#because one of the three should have it right. they can’t all be incapable. but IDK.

[eye-of-yelough]

help. too many thoughts . brain uncooperative

[tapwater-made-everyone-gay]

!!!SPOILERS FOR THOSE WHO HAVEN’T LISTENED TO THE VENGEANCE SAGA OF EPIC THE MUSICAL!!!

I find it really interesting that people are so upset about the Poseidon loss, using “it’s weird that a mortal beat a god” when the whole thing with gods in Greek mythology is that they’re parallels to humans. That’s why they have emotions, human anatomy, feel pain, and bleed (even if it is ichor that comes out). There are multiple cases of gods being beaten by humans, primarily demigods, but still humans—MORTALS. What makes them so powerful is their domain. Take that away? They’re practically powerless.

Poseidon is shown to be arrogant, claiming that the only reason he’s still hunting Odysseus (DESPITE killing his men, teaching his lesson, and even likely knowing about the brutal siren deaths) is because “the top dog can’t be seen letting his prey go. How else can I send the message that I’m a big dog? It’ll ruin my reputation!” He’s a cocky bastard, playing with his prey, telling Odysseus to get in the water because it’s more entertaining to him than just getting his revenge and killing him then and there. He talks like he’s never felt pain in his life and doesn’t think he ever will because “the top dog is untouchable”.

But he forgets that he needs his domain, needs his range to keep himself from losing. When Odysseus pulls the same trick with the wind bag (which he should’ve seen coming), he isn’t ready, because he’s never had to fight that fight. Odysseus has, and he has the anger to push himself farther. The god gets downed (which has happened many times with many gods as discussed earlier), and he still acts cocky. Odysseus opened the bag. He can’t leave. But that knowledge—knowledge that he’s stuck here and will eventually die anyway—allows Odysseus to make his decision. He can hurt Poseidon for as long as he’s capable of, make him suffer just as much because, hey, he’s going to die anyway, right?

Now, Poseidon has an out. He can get rid of the storm before Odysseus even lays a hand on him, let him go home, and flood Ithaca like planned. But he doesn’t, because he’s so in his own head that he doesn’t realize the position he’s in. And then Odysseus makes the first stab, and then the other. It hurts, even more because, like I said, Poseidon has probably never felt this pain before. And Odysseus doesn’t plan on stopping, not until Poseidon calls off the storm. He’ll go until his arms stop working, and if Poseidon hadn’t given in, he probably would’ve.

Poseidon can’t stop him either because the wounds are made before the others can heal. Does this punishment seem familiar? It should, because it’s the exact same one given to Prometheus by Zeus. Truthfully, it’s a punishment made for a god.

I should probably stop here because this has gone on way too long, but I do understand why some people might think it’s weird. We’re raised to believe that any god is untouchable, that they’re all-powerful and incapable of harm, especially at human hands. But that’s not Greek mythology. Gods aren’t capable of death, but they are capable of suffering, and a lot of them do. Just because the one suffering this time is one of the “big three” doesn’t mean it’s unrealistic.

Epic’s message isn’t the same as the original, and it never has been. It’s about what you’re willing to sacrifice, how far you’re willing to go for your own gain, and what the repercussions are when you do. Poseidon really kick started that message hard, and I think it’s poetic that it ends with him facing the outcome of that message himself.

Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves, but it’s not the same being on the receiving end, is it?

[suzukiblu]

. . . so like, no PROMISES for doing the whole month, buuuuut . . . day one of “Kon meets pink kryptonite and decides to fuck Tim and his boyfriend about it” behind the cut. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Oh, should I? In all the spare space I’ve got in here?” Tim asks, still sounding wry. 

“Buy a bigger boat, babe, I don’t know what to tell you,” Bernard says reasonably. “How’re we gonna keep a kept boy without a bigger boat, huh? You want a big pet around, you gotta have a big space for him. Let him really stretch his legs, you know? Or spread ‘em, whichever.’ 

Kon buries another laugh in his arms and Tim rolls his eyes, smiling fondly. Jokes aside, they really are crammed in pretty tight on the bed–it is just not that big a bed to be fitting three people in–but Kon minds literally nothing about that. Not even a little bit does he mind that, in fact.

He likes it, more like. Likes being all up in someone else’s space even without anyone actually fucking each other or even making out or like–just, anything, he guesses. He doesn’t get to do that often enough, it always feels like. Everybody’s always–busy, or moving, or . . . 

He just wants to, like . . . get to do this kind of thing more often, he guesses. 

Doesn’t hurt that it’s Tim whose space he’s currently all up in, either. Like–he has definitely not gotten to be all up in Tim’s space too many times that weren’t directly related to one of them saving each other’s ass in a crisis situation. Or, like, occasionally being transportation to a crisis situation; that has also been a thing more than once. 

. . . actually, fuck, thinking too much about being Tim’s usual designated transportation or just being all shoved up in each other’s space while the world was trying to end while he’s gay is not something he’s gonna be able to be normal about, huh. 

Like . . . wow, yeah. Not even a little bit normal. 

Jesus. 

“Oh, I see, so this is just another excuse to try and get me to trade in my perfectly sound and perfectly outfitted boat,” Tim says, which sort of distracts Kon from his own personal Chernobyl: Horny Edition. Like, kind of, anyway. “Is there literally anything that we have not managed to do in this bed? Genuinely, please tell me what position you have in mind, I’m honestly curious.” 

“Well, what about letting your boy sleep at the foot of the bed?” Bernard asks even more reasonably, which actually just made Chernobyl: Horny Edition like, twelve billion times worse, probably. Just–Jesus, again. “You think you’ve got the real estate for that on this mattress? No you do not, because you’ve failed to plan ahead and you should be ashamed.” 

