanging tomorrow?”

Looking to the three still lying out a few yards away, you shrug. “I’ll be here. Who knows with Jinae, though. Sometimes she gets bored of beachin’ every day.”

“Oh, well, whatever you guys decide to do, we’ll be here,” Jackson grins sinfully, slapping your arm before walking away. Of course you couldn’t have gotten a hug from him. “Keep your eyes out for the baby!” He suddenly calls, and you twist around to dumbly watch the tanned boy return to his friends. Your heart is suddenly beating loudly in your ears, and your internal fire only intensifies when said baby whines, pulling you into his chest, “Why are you leaving?”

Sucking in a necessary breath, you practically fall limp against Yugyeom’s hold, pressing your cheek against his chest but turning away from his friends in fear that they’re looking. “I want to shower. And eat. Plus, I have some dramas to catch up on.” At this he leans back, gazing down at you peculiarly. You’re painfully aware that his arms are still looped around your waist. He’s just a touchy guy, you tell yourself as he continues to groan like a child denied what he wants. “We could get food together.”

“Don't fret; I'll be back tomorrow,” you offer, satisfied when his lips quirk up and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “And probably all the days after that. Also, when school starts, I bet we’ll all be hanging together. We have plenty of days to get food.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He smiles, his expression soft. Then he pulls you in for another hug. “Text me when you get home.”

Flustered, heart beating frantically, you choke out, “I don’t have your number?” Grunting in realization, Yugyeom reaches for your phone in your hand. You watch with a held breath as he tries each of your fingers for the correct fingerprint scan until it unlocks. He goes into the Messages app and puts in a new number. “You do now,” he smiles, irises reflecting gold specks. He hands your phone back, and it’s not until you cross both arms over your chest that you notice the goosebumps painting your skin. “Thanks,” you force, spinning on your heels and making way for the sandy walkway up the dunes.

“Come back to the grill tomorrow with Mark and Jinae!”

“I will!” You shout back, not daring to look back for fear that the tall boy will make your heart hurt more, in a way that it most certainly should not. You sigh and concentrate on the sand dried on your feet rather than how you hope he will decide to crash on your beach blanket again tomorrow.

“Pussy,” Jinae taunts as you crash onto her mattress. You struggle to stretch your leg out far enough to give her bare ass a feeble kick as she changes out of her uniform. Scoffing, you tumble to lie on your stomach, twirling a strand of recently washed hair in between your fingers. “Like you’re any better. I just met him today while you and Mark have been galloping around each other like eighth graders since summer started.”

“Touché,” Jinae says, accepting defeat. She tightens the strings of her sweatpants before thumping down on the bed to be beside you. The bed dips as she rolls to curl her form around your own. “I bet you’ll both be in love with one another by Saturday.”

You laugh and wrap your arm around her shoulders, running your fingers through her dark corkscrew curls, the only thing she fully acquired from her mother’s genes. “You and Mark already are in love. You just refuse to act on it.”

“Yeah, whatever, I don’t wanna talk about him.”

Sighing, you tug harshly on a curl. “It’s gonna happen this week. You and Mark will be official.”

“Mhm,” she hums, smirking. “And so will you and Yugyeom, Miss We-Practically-Fucked-In-The-Ocean.”

“Stop,” you whine. You retract your arm and drape it over your face, shielding the burn that is creeping its way up. “Seriously, though,” Jinae giggles, tugging at your elbow. “I can’t believe you met each other today. The attraction was unbelievable. Chemistry classes across the world are quaking.”

“Shut up.” Groaning, you roll away from her relentless probing. “Listen, he’s cute. Really cute and yeah, sure, we got along great. But who said that I’m ready to date again? And you don’t even know if he would be interested.”

“You could always ask Mark,” Jinae says as you struggle off her bed, leaving her sprawled out alone. “Double dates!”

“Yeah, sure, Jinae. Keep dreaming.”

She pouts. “You’re no fun,” she huffs, reaching for her phone. “Get out, it’s almost two-thirty, and we have to get up soon.”

“Can’t we skip the jogging for one day? Sleep in? No one wants to see the literal ass crack of dawn,” you yawn. Folding your hands in prayer, you beg her to give you a break for one day. Jinae ponders it for a moment, rubbing her bottom lip with her index finger, before an open-mouthed grin evilly lights up her features. “Sure.”

Squinting, you waggle an accusing finger at her while slowly backing out of her room. “I don’t trust you. Try anything, Kim Jinae, and your ass is out on the street!”

“You can’t kick me out!”

“Yes, I can!” You shout, finally allowing your grin to show once you have closed her door.

Maybe some days are just a tad more joyous than others.

[himurakenshin]

ok ko storyboarders

ok so i made a post talking about some stuff i really loved about ok ko and one thing i wanted to bring up was all the styles of the storyboarders! in this i’ll talk about each of them and their styles individually. maybe in another post i’ll talk about the dynamic of the pairs because this post on its own is insanely long and adding that would make it even longer

also everything here is subjective

geneva

so one of the first things ive noticed with geneva’s style is how... on model she is (next to ryann). i find it to be really interesting seeing how everyone has taken their liberties with ian allowing them to go off model and she’s stayed the most accurate to the style. 

for the most part, i really like how she draws! i feel like the best part about her style is the improvements that she’s made over the course of the first season. the way she currently draws ko is just a little bit more off model than usual, but that’s literally only due to the height of his hair. it’s really good to see that she’s making the ok ko style into her own.

(episode 44 to episode 13 (the first episode she worked on and produced))

i would point out the poses of some of the characters but i feel like i cant since she’s gotten much better at it. none of the silhouettes of the characters she’s drawn nowadays seem very closed or stiff, they express much more than in the earlier episodes!

mira

out of all the other storyboarders, mira seems to go the most off model. it’s very very anime-esque and generally feels very fancy? i’ve noticed that in most (or maybe all) of the episodes she’s boarded, she’s also done the fight scenes that were in it and she’s really good at it! they’re all really smooth and expressive and its clear that she puts quite some thought into her poses like this one.

they both have really clear silhouettes and i love the simple shapes incorporated with them.

she seems to have an issue with facial variety, seeing as everyone she draws seems to have big eyes, big cheeks, and only rarely does she ever draw a circular head with the eyes not hanging over the side of the face. its also a little apparent to me that expressions are not her strong suit, which is a little essential when it comes to a show as exaggerated as ok ko.

these are all from 4 completely different episodes. they all have big cheeks and big eyes and that seems to be about it when it comes to her humanoid characters

ryann

ryann’s style is really cute and gives a nice contrast to parker’s without it seeming like a really big shift. they usually board more wholesome scenes and succeed at it because of how adorable the characters are in her style.

ko also tends to act much cuter with her scenes and more like a child which is something i really really like a lot about her style. i do want to see a fight storyboarded by her in the future though!

i dont have much to say for ryann’s style except for its good.

parker

parker has a really smooth and professional style, it always seems like his lines are a lot smoother than most of the others. i personally dont think there’s too much to say about his style apart from the fact that he has some issues exaggerating expressions and also poses sometimes. he usually has some really funny scenes.

i want to see more dynamic fights from him though, for what we’ve seen from him is average but very smooth. my favorite fight from him was carol vs succulentus. short but really fun.

he also seems like a chill guy (also im sorry i dont have much to say on him oml)

stevie

the first thing to notice about stevie’s boarding style is her strength in like. everything. especially the way she draws expressions. they’re wonderfully exaggerated and really expresses emotions extremely efficiently. 

if you tell me that you havent laughed or smiled at any of these scenes then youre probably lying and i will fight you behind cartoon network studios at 3 am. 

another thing to note are the poses she draws. more often than not (specifically in action poses) there’s always a ton of movement and they’re always really really dynamic.

danny

danny’s style is really interesting. her style has the most noticable development in it. it used to be quite on model but would give some of the characters a little more exaggerated features (specifically with enid and her really huge thighs). in the most recent episode that she’s boarded which was let’s take a moment, there is quite a contrast in the style. the heads are a lot bigger, bodies are smaller and.... that’s it.

it looks a little off putting because its a really big contrast to every other style, but its certainly not bad. its really cutesy. another minor problem i have with her style is that the arms tend to look kind of not connected to the body. it’s nothing too noticeable but i have an awful habit of seeing stuff like that.

regardless of some of these flaws, danny’s style is really cute and i love how she draws. she’s also pretty good at fight scenes as well.

dave

i dont really know what to say for dave except fo uh?? really good? very dynamic? probably one of the most detailed styles from all of the boarders. there’s a lot of lines on the faces which makes them feel more organic as well as expressive and also adds to the humor a lot. 

also have yall seen the amount of detail he puts into gar’s muscles like holy shit

haewon

haewon is probably the most cryptid storyboarder on the show since she doesn’t post anything too often on social media. i also dont have too much to say about haewon’s style except that its really unique. its really flowy as well and inconsistent which always kinda makes it hard for me to tell what scenes she draws. all of her scenes are really funny though and i think that has to do with her style. 

one of my favorite scenes that she’s done is from sibling rivalry, that entire sequence with rad and enid arguing. they’re all really squishy and maluable quick is a good quality, especially in squash and stretch.

 i dont think she’s done any fight scenes so far but i think it’d turn out well if she did so. 

ian

b-whuh? what do u mean ian. hes not a boarder he just does some revisions sometimes

yea i know, so i’ll keep this short and sweet. i feel like i shouldve left him out but at the same time i also feel like i couldnt? yall remember the driving scene in ko’s video channel?

yeah ian did these and hell they’re both really good despite being extremely short scenes.

1. the posing for one is amazing,the silhouettes with each is very clear in both pictures

2. the movement is GREAT, especially in the second one. u can tell that they’re going super fast and that the force is pushing them back without even needing to see outside the window.

anyway i want to see him do one part of a fight that seems like it’d be cool

-

thank u for reading this hellishly long post. i love all the boarders with all my heart and would sell my soul for their skills.

[haeroniel-doliet]

Ok but genuinely? Genuinely what the Fuck is Up with tumblrs tagging system???? I realize its basically a joke at this point and i cant expect it to fix it self but.

Ive made two unique tags for my art right??? "#Haeroniel draws" for everything and "#Haeroniels 2021 inktober" bc idk this is how it used to work?? You'd make an art tag and link it on your blog and everyone can find your art in one convenient place/all is archived for you! But for the life of me all my posts wont show up in those tags.

Right now i think if i look up the inktober tag on my blog all 4 posts show up which is fine. Look tumblr wide? Only 3 show up if youre lucky (and not the one with most notes mind u!!!) Looking up my art tag on my blog shows some and the tumblr wide even less? Like for the most part both have my two most successful posts, and they might have the two most recent (yeah thats it for all not inktober related, im such a poster lmao) but then even if theyre all tagged very similarly, only 1 or maybe 2 posts for inktober show up?

Ughhhhhh. Makes me kind of understand why people have pinned masterposts now. Like im sorry but ive been here long enough that i thought it was just a weird carryover from newer social media like the tag lists and thought nah thats silly i dont want that. But now?? I cant even look up my own tags for myself to see my own art reliably archived.... And thats VERY frustrating, and yea i currently dont have my art tag linked bc havent set up my desktop page etc in a while but? How is anyone who might care even a little bit supposed to see my stuff?

The inktobers are some beasts of posts i will grant that, like 5 images top to bottom and description for all and then a bunch of tags? Its a lot! I know it is. But i wanna finish the lot bc im so close (minus a few that just need refining, i only have 4/10 of the ones left not drawn!!) And thanks to some suggestion i am considering maybe maybe maybe posting the last 10 (or at least 5/10) as individual posts rather than a big cluster. Itd feel nice to populate my art tag w more posts! Maybe give them a fighting chance to get reblogged bc its less of a threshold than reblogging 5 very different concepts all together. ToBut then again. If barely any show up with the sparse amount i have now? Is it worth it?

Also i just. Suddenly feel awful using all the tags i do on my posts to be seen, like tagging it /dinluke/skydalorian/din djarin/luke skywalker/star wars/the mandalorian/etc... Bc idk? I feel like most people would follow all the above tags, and what if me posting my shit in all of them is annoying bc then even if you mildly liked my stuff, seeing it over and over makes you hate it? Like im intruding all at once in a lot of spaces with super cool artists....

And like, i knoooow that notes arent everything and i should learn to post again just bc i like what ive done, wanna share and archive it. But doing something i like and i thought others would too? And it doing really badly? Uh. Stings! Makes me feel like ive fucked up posting it and shouldnt. Feels selfish and obnoxious to post more, to demand more attention to my garbage content

Im letting my brain get mean where it doesnt need to....

Anyway... If you've happened to read this (im sorry but thank you!) Pls like, let me know in reply or anon ask or smth if im completely over thinking it and should just, post more (i.e. post the inktobers when theyre done individually, rather than trying to make up the whole batch before posting them as those hunks of post that dont do very well) And also, if maybe i should make one of those pinned masterposts? Like even just to have for myself/anyone new who clicks on my blog (under a read more bc long unavoidable posts suck), where i link individually everything i post on top of the tags i already have?

Thank u kind souls who care about me even a lil bit in the tumblr void <3 <3 <3<3

[ssho25]

Accidentally in Love

I believe I am allowed to post this now so this is a gift for @katawosu. This is inspired by my headcanon/au that if Suga was a doctor, Daichi would use Asahi as a crash dummy instead of injuring himself to get into the hospital. I hope you like it! (Also available on AO3). 

On a cool, summer night, the kitchen lights in The Crow’s Nest café were on even though it had already closed for the day. In said kitchen, three men hovered around an orange cake, all of them in deep thought.

“Hmm…”

“It’s…kind of there?” Kuroo said.

“…But also missing something,” Oikawa finished.

Daichi scratched his head. “Yeah, but what?”

“Maybe it could use a little more sugar?” Oikawa suggested.

“Wouldn’t that make it overly sweet?”

What if you used buckwheat flour to change the texture?” Kuroo chimed in.

“Maybe, but then I’d need to make a lot of adjustments to balance the taste.”

“How about you make it a tart instead of a cake?”

“I already made a new tart the last time.”

“Why not use apples?” Kuroo asked.

“You think everything needs apples,” Daichi accused.

“What’s wrong with apples?”

“We’re making new items for the store. Not something you can bring back to Kozume.”

“Hey! No fair! If Kuroo gets to bring pastries to Kenma, why can’t I bring some home to Iwa-chan?” Oikawa whined.

“That’s just your excuse to get free pastries.”

“I work here. I already get free pastries.”