“Yeah, Rob, shouldn’t you have a Bat-contingency plan for that?” Kon teases past more laughter, and Tim sighs. 

“You know, I did worry if you’d get along with each other or not, but I think it’s worse that you do get along with each other,” he muses, picking a peach slice up off the plate in his lap and eyeing it assessingly, because Tim is literally incapable of not assessing things, apparently, boyfriend-delivered breakfast or otherwise. “Actually, no, it’s worse that you encourage each other.” 

“I’m a very encouraging person, man, what can I say?” Kon says, flashing him a sharp grin. Tim rolls his eyes again, but with that little fond smile again, and Kon feels warm and heady and a little bit desperate to get his mouth on his cock again or, like–get kissed again, maybe. 

It’s maybe a little stupid, how he can’t really tell the difference between those things. Like–which one he really wants, he means. But like, in his defense, he is still experiencing his own personal Chernobyl right now and he’s just doing his best with the resources he’s got available, okay? 

“Oh absolutely, yes, I’m always so encouraged in your presence,” Tim says wryly. Kon grins at him, then sticks his tongue out at him instead. Tim drops the peach slice on his tongue like a weirdo, and Kon represses another laugh and pulls it into his mouth. What, it tastes good. And it’s not any weirder than getting hand-fed a protein bar was, either way. 

Well–maybe still a little weird, but whatever. 

Tim picks up a piece of waffle–Bernard cut them up in quarters, Kon guesses–and holds that out to him, and that . . . Kon hesitates a bit over that, because . . . 

“Sorry,” Tim says. “Don’t want it to get cold.” 

“That’s, like–your plate, man,” Kon says, his face feeling a little hot as he flicks his eyes up from the offered waffle chunk to glance at Tim’s face, because for some ridiculous reason his brain’s gotten stuck on that over a waffle, even after not really thinking of it with just the peach. Though that seemed . . . less deliberate, maybe, so . . . 

“No it’s not,” Bernard replies matter-of-factly, shaking his head as he picks up a banana slice off his own plate and pops it into his mouth. “Tim’s plate has way fewer waffles on it and blueberries instead of peaches. Also oh my god, Tim, don’t feed your boy dry-ass waffle with nothing on it. There’s whipped cream and caramel sauce over here, you want any, Kon? Also butter, if you’re feeling basic. I won’t judge, sometimes the vibe is just butter.” 

Kon takes a long moment to process the fact that Bernard put the plate he made for him on Tim’s lap, and also that Bernard went to the effort to make his plate different, for like . . . whatever reason. 

“. . . um. Caramel, if that’s cool,” he answers, a little belated, and wondering if Tim, like–told Bernard he likes peaches, or . . . well, he’s pretty sure peaches and caramel sauce are not standard waffle toppings, or at least not standard in most people’s usual breakfast setups, so like . . . “Uh–thanks.” 

“Gotcha, man,” Bernard says easily, reaching over to the tray and coming back with, weirdly, like a little, like–carafe, or whatever? pitcher? like the kind of thing people put coffee creamer in, except just full of caramel instead–and passing it to Tim. 

Which . . . okay, low-key weird that Bernard felt the need to pour out the sauce bottle into a fancy little pitcher, but Kon isn’t gonna lie, he’s a little charmed by it. Like, it’s just a funny little quirk, but . . . 

“You’re so fucking cute, man,” he says, laughing again and then grinning at Bernard in amusement. “Like, A+ hosting, don’t get me wrong, totally killer hospitality, but I wasn’t gonna knock down Tim’s Yelp rating if the bottle was sticky or whatever.” 

“Huh?” Bernard asks, wrinkling his nose with a puzzled expression, then seems to realize something and clarifies–“Oh, no, Tim only has the shitty cheap syrup that makes a shell when you put it on ice cream or whatever, I wasn’t gonna put that on waffles, I just made my own.” 

“You made it?” Kon says in bemusement, a little startled by the idea. That’s like–a thing? “Like–what, from scratch?” 

“Yeah, Tim said you liked caramel but again, the only caramel he had on deck was shitty cheap stuff,” Bernard replies with a shrug as Tim pours some sauce onto–Kon’s plate, apparently–and swipes the waffle quarter he’s holding through it. “Personally I’m more the whipped cream type but like, caramel is way less annoying to make from scratch when you don’t have a stand mixer, which your bestie continues to refuse to invest in because of some nonsense about ‘limited counter space’. So like, normally he whips the cream, because it’s his fault I gotta do it by hand anyway and also, you know, he’s got all those sexy, cream-whipping vigilante muscles that I was pretending not to notice but was not above taking advantage of. But we didn’t want you to come up without somebody around, so today my arm is sore, fuck you, babe, buy at least a hand mixer already.” 

Kon . . . blinks, once or twice, and feels–weird, maybe, because that rattled-off chatter makes it sound like . . . like Bernard made that sauce, like–specifically for him? Like . . . just because of him? 

Did he? 

[whoo0isthatgrl]

The studio was quiet except for the soft hum of the speakers and the occasional click of your mouse as you worked through the mix. Law sat behind you, half-slouched on the worn leather couch with a drink in hand, watching you like he had something to say.

And, of course, he did.

“You know, if you actually balanced the reverb properly, it wouldn’t sound like shit,” he muttered, tilting his head.

Your jaw clenched. “I literally just started adjusting it.”

“Well, you’re doing a terrible job.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose, turning just enough to glare at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Mr. ‘Plays-the-Same-Three-Chords’ was suddenly an expert in production.”

Law raised a brow. “That’s rich coming from Miss Overcomplicates-Everything.”

“Oh, screw you,” you snapped, pushing away from the desk and standing up. “You think you’re a genius because you can criticize, but what do you even contribute, huh?”

“I contribute the part that actually makes people want to listen to our songs,” he shot back, standing too.