“You won’t anymore if you don’t help me.”

“I am helping! I’m giving you suggestions, aren’t I?”

Daichi sighed as he buried his face into his hands. Clearly, they weren’t about to make progress any time soon. He, Kuroo and Oikawa had been working on a new baked treat since Monday last week for the café; however, nothing seemed right. He had even closed the café early today to give them some more time to test recipes, but to no avail. He didn’t want to say it, but he may have hit a slump.

“And why do you need a new dessert anyway?” Oikawa continued as he folded his arms, “What’s wrong with the ones we already have?”

“Because it gets tiring seeing the same stuff over and over again. It’s nice to mix things up a little.”

“You’ve been ‘mixing things up’ since we opened two years ago! It won’t kill you to slow down.”

“Oikawa’s got a point,” Kuroo agreed.

“And what happens if I slow down and never pick back up?”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Sawamura. It’s just a lack of inspiration. Give it time, and something will eventually come to you.”

“And when it doesn’t come?”

“We can deal with that when we get there.” Kuroo gave Daichi a firm pat on the back. “Let’s just go home and call it a day. We can come back tomorrow. New day, fresh start.”

“That’s what you said yesterday. And the day before that. Pretty much since I started on this new dessert.”

“And one of these days, that fresh start will come in handy and you’re going to thank me for it.”

“…Alright, fine.” Daichi reluctantly sighed in defeat. “Start cleaning up, I’ll just be in the washroom.”

“You got it boss,” Oikawa saluted, Kuroo copying him.

Once Daichi locked the staff bathroom door behind him, he gripped onto the rim of the sink and sighed again, his head hung low. Ever since he had started the café, he had never taken so long to create a new dessert. Last time he struggled this hard was back in culinary school when he couldn’t decide on majoring in Japanese cuisine or becoming a pastry chef.

Making a new recipe every few months was a great idea when he first opened the café. It gave people something to talk about and helped spread the word. Only problem was it was too effective and now people were waiting for his new desserts. The constant asking of, ‘When is the new dessert coming out?’ and encouraging, ‘I’m looking forward to the next one!’ put pressure on Daichi he didn’t anticipate. More than maintaining the popularity of the café, he just didn’t want to disappoint anyone.

Daichi looked in the mirror and noticed the bags under his eyes were getting worse. The more he stayed late working on his new creation, the more stressed he became. The more stressed he was, the harder it was to fall asleep and he’d stay up jotting down notes for new ideas to test when he went back to the café. It was a vicious cycle and definite signs were starting to show. No wonder Kuroo was so adamant he turn in for the night. He turned the knob for cold water on the sink and splashed some onto his face to help wash away at least a little of the tiredness. The last thing he needed was to fall asleep on his way home.

As Daichi approached the kitchen, he saw Kuroo washing the dishes but Oikawa was nowhere to be found.

“Hey Kuroo,” Daichi called out. “Where’s Oikawa?”

Daichi never got a reply. All he could remember was a sudden, sharp pain coming from his head before he blacked out.

Daichi slowly opened his eyes only to be assaulted by the blinding lights hovering above him. He narrowed his eyes and blinked a few times to help adjust to the new found brightness. Once his eyes were used to the lighting, he scanned the area, trying to get a better idea of his surroundings. His head was still a bit groggy, but there was at least one thing he was certain: he was not in the café.

Daichi was lying in an uncomfortable bed, next to a large window that spread from one wall to the other. The pitch black of night from the window made a stark contrast to the white walls and ceiling of the room. A light pink curtain was drawn out, effectively cutting off any visibility of the rest of the room, but it didn’t block out the IV bag peeking out from the top. Recalling the numerous sports injuries from high school, he figured he must be in the hospital.

Suddenly, the curtain was shoved to the side to reveal a concerned Oikawa and Kuroo. The rustling noises he made must’ve alerted them to his awakening. “Sawamura!” Kuroo exclaimed.

“Sawamura, are you okay?” Oikawa asked.

“Wh…what happened? Ah!” Daichi flinched as a sharp pain emanated from his forehead. He reached up to find a bandage was wrapped around his head. “Why does my head hurt?”

“Well, when you left to use the washroom, Oikawa was putting away the flour in the pantry,” Kuroo explained. “You came back at the same time Oikawa opened the pantry door and it knocked you out cold.”

“I swear it was an accident!”

Daichi gingerly touched his forehead, feeling a slight bump on the right side. That definitely wasn’t going away any time soon. “How long was I out for?”

Kuroo pulled out his cellphone from his pocket and turned on the screen. “Almost 11. So…about a half an hour?”

Daichi groaned as he tried to sit up, but the suddenly movement increased the throbbing in his forehead.

“Easy there,” Oikawa said. “Here, let me help.” He reached for the remote next to the bed and pushed a button. The upper half of the bed began to raise up until Daichi was siting in an upright position.

“Thanks…so, how much longer do I have to stay here?”

“Probably not that long. The nurse who spoke with us in the waiting room said it was nothing serious.”

“We should probably tell her you’re awake now so she can call the doctor.”

“Hello?” A gentle knocking on the door accompanied the soft voice. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

When Daichi saw who the voice belonged to, he froze. His light grey hair and soft brown eyes matched the gentleness of his smile. There was an air of playfulness to this man that countered the clear mature allure he gave off. His fair skin and slender build made the impression that he was delicate, fragile even, but there were definitely signs of muscles and a toned body if the taut dress shirt and visible forearms were anything to go by. Daichi had never thought to use the word ‘beautiful’ to describe a man before, but right now ‘beautiful’ was the only word that fit.

“Hello there, I’m glad to see your awake,” the man said. Daichi was so entranced, he didn’t even notice that the man had walked across the room.

“Uh…”

“I’m Sugawara Koushi, the new doctor here.”

“…”

“Shimizu let me know you should be awake soon, so I thought I’d just drop by and check up on you before I let you go.”

“…”

Sugawara’s face filled with concern. “Sawamura-san? Are you feeling alright?”

“Sawamura,” Kuroo whispered as he nudged Daichi.

Daichi shook out the spell Sugawara put on him. “Huh? Oh! Yeah, yeah! I-I-I’m good!”

“Are you sure?”

Daichi—not trusting his words—nodded his head, but the quick and rapid movement made his head throb. “Ow…” He brought his hand up to the bump again.

“Hmm…maybe you should stay here for the night just to be sure.”

“Oh, he’d love to,” Oikawa interjected.

“No!” Daichi shouted. He cleared his throat before continuing in his normal tone. “I mean, no. It’s fine. Please, I need to be on my way.”

“Ok then,” Sugawara-sensei began as he sat down to be eye level with Daichi, “You feel alright? No dizziness or double vision?”

“No.”

“Nausea?”

“No.”

“Please state your name, and occupation.”

“Sawamura Daichi. I’m a pastry chef and café manager at The Crow’s Nest.”

Sugawara-sensei pulled out a small flashlight from his coat pocket. He shined the light at Daichi’s eyes and quickly turned it off as he turned it on. “I’m going to move this flashlight around and I want you to follow it with your eyes, but don’t move your head. Okay?”

Daichi gently nodded and Sugawara-sensei proceeded to slowly move the flashlight around, all the while continuing to ask simple questions to which Daichi provided answers. Daichi was amazed at his concentration when there was a literal angel in front of him.

“Okay, we’re all done. You should be all set. Just try to take it easy for now.”

“Thank you very much sensei. I will.”

“Just remember: if you ever need help, you know where to find me.” Sugawara flashed another blinding smile that was turning Daichi to mush.

Daichi just prayed that his legs didn’t give out on him as Sugawara waved goodbye from the hospital front doors.

“…chi...Daichi…DAICHI!”

“Huh?”

“I think you have enough flour now,” Asahi said as he gestured towards Daichi’s chest.

Daichi looked down and was welcomed to a nearly overflowing bowl and rushed to turn the bag up right. He inwardly cursed at himself for being so careless.

“You okay Daichi? This is the third time you’ve spaced out today.”

“I’m fine Asahi. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“You sure? I mean, you did say you went to the hospital last night. Maybe it’s more serious than you think.”

“Asahi, I—”

“What if you have a concussion? What if you’ve lost your memories and you’re just pretending that everything’s fine? What if—”

“Asahi! Calm down. I’m fine, okay? You’re just overreacting.”

“Yeah, he’s just malfunctioning because the hot doctor from yesterday gave him a boner,” Oikawa said as he passed by.

“Wha…bu…I…,” Daichi babbled incoherently.

“Aw, Daichi-kun has a crush,” Kuroo teased.

“I don’t have a crush!”

“Oh please, you were straight up swooning,” Oikawa chimed in as he passed by again.

“I wasn’t swooning.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say lover boy.” Kuroo winked before walking away, snickering to himself.

Daichi tried to shrink and hide the colouring in his face as he flushed red in both embarrassment and anger.

“Wow, he sure left a lasting impression on you.”

“Asahi, please don’t.”

“But maybe it’s a good thing.”

Daichi raised an eyebrow. “You just told me I’ve been spacing out all day like 5 seconds ago.”

“Yeah, but I meant a good thing for you. We all know how stressed you’ve been. It’d be nice for you to just relax a little.”

“Yeah well, that’s not going to happen.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know anything about him and have no way of contacting him. The end. Fairy tale over. Now please, can you get back to work?”

Asahi had no problems resuming from where he left off, but Daichi’s mind was still a mess. It was a miracle he even made it through the morning without any major accidents, although the people would think otherwise if they had a look at his kitchen. He was thankful the café had quieted down, giving him time to clean up the mess of broken eggs, spattered batter and other various foods on the walls and floor.

Oikawa heaved a heavy sigh and snatched Daichi’s wrist, dragging Daichi along with him.

“Ow! Hey, let go!” Daichi tried to fight back, but Oikawa’s grip was a lot stronger than he anticipated.

Oikawa finally let go long enough to shove Daichi into the pantry and close the door behind him. “Okay… normally, I’d poke fun at you for as long as I can with Kuroo, but you’re love struck attitude is making it really hard to get anything done.”

“I’m not…! I wasn’t…! You’re just…!” Daichi scrambled for words, but eventually sighed in defeat. “I know.”

“So? What are you going to do about it?”

“I just…I don’t know.” Daichi ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I want to see him again.”

“But you don’t know anything about him except that he’s a doctor and he works at the hospital.”

“Hey, not everyone has the luxury of falling in love with their childhood friend.”

“Don’t blame my successful love life for your lack of one.”

“…I was actually talking about Kuroo, but congrats man. You finally wore down Iwaizumi?”

“Oh, thank you. It took 8 long years but yeah, I finally—hey wait! Don’t change the subject!”

“What? I can’t be happy for my friend?”

“You can, but deal with your own problems first.”

“So what do you want me to do? Waltz into the ER with a bouquet of roses?”

“Yes, that’s perfect…if your goal is to let him know how lonely and desperate you are.”

“You just told me to fix the problem!”

“Yeah, but you don’t just charge in with the last resort move! Do you want to scare him away?”

“Is that how you got Iwaizumi?”

“Maybe…but you can’t just walk into a hospital for no legitimate reason. It’s a freaking hospital, they kind of have more important things to do.”

“People are allowed to visit hospitals, right?” Daichi asked optimistically.

“Not to flirt with the staff!”

“That just means I need to create the opportunity.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well it’s not like you can just give yourself a black eye to get into the hospital.”

“…”

“…Are you kidding me right now?”

“What?”

“Did you honestly just consider giving yourself a black eye?”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“But you were thinking it!”

“…Do you think it would work?”

“Ignoring the fact of how stupid that is, it’s a hospital! People go there when they have serious injuries or are really sick. Not when they’re horny.”

“I’m not horny.”

“Yeah. You also didn’t just think about giving yourself a black eye because you want to flirt with a doctor.”

“Sawamura! Oikawa! Get out here, we need help!” Kuroo yelled.

“We’ll be right there!” Oikawa shouted back over his shoulder. “This conversation isn’t over,” He whispered.

“Yeah, yeah,” Daichi replied as he followed Oikawa towards the door. “It doesn’t have to be me you know.”

“For what?”

“The injuries. What if you accidentally open the pantry door on me again?”

“Oh please. I’m not dumb enough to make the same mistake twice,” Oikawa retorted as he shoved the pantry door open, only to feel resistance and hear a ‘thud’ that followed. Daichi turned to Oikawa who had his eyes squeezed shut, praying for what he thought happened didn’t actually happen. But no such luck. When Oikawa gently pushed the pantry door open, he and Daichi were welcomed to Asahi lying unconscious on the floor and a worried Kuroo hovering over him.

“…This proves nothing.”

“There,” the nurse stated as she finished up wrapping the bandage around Asahi’s head.

“Thank you, uh…”

“Shimizu,” said the nurse.

“Thank you, Shimizu-san,” Daichi repeated.

“It’s no problem at all, I’m just doing my job,” Shimizu replied. “However, it would be best if you and your employees were more careful in the future.”

“R-right…,” Daichi answered, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head.

“I will go inform Sugawara-sensei of Azumane-san’s condition. Please wait here in the meantime.” Shimizu gave a small, polite bow before exiting the room, leaving Daichi alone to his thoughts.

Calling Daichi nervous was a light way of putting things. His eyes wandered around the room, his leg kept shaking, he drummed his fingers on his thighs. All to ignore the racing of his heart. He did want to see Sugawara again, but this was too sudden and he wasn’t ready at all. Maybe he’d be lucky and Shimizu-san would call in a different doctor.

“Hello again. I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon.” Daichi turned to see Sugawara standing in the doorway. He couldn’t tell if was extremely lucky, or incredibly unlucky. “I’m mean it’s nice to see you again, really it is. But as a doctor, seeing patients returning to the hospital isn’t something generally celebrated.”

“Though I appreciate your concern, it’s my friend over here that needs help,” Daichi answered as he gestured to an unconscious Asahi.

“Yes, Shimizu did mention that. So, how do two people suffer the same accident back to back? Please do tell.” That little amused smirk on the end of Sugawara’s sentence was a clear hint that Daichi was getting teased. The worst part was that he was fully aware of it and yet his heart still fluttered.

“While I could poke fun at Asahi to make you laugh, let’s just say Oikawa has some crazy upper body strength and leave it at that.”

“Well,” Sugawara chuckled, “Looks like that was just as effective.”

“At least I did something right in the past 12 hours.”

“Give yourself some credit. You weren’t the cause of either accident.”

“But I did hire Oikawa.”

“Oh…well that one’s on you.” Even Daichi had to laugh at that.

Daichi found himself staring at Sugawara, but took it as a good sign when Sugawara stared right back. He used this chance to really look at Sugawara’s face. Though Daichi’s eyes were brown and similar to Sugawara’s, it felt like Sugawara’s eyes had a certain brightness to them, the kind that made Daichi feel warm on the inside. He also noticed the small mole by Sugawara’s eye. It was just a dot, and yet Daichi couldn’t help but think it added to the beauty that was Sugawara Koushi. He couldn’t believe he was so infatuated with a person he barely knew and had just met. It scared and excited him all the same.

“Ugh…”

Daichi and Sugawara flick their heads over to Asahi who finally awoke from his state of unconsciousness. “Looks like I need to get back to work,” Sugawara said as he stood up and approached the bed.

Daichi knew the well-being of his friend should’ve been his number one concern right now, but the ‘freshly-showered’ scent Sugawara-sensei gave off as he walked by was more distracting than Daichi thought it would be.

Damn it…he was swooning.

Daichi didn’t know what was worse: the fact that he was actually contemplating injuring himself on purpose, or how he had spent the last hour seriously thinking of ways he could do it.

Daichi had arrived at the café early that day, fully intending to do some housekeeping before opening. Somewhere along the way, he found himself sitting on a stool in deep thought, hands folded and brows furrowed at the pantry door that started all of this, wondering if it was believable to see the same accident three times in a row.

Daichi’s staring contest was interrupted when he heard the opening of the back door and two familiar faces appear in the kitchen.

“Good morning Daichi-san!” Hinata cheerfully greeted. Asahi who was behind him opted for a modest smile and small wave hello instead.

Daichi nodded at the two and looked over at the clock only to realize it was 10 minutes to opening, meaning he had spent the past 20 minutes glaring at a door. So much for coming to work early.  He sighed and began rolling up his sleeves, but stopped when he saw Asahi clock in.

“You’re not actually thinking of working are you? You were just in the hospital.”

“And?”

“Asahi, you don’t have to come to work. You should take some time to rest.”

“The same thing happened to you and you still came to work.”

“It’s my café, of course I’m going to come.”

“Daichi, I’m fine. I’ve already been away for 2 days. I’m starting to get anxious from doing nothing. Besides, it looks like you didn’t get the cleaning done, so you’re going to need some help today.” The conversation was stopped short when the two of them heard the bell of the front door ringing. “Welcome!” Asahi said as he waved to the customer and ushered them to an open seat.

“Wai-Asahi!” Daichi called out, but it was already too late. He just shook his head and reached for the coffee beans to start grinding them.

“Morning,” Kuroo called out.

“Morning.”

“Woah, I thought you were going to clean when you got here,” Kuroo said looking at the ground. Daichi followed his gaze and saw the tracks of shoeprints all around the kitchen floor. If the floor out in the café was this bad, then boy was he glad he chose dark flooring panels.

“I was a little…preoccupied.”

“You want me to do it?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll find some time to do it later. Just get ready, people are already coming in.”

“You’re the boss,” Kuroo replied before heading to the staff locker room to change into his uniform.

“Daichi-san!” Hinata called out.

“I know, I know. The floor’s dirty, I got it okay?” Daichi snapped.

Hinata jumped back, a little startled by his outburst. “Oh, no. I was just wondering what you’d like me to do.”

“…Oh. Right, sorry. I’m just a little jumbled up right now. I need to make coffee, I need to make more cakes, I need to clean the…actually Hinata, could you do a little mopping for me?”

Hinata looked confused. “But I thought you said—”

“Hinata…,” Daichi’s ominous voice interjected as he placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder, “Are you arguing with me?”

“N-n-n-n-n-no sir! Right away sir!” Hinata saluted and dashed off to get the mop and bucket.

As Daichi watched Hinata go, he made a silent prayer in his head. Asahi, I’m sorry.

In the hospital room, Daichi stared at Asahi’s bandaged foot as they waited for a doctor. Hinata had left the floors too wet when he was mopping and as a result, Asahi had slipped and fallen.

“Does it hurt?” Daichi asked.

“A little, but the ice is helping.”

“Hinata feels really bad about it. Kuroo says he won’t stop apologizing and praying that you don’t die.”

“Well, he is known for overexaggerating,” Asahi chuckled. “It’s just weird, you know? I thought we told him not to mop anymore because he always leaves the floor too wet.”

“Yeah…right…” Daichi hoped that it wasn’t too obvious he couldn’t look Asahi in the eye.

“I wonder why he did it.”

“Maybe Kuroo asked him to? Since I didn’t do it that morning?”

“Maybe…it’s just strange.”

“Guess it’s just one of those unsolved mysteries.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen people visit the hospital this frequently,” Sugawara-sensei’s voice called out. “I wasn’t aware baking was so dangerous.”

Daichi nervously chuckled. “Well, you know. Sometimes you just get too invested into work.”

“That’s a bit of an understatement,” Sugawara replied, pointing to Asahi’s foot. “Well, lucky for you Azumane-san, it’s just a sprain. Your foot is going to swell, so remember to keep it raised. Cooling packs and ice bags will help with the throbbing from the inflammation. Okay?”

“Sure thing sensei,” Asahi said.

“Good. Let me just get the nurse to give you some crutches and a fresh bag of ice. Then you can be on your way.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Perfect. I’m sorry I can’t stay to chat,” Sugawara said turning to Daichi, “But I have a few more patients to check up on so I’ll be on my way.”

“Oh no, that’s okay. Don’t apologize,” Daichi answered. “We’ll be fine. We appreciate the help you’ve given us these past few days.”

“Just doing my job,” Sugawara said before heading towards the door.

Daichi dreamily stared at Sugawara’s shrinking figure when Asahi’s voice broke him from his trance. “Daichi? Weren’t you going to give him those?”

Daichi looked down at his lap and saw a to-go box from the café. “Oh! Right, thanks! Sensei! Sensei, wait!” He jumped up and chased after Sugawara. Luckily, he wasn’t too far up ahead and Daichi easily caught up to him.

“Yes?”

“Here. This is for you…and Shimizu-san,” Daichi said holding out the box. “I meant to give this to you earlier, as thanks for your help.”

“Oh, wow!” Sugawara exclaimed as he accepted the box. “What’s all in here?”

“Just a few tarts and cakes that I baked,” Daichi replied as he embarrassedly rubbed at the back of his neck. “Nothing special.”

Sugawara opened the box and Daichi loved how his eyes lit up. “These look amazing! You made all these?”

Daichi nodded. “I wasn’t sure what kinds of sweets you liked so I just took a guess.”

“Well you guessed right, because red velvet is my favourite. And fruit tarts remind me of home. I love my grandma’s raspberry tarts. Thank you very much!” Sugawara’s bright smile was back and Daichi’s heart was running a million miles an hour.

“You’re more than welcome, sensei.”

“Suga.”

“Huh?”

“My friends call me Suga,” Sugawara said extending a hand.

“Oh, well my friends call me Daichi,” Daichi replied, accepting the handshake.

“Then thanks again Daichi. Hopefully next time I see you, it won’t be in the hospital.” And with that, Sugawara started to walk away again, waving a final goodbye as he rounded a corner. “See you, Daichi!”

“See you…Suga.”

“This is amazing!” Oikawa exclaimed.

“See? We told you could do it!” Kuroo threw an arm around Daichi’s shoulders. “And you thought you were in a slump.”

“Thanks guys. I’m just glad it turned out better than I thought it would.” The café was quiet and Daichi had used the opportunity to have everyone try out his new recipe.

“This cake is the best for sure, Daichi-san!” Hinata chimed in.

“So how’d you come up with this one?” Asahi asked.

“…How did I come up with it?” Daichi parroted.

“Yeah. What was your inspiration?” Oikawa continued. “You spent 2 weeks agonizing over this damn dessert. Then suddenly you hide yourself away in the kitchen for 3 days whipping up this thing.”

“Yeah, and it’s not even similar to the cakes you’ve been trying up till now,” Kuroo continued. “What gave you this idea, Sawamura?”

“Well, I…” Daichi was interrupted by the front doorbell ringing. “…Will tell you later,” he finished and turned his attention to the door. “Hello! Can I…” Daichi rubbed his eyes a few times to make sure they weren’t playing tricks on him.

“So this is the café I’ve heard so much about,” Sugawara said turning his head this way and that to take everything in. He turned to Daichi and waved. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Suga…”

“Those treats you gave me were so good, I just had to come for some more.”

“Here! Try this one!” Hinata shoved the new dessert in front of Sugawara. “Daichi-san just made this one!”

“No, no, no! Not that one!” Daichi waved his hands like a madman.

“Why not?”

“Because…because it’s still in the experimental phase. It’s not ready yet.”

“You have 4 stamps of approval right here,” Oikawa interjected.

“And what better way to tell it’s ready for the customers than an actual customer?” Kuroo added.

“I don’t mind testing out a new cake. It sounds interesting,” Sugawara finished. “Besides, it looks really good.”

Daichi had no legitimate reason to not let Sugawara eat the cake and so he sighed in defeat. “Go ahead.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Sugawara said before digging into the cake. Sugawara’s eyes lit up. “It’s red velvet!” Daichi nodded his head. “And is that raspberry I’m tasting?” Daichi nodded again. “This is delicious! You put together my two favourite desserts! It’s like this was made for me! I can’t believe you almost didn’t let me try it.”

Daichi loved how happily Sugawara ate his dessert, but could also feel the stares of revelation coming from his friends.

“…Was it made for him?” Asahi asked. Innocently or not, Daichi couldn’t tell.

“…Kind of.” Everyone looked expectantly at him, so Daichi proceeded to explain, his embarrassment increasing with every word. “The inside is raspberries and red velvet cake, which are Suga’s two favourite desserts. The outside mousse is cookies and cream because it’s a light gray colour and fluffy in texture like Suga’s hair…plus it best suited the flavours of the cake. And then I put it all on top of a sugar cookie because Suga…sounds like ‘Sugar’.”

Everyone had shocked looks on their faces. There were even a couple of jaws that dropped. Daichi had never blushed so hard or felt more uncomfortable in his life.

“So you can design a cake after me, but you can’t ask me out on a date?”

The attention quickly shifted from Daichi to Sugawara, but no one was as shocked as Daichi. He thought his eyes were going to pop out of their sockets from going so wide. “What?”

Sugawara pouted and folded his arms. “You heard me. How long are you going to take to ask me out? Or are you really only going to see me when you come to the hospital?”

“Uh…”

“Smooth, Casanova,” Oikawa stepped in. “If you’re free tonight, he’ll pick you up at 6.”

“I have work tonight, but I’m free right now,” Sugawara suggested.

“Perfect,” Oikawa said as he shoved Daichi towards Sugawara, “So is he. Now you two have fun, we’ll take care of everything.” He proceeded to untie Daichi’s apron and push the two of them out the door, locking it behind them.

“Hey! Oikawa!” Daichi pulled and banged on the door, but Oikawa just shrugged and walked away. Daichi face was a bright shade of pink; he couldn’t believe what was happening.

Sugawara slipped his arm around Daichi’s bicep, getting Daichi’s attention quite effectively. “Does ramen sound good?” Daichi could only nod in reply. “Great. I know this little shop a few blocks away. And after that, my place or yours, Daichi?”

[braindamageforbeginners]

Day 36, Radiation 24, Serum Infusion 5 (sort of)

I realize that I tend to be discursive and verbose (in writing, anyway, I’m a surprisingly quiet person in real life); HOWEVER, dear reader, if the potential walls of text seem intimidating, let me just say, I cover a helluva lot of ground in this one. Benchmarks shall be reached; insights had; exhilarating heights and terrifying lows reached. Or, yesterday marked an important date, I had some critical insights to surviving deadly diseases (

So; yesterday marked the final initial serum infusion (I know that sounds like I’m a demented time traveler; hang with me). The “initial” treatment period for GBM - usually agreed as the “critical” treatment period - is a six-week course of 42 days of chemotherapy, 30 radiation doses (you get weekends off), and, in my case, five injections of Abraham Erskine’s Special Sauce. This is followed by a 20-30 day vacation - of sorts, followed by a year of on-again-off-again chemo (and, in my case, added bacon bits to Dr. Erskine’s elixer). That’s if everything goes well. If the radiotherapy (which is the very best that every single physician I consulted with recommended) isn’t as effective as predicted/hoped; you can start planning on what requests you’ll make for Tom Petty and Whitney Houston. I mean, there are some things they can do to forestall the disease, manage symptoms, etc. but that’s pretty the cancellation notice on a TV series you were watching. Again, I am amazingly horrified, upset, and angry that my life expectancy and potential is dependent upon which artificial rogue proton hit which carbon ring in an alien invader in my brain. And I’m going to be getting sentenced (as it were), in a month, and a helluva lot will be due to random chance. And healthy people would see this whole thing that the end is in sight, and thus begins a new stage of life (here’s a teachable moment, healthy folks; if you have a friend with a progressive disease, the stages are that they get worse until they die; new stage of life is that they get to skip some stages). So, yeah, after a year of awful news, it feels rather less that the parole board is convening, and much more that the Roulette Wheel is spinning. And I suppose the secret to doing this thing with grace and courage (which, again, I have no intention of doing; I was born a miserable misanthrope) is figuring out how to maximize those spins before the cashier collects. But, that is still a full month off, there are still positive (and negative) possibilities in play, and we shall leave the dark Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come for the rest of the post in favor of me (I suppose I’d be the Ghost of Christmas That one Time Dad Accidentally Misplaced and Mislabeled Everyone’s Gifts, So the Day Ended in a Really Stupid Series of Arguments)(I mean, I love the Christmas Carol, but I think we can all agree that I’m much more in  the vein of idiotic-yet-funny family history stories we use to scare Grandma into silence)(Again, ladies, I am single).