You let out a dry laugh. “Oh my God, your ego is insane.”

He smirked, stepping closer. “And your attitude is exhausting.”

You stepped forward too. “You are so full of yourself.”

“And you are incapable of taking constructive criticism.”

Now you were chest-to-chest breath short, shoulders tense.

Your eyes burned into his—furious, challenging. “I swear to God, if I have to hear your voice for another second—”

“What? You gonna cry about it?” Law’s voice was low, teasing, but there was something else beneath it.

Your hands curled into fists. “Oh, I hate you.”

“Right back at you.”

Silence.

Your breaths mingled in the narrow space between you, fast and shallow. Neither of you moved. Neither of you backed down.

You saw it—the way Law’s gaze flickered down to your lips for the briefest second. Barely there, but enough.

Wait.

Were both of you leaning in?

You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, your lips collided—hard, desperate, like you were trying to shut each other up in the only way that would actually work.

Maybe you’d regret it later.

It was messy, all teeth and tension, but neither of you pulled away. You weren’t sure who deepened the kiss first—him or you—but suddenly, it wasn’t just a collision. It was a battle.

His hands found your waist, fingers pressing into your skin like he was daring you to push him off. You didn’t. Instead, you fisted the front of his shirt, yanking him closer, because if he thought you’d be the first to pull away, he was wrong.

Law’s lips curled against yours, like he was smirking—even now, even like this. “Kiss like you mean it, smartass,” he muttered, voice low, teasing.

You bit his bottom lip, almost in retaliation.

Law inhaled sharply, grip tightening. “Figures. Always so aggressive.”

“Shut up.” You crashed into him again, walking him back, except—

Your foot caught on the edge of the producer’s desk.

And suddenly, you were falling.

You hit the desk with a dull thud, tangled together in a mess of limbs, papers scattering everywhere.

Law let out a breathless chuckle. “Oh, great. You can’t even make out properly—”

You shoved at his chest. “Maybe if you weren’t in my way—”

He grabbed your wrist, pulling you right back against him. “Oh, please. You’re the one who tripped.”

You were so close again, noses almost touching, breath mingling in the dimly lit studio.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You should shove him away. You should.

Instead, you kissed him again.

Law groaned against your lips, flipping you so you were the one against the table now, his hands bracing on either side of your body. His mouth moved with yours in that same relentless, challenging rhythm—like you were still fighting, just without words.

Somewhere between gasps and half-bitten insults, you managed to mutter, “You’re—so—fucking—annoying—”

Law grinned against your lips. “And you—talk too much—”

You barely had time to glare before he grabbed your hand and pulled you—

Straight into the recording booth.

You stumbled inside, nearly knocking over the mic stand. The door swung shut behind you, muffling the outside world. It was just the two of you now, the dim LED glow casting blue and red across your skin, your breaths uneven, hearts racing.

Your back hit the padded wall of the booth, and Law was there again, bracing himself over you, gaze dark—like he was still debating whether to keep kissing you or start another argument.

Your tongue darted briefly over your bottom lip, chest rising and falling as you tried to catch your breath. “If you have something to say, say it.”

Law studied you, eyes flickering between your own and your mouth, fingers brushing against the side of your neck. His voice was quieter now, rougher.

“Yeah?” He leaned in, lips ghosting over your jaw, just enough to make your breath hitch. “Maybe I just like pissing you off.”

You exhaled sharply. “Congratulations, then. You’re great at it.”

Law smirked against your skin. “I know.”

And then he kissed you again—slower this time. Deeper. Like he was really tasting you. Like he had all the time in the world.

You hated how dizzy it made you feel.

But you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t want to.

Not yet.

[maddie0101]

𐚁 chapter three: signs we can’t ignore

𐚁 summary: dean tries to fix things but it doesn’t go according to plan.

𐚁 warnings: jealous reader, idiots, small injury, both can’t think straight, tension, slight fluff?

𐚁 word count: 3.3k

series masterlist previous chapter next chapter

The morning sun filtered through your curtains, casting golden rays across your room. The warmth should have been comforting, but all it did was remind you of the fire that had burned in your chest the night before.

You had gone to bed with his words still echoing in your mind, and now, as you lay staring at the ceiling, you hated that he was the first thing you thought about when you woke up. Your fists clenched against the sheets as irritation flared up all over again.

Dean could be infuriating. One minute, he was your best friend—the person who had always been by your side, who made you laugh until your stomach hurt, who could read your moods better than anyone. And the next? He was acting like he had some kind of claim over you, like you were incapable of deciding for yourself who you spent time with.

You shoved the blankets off and swung your legs over the edge of the bed, your bare feet pressing against the wooden floor. Maybe if you and Dean hadn’t been friends for so long, things might be different. Maybe you wouldn’t feel this stupid pull toward him, this constant ache in your chest whenever he looked at you a certain way.

You ran a hand through your hair with a frustrated sigh before pushing yourself up. There was no use sitting around overthinking. You had work to do.

The air was thick with dust and tension. Practice had been going for over an hour, but for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t the usual easygoing rhythm of competition. No, today the air felt heavier—charged, like a summer storm brewing on the horizon.

You ignored Dean. And he ignored you right back. Or at least, that’s how it started.

The usual back-and-forth, the teasing jabs, the small, comfortable moments between drills—it was all gone. In its place was silence, clipped conversations, and stolen glances neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

You threw yourself into training, forcing your focus onto your riding, your turns, your speed. Anything to keep your mind off the man standing just a few yards away, hands on his hips, jaw locked, looking about as frustrated as you felt.

Dean was stubborn, but so were you. And if he wanted to play this game, fine.

But after another hour of dancing around each other, Dean finally caved.