So, we start events bright and early yesterday with me getting my blood drawn. Which always sucks, but I have learned a few tricks over the years (holding the phlebotomist’s family hostage in case they have to stab you more than three times isn’t as effective as you’d think). I have really hard-to-find veins; they’re small, you can’t see them, and they clench up and hide well after a bad attempt. But, I now have the patter down to a fine art, and most decent nurses and phlebotomists can do it by the second try (the record number of attempts, for anyone keeping score, was an MRI tech in NoCal - this was back in the days when techs were allowed to inject dyes into patients on their own; the rules have since changed). The vampire tech in question got me on the first time, and, then installing the IV, accidentally spritzed me with my own life essence. In all fairness, I’ve suffered worse the last time I spilled a drink, in terms of liquid exposure. And, because it’s me, it’s not even the first or second time I’ve been drenched in my own blood - it might be the third or fourth time, I’d have go back and tally them up (and, although “drench” is far too strong a verb in this instance, it wasn’t strong enough to capture the previous occasions)(I desperately wish I was making this up). Now, this wasn’t terribly painful, or, as it turns out, even very inconvenient - thankfully, there’s some mega-methanol fabric cleaner on hand (I don’t know why this surprised me; I’ve had a semi-permanent place in the hospital system since before I could vote)  - which is fortunate, because the constabulary takes a dim view of grown men with blood stains on their crotches (that wasn’t some sort of design on my part, it was just a weird - albeit amusing - outcome of the angles and pressures involved. Anyway, after securing the IV in place, and making me presentable for a court appearance, the Vampire Tech (and this isn’t a slam on her, or anything; it’s just that the job of drawing blood and installing IVs is done by - according to my count - nurses, phlebotomists, technicians, nurses in training, training phlebotomist technicians - you get the idea; there’s 45 possible job titles for the person sticking me with an 18 gage needle)(crucial tidbit for future patients; 20-22 gage needles are about the smallest they’ll use on an adult, and, if you have a documented history of hard-to-find veins, you might want to consider asking for one of those) apologized to me for the mishap; I reciprocated, and she mentioned that she’d used a slightly smaller needle than she thought and moved a little faster, based on my description. She then mentioned - and I do hope you are sitting - that I have really, really big veins, they’re just a bit hard to find.

THE BETRAYAL. ALL IS LIES. You have to understand, folks, I’ve been told that I have small, hard-to-find, hard-to-poke veins, and, all this time, I have mid-grade kitchen pipes. I have to believe - because I’ve had my blood drawn more often than Lance Armstrong in the last sixteen years - that someone would’ve mentioned that my veins are fine, they’re just invisible and not where you expect them, and I forgot. That would be bad, and upsetting, but I would’ve liked to have thought that someone would’ve noticed and mentioned it a second or third time. Of course, I also did down two liters of water a half-hour before the blood draw, so it’s possible my venous system is more aggressively reactionary than Southern politics (drinking a lot of water right before a blood draw a well-known, very effective way to make the phlebotomist’s job easier), and this poor woman underestimated.

So, fast-forward 1400 years to me, in the chemo seat (which is supposed to be comfortable, but it’s amazing how unpleasant impersonal barcaloungers are when you have a tube in your arm, and you daren’t jiggle it lest you get billed for someone’s dry-cleaning bill), getting grilled by Research Coordinator, about assorted side-effects (that’s what they’re testing me for, remember), and he mentions that I’ve already reached the maximum recommended dose and tolerated it well, so I’m probably at my maximal side effects, super-soldier wise. Which makes me feel good, because, even though my arm and shoulder hurt like a sumbitch the next day and I have vague flu-like symptoms, if this is as bad as it gets, experimental drug-wise, it’s pretty tolerable (I mean, depending on how things shake-out, if this is a bimonthly, standard dose, I’ll ask them about some sort of stronger pain-killer or something, because this is extremely unpleasant, but, if this is the price of another decade or two, it’s doable)(even with horrible, horrible Gatorade). Which made me feel all Captain American-y for a brief moment and shine a bit of hope on the darkness. Research Coordinator also mentioned that, even though you only get one radiation treatment per lifetime, if I beat this thing the first time and it comes back, he and the Warlocks are already working on potential treatment plans, trials, and virgin sacrifices to keep me alive. Folks, I’m going to use some strong language here, but, I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, this is why, if you have a serious illness, do not fuck around with the folks at the local health-mart; go directly to the best. I’m still scared as hell that the radiation won’t take hold and/or this tumor will kill me, but I do feel like, if I can beat this one, I might have something like a normal life expectancy. That might just be the bargaining part stage of grief, though, and it does kind of require me to survive the next several months, which is far from guaranteed. to say the least. HOWEVER, Research Coordinator did assure me that, win, lose, or draw, I’d be getting a few weeks off from Gatorade (I’ll discuss this in further detail later, because it’s not exactly what it sounds like). My major complaint about that interaction is that they skimped on the budget and didn’t get Stanley Tucci to do the interview.

I also had a fascinating conversation with a chemo nurse who was double checking assorted side-effects, prescriptions, patient history, what-have-you. The following conversation has been condensed and slightly edited. NURSE: So, no nausea or vomiting? SELF: Not yet. NURSE: And you’re still on zofran? SELF: Uh, yeah, although i was queasy after the second infusion, so Research Coordinator suggested I double the dosage. But that’s in all the history, and it’s factored in to all of my prescriptions and stuff, as far as I can tell. NURSE (suspiciously): And you’ve never skipped a dose or cut back? SELF: Ma’am, it makes physically bearable and keeps me from puking. Why would I feel the need to experiment with that? NURSE: Oh, you’d be surprised. SELF: Look, if I get all my dreams and die at age 90 in excellent health; I want to be buried with a full bottle of zofran in case I need it.

Eventually, I did get to make it to another part of Socal, because Mother Dearest and the dog decided to visit me. Again, I’m going to be vague in an attempt to preserve some sort of anonymity (if not on my part, at least my dog’s); but we were able to coordinate this because I found a pet-friendly hotel in a part of town half-way between home and the hospital - as opposed to the really nice, but really expensive resort town. I’m now ready to call it quits with the resort area - it was quieter, friendlier, cheaper, and more personal. There’s less to do there, but people actually talked to me (or they talked to my dog, which I think is close enough). Everyone I talked to at this neighborhood was friendly - like, the meanest response of the night is from me, when a baker came out from behind the counter to hug my dog and I kind of winced, because that doesn’t seem very hygienic. But the croissants were amazing (like, worth dog-germ-risk to a technically-immunocompromised person amazing). And I got to celebrate the serum-sorta-completion-almost date the way American Jesus intended: with steak tartare, near-raw burgers, (it could be laden with tuberculosis, but, screw it, I got zofran, I’m not gonna puke), and double-helpings of beer (and, to those of you who don’t know me, few people like microbrew more than I do). It was a delightsomeful, memorable evening. I’m sure she meant it as a compliment, but Mother Dearest expressed far more wit in a single observation than the entire Trump administration: “You’ve become a much more interesting diner since you gave up that heart-health thing.”

And I sort-of slept. Maybe. A few hours. I will say this about the horrible super-soldier serum; it does produce the most amazingly life-like dreams I’ve ever experienced. Yes, I know they’re not technically hallucinations, but, you people didn’t attend the Super Bowl last night. Admittedly, that’s s a really weird, specific, helluva strange object for my focus (I give less thought to the NFL than I do to alfalfa profit margins)(not that either takes up much brain space). It felt like I was there, just like the last hyper-realistic post-injection dream. Which was weird and cool, and, certainly one of the more intriguing side-effects. Which led to a nastier, far-too-frequent side-effect; my arm feeling like it was trying to disattach itself from my frame. Fortunately, after last time, I knew exactly what to; go directly to Tylenol and Gatorade, which made things tolerable. Or as tolerable as Gatorade-based mornings can be. It did occur to me that, if I can’t be Captain America, maybe my right arm can grow and mutate and turn into some sort of really cool/scary demon-hand, like Hellboy. Which would enable me to punch through the flimsy walls of this universe to Hell itself, so that I could track down the inventor of Gatorade, and give him a well-earned thrashing (I know I’m an agnostic, but one thing I am absolutely theologically certain of; the creator of Gatorade is in Hell).

And, as I was musing - like you do, when you’re waiting for superpowers - I recalled the nurse saying that people just experiment and go off zofran (again, kids, if Santa Claus ever brings you zofran, you write a thank-you note immediately). This kind of coincided with another  revelation, and I do apologize if it’ll take some time to connect the two, because they make a very important point for everyone planning on surviving cancer. I was packing up the dog’s stuff (specifically, his bowl and bag of food), and thought I’d just pour the leftover food into the bag on the porch/parking-lot area - food’s gonna spill, after all; if it happens out there, some lucky squirrel can deal with it. Mom immediately stopped me so that she could do the exact same thing in the sink area. Depositing dog food all over the sink, and turning a two-minute task into a five-minute cleaning job; without any apparent gain apart from cleaning kibble out of the sink. Now, because it’s Mother Dearest, I’m sure I’ll get some note about how I’m wrong and efficiency and cleanliness are overrated. What occurred to me is that it was a minor case of someone exercising some form of agency merely because they could.

And I get that; I really do. I organize my bookshelves, keep a highly regimented gym schedule, etc. And it suddenly occurred to me, based on this thought (and the chemo nurse’s statement that people stop taking zofran just because), there has to be a chunk of the populace that goes off doctor’s orders or refuses care or whatever for a variety of reasons. That’s all old news; I was an EMT, I’ve seen stupid shit you couldn’t even begin to believe. BUT, the heartening part of it - for me, anyway - is that I have, since Day 1 (since before then, actually), religiously followed doctor’s orders and suggestions (for the most part; I still shave, eat raw foods, and train in the gym; but I’ve never missed an appointment, prescription, dosage, or medical exam, and I’ve never lied to my physicians when questioned). Now, I realize that I have a dangerous disease that isn’t well-understood or have a terribly predictable outcome; but, it is worth noting that, every time I tell some medical professional I’ve lived with this disease (or chronic brain tumors, anyway) for 16 years, I get the exact same reaction as if I’d told them I went to school with Archimedes. I am, apparently, in the world of cancer, patients, nigh-vampire-unkillable. Which is pretty cool and makes me feel good,  but, for everyone who wants to learn that secret, well, it’s pretty simple.

You want to go to the very best doctors. You want to figure out the best treatment plan for you; the one that offers the most chance of success. HOWEVER, once you have those things; you follow the rules and stick to the treatment plan like your life depends on it, because it does. I have no idea whether this is going to work, or what my life expectancy will be, but I am near-certain that if I decided to screw around with things, I will have a very grim future.

In figuring out an appropriate ending metaphor for all of this - and the importance of sticking to the medical plan in a world filled with changing variables and crises - I hit upon China Mieville’s book, “Kraken.” It’s an odd urban fantasy that prominently features a cult that worships giant squid as deities (it’s not the dumbest religion I’ve ever heard of). However, there is a minor plot point about the cult’s version of chess - “Kraken Chess,” which is just like our chess, except it features a piece called the Kraken (because of course it does). The Kraken piece is the most powerful piece on the board, because it can - like the queen - move any number of squares in any direction; however, the Kraken piece can also not move at all. It just forfeits a turn.

Folks, as you navigate a dangerous disease, there will be many, many periods where you don’t see any real results, there is no end in sight (or, as the case may be, the visible ends tend to look scary). I will work tirelessly to figure out some sort of coping strategy for all that - believe me, a large part of my life is centered on that, right now. All I can say is, don’t exert agency when none is needed, especially if that comes in the form of skipping your zofran. Sometimes, you must be the kraken; silent, beaked, still, and waiting for the opportunity to kill Sam Worthington.

I mean, uh, take your meds, follow the doctor’s directions, and don’t miss your appointments.

At the moment, I’m back home, waiting for my next appointment (it’s in a few hours);everything’s as close to normal as it can be. I’ve finished up all my administrative health lackey duties, so all bills that can be paid, prescriptions that can be renewed, appointments that can be made, etc. have been scheduled, and I can’t do anything for a few hours. Which is almost a relaxing feeling. I might go sit in the yard with a book and try and get in touch with my inner squid. Sometimes that’s the best you can do.

Folks, I do apologize if that was a bit lengthy and choppy; I had to write it exceedingly fast because I took a day off and there was a lot to attend to while I wrote. So, sorry if it’s a little disjarring; I can do better than that, I just didn’t have the time (and parts of it were written while I was still a little loopy from Captain America serum). The good news - sort of - is that there’s still a lot of things on the cutting-room floor that I’ll be revisiting in short-order. You’d best believe I’m going to revisit that kraken metaphor very soon, I have dark plans for the importance of vomiting on people (sort of), and why we, as a species, might be okay in the end.

[psychostrilondes]

HI IM GONNA WRITE MORE davekat because im disgustin

i made this little babie post that said like, dave hides in cramped little spaces like closets and laundry rooms sometimes and needs to be coaxed out, and ye!! its mostly when hes close to his version of panic over a delusion, oh no, oh no im not safe, where is, i cant find it, i need, i cant, everyones looking to kill me, im horrible, ive failed and im still failing, things like that? all hidden behind his flat mouth expression and No Words, and when it gets really bad the expression doesnt change at all but maybe he starts crying with how pent-up afraid he is and has to dip three fingers behind his shades to wipe the tears onto the sleeve of his god pjs , and, something has to Happen, and if theres no way to fight whats happening, and no one is around right now like its the middle of the night, the only option is to hide??

so imagine at like 4 am on the meteor or even in his lil house on earth c or just wherever, dave stalking down the hallways with his 1/2swordkind in his hands, clutched so freakin tight, and hes Cool and doesnt have much adrenaline even though hes scared bc he knows he needs to stay calm to fight if something jumps out at him, and there are so many perceived threats even though hes maybe actually totally safe, and hes on guard while he walks to ,,,, somewhere? anywhere thats more unfamiliar and cramped than his room, because whatevers stalking him would obviously know to check his bedroom for the man himself, so maybe he goes to the little walk-in food pantry they’ve got and shuffles aside some big bags of whatever of makeshift storage to hide behind them, or like, hides way back behind the laundry machines and, wherever, he curls up really tight with his knees to his chest and his specibus tucked away and ready to be drawn in a split second should he need it, and he’s so used to hunkering down in weird spots from his childhood, ugh, its just too natural and too bringing-back-memories, ugh, dangit

so he just kind of sits back there, totally hidden, and lets his adrenaline build up and he starts trembling and just kinds of , waits, for the feeling to pass, might , take a while , ah

and karkat and him have had this routine that he’s foregone today in favor of heavy dissociation, karkat hangs out in the main room with a book he’s reading and waits for dave to wake up even though dave wakes up like two or three hours after he does, its cool, he can use the reading time? its no big deal? its a big book anyways, but then, it’s four hours that hes been hanging out in the common room, and then five, and um, hes getting bored of reading, like u cant just read forever hehe

after five and a half hours he decides to go over to daves block and just wake him the heck up, itd be kinda cute to see him all sleepy and he totally has this image of messy-haired shadeless dave in his head, and hes kind of in a good mood, and he knocks, and theres obviously no answer so he punches in dave’s doors password like its nothing, nbd, and daves literally just

not in there

wtf ,,,, there goes his good mood hehe dave just Doesnt skip their whole eating breakfast together in the morning thing, either theyre about to argue or somethings kinda wrong?? is dave hurt or something?? did he get kidnapped by somebody on his way to the bathroom?? he laughs a little, and over the next hour he asks around for dave and gets a thorough “nuh uh” answer from just about everybody, and then, um, where the heck is dave. where’d he go.