You were tightening Whiskey's girth strap when you heard the familiar crunch of boots behind you. You didn’t turn around, didn’t acknowledge his presence, even as his shadow stretched beside yours in the dirt.

“Alright, this is stupid,” Dean said, voice low, exasperated. “We gonna keep doin’ this or are you gonna yell at me and get it over with?”

You gave Whiskey a pat and turned to him, arms crossed. “I don’t feel like yelling, Dean.”

He studied you for a long moment, green eyes searching, before he sighed and ran a hand over his jaw. “Look, I was an ass last night. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

You raised a brow. “Which part? The part where you basically called me naïve, or the part where you acted like I can’t make my own choices?”

Dean clenched his jaw. “Both,” he admitted, and to his credit, he looked like he meant it. “I just—I don’t like seein’ guys like Evan all over you, alright? It rubs me the wrong way.”

“That’s not an apology, Dean. That’s just you doubling down.”

He sighed again, shoulders tense. “I am sorry, alright? I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

You eyed him for a moment longer, weighing his words. Finally, you let out a breath and gave a small nod. “Okay.”

That was as much of a truce as you were willing to give. Dean seemed to take it, but the tension didn’t fade. Not really. Because even after the apology, things still felt off.

Dean kept stealing glances at you—more than usual. And the usual teasing and banter? It never came. Instead, your conversations were brief, almost mechanical, and with each passing minute, your frustration only grew.

Not just with him, but with yourself.

Because no matter how hard you tried to move past it, you felt him. Every damn second. His presence was like a weight pressing into your chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. And when you caught him staring at you—his gaze unreadable, something guarded and intense behind his eyes—it only made things worse.

So when you saw him walking toward another woman at practice, it threw you completely off balance.

Dean had been standing by the fence, watching you, when one of the girls from the roping team approached him. You didn’t recognize her, but you sure as hell noticed the way she smiled up at him, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder as she spoke.

Dean turned to her, said something that made her laugh, and something inside you twisted. You hated it. You hated the way your stomach clenched. Hated the way your chest burned. And most of all, you hated that it distracted you just enough to make a mistake.

The moment your focus slipped, Whiskey hesitated at the third barrel, and you lost your rhythm. Your boot caught the edge of the stirrup wrong, and before you could recover, your balance wavered—just enough to send you slipping sideways.

You hit the dirt hard, a sharp sting shooting up your arm as the impact jarred your shoulder.

A few people called out, but you were already pushing yourself up, ignoring the dull ache as you dusted yourself off. Your pride hurt more than anything.

From across the arena, Dean was already moving toward you, his expression unreadable. But before he could reach you, you turned on your heel and walked off toward the stables.

You couldn’t deal with this right now. Not with Dean. Not with your own feelings. Not with any of it.

Dean didn’t know what the hell to do.

You had been distant all damn morning, and now, after your fall, you were avoiding him completely.

He had seen the way your expression shifted when you caught him talking to that girl, the way your body tensed before you went into that last run. And then you’d gone and gotten yourself hurt because of it.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, frustration bubbling up inside him. He didn’t do feelings. Not like this. Not when it came to you. For years, you had been his best friend, the one constant in his life that never wavered. But now? Things were shifting, and it was making him antsy.

Because you weren’t supposed to look at him like that. Like he could actually hurt you. And now, every time he tried to talk to you, you just brushed him off. The more you pushed him away, the more his frustration built.

Finally, he had enough. The next time he saw you near the stables, rubbing your shoulder absently as you tended to Whiskey, he marched straight toward you, jaw set.

“You gonna keep runnin’ from me all day, or are you gonna tell me what’s actually wrong?”

You stiffened but didn’t turn around. “Not now, Dean.”

Dean scoffed. “Oh, so now you’re the one who doesn’t feel like talkin’? That’s rich.”

You let out a sharp breath and turned to face him. “What do you want, Dean?”

“I wanna know why the hell you’ve been givin’ me the cold shoulder all day.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, I’m serious.” Dean crossed his arms. “One minute we’re fine, next thing I know, you’re actin’ like I ran over your damn dog.”

Your nostrils flared. “Maybe because I’m tired, Dean. I’m tired of you acting like I don’t know my own damn mind. Tired of feeling like I have to prove myself to you. Tired of—”

You stopped yourself before you said too much. But Dean caught it.

His gaze darkened, his expression shifting into something unreadable. “Tired of what?” he pressed.

You clenched your jaw, shaking your head as you turned back to Whiskey. “Forget it, Dean. I have to meet my dad back at home in ten minutes." You made up and excuse to get away from him, not realizing the hurt look written all over his face as you led Whiskey back into the trailer.

The next day at practice, the air between you and Dean remained thick with unspoken words. You were still ignoring him—not entirely on purpose, but because every time you looked at him, you were reminded of the argument, the tension, and the way he had been acting lately. It was easier to avoid him than to deal with the confusion brewing inside you.

So, you kept your distance, or at least, you tried to.

The sun hung high overhead, scorching the dirt beneath your boots as you moved around the arena, lost in thought. Your mind was running in circles, replaying every moment from the past few days—the way Dean had looked at you the other night, his frustration, his protectiveness, the way his voice had held something different when he spoke to you.

And just when you were about to push those thoughts away for the hundredth time, your foot caught on something.

One second, you were upright. The next, the ground was rushing toward you. But before you could hit the dirt, strong hands grabbed your waist, steadying you with ease.

Your breath hitched as you felt the firm, familiar grip pulling you back to safety. The world stilled, and suddenly, all you could focus on was the warmth of Dean’s hands on you, holding you close.

His fingers pressed into your sides, sending a strange, electric sensation through your skin—straight to the exact place on your wrist where your soulmate tattoo would one day appear.