after asking literally everybody he asks rose and kanaya last and kanaya sort of looks really worried?? oh no,, rose explains to him with equal worrie that maybe dave isnt feeling well, and we’ll keep an eye out, but she’s being freaking cryptic in the way karkat hates about her and he just leaves without unendingly pressing her about it bc he knows its useless by now lol

so for the next hour and a half hes just. looking where dave usually likes to go

dave isnt at any of his favorite spots, and if its earth c he even asks daves favorite cafe’s baristas if theyve seen him yet, and they say no, and its literally the afternoon?? um?? ugh

he’s gone freaking everywhere and karkat just ends up back at home or back where he started and he just ,,,,,, doesnt know what to do

its been hours and hours, its almost been like, all day, and karkat misses him, damniiiiiit, hes so sad :( in his Misery he wanders down the hall to make something to eat since he literally hasnt eaten , he ................... sees daves red outfit in the dark from where hes hiding under the shelving.........

wow , he just has this little second, like “um,” and he has this second to look and see his knees to his chest and his hands still clutching his hair, sort of frozen like that, and karkat crouches and says “dave..?” and dave startles and his hands re-clutch into white hair and oh no, oh god its happening, its happening im gonna die, oh no, this is just and im gonna be gone oh no fuck fuck and he cant stop some more tears from just Pouring omfg and he kicks out his cover, a big tub of whatever miscellaneous, and his 1/2swordkind is back in his hands and shielding his body from karkat, and karkat says “hey, whoa” and holds up his empty hands, “its just me dave, karkat, its karkat” and dave doesnt move, and his mouth is in a grimace, he totally just, caught that hes holding up his sword at his boyfriend?? karkat?? karkat’s here, this is karkat he’s looking at, and karkat just watches him, and settles a little when dave does, and his sword lowers a little as he falters, um, and he realizes he made a mistake, wtf omg

hahaha umm, but hes still so sure karkat is here to kill him maybe?? that might actually happen ,,, so dave does lower his sword and set it aside VERY slowly and cautiously without turning his eyes away from karkat, but he doesnt move from where he is , um,

and karkat settles out of his crouch and sits down on the floor there, and like, “have u been hiding here the whole time?” and dave stares at him like hes surprised karkats here?!?!?!?!? when did karkat get here wtf

an hes dissociating out of his darn mind, like it feels like hes been hiding behind this big box for years,,,,, and most of him feels like hes vulnerable with the box pushed out and away and he has to cover himself back up in case Someone Else comes in, and part of him is so happy his boyfriends here, karkat can make it safe, when he was upset earlier karkat was asleep and he couldn’t verbalize his emotions to wake him up or anything, omg, and dave just stares at him a whole bunch without even blinking, just taking in that his boyfriends here >w< dangit that would personally make me so happy too arg 

karkat asks if he ate anything today, and asks when dave started hiding in here, and dave cant even process what hes saying to him but its okay!! karkat says, if you come out we can grab some food, i bet youre hungry right? and dave totally realizes that the cramps in his middle are actually from not having eaten and not from internal stomach insects and it must be really late in the day? and dave nods a little, and thats really good, really good that hes responding, honestly its been more than 12 hours and his back hurts really bad and his butts Beyond Numb and he could really use a blanket and a bowl of cereal .......

so karkat inches into dave’s hiding spot with him, sort of over the course of their conversation, and then by the time dave’s nodding or shaking his head to his questions karkat is back there in the dark with him, and he comments on how cramped it is back here what the heck?? how are u not atrophied?? and literally within One Minute dave is hugging him, he even initiates it because dave is a total cuddle monster, and they just sort of hug for a little while , and 

theyre so cute :(

karkat instructs dave to shuffle out of there with him, and he helps dave up and supports his weight for a minute because his joints Freaking Hurt, and he holds him up until dave stops trembling and then they hold hands together really tightly and go and make something easy to eat like cereal or hot pockets or what ever

and then they eat the hot pockets

and its good

and dave still isnt talking but thats cool, hes still a little fragile, but its ok, dave is nodding and tapping his fingertips silently on his thigh and maybe he’s not feeling it yet but hes warming up, karkat can make up for the other half of silence , its really nice to get food in him, and within the next hour he says “what the hell, karkat” and then “you’d think they’d know how to make those” and its clear dave is gettin back in the swing of things :p 

and that is the story of dave spending 16 hours hiding in a food pantry ... thnk u im garbage

[thewolfwiththeredrose]

A Literary Love

Yo! So this is the first fic I ever wrote. Yeah, scary! I posted it online in January and it got some pretty overwhelming feedback so I figured I would share it here with all of you! Please like and reblog and share and do all the fun things if you like it! I’ll be posting the parts to my current fic soon :)

Also on AO3

Rating: Teen & up

Pairing: Stiles/Derek (Sterek)

Words: 11,143

Summary: "Walking down a foreign street in an unfamiliar city, Stiles searches for refuge from the bitter November cold. He’s not quite sure how he ended up here, stumbling through the streets of New York City at 5am before the sun has even risen, when less than a week ago he was still back home in Beacon Hills just waiting for his real life to begin."

OR

Stiles is an aspiring writer trying to find his way in the world (and New York City), and Derek is the proud owner of a bookshop cafe who just wants to be as happy as his parents were.

Warnings: Description of a panic attack, and the Hale parents die in a car crash. Please, if you think any of this may trigger you, do not read

The bookstore sat in between the bank and the pharmacy; short, squat and out of place. From the outside looking in, it was a very ordinary sort of place on a very ordinary sort of street. An ageing red brick building with a wide store front window that was half covered by a bookshelf, and a very grand-looking black door with a well-used brass knob placed in the middle. It is outside this bookstore where we meet our fearless hero. Alright, maybe not fearless. Okay, maybe he’s a little less than heroic, but he is the centre of our story so we should be nice to him, shouldn’t we? Anyway.

Walking down a foreign street in an unfamiliar city, Stiles searches for refuge from the bitter November cold. He’s not quite sure how he ended up here, stumbling through the streets of New York City at 5am before the sun has even risen, when less than a week ago he was still back home in Beacon Hills just waiting for his real life to begin. Fresh out of college at BHU, Stiles always dreamed of moving to the big city and making a life for himself. Sure, leaving his dad wasn’t easy, but the Sheriff had Melissa now, and it wasn’t like they didn’t talk on the phone at every spare moment anyway.

Stiles knows that he was lucky, he had worked like a dog through college, enduring the most degrading of jobs in order to make just enough money to scrape by until he caught his big break. His big break which was going to begin in a matter of hours. Shit.

Stiles abruptly realises that as this barrage of overwhelming thoughts had hit him, he has stopped walking, his feet coming to a standstill on the uneven pavement. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, trying to block out the panic that is tightening his chest before exhaling in a long, slow breath. Calm down, he thinks to himself, this could be the start of something amazing. This could be the beginning of the rest of your life.

“Are you alright?” A voice sounds from in front of Stiles, startling him from his thoughts. His eyes shoot open in shock before settling upon the figure in front of him.

Stiles’ breath hitches in his throat as his bleary eyes rake up the body of the man in front of him. Dark jeans. Black leather jacket. The man is built like Adonis, all lean muscle, pulling tight the fabric of his forest green Henley, and then there’s his face. High, chiselled cheek bones and a sharp, beautifully sculpted jaw dusted with dark stubble to match the thick, dark eyebrows which are currently drawn together in obvious concern for Stiles’ wellbeing. But, however stunning these features are, they’re not what causes the tightness in Stiles’ chest to reappear tenfold. It’s the eyes. An impossible colour, Stiles thinks. They’re breath taking, deep and clear, a beautiful vibrant green only made brighter by the man’s dark appearance.

“Uhh…” Stiles drawls unintelligibly, feeling his jaw drop in to its default gawp before he remembers his training. By training, he means the years he has spent as a close friend of the stunning Lydia Martin, conditioning himself not to turn in to a drooling idiot when faced with beautiful people. Stiles clears his throat, willing his voice to hold.

“Yeah,” he says, the calmness of his voice surprising him, “Sorry, I’m not quite with it yet. Actually, I’m not sure I even know where I am. I only just moved here.”

Considering how utterly beautiful the man is, Stiles is quite taken aback when he is offered a sheepish, almost shy half-smile.

“Ah, well, I was just about to start my shift at the bookstore,” the man begins before gesturing with his hand towards the red brick building, “There’s a 24-hour café inside if you wanted a coffee to, uh, make you a little more ‘with it’?” The half-smile is still adorning those perfectly full lips, and Stiles can’t help but think that it is so unfair that this guy can pull off drop dead gorgeous and sickeningly adorable at the same time. Stiles grins back at the man, hoping to convey the intense happiness that the words “coffee” and “bookstore” had brought him.

“No. Way. A 24-hour bookstore? With coffee? I think I just discovered heaven on earth in New York,” he gushes before having to stifle a large yawn, “also, do you have the wherewithal to inject the caffeine straight in to my bloodstream? Like an IV line or something? Because, technically I haven’t slept yet and, well, if it hasn’t happened yet I don’t see it happening any time in the near future, I can never sleep in the day time. It just won’t happen; I get distracted too easily.”

The man seems slightly taken aback by the litany of words that had just come from Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles begins bracing himself for the usual “Wow, you talk a lot,” or, “Why are you so hyperactive?” that he gets from people who don’t know him. Stiles, himself, is slightly taken aback when instead of this reaction, the man’s lips quirk up at the corner into an absolutely devastating smirk, which has Stiles’ breath catching in his throat for the second time in as many minutes.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the man quips, smirk transforming back in to the same shy half-smile as if he had suddenly realised that his expression had changed, “you’d better follow me then.”

With that, the man moves to walk past Stiles before entering the bookstore and Stiles definitely does not stare at his butt as he walks away. How dare you even suggest such a thing, you heathen. He does, however, glance up at the sign hanging outside the store. A large black paw print is painted upon a white surface, and a human hand print formed in negative white space within the paw, and the words “Brew Bear Books” arching over the claws at the top. Stiles smiled to himself, taking one final long breath before walking to the large black door and pushing it open with a faint *ding* overhead.

***

The sight that greets Stiles when he enters the bookstore is not what he expected from its outward appearance. The door is on the left side of the storefront, and from the moment Stiles steps through it all he can see was…well, books. To his left the whole wall of the store is made up of one large floor-to-ceiling bookcase and to his right shorter, shoulder-high bookcases make up a walkway that leads to a door on the far wall of the store. On the right side, a few metres in, there is a gap between the bookcases, and through it Stiles can see a few tables and chairs. The gap opens in to a large room, its walls lined with bookcases and Stiles steps into it, trying to take in his surroundings. Along the back wall stands the counter, a long bar with a few stools, a pastry display case and a large silver coffee machine. Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been happier to see a coffee machine in his life.

Just as Stiles opens his mouth to call out and see where the beautiful man has gone to, a head pops up from behind the counter. The woman who stands before him is terrifying. Beautiful, but terrifying. Her long, dark hair is scraped back in to a ponytail which only accentuates her high cheekbones and strong jawline. Even from where Stiles stands half way across the room he can easily see the mischief in her clear hazel eyes. Her full, red-painted lips are curled in to an almost predatory smile and Stiles can’t help but feel like a rabbit being watched by a wolf; wide-eyed and terrified.

“Well, hello there.” She speaks in a flirtatious, saccharine voice which Stiles can tell is not her usual tone. She rests her elbow on the counter, setting her head in the palm of her hand and leaning forward almost provocatively as she drags her eyes appraisingly up Stiles’ body, before narrowing her eyes slightly as if she were trying to figure something out. Stiles definitely feels like prey. He is abruptly ripped from his thoughts by a hurried thud-thud-thud, the unmistakable sound of someone running down stairs. The door in the back-right corner of the shop next to the counter swings open revealing a flight of stairs and the beautiful man from the street at the bottom of them looking just as terrified as Stiles feels. He gives Stiles a quick glance before turning to the woman behind the counter, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

“Laura,” the man exclaims with an air of nonchalance that Stiles can see straight through. His voice sounds strained, as if he were just as nervous as he looked; which, in the presence of the feral/beautiful woman – Laura – would not surprise Stiles in the slightest. “Thank you so much for covering for Erica. I can take over from here if you want to clock out, I’m sure you’re tired.” The man seems to be well practiced in avoiding Laura’s searching gaze. Her predatory smile only grows larger and toothier as she takes in the avoidant man in front of her, her eyes flicking momentarily towards Stiles before settling back on her co-worker.

“Wow, Derek! Speaking in whole sentences, not glaring, being pleasant, what’s gotten in to you I wonder?” As she speaks, her eyes flick once again towards Stiles, her stare lingering a little longer before looking back at her co-worker who is now, indeed, scowling angrily at her. The expression was gone almost as quickly as it appeared as the man’s eyes mirror the movement of Laura’s, his face softening whilst his eyes linger on Stiles.

Derek. Stiles juggles the name around in his mind for a moment before deciding that he likes the way that it sounded; he can definitely imagine moaning that loud and unashamedly. Wait, what? A blush begins to spread up Stiles’ neck and over his face at the thought he’d just had. Derek, however, takes in Stiles’ embarrassed expression and furrows his brow apologetically.

“Sorry,” he speaks so softly that Stiles is straining to hear him, “I’m Derek, and this is my sister, Laura. We own this place together.” Pride is rolling off Derek in waves, not smug or self-important, he just seems so pleased with this little slice of Stiles’ own personal heaven which he owned. Derek turns to his sister, saying, “Laura, this is –” he pauses, realising that he hasn’t actually asked the smaller man for his name yet.

“Stiles,” he supplies helpfully, offering a smirk at Laura’s slightly confused yet inquisitive expression. “It’s a nickname I got when I was a kid, my actual first name is Polish and it’s a mouthful. Kind of impossible to pronounce. Honestly, it’s my name and I’m not even sure I can say it right. Nobody uses it, not even my dad. Everybody calls me Stiles because my last name is Stilinski. Hell, every August since my freshman year of junior high I would hack in to the school’s registration system and change my name to Stiles.” He chuckles to himself at the memories, a wide grin splitting his face.