The feeling was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before—like a gentle pulse, a warm tingle that sent a shiver up your spine. And from the way Dean suddenly froze, his grip tightening just a fraction, you wondered if he felt it too.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your eyes locked, and the rest of the world faded away. Dean’s gaze was intense—greener than the fields after a spring rain, deep and unreadable, but filled with something you couldn’t quite place. His breath was slow and steady, but there was something in his expression, something new, that made your stomach flip.

Then, without even realizing it, you smiled. A small, unguarded smile that slipped past your frustration, past your stubbornness, past everything that had been weighing you down.

Dean’s lips parted slightly, his expression softening as he took you in, like he was seeing the sun after days of stormy skies. It was the first time he’d seen you smile in days. And damn if he didn’t love your smile.

His eyes traced the curve of your lips, the way the corners lifted just slightly, and for a brief second, he forgot how to breathe.

You noticed the way he was looking at you—like you had strung the stars across the night sky just for him—and heat rushed to your cheeks. You quickly turned your head before he could see the full force of your blush, but he caught a glimpse anyway.

Dean’s hands stayed on your waist for a second too long before he finally let go, the warmth of his touch lingering even after he stepped back.

Your heart pounded in your ears. You needed to get out of there.

“I—uh—I should get back to work,” you stammered, barely able to form a coherent sentence as you took a step back.

Dean’s brows lifted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but he nodded instead.

You turned on your heel and left without another word, your legs moving faster than necessary, needing space to think, to breathe, to process whatever the hell just happened.

You slipped into the stable, finding an empty stall to lean against as you pressed a hand to your chest, trying to calm the erratic beat of your heart.

The touch. The warmth. The look in his eyes.

It was too much. And the worst part? You liked it. You liked the way his hands felt on your waist. You liked the way he looked at you, like you were something precious. You liked the warmth that had spread through you when his skin touched yours.

But that wasn’t supposed to happen. You reminded yourself. Dean was your best friend and he had a soulmate out there, waiting on him to find her. Someone who wasn't you.

Your fingers brushed over the skin of your wrist—the same spot where that strange, tingling warmth had spread through you.

That’s probably where your soulmate tattoo would appear. It had to be. It was like your body was telling you, whispering a truth you weren’t ready to face.

But had Dean felt it too? Felt that same electric current, that same warmth, that same pull?

You shook your head, forcing yourself to push the thought away. No. It wasn’t possible.

You still didn’t even have your mark. You were just overthinking it, that's all it was. Just… overthinking.

And yet, as you stood there, replaying the moment over and over in your mind, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something between you and Dean had shifted.

Dean couldn’t sleep. No matter how many times he flipped onto his side, his back, his stomach, he couldn’t get comfortable. His body was exhausted, but his mind refused to shut off.

He stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, shadows stretching across the walls as moonlight filtered through the curtains. His muscles were tense, his thoughts running wild, tangled in knots he couldn’t untie.

Damn it.

All he could think about was you. The way you'd smiled today. That soft, breathtaking smile that had made his chest tighten. The warmth of your skin under his hands when he caught you earlier, the way his whole body had reacted without thinking. The way their eyes had locked, the moment stretching between them, charged with something he couldn’t quite put into words.

Then, there was that damn tingle on his wrist. He didn’t know what it meant. Didn’t want to know. Because if he let himself believe it meant something, let himself hope that it was a sign…

That would be dangerous.

Because what if—what if—when your mark finally appeared, it didn’t match his? The thought crushed him. Dean exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

He was in love with you. Hell, he had been in love with you for years, hadn’t he?

It had been there, buried beneath the surface, hidden under teasing grins and late-night rides, in the way he always looked for you first in a crowded room, in the way he felt more at home with you than anywhere else.

And now, it was all unraveling. Because now, he knew. And he couldn’t shove it back down anymore.

But what the hell was he supposed to do? You were his best friend. The one person he couldn’t afford to lose. And yet, he wanted you more than he’d ever wanted anything.

Dean groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He needed air. But instead of walking outside, his feet carried him straight to his truck.

Straight to you.

You were just about to crawl into bed when a soft knock at the door made you freeze. You frowned, glancing at the clock.

Midnight. Who the hell was knocking at this hour?

Heart hammering, you grabbed the baseball bat you kept by the door—just in case—and peeked through the window. Your breath caught.

Dean stood on your porch, hands shoved into his pockets, staring down at the ground. The porch light cast a golden glow on his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the furrow in his brow.

Slowly, you opened the door. “Dean?”

His head snapped up, and for a second, his eyes flickered with something unreadable. Then, his gaze dropped—right to what you were wearing. Your breath hitched as you realized you were standing there in a pair of soft cotton shorts and a small tank top, your usual sleepwear, but it somehow only left little to his imagination.

Dean swallowed thickly, his jaw clenching as he quickly averted his eyes.

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know I’d be getting a visitor tonight. Otherwise, I would’ve changed.”

Dean let out a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. I just…” He exhaled sharply. “I needed to see you.”

Something in his tone made your heart stutter. You stepped aside, silently inviting him in. Dean hesitated before stepping past you, hands still jammed into his pockets like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. You closed the door behind him and turned, watching as he paced across your living room. His movements were restless.

You crossed your arms. “Dean, what’s going on?”

He stopped. Then, finally, he looked at you. And damn if the look in his eyes didn’t nearly knock the breath from your lungs. There was something raw there—something vulnerable.

“I’m sorry for what I said to you, Y/N.”

You blinked. Dean took a step closer.

“I never meant to hurt you. I was just… worried. I know I was an ass, but I—” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling roughly. “I should’ve never said what I said. I was just scared of someone hurting you, but that wasn’t an excuse.” His voice was low, rough around the edges.

Your chest ached at his words.

“I don’t know how to fix this, but I promise I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured.

For a second, you just stared at him, watching the way his throat bobbed, the way his fingers twitched at his sides.