“Good times.” Stiles looks up to find Derek staring at him slightly slack-jawed, and Laura glancing at her brother with an amused smirk on her lips. He clears his throat roughly, his face dropping entirely and giving way to a sheepish, self-deprecating smile. “Uh – sorry. I tend to talk a lot. Bad habit,” he says, raising his hand to scratch the back of his neck nervously.

“Uh, n-no! No,” Derek flounders, eyes going wide, as if suddenly realising that he had been staring. “I didn’t mean to- I mean you just- Uhh…” Laura’s snort of laughter breaks both Stiles and Derek from their embarrassed musings.

“Derek isn’t really a talker,” Laura says, ignoring Derek’s embarrassed noise of protest, “he’s a growl-er. And a listener. You talk a lot. Derek likes people who talk a lot. It means he doesn’t have to talk as much,” she spoke in short, sharp sentences, as if he would be easily confused, before a wolfish smile spread across her red lips. “-and you, damn, you talk with your whole body, don’t you, honey?” She croons, giving Stiles another appreciative once-over.

“Laura,” Derek warns in a stern voice which totally did not turn Stiles on, not at all. “Don’t objectify the customers, its rude, creepy and unprofessional.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs, sounding very much like she had heard this speech before, “but just you wait until Erica meets him. There are going to be fights over this one,” she winks at Stiles who simply raises an eyebrow at her, but before Derek could protest, she speaks again, “anyway, I’m out. See you later baby brother. And Stiles, dear, feel free to drop by any time at all, like in the evenings when I’ll be here, alone.” With that, she grabs her jacket from behind the counter, breezing past Stiles and out the door.

Stiles is still staring at the space behind the counter where Laura had once stood. He knows that his mouth is slightly agape, and that his eyebrows are probably furrowed in to an expression of confusion mixed with fear. The sound of Derek awkwardly clearing his throat breaks Stiles from his stupor. He turns to see Derek awkwardly scratching the back of his neck, a blush tinting the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks with the most beautiful pink colour that Stiles has ever seen. Derek opens his mouth to speak and Stiles knows – he just knows – that he is about to apologise, but Stiles doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want Derek to be sorry for anything.

“Why do I get the feeling that I don’t really want to meet Erica?” Stiles says in a jovial tone. Derek’s eyes snap up to Stiles, who shoots him a coy grin in return. And then something beautiful happens. Derek laughs. His laugh doesn’t bark out like Stiles’ own does. It doesn’t continuously bubble away like his dad’s does. No. It’s a laugh like rain. It starts as a quiet huff of air that escalates to a warm, throaty chuckle before finally the heavens open and Derek is laughing loudly and with complete abandon. His head thrown back, his hand covering his eyes, and Stiles is drowning. He knows his own grin is probably manic-looking, but in that moment, he can’t really give a damn.

“So, how do you take your coffee?”

***

After Derek makes him a cup of (frankly, pretty amazing) coffee, Stiles slowly begins to feel more like a human being, and less like a zombie. With this newfound energy comes words, and lots of them. Stiles can’t help but feel relaxed around Derek, like he isn’t being judged for being nosey or loud or hyperactive. Stiles can’t help but feel like he wants to know all that he can about Derek.

“So, a coffee shop bookstore, huh? How’d you come in to owning a place like this, man, it’s awesome!” Stiles asks, eyes scanning the shelves around the room, one hand clutching his coffee and the other tracing over the spines of the books lining the case closest to the counter, a private smile adorning his face. If he were looking, Stiles would see Derek’s own lips curve in to a reverent smile as he watches Stiles.

“Thanks,” Derek huffs a laugh and Stiles turns away from the books to face him. “Uh, well, I got a degree in English Literature from NYU a few years back and I sorta freaked out when I left because I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I moved in with Laura, who was working as a lawyer at the time and got a job in the NYU library.”

“Oh my god I can’t imagine you as a librarian!” Stiles laughs out, “Please tell me you wore slacks and a cardigan. Oh, my god, do you wear glasses? That would be so adorable!” He rambles, watching as that beautiful blush once again works its way up Derek’s neck and on to his ears and cheeks. Stiles decides to change the subject. “Also, Laura as a lawyer? She seems like a sexual harassment lawsuit just waiting to happen.”

“Yeah, she’s loosened up a lot in the last few years. Sometimes I think a little too much.” Derek says, huffing that small laugh which has Stiles grinning. “Laura hated her job, always felt that she’d made a mistake, and I wasn’t much better, wallowing in my own misery with no idea what to do with my life.

“One day about three years ago we both had a day off at the same time, we got in to Laura’s car and just drove out of the city until we ran out of gas. Broke down in a small town outside the city limits and stopped in a little coffee shop there to wait for a tow truck, just people watching. It was a kinda beat up place, you know, mismatching furniture and old equipment, but everyone in there looked so happy. All the workers knew the clients by name, they were all regulars and everyone was smiling, like it was a home away from home. That’s when Laura and I decided to open a café.” Derek speaks softly, a wistful smile on his lips and Stiles finds that once again he cannot help but stare.

“Wow, man. That’s such a beautiful story, it sounds like something from a movie. Doesn’t explain the books, though.” Stiles knows there probably wasn’t more to it than just Derek having a love of books, having already said he worked in a library, but Stiles just doesn’t want Derek to stop talking.

“Ah, well, that’s a much longer story.” Derek still speaks softly, but his smile is now tinged with a sadness that Stiles can hardly bare. He decides that he never want to see Derek sad again. Nope, never.

“Hey, it’s okay, man. You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to, I’m pretty sure I can talk enough for the both of us. But, you know, I’ll definitely listen, if you want me to. Your sister said you’re a listener but, I’m sure that sometimes even listeners need someone to talk to. You know, someone who will, uh, listen.” Stiles knows he’s rambling again, but honestly, Derek gaping at him as he had the last time Stiles rambled would be a billion times better than Derek looking sad.

“No, no, it’s okay.” Derek says, his eyes flitting over Stiles’ face and his smile brightening slightly. “Laura’s always saying that I need to talk about it more.”

So, Derek talks, and Stiles listens.

***

Okay, so, Derek talks for a while and Stiles does listen, but once Derek is done with his story it turns in to more of a conversation. As it turns out, Derek and Laura’s parents died in a car accident when they were teenagers. Coming from a wealthy family, they inherited a bunch of money from insurance, as well as their family home which contained an extensive private library. When he and Laura decided to open the café, Derek concluded that embracing his love of literature and selling books from the private library would be a great way to attract more customers, and also to stay close to his parents who both loved books. So, they sorted through the collection and removed anything of sentimental value (story books their parents used to read them as kids, a first edition of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy that their mother had bought their father for an anniversary) before moving it all to their new café. Stiles thinks it’s beautiful, romantic and definitely does not sigh dreamily throughout Derek’s story.

Stiles can tell that talking about his parents is not easy for Derek, so he decides that the best thing would be to talk animatedly about himself, his friends and family until Derek forgets about his sadness and maybe smiles that beautiful smile again. So, Stiles talks. He talks about his dad the Sheriff, he talks about his best friend Scott, who’s mum Melissa is now with Stiles’ dad which is just so cool, Derek, it’s like were real brothers. He talks about his home town of Beacon Hills, and about his major in Criminal Justice and about his minor in Mythological Studies. He even talks about his own mom, who died when he was a kid. And Derek listens. Derek listens to every word, smiling, nodding and asking the occasional question, not at all looking at Stiles like he’s crazy or like he should shut up. Derek is unlike anyone Stiles has ever met before.

***

In theory, Stiles knows that he and Derek have been talking for quite a while. Their conversation has progressed from their favourite books to their favourite music and through some very odd transition on to their childhood pets. However, it still catches Stiles by surprise when he feels the warm rays of the morning sun warming the back of his neck through the café windows.

“Woah, dude, when did the sun come up?” Stiles says, bewildered after an anecdote about his childhood cat, Whiskers. Derek chuckles before answering.

“Over an hour ago, it’s almost 8am.” Derek says after checking the time, eyes wide in surprise as if he, too, had thought it was still much earlier.

“8am? Really? Already?” Stiles stammers out, because 8am seriously, he only had 4 hours before it was time, before his fate was decided and he wasn’t ready, he wasn’t, he wasn’t. Stiles can feel his chest tightening, his breath coming shallower and the lightheaded feeling he dreads seeping in.

“Stiles? Stiles!” He can vaguely hear Derek calling his name, but the sound was being drowned out by the rushing of blood in his ears, his heart hammering in his chest. Stiles can feel the tell-tale shaking in his hands, and then in his knees and oh, since when is he on the floor.

Before he can register what is happening, large, strong hands are manoeuvring him so that his back is propped up against a bookshelf. His head is swimming, large black spots dancing across his vision as he desperately tries to control his frantic breathing.

“Stiles. Hey, Stiles, you’re okay. That’s it, you’re okay. I’ve got you, you’re safe, everything is fine. Everything is okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” Derek. Stiles can hear Derek’s voice breaking through the rushing, can almost make out his blurry shape over him. He just keeps talking and talking, reassuring words in Stiles’ ears. Derek takes Stiles’ hand and presses the palm to his chest.

“Just breathe with me. That’s it. Good, come on, Stiles. You’re fine, I’ve got you, just breathe.” Stiles can hear the worry in Derek’s voice and wants so desperately to tell him that’s he would be fine, that he’s used to this, but he can’t find it in him to speak. In an attempt to communicate, he curls his trembling fingers in to Derek’s shirt, fisting it and squeezing tight to try and quell the shaking. Somehow, Derek seems to understand the signal.

“That’s it, good, good. Just breathe, Stiles. Please, please, just breathe.” Derek whispers, sounding rather breathless himself. He raises his hand and slides it along Stiles’ cheek, cupping his jaw and stroking with his thumb, attempting to calm the younger man. As soon as Stiles feels the warm, callused palm on his face he leans in to the comfort, closing his eyes and instantly feeling better. He’s still trembling like a leaf, but his breath is beginning to come easier. They stay like that for what could have been minutes or hours before Stiles feels able to speak.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles says, taking a breath, eyes still closed. “That must have been so-” Gasp. “-strange to see me just-” Pant. “-go off like that at nothing.” Swallow.

“Stiles, look at me,” Derek speaks softly, using the hand what was still on Stiles’ jaw to turn his face towards him, “Don’t you ever apologise for something like that. Ever. It’s not your fault, okay?” He waits for Stiles’ feeble nod before continuing. “I just wish that I could have been of more help. Let me go get you a glass of water.”

The moment Derek stands to go behind the counter Stiles misses his warmth. He takes a few moments to collect himself, closing his eyes and rubbing at them with still-trembling fingers, trying to breathe as steadily as possible to prevent a relapse. When Derek returns, he holds a tall glass of water, and it is only now that Stiles can truly make out Derek’s face. His chiselled features are contorted with concern, his brows pulled together in a distressed frown and his beautiful, captivating eyes are filled with so much worry that Stiles’ heart could break.

“Thanks,” Stiles says when Derek hands him the water, his voice rough and dry from his gasping breaths. “Thanks for everything. What you did right then – talking me down – that’s not an easy thing to do. Scotty and I have been best friends for two decades and even he struggles.” He continues, not quite finding it in himself to meet Derek’s worry-filled eyes again. “Uh, so, yeah. Thanks.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says softly, “any time.” And Stiles believes him. “Do you- Uh. Do you mind if I asked what triggered it? Did I say something wrong?” If Stiles thought that Derek’s voice was soft before, it was nothing compared to the way he speaks that final question. It is so soft that Stiles can barely register what it was Derek is saying, but when he does, his head shoots up to meet Derek’s apologetic gaze.

“NO! No, no, not at all, you’re amazing!” Stiles blurts in his hurry to reassure Derek. Stiles doesn’t wait to catalogue Derek’s reaction before attempting to distract him with more words. “I just didn’t realise that it was so late already and today is a really big day for me. Like, crazy big. I’ve been freaking out about it for weeks, hence the no sleep and the walking through an unfamiliar neighbourhood before sunrise. I guess when we were talking I actually relaxed for a while and kinda forgot all about it until I realised the time and then all the panic hit me at once. It happens, man, totally not your fault.”

“Oh…” Derek is silent for a moment. Stiles knows he’s probably just digesting the masses of information that had just been thrown at him, but the silence puts him on edge right up until he can visibly see the creases of worry smoothing from Derek’s face. The man smiles at Stiles, but the worry is still evident in his eyes as he offers Stiles his hand to help him stand. “What’s so important about today? Uh, if you don’t mind me asking.”

The expression on Derek’s face is so open, genuinely intrigued but still full of concern, and Stiles kind of wants to write poems about it. He takes Derek’s hand, using it to haul himself to his feet before plopping on to a stool by the counter. He valiantly ignores the hand that Derek places on the small of his back to help steady him and the waves of warmth that it sends spreading through his body.

“Well, I probably should have led with this really but, uh…” Stiles laughs nervously, running a hand through his hair. “I’m an author. More accurately, I’m trying to become an author. In case you didn’t notice I have some serious ADHD going on which, you know, can make concentrating in lectures pretty hard. I had a pretty bad habit of daydreaming in class because most of the time I’d already read the material and I didn’t need to hear the same thing again.

“One day I just decided to write it down, like, whatever my brain would dream up to occupy me. By the time I completed my degree I had finished drafts for 3 novels in a series and had 2 plots for sequels. I moved to NYC hoping to catch a break, sent my first book draft in to a publisher and they want to meet me today at 11 o’clock. Man, I’m terrified.”

Derek stands behind the counter patiently listening to Stiles recount the steps which brought him to where he is today. He nods, his eyes following the movement of Stiles’ hands as he speaks, a grin breaking out on his face when Stiles tells of the publishers’ interest in his book. Stiles himself still isn’t entirely sure that this is not a daydream itself. Publishers are interested in his writing. He has his own place in New York (granted, it was tiny and he can only afford it for another couple months if he doesn’t get this gig, but it’s still his). He met Derek. Derek who is beautiful, kind, intelligent, and just about everything Stiles had always wanted but had never dared to hope for.

“Stiles, that’s amazing!” Derek exclaims, grinning at Stiles. “The fact that they’ve even asked to meet with you shows that they’re really interested in your work, you should be proud of yourself.” He says, his voice and expression softening towards the end. “I’ve always wanted to write a book, but I don’t think I have the imagination for it. I love reading, though, more than anything. I always feel a bit sad saying ‘books are my life’, but it’s the truth.”