Then, slowly, you shook your head. “You don’t have to, Dean.”

He frowned. “What?”

“I forgive you.” A soft smile tugged at your lips, small but genuine.

Dean’s breath hitched. And then, for the first time in a long time, he let himself look at you. Really look at you. The glow of the lamp cast a soft light over your face, highlighting the curve of your cheekbones, the way your lips curled just slightly at the edges. Your hair was tousled from the day, and you looked… beautiful. So damn beautiful it made his chest hurt.

He had always known you were beautiful. But right now, standing in the quiet of your home, barefoot and bathed in the golden light, you were breathtaking.

And that was dangerous. Because you weren’t his. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Dean swallowed hard, shoving those thoughts down.

He forced himself to smirk, his usual defense mechanism kicking in. “You always this easy to forgive people, sweetheart? Or am I just special?”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re definitely not special.”

Dean chuckled, but there was something softer in the sound this time. Something warmer. And for the first time in days, the tension between you both didn’t feel quite as heavy.

But as you stood there, inches apart, the air still buzzed with something else—something unspoken. Something neither of you were quite ready to say. Not yet. So, instead, you smiled again.

And Dean? Dean memorized the moment. Because no matter what happened—whether or not fate decided to brand you both with the same mark—he knew one thing for sure.

He was completely, helplessly, irrevocably in love with you.

And he wasn’t sure he’d ever stop.

author’s note:

I’m sorry for the short chapter guys :( I hope you still enjoyed reading! I promise things are about to ramp up! It’s a little slow in the beginning but things are about to take a sharp turn 😅

tags:

@i-love-ptv @lieutenantchaos @hollywoodxrose @pressedwater @aylacavebear

@bonbonnie88 @lori19 @muhaha82 @freeluigihesbae @muhahaha303

@itsdearapril @sevendevilsinmyimpala @ladysparkles78 @bejeweledinterludes

@supernotnatural2005 @bettystonewell (idk if you guys would like to be tagged in this series or just one-shots but lmk! I didn’t want to leave yall out)

If you would like to be tagged please fill out this form and I will add you to the list! ❤︎

[pepstarvanmoon]

twice is too much

Milkvan and their ‘end of the season love confession’ pattern/coincidence does not hit.

We’ve literally already done this like what is going on. Why have y’all not learned yet. Love ain’t easy, but I don’t remember it being this repetitive.

Stop it.

Why’s it not clicking, why’s it not sticking, why do you two keep having the same issues?

It’s a fact of life that love is not enough for a relationship to work. You need to understand each other, you need to respect each other’s feelings and interests. You should value and trust each other to a point where you don’t have to bother questioning if there’s love because it’s plain to see.

Your face suction and fluttering hearts do not and will not keep your relationship stable. Can you even say what you enjoy about your relationship? Do you even communicate?

“I love her and I can’t lose her again!”

She wasn’t even there for that one 😭 why was El the only one to look you in the eyes and say it? Mike dragged it all the way to the S4 finale just to say it while she was being choked out with her eyes closed.

“This is my last resort!” ass love confession please be serious.

Also…

Glad you were able to recognize it here, bud, my condolences to future you.

(It’s also hard to get over how El looks right before she returns his feelings.

I know it’s easy to say she was just building up courage, but her father died and she lost her powers all in the same day. I believe El was very emotionally vulnerable/susceptible here. She needs confirmation that she’s accepted and loved by someone (a problem that’s brought up again in S4). If you really pay attention to that scene, she moves to leave, fights with herself, stops, and makes a decision to turn back.

I don’t think it’s something she planned on bringing up were she not moving with the Byers and not going to see Mike in person for a while.

It’s the way she looks so conflicted before saying it. She even pulls a ‘grocery store Mike’ and tries to get him to bring it up before doing it herself (I think she even wanted him to say something before she started walking away). Something, I might add, Mike is incapable of doing without being served three Will Byers Pep Talk specials and a comforting hand on his back.)

[mediumgayitalian]

It starts really…really stupid.

The Apollo cabin is having a movie night. Will’s DVD collection is bigger than his textbook collection, which is saying something, because he is a nerd. They baited Nico with a pirate movie: then, when he was comfortable and moon-eyed and unable to keep his mouth shut for a good twenty minutes after the end credits, they started phasing in the rom-coms.

Evil. Manipulators, the lot of them; so incapable of lying that they’re masters of bending the truth. Nico would leave, except they literally barricaded the door and keep all the lights on so there are no shadows for him to duck into (something he should have questioned from the very beginning, but unfortunately as soon as the Pirates of the Caribbean theme started playing, his reasoning skills hopped on a train and fled back to the Lotus Casino in 1938. So).

“This is stupid,” Nico grumbles, not that anyone is paying him any attention. Every single one of Will’s siblings stares at the TV with their chins in their hands, completely ignoring any and all of Nico’s (very valid) criticism.

Not that it stops him. “This is less realistic than Davey Jones,” he insists, largely just so his grievances are Known and Aired Out. The leading man says something stupid and cheesy, and three seperate doofuses in his company genuinely swoon. Nico scowls as hard as he can, pulling a blanket over his head. “Idiotic and cheesy.”

Nico pointedly isn’t following the plot — not that there is one — so he has no idea what’s going on. He squints. The leading man is wearing some ugly suit, too tight, and the leading lady collapses tearfully in his arms, thanking him about something.

Will sighs dreamily. Nico scowls harder.

“When is it my turn,” Will laments.

Kayla reaches over blindly and pats him on the head. She ends up more smacking him gently and lovingly on the face, but Will doesn’t seem to mind.

“Don’t we all want to know.”

“You don’t understand,” Will says dramatically. He flops backwards, hands flailing. Nico peeks over from under his blanket. His Head Medic camp shirt has ridden up in his dramatics, showing a sliver of skin. Nico flushes and intentionally looks away, focusing on his friend’s face.