“Wow. Thanks, Derek. That really means a lot.” Stiles replies with a shy smile, scratching the back of his neck nervously. “I know how you feel, though, about books being your life. I swear more often than not I speak using quotes from my favourite books, just hoping that someone will understand the reference and we can be instant best friends.”

“’Friendship is born at the moment when one man says to another ‘What! You too? I thought that no one but myself’’.” Derek speaks with conviction, although his brow is furrowed as he tried to recollect the exact wording of the quote he once read.

“C. S. Lewis?” Stiles asks unsurely, although he is certain that he has read that before. Derek looks in to Stiles’ eyes across the counter, a wide grin breaking out on his face as he nods, and Stiles can’t help but grin equally wide in answer. They stand there for a fair few moments grinning at each other before Stiles remembers the time.

“Listen, Derek, thank you for everything. It’s been amazing meeting you and getting to know you but I think I really should be going. I need to try and find my way back to my apartment to get ready for my meeting, but I’ll definitely be back soon.” Stiles says, trying to convey his gratefulness to Derek, and get across the fact that he really wants to see Derek again soon. Derek’s smile begins to fall from his face as Stiles speaks, but he catches himself before it was gone.

“Where do you live? I could easily close up the shop for a little while to give you a ride home, especially seeing as you don’t know where you’re going.” Derek says with a hopeful tone to his voice, and Stiles simply won’t let himself try to analyse what that might mean. “I wouldn’t want you getting lost and being late for your meeting.”

“Yeah, man, that would be awesome! But only if you’re sure about closing the shop, I wouldn’t want you to lose any business.”

Derek waves Stiles off before coming out from behind the counter and heading back up the stairs, which Stiles assumes lead to his apartment. When Derek came back down he is clutching a set of keys and wearing the most sinful black leather jacket. Stiles has never thought himself much in to the whole black-leather-beardy-biker look but dang does Derek rock it.

“Ready?” Derek grins, and Stiles is helpless to do anything but nod and grin in return.

***

Derek leads Stiles out of the store and towards his car, locking the door behind him. The ride to Stiles’ apartment can’t have been much more than 10 minutes or so, and the silence is filled as Derek excitedly asks Stiles questions about the plot of his novel. Stiles tells Derek how almost all of the characters in the book are based upon his friends from his home town, with the main character being based upon Scott. He tells him how he once went searching for a dead body in the woods with Scott after hearing about it on his police scanner, yes, Derek, I have one, I like to know what’s going on, okay. He tells Derek how that night he had a really weird dream about Scotty being bitten in the woods and turning into a werewolf, then for some reason his brain decided that his Criminal Psych lecture would be the perfect time to remind him of this. Stiles rambles about how he basically rewrote his and Scott’s high school experience but with supernatural creatures and crazy bad guys.

Before Stiles knows it, they are outside his building, sat in the stationary car as he rants to Derek about how the first two books are really intense but they’re nothing, Derek, nothing compared to book three. Man, if it ever gets published the readers are going to hate me. I even hate myself a little, damn.

“I’m telling you, this meeting is going to be the start of really big things for you. I just know it.” Derek sounds so sincere when he speaks that Stiles can feel the blush creeping up his neck in response.

“Thank you, so much. And, thank you for the ride.” Stiles smiles at Derek from his seat in the car. Derek has a soft, genuine smile tugging at his lips and God, does Stiles want to kiss him. But, Stiles also feels that this, whatever this is he felt with Derek, is real, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to rush it. Stiles climbs out of the car, then leans back through the open door. “How about I come back to the store tomorrow? I’ll tell you all about how my meeting went, and you can make me some more of that life-saving coffee.”

The transformation in the expression on Derek’s face in that moment is something that Stiles thinks he has only ever read about in cheesy romance novels. Derek’s smile, once soft and small, breaks out in to a full grin, and Stiles is sure that the world just got 3 shades brighter.

“Promise?” Derek says, his voice lightly teasing, but his face still showing such unadulterated joy that Stiles can’t really care.

“Promise.”

***

Stiles keeps his promise. It’s almost midday before Stiles is able to drag himself out of his bed to shower, change and head to the bookstore. Don’t judge him, he had been awake for a seriously long time. The meeting had been amazing, and Stiles can’t wait to share it with Derek. After calling his dad and Scott the day before, Stiles had all but passed out from exhaustion, but from the moment he woke up all he could think about was going to see Derek.

The bell above the door sounds a now-familiar ding when Stiles enters the bookstore. He rounds the corner in to the café with an open grin on his face, he feels like he is practically buzzing with anticipation. His smile falls slightly when he looks towards the counter to see a pretty woman with long blonde curls. Definitely not Derek.

“Well, look what we have here,” she says as she unabashedly runs her eyes all over Stiles’ body, flicking her tongue across her teeth as she does so, looking as if she were going to eat him whole, “a new customer. I’m sure I would have remembered someone like you in a dump like this.”

She drags out her words in a sweet, seductive tone which kind of makes Stiles’ skin crawl. Her wolfish smile very much reminds him of Laura’s from the previous day, the same red-lipped grin with far too many teeth to be considered entirely non-threatening. Although, none of that really compares to the sting of righteous anger he feels at her final words.

“This place is not a dump!” Stiles hisses angrily. After hearing Derek speak yesterday, telling him the beautiful story of how this place came to be, of the love he has for the books and the happiness he has found in doing something he really loves, Stiles truly feels that comfort and hope exude from the shelves themselves. How dare she call this place a dump.

“I don’t mean to offend, sweet cheeks,” she says in that same saccharine voice, although Stiles got the impression that she doesn’t feel particularly sorry, “I’m obviously just not as in to books as you are. Although, if you like, I could tell you all about some other things I’m in to.”

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles blurts. He can tell he looks like a tomato and, honestly, he’s absolutely terrified of this woman. He just wants to see Derek and he does not want to know what she’s in to. Stiles looks at her, waiting for her reply before he sees a small flash of – recognition? Realisation? – cross her face.

“Derek, huh?” she says, her eyes once again running over Stiles’ form. “I’ll get right on that for you.” She opens the door leading to the staircase, but before she ascends she turned to face Stiles once again. “What did you say your name was, sweet cheeks?”

“I didn’t. It’s Stiles.” he says sheepishly. She gives him another frightening grin before bounding up the stairs.

***

“Stiles!” Derek exclaims when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, a grin tugging at his lips. The blonde girl follows him in shortly after, a smug expression on her face as her eyes flick between the two of them with obvious interest.

“Well, Der, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend here? He really is just as delicious as Laura told me.” That feral grin once again spreads across her lips, and Stiles once again finds himself feeling like prey.

“Erica,” Derek admonishes sternly, his eyebrows dropped in to an angry-looking glare, “why don’t you take your break now? I don’t need you accosting my customers, it’s bad for business, not to mention rude as hell.”

“Yes, Boss.” She speaks cheerfully as she grabbed her jacket from behind the counter. “See you soon, sweet cheeks.”

The use of the nickname makes Stiles shudder as she breezes past him and out of the store. Stiles looks at Derek, who’s expression has dramatically softened. He looks just as breathtakingly beautiful as he had the day before in a soft looking maroon sweater and blue jeans.

“How did I know I wasn’t going to enjoy meeting Erica?” Stiles says with a cheeky smirk. Derek laughed in reply, just as open and unabashed as he had the day before causing Stiles to smile wider. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Derek says softly, almost reverently as he grins at Stiles. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

Derek turns to the coffee maker and starts preparing Stiles’ drink. Stiles can’t help but watch the play of muscles in Derek’s arms and back as me moves, the concentration on his face, the way the artificial light in the store illuminates his kaleidoscope eyes. In those minutes of awed silence, filled only by the noise of the coffee machine, Stiles could easily believe that they are the only people on the planet. He is broken from his reverie when Derek places his coffee on the counter before him.

“So, how was your meeting? Sit, tell me all about it. I’ve been dying to know how it went as soon as I dropped you off yesterday.” The excitement in Derek’s voice is palpable and Stiles has practically forgotten why he had come today other than to see Derek. It seems that Stiles being distracted by Derek may become a regular occurrence.

“Oh, yes! Derek, it was amazing!” Stiles tells Derek how the publisher was this crazy looking guy with dark hair which stood on end, sticking in every direction. His name was Finstock, and he gushed about how much he just loved Stiles’ book. Stiles tells Derek how they had given him a cheque just to “help with his creative process”, which was enough money to cover his rent for over a year.

“They’ve given me back a copy of the transcript with the editors’ notes, so I need to go back through and make some changes, but they want it to be ready for publication soon so that they can have it ready for a Christmas release. How crazy is that, Derek? Me, an actual published author? Things are really starting to go my way,” Stiles says, his long fingers curled around his coffee mug. His eyes sparkle and a more private smile tugs at his lips as he looks into his cup.

“Congratulations, Stiles, that’s fantastic! Your friends and family must be so proud. Hell, I know I’m proud of you,” Derek replies. The joy on Derek’s face and the elation in his voice send a tingle shooting down Stiles’ spine. It isn’t arousal, or anything close, but the unadulterated feeling of being truly appreciated by someone you care about.

“You talk about them as if you aren’t already one of them,” Stiles says softly, a crooked smile on his lips.

“I am?” Derek practically whispers, his soft voice breathy and quiet.

“Of course,” Stiles replies, looking up through his lashes to meet Derek’s gaze, “I’m pretty sure that if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have even made it to that meeting yesterday. Hell, you talked me down from a panic attack, I’ve known people my whole life who can’t do that.”

Derek’s smile only grows. “'It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone- '”

“’Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others’,” Stiles finishes. “Jane Austen, one of my favourites.”

“Mine, too,” Derek grins.

***

Stiles ends up going to the bookstore a lot in the next few weeks. The way he sees it, sitting alone in his apartment trying to edit this manuscript is not going to be productive. He’ll work in a haze of sub-par instant coffee, Reese’s peanut butter cups and minimal human interaction until either the manuscript is finished, or he passes out from exhaustion. Unhealthy. Going to the bookshop, he can get good coffee, more substantial food, and human interaction. Oh, and the staff won’t let him pass out on their floor. And, maybe, if he visits every day, and the visits have less to do with his health and more to do with the absolutely stunning man who owns the place, well, he can deny that’s why he’s there because he has real reasons, too, goddamn it.

Every single morning, Stiles turns up at the shop, tired and in need of caffeine, to see a smiling Derek behind the counter already making his coffee just the way he likes it. Some part of him thinks that life can’t really get much better than it is at the moment.

“So, when can I read it?” Derek asks as he leans over the counter to place Stiles’ coffee next to his open laptop.

“When it’s finished,” Stiles replies, a teasing smirk on his lips and his eyes trained stubbornly on his screen.

“You always say that,” Derek huffs, turning his back to make Stiles’ breakfast pancakes.

“That’s because you always ask. Like, every day,” Stiles grinned, looking up to watch Derek work. Yes, he thinks, life can’t get much better than this.

***

“Dereeeeekkkkk,” Stiles whines.

“Yes, Stiles?” Derek replies, looking up from his book to glance at Stiles over the rims of his glasses. The image totally doesn’t make Stiles want to kiss him stupid.

“I’m huuungrrrrry, make me some foooood, pleeeeease,” Stiles continues to whine, leaning his head on the counter next to his laptop and looking up at Derek sideways.

“I swear there is a black hole in your stomach,” Laura titters from somewhere behind him where she is organising a shelf of new arrivals.

“I made you breakfast not two hours ago. How the hell are you hungry? It’s not even lunchtime,” Derek laughs to himself, putting his bookmark in place so he can start making Stiles food.

“Please, Derek. ‘Time is an illusion. Lunchtime, doubly so’,” Stiles replies, watching Derek’s face with keen eyes for any sign of recognition. What he receives is even more than he had hoped for.

Derek looks up at him slightly startled, before that beautiful huff of air passes through his lips as he starts to laugh. After learning it was Derek’s father’s favourite book, Stiles got himself a copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy so that they could talk about it together. It was one of those terrifying moments of clarity, when Stiles realised just how gone he is on this gorgeous man who likes books better than people, (wrongly) thinks that the Dodgers are better than the Mets, and has a laugh like rain.

“Oh, God,” Laura bemoans, “Der, you can stop laughing now, just imagine what it’s doing to his ego.”

“Hey!” Stiles protests, smiling wickedly to himself before continuing, “’If there's anything more important than my ego around, I want it caught and shot now.’”

Derek’s laughter only increases, his chuckles getting louder until he’s laughing loudly, head tilted back. Stiles mentally pats himself on the back for making Derek laugh like this once again. He feels just as awe struck as the first time, his insides lighting up at the sight of Derek looking so happy.

“Oh, jeez, have you broken him?” Laura questions, a smile on her lips as she watches Derek laugh, “Der, are you okay?”

“’Don’t Panic’, Laura,” Stiles says, eyes still on Derek despite addressing Laura, “He looks pretty happy to me.”

Derek’s laughter has evolved one again. He is clutching his stomach, one hand supporting himself on the counter, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to breathe between chuckles.

“Yeah, he does,” Laura replies, eyeing Stiles, although he does not see it.

***

“Don’t forget the whole milk!” Laura calls to Derek as he pulls on his leather jacket.

“I won’t,” he replies, “be back in 20!”

“’So long, and thanks for all the fish!’,” Stiles shouts, and is rewarded with the sound of Derek’s laughter before the bell signals his exit from the shop.

“So, mind telling me what the hell that was all about?” Laura said, her tone inquisitive but not angry.

“Oh, uh,” Stiles began, “They were quotes from the book The Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy-”

“I know what they were,” Laura interrupts, “how did you know?”

“Uh, I know that it was your dad’s favourite, and that he used to make jokes from it all the time, so I got a copy and-”

“You read it so that you could make Derek laugh,” Laura finishes for him, a sad smile curving her always-red lips, “how did you know about Dad?”

“Derek told me, once,” Stiles replies, voice low, feeling the grief Laura is exuding.

“What?” Laura says, her voice getting louder and he lifts her head to look at Stiles, eyes wide when she continues, “Wait, Derek told you? He talked to you about our parents? When?”

“Uh, he told me the hitchhikers thing a few weeks ago, not long after we met. But, yeah, he talks about them every so often. Why? Should he- uh, is that not something he should have told me about?” Stiles asks tentatively, worried that Laura is upset, that maybe he’s done something wrong, shouldn’t have tried to bring up the lost memories of their parents.