“When will a rich, attractive older man come waltzing in here and offer to put me through med school, huh? When will my dream come true?”

Nico is 90% sure that Will is joking, but without his permission, be blurts out —

“You’d run off with some guy you don’t know?”

“Without hesitation!” Will cries. He yanks himself back upright, making Nico jump, arms thrown up and forehead creased. “You know how broke I’m gonna be when I’m done school?”

Nico doesn’t answer, but Will doesn’t wait for one.

“Very! I grew up on a pullout couch, which, I love my mom, and I love our apartment, but I want — I want —”

With his long, lanky limbs and flushed face, he begins to remind Nico of a kettle. He refrains from pointing this out. His siblings, on the other hand, openly snicker at him, dividing their attention between the movie and throwing popcorn at their eldest brother’s head.

“I want an Alaskan King! And — a mahogany desk! With lots of drawers! And windows! Floor to ceiling windows! And a rooftop garden!”

He glares playfully at his siblings, who are all giggling now, pointing fingers at them all.

“Lemme tell you right now. A man walks in here offering me that and a cheque for any school I want and it’s over for you people. I’m gone. You can fend for yourselves.”

“Yeah right,” Austin snorts, disbelieving. He reaches over and pinches Will’s thigh, cackling when he squawks. “We can’t even get you to leave the infirmary at the end of your shift. You’re stuck here forever, Rapunzel.”

“Just you wait! My prince will come!”

“As if he even wants a prince,” he hears Kayla whispering to a giggling Gracie, who responds with a cheeky, “Not when he’s got a king!”

Nico doesn’t know who they’re talking about, but the fact that there’s someone — his vision goes green. He has to tamp down a genuine snarl which is — ridiculous. And out of nowhere.

He cuts another glance to Will, who is still muttering petulantly. Every few minutes, he hears something about an “open floor plan” and “high pressure showers”.

He gets a very, very stupid idea.

———

The first mistake (because that’s what it is) is easy to explain away — the Hades cabin is still under renovation.

Well. Mostly.

“Please,” Will is begging, eyes big and pleading and painfully, beautifully blue. “Please? I’ll bring movies! And Yan’s Wii! And get Cecil to lend me some of the games he — uh, acquired! Pretty please!”

Nico has to bite back the you could be toting a pack of Lastrogonian giants with you and I’d still let you in that so desperately wants to come out of his mouth.

“Bring snacks and I’ll consider it,” he says instead.

Will beams. His eyes nearly squeeze shut, when he smiles like that, and there’s nothing Nico can do about the sharp inhale that rips through his chest. He blinks the spots away from his eyes, everything suddenly a little brighter, covered in golden sunlight.

“Yes!” Will cheers, pumping his fist and jumping up and down like a lunatic. Nico is so endeared that it aches something awful in his chest, and his cheeks smart from the size of his smile. “Sleepover! After my shift, di Angelo, I won’t be late!”

Yes, you will.

“I lock my doors and set a skeleton guard to watch it at eight,” he warns with a throat suddenly dry. “I mean it, Solace. I’ll sic the harpies on you.”

Will laughs as he jogs towards the infirmary, clearly not believing him. Nico watches him go the whole way, jumping when a hand lands on his shoulder.

“You,” says Drew Tanaka, blowing a bubble with her gum, “are a humiliating case, di Angelo.”

He shoves her, scowling. His face feels sunburnt. “Shut up.”

He absolutely does not spend the day moping after the infirmary, despite whatever rumours Drew’s lying mouth might spread. He has a job, thanks. He runs three separate sword fighting classes, and the younger kids are insane, so he doesn’t have time to be distracted.

Not that he is. But. Hypothetically, if he were to be distracted, he isn’t. Yeah.

He sits with Percy and Jason at dinner, distractedly wolfing down his food. Some kind of barbecue. He is not paying attention.

“No, Jase, we can say whatever we want, he’s not listening —”

“If he decides to stab you I am going to let him —”

“What’s going on?” Nico interrupts, looking up for the first time.

Percy smiles angelically, placing his hands under his chin.

“Nothing, Nico dear.”

Jason bangs his head on the table.

“I’m gonna…leave,” Nico says, slowly. “Y’all…do whatever you’re doing.”

“You said y’all,” Percy says gleefully. “You said y’all.”

Nico flushes hotly. “I did not. Shut up before I summon Jules-Albert to run you over.”

Percy cackles. Even Jason laughs. Nico throws his plate at them as he stomps away, sprinting extra quickly past the infirmary for no reason at all.

Time seems to slow down after dinner. For all Nico knows, it actually does. It wouldn’t make a difference. By the time there’s a knock on his cabin door, the sun has well past set, and Will is smiling sheepishly.

“I didn’t hear my shift alarm,” he says, the second Nico opens the door.

Nico sighs. He bites the corner of his mouth, hard, so it doesn’t do something stupid like turn upwards or something.

“There’s ADHD, and then there’s you, Solace.”

Will leans into his personal space and presses an over-exaggerated, smacking kiss to his cheek before he can stop him. Nico goes scarlet.

“But you love me anyway!”

There are no thoughts left in Nico’s brain to refute him. The only thing shaking around up there are alarm bells and KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS! KISS! repeated over and over again like a gong.

“Hngh,” he says, intelligently. Will doesn’t seem to notice, striding confidently right into the cabin.

“I brought the Wii and movies and stuff, like I promised, and I’ve been saving this chocolate I bought last time I went into the city — woah, when did that get here!”

Will freezes in the middle of the cabin, gaping. Nico nearly walks right into him.

‘That’ is the giant, brand-new bed tucked snugly in the far right corner — an Alaskan King.