“No! No, no, Stiles, you’ve got it all wrong,” Laura rambles excitedly, a joyful smile gracing her lips, looking much more puppy than hungry wolf, “this is brilliant! Derek, he doesn’t… He doesn’t talk about our parents, has never been able to, ever since…”

The accident, Stiles’ brain supplies.

“It hit him really hard when we lost Mom and Dad,” Laura sighs, before continuing, “He was getting help for a really long time, but in the end, he just sort of… withdrew in to his books. In stories, good always triumphs over evil, love conquers all, and there is always a happy ending.”

“I wish life were like that,” Stiles mutters to himself, thinking somewhat of his own mother, as well as the tragedies that have befallen Derek and his family.

“So does Derek,” Laura replies. At that, Stiles looks up at her, seeing the conflict of her face before it settles in to something like determination.

“You know, Derek doesn’t talk to people, he’s a very lonely person. He has me, because I’m his sister, he has Erica, because she works here and now, he has you. Derek doesn’t date, either. Never has,” she says, looking up briefly to see Stiles’ fallen face before quickly beginning again, “What I mean to say is, when it comes to matters of the heart, Derek has very high expectations.”

“What does that mean?” Stiles asks, brow furrowed, attention solely on Laura and not on the words lining the screen in front of him.

“All Derek has ever wanted is to be as happy as our parents were,” Laura speaks softly now, Stiles straining to hear her words, “when we opened this place, he was so much better, brighter, I thought that we had finally done it. But, Derek has still been waiting for what our parents had, for the one thing every good story has. True love. I don’t think he’ll ever really be happy until he thinks he’s found it.”

Stiles’ breath hitches at that. Derek believes in true love. Every dream Stiles has ever had for his future contained an unknown someone who he would spend the rest of his days with, happy, together. Now, all Stiles can think of is Derek.

“’You will never be happy if you continue to search for what happiness consists of. You will never live if you are looking for the meaning of life’,” Stiles quotes.

“What?” Laura says, tilting her head in confusion.

“It’s Camus,” Stiles replies.

“Oh, God, you are perfect for him,” Laura moans, before her voice softens once again, “I’ve never seen him as happy as he is when you are around. So, I have one final question for you, Stiles. What do you think of true love?”

Silence.

“I think it might look like Derek.”

***

With the new knowledge that he’s kind of in love with Derek, Stiles spends the next couple of weeks sat in the store editing his manuscript, and trying to psych himself up enough to ask Derek out, or make a move. Something. Anything.

Before he knows it, his manuscript is complete. Done, finished, sent off to be printed and sold in bookshops across the world. Huh. Funny, how quickly you can finish something when you use it as a means to procrastinate doing something else. The first thing Stiles does, once he has sent the manuscript to Finstock, is print off a copy and head straight to the store for breakfast.

As soon as he steps inside, he knows that something is wrong. The air feels wrong, thick and cloying. When he opens the door, the sound of the bell does not sound as joyful as it usually does, but instead it cuts through the eerie silence like a knife, jarring and harsh.

When he gets to the counter, he is met by a sullen-faced Laura, devoid of her ever-present crimson snarl, looking tired and haggard, dark rings circling her eyes. Stiles opens his mouth to ask one of the many questions on the tip of his tongue, like what happened or are you okay or where is Derek. But, before he has the chance to say anything, Laura has already rounded the counter and wrapped her thin arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest.

Stiles stills for a moment, before circling her small frame and rubbing his hand up and down the length of her back soothingly.

“It’s the anniversary today,” she says in a small voice, “of the accident.”

Oh.

Once again, before Stiles has a chance to form any words, Laura is pulling away from him and heading towards to door beside the counter. She opens it to reveal the staircase behind, before turning back to face Stiles.

“Second door on the right,” she says, gesturing to the staircase, “Go to him. Please.”

All Stiles can do is spare her a sympathetic smile and a brief nod before he is all but sprinting up the steps towards Derek.

***

The door to the room is closed when Stiles reaches it, the warm wooden panels blocking him from where he truly wants- no, needs to be. He raises his fist to knock, pausing for a moment to collect himself before rapping his knuckles against the wood.

Silence is all that meets him.

The worry that has been building in the pit of Stiles’ stomach since he noticed Derek’s absence begins building further. Is he okay? Please say he’s okay. He knocks again, much more frantically than before.

“Go away, Laura,” comes a quiet voice from inside the room. Derek sounds so small and tired; Stiles just wants to hold him and take it all away.

“Der?” Stiles calls, surprised at how choked up and horse his voice sounds to his own ears. Although, considering how worried and tense he feels right now, he probably shouldn’t be so surprised.

A shuffling sound can be heard from inside the room before the door creaks open. “Stiles?”

The Derek stood before him is unlike any Derek that Stiles has ever seen. He’s barefooted, wearing loose basketball shorts and a white vest underneath a fluffy grey bathrobe. His hair is sticking up at odd angles and Stiles really wants to run his fingers through it. He looks kind of adorable. But, as always, it’s not Derek’s appearance which causes a tightness in Stiles’ chest. It’s his eyes. Bloodshot, red and swollen. The beautiful, impossible colour of Derek’s eyes looks almost dull and lifeless, and Stiles just can’t let that happen, nope, no way.

“Stiles, I’m sorry, you can’t be here, you can’t see me like this. You weren’t supposed to- I didn’t want to look like-” Derek rambles, looking tired, and almost scared, as if he were worried that Stiles would ever want to leave him. He begins back-stepping as he talks, trying to hide himself behind the door and out of Stiles’ view.

Stiles watches Derek stumble over his words, holding his breath, holding himself back until Derek’s words run out and he slumps behind the door, looking so small and weak, almost out of view. It doesn’t take much for Stiles to pitch forwards into the room, push the door open and engulf Derek in his arms, squeezing the other man tightly around the shoulders.

Derek’s breathing is shaky, and Stiles knows the beginning of a panic attack when he hears one. He holds still with his arms around Derek, and decides to do what he does best. He talks.

“Hey,” Stiles begins, “I’m not going anywhere. I know what today is, Derek, I’m up here because I want to be. I don’t care what you look like, I don’t care if you don’t want to talk to me, what I do care about is you.”

Derek stills for a moment in the embrace, before wrapping his strong arms around Stiles’ waist and turning his head to press his face in to the crook of Stiles’ neck. He feels Derek sobbing before he hears it, small, sad huffs of air as Derek cries in to the skin of Stiles’ throat. He can feel the tears soaking the neck of his shirt, but he can’t find it in himself to care even a little.

“Shhh,” Stiles coos softly, “It’s okay, I’m here, I’ve got you. You don’t ever have to hide yourself from me, Der, not ever. Just let it out, big guy. That’s it, you’re doing so good. You’re okay, everything’s okay.”

Stiles keeps muttering encouragements softly in to Derek’s hair until the sobbing subsides. Stiles can feel the weight of Derek in his arms getting heavier as exhaustion starts to take hold of the bigger man.

“Hey, Der, do you wanna lie down, maybe?” Stiles says softly, pulling back from the embrace slightly so that he can see Derek properly.

Derek avoids Stiles’ eyes, opting to look down at where their torsos are still touching before nodding slowly and turning to flop down on the bed, curling himself up in to the foetal position but not yet pulling up the blankets.

“Uh.. Did you wanna- Did you want me to leave?” Stiles stumbles, stood at the side of the bed throwing his hands around. He doesn’t want to leave Derek, but he doesn’t want to make Derek uncomfortable, either.

Rather than responding, Derek looks up at Stiles very briefly, still managing to pull off his are you stupid look through the swollen, red eyes. He reaches for Stiles’ hand before pulling him down on to the mattress behind him. Stiles flails gracelessly as he lands on the mattress before strong hands are pulling him up by his arm and folding him around Derek’s back.

Stiles is spooning Derek. He takes a moment to let that sink in, the warmth of Derek pushed against him, before the silence becomes too much for him and he has to break it.

“What do you want me to do? I’ll do whatever you think will make you feel better,” Stiles whispers, and he means every word of it.

“Talk,” Derek replies, his is voice rough and quiet, but Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever been happier to hear one word.

***

Stiles talks. No change there. For the next few hours, he talks about the news, and the book that he just finished which you should really read, Der, it’s got dragons and everything. He eventually gets around to telling Derek that he finished his manuscript, and obliges to read the first few chapters aloud but no, Der, you’re not keeping this copy, you get the first edition instead. Promise.

Derek remains silent throughout, although he listens. Stiles is sure of this, because whenever he looks to Derek for a response, he nods, and he pulls on Stiles arm when he wants him to carry on reading, and, well, that’s more than enough for Stiles to understand he should keep talking.

***

After a few hours, despite Derek’s head shaking that no, he’s not hungry, Stiles goes down and gets a couple of sandwiches from Laura, who looked surprised in a pleased sort of way.

Stiles is propped up with his back against the headboard whilst he eats, and is quite happy when Derek makes it half way through his sandwich before he stops. Derek slides down the mattress and curls back up in to his little ball, before resting his head on Stiles’ thigh. Stiles resists the urge to card his fingers through Derek’s hair, but only barely.

“I miss them,” Derek says after a little while, so quietly that Stiles almost misses it.

“I know,” he replies, giving in to temptation and pushing his fingers through the wayward locks of Derek’s hair.

“Why did you stay? I’m such a cold person, and you’re so, so warm.” Derek mumbles, pushing his cheek further in to Stiles’ thigh.

“You know, it was once written that ‘Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad’. I don’t think you’re cold, Derek. I think you’ve been through a lot, and you’re sad, and I’d really like to change that.”

“I’m not just sad, Stiles. I’m broken.” Derek says, his voice cracking slightly on the last word.

“We’re all a little broken, Der. But that's okay. It doesn’t make me care about you any less.”

They lay in silence for a few minutes, Stiles softly carding his fingers through Derek’s hair until Derek speaks up.

“Hey, Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Was that Emerson?”

“Longfellow.”

“Damn.”

***

Stiles eventually gets kicked out of the apartment by Laura after her shift has ended, saying that she needs some family time with her little brother which, okay, fair enough. Derek doesn’t seem very happy to see Stiles go, and holds him for a full five minutes, pouting in the doorway of the apartment until Stiles promises to come back tomorrow.

Erica seems surprised when she sees Stiles leaving the apartment, but it says a lot that she neglects to comment on the situation any more than to bid Stiles farewell on his way out of the store.

***

When Stiles returns the next day, everything feels relatively normal again. He walks in to the main café and Derek is behind the counter, looking better, if not a little tired. He smiles warmly at Stiles before turning his back and starting to make Stiles’ coffee, just the way he likes it, just like normal. It feels strange, almost surreal, that Stiles is able to walk in here today and resume the same easy banter that he and Derek have always had. For all intents and purposes, the day is entirely normal (bar the extra shot of syrup in Stiles’ coffee) right up until the point the Stiles leaves.

Derek comes jogging out of the store behind Stiles, who stops on the pavement waiting for Derek to catch up. It occurs to Stiles that this is the spot where they first met.

“Hey, Stiles, um, I just wanted to say thank you for yesterday. You really helped me a lot and you’re- Um, it was really- Uh, yeah. Thanks,” Derek stutters out, rubbing the back of his neck shyly and looking all together quite nervous.

Stiles takes in his disheveled expression for a moment, before saying “Always,” and kissing Derek lightly on the cheek.

Stiles watches for a moment as a blush spreads beautifully across Derek’s cheekbones to his ears, before turning on his heel and making to walk away.

“Was that a Harry Potter reference?” he hears from behind him.

“Obviously,” Stiles responds, laughing to himself as he continues to walk home.

***

The days pass quickly. Stiles still goes to the store every day, even though he no longer has any work to do, and the days are still as perfect as ever. With every visit that passes, Stiles falls more in love with Derek, until it finally arrives, what he’s been waiting for. Weeks before it will hit the shelves, the first edition of Stiles’ novel arrives in the post.

Stiles’ first reaction is to sprint to the store. He rips open the door, sending the bell in to a frenzy of clanging, surely alerting anyone in the store to his presence. He bursts in to the main café to see Laura behind the counter cleaning mugs, and Derek facing him, clutching a rag between his fingers from where he’d been wiping down the tables.

“Stiles! Is everything okay?” Derek asks, the worry evident on his face, making his brow furrow.

“Yes, yeah, everything is fine! Uh, the first edition of my book arrived, and I promised I’d give it to you so, uh, I want you to look at it, but first I’ve got a few things that I really want to say to you,” Stiles pauses, taking a deep breath and trying not to panic, before looking up to meet Derek’s eyes before speaking once more.

“Before we met, I’d never read The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. When you talked about how much you love it, I bought a copy from Erica, and read it so that I could talk to you about it. Neither my best friend, nor my own father are able to talk me down from a panic attack, which is something that you managed to master on the first day we met. I��ve never been able to sleep anywhere without my pillow before, until I fell asleep in your bed, with you in my arms. Um, you once told me that you’re broken, and, well, ‘It is only with true love and compassion that we can begin to mend what is broken in the world. It is these two blessed things that can begin to heal all broken hearts.’ God knows, I’m never going to stop trying.”

Stiles breaks his gaze from Derek’s now-watery eyes to turn to the first page of his book, and holds it out to Derek, who takes it from Stiles with shaking hands. Derek’s eyes skim the text quickly, before flicking up to Stiles, and then back down to the book. What happens next is a flurry of movement as the first tear rolls down Derek’s cheek, he drops the book to the ground, stepping over the discarded novel to cradle Stiles’ face between his large hands and pull him in to the best kiss of his life.

Derek’s lips are soft and warm, and better than Stiles could have ever imagined. Derek’s arms curl around his neck as his own snake around Derek’s waist, holding them together until he has to pull back for breath, but not far, still close enough to rest his forehead against Derek’s.

“God, I love you,” Derek murmurs against Stiles’ lips before capturing them again.

“OH MY GOD, DID HE JUST SAY THAT,” Laura squeals excitedly from behind the counter, “what the hell did it say?!”

“In case it wasn’t clear, the feeling is very much mutual, big guy,” Stiles speaks in to Derek’s cheek, surrounded by their own little bubble of StilesandDerek, oblivious to Laura scurrying around behind them.

Picking the book up from the floor, Laura turns to the first page and reads;

For my mom, may she rest in peace.

For my dad, for never giving up on me.

For Derek, for teaching me that it’s okay to be

a little broken, that it’s okay to be different.

Mostly, for showing me that true love

does exist outside of story books.