Nico clears his throat, shrugging.

“Remodelling, remember? The coffin beds had to go. And no one else but me sleeps here, so. Hazel has her own bed on the other side.”

He gestures to the other corner, where Hazel’s — smaller — bed sits, empty, coral pink comforter straightened neatly. Will barely even glances at it.

“What! But I thought you already renovated the beds —”

“Temporary.”

Will squints at him for a moment. Nico squirms, trying to hold his gaze. He’s not lying — they were temporary. Of course, he only made the decision that they were temporary a week ago, but. Well. Truth is truth.

Evidently, Will decides that he isn’t going to get a real answer out of Nico or he doesn’t care to get one, because he quickly turns away and, with a running start, jumps and sprawls himself on the gigantic bed.

“Oh, gods,” he groans, and oh, gods, indeed, is Nico ever going to get a fucking break or is his face just going to be stuck like this all the time. “Gods, Neeks, I am going to move in here. I don’t even — look! I can stretch all the way and I don’t touch the edge!”

“I see that,” Nico says weakly. His shirt has ridden up again. Nico bites back the confessing comment he wants to make about undershirts and how Will should invest in them.

“Man, I feel like I could pass right out,” Will sighs, eyelashes — they are so long and so blonde who decided that who gave him that right — fluttering shut. He grabs on of Nico’s pillows and curls around it, content. Nico stares. And stares.

After too much time has passed, Will cracks an eye open, smiling slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there, Death Breath. Bed’s more than big enough for us both, now. Get over here.”

Miraculously, Nico does, managing to unglue himself from the floor and look anywhere but the long, languid stretch of Will’s body.

(They play four straight hours of Mario Kart — or, rather, Will spends four straight hours losing. When they finally fall asleep, they’re so far apart on the giant bed they might as well be in different countries — but Nico wakes up in the middle of the night with his arms around Will’s waist, and practically throws himself on the ground for the rest of the night.)

———

The next thing he does is just…embarrassing.

“I think you look hot,” Mitchell, Piper’s brother, assures him kindly. He pats Nico’s flaming cheek. “Honest. And it’ll work wonders! Will’ll be struck.”

“Why do people keep saying that,” Nico croaks. “I don’t even like him!”

“Uh-huh. Sure.”

With Mitchell’s unwavering — if teasing — assurance, Nico finds the courage to step out of the Aphrodite cabin and into the waning sun. He’s grateful he waited until after the summer ended to do this — the fewer people around the witness, the better. His reputation is hanging on by a string as it is.

A wolf-whistle rings out the second he steps off the porch, making him scowl. Cecil, unfortunately, is far too used to being on the receiving end of it and does not even flinch.

“Looking spiffy, Ghost King!”

“Bite me,” Nico growls back, and is only aware of the trap he’s walked into when Cecil gleefully says, “I believe that’s Will’s job, actually —”

He wisely scampers away before the skeleton Nico summoned can murder him.

The second he’s out of sight, Nico slumps.

What is he doing.

“Aw, jeez, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Lemme tell you the gar-bage I had to endure tod — Nico?”

Nico whips up to face the voice. Will stands a few feet in front of him, unmoving, wearing his scrubs today — heavily stained, yikes — and his favourite pair of ratty cargo shorts. The expression on his face is oddly inscrutable.

“Are you…going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Nico says, flushing and repeating himself when his voice cracks three separate times. “Yeah, I’m. Um. Ambassador of Pluto duties, you know. I’m expected in New Rome in a couple hours.”

It’s not quite the truth — he is going to be in New Rome in a couple of hours, but his reason for being there is fabricated. Literally.

“I didn’t know you were visiting today.” Will steps forward, almost trance-like. His eyes are glued to somewhere around Nico’s chest, and he reaches out — hesitantly, although he’s never been hesitant to touch Nico in all the time he has known him — to brush his fingers over Nico’s collar. “This isn’t what you usually wear.”

Nico swallows. No, it is not. Usually, his Ambassador of Pluto uniform is his black toga. (It still is. If he was actually on duty and showed up in anything else, several Romans would have his head. Good thing he’s full of it.) But right now, he’s wearing a tailored, black silk suit made by hand by some dead Byzantine seamstress whose name Nico could not pronounce if he tried. Diamonds glitter in the lobes of his ears, freshly pierced, and his rings are more polished than usual.

“Special occasion today.”

Will doesn’t say anything for a long moment. His hand still curls at Nico’s collar, millimeters away from his neck, heat boring into his skin.

“You clean up nice.” An expression Nico can’t name flits across his eyes, and Nico’s breath catches, and then he’s grinning, too-wide and teasing, reaching up to dig a hand through his hair. “But maybe ditch the hair gel, Wilbur Robinson, and just let —”

“Gah! Get off of me! You’re the worst!”

Will stumbles back as he shoves him, weak from laughter, and Nico’s stomach flips.

———

The third thing is maybe the most ridiculous out of all of them — and almost gets him killed.

“I’m starving,” Will complains, apologizing to the random New Yorker who just walked into him. (Nico rolls his eyes. Will would get eaten if Nico wasn’t here — he is too soft for the city. He’s gonna get shoved into a puddle or something; he’s so unwilling to elbow his way through a crowd that Nico has to hold his hand so as not to lose him. Definitely not a city boy, that’s for sure.) “And we don’t have to meet Argus for another two hours — can we stop for food? I want something fried. Desperately.”

“I guess so,” Nico sighs, pretending to be more put-out than he is. Will doesn’t buy it for a second, rolling his eyes hard enough to hurt.

“C’mon, Nicholas Hoult. There’s gotta be a diner around here somewhere, and I still want to go shopping after this.”

He lets Will pull him around, even though they’d probably get somewhere faster if Nico leads. Will stops every three seconds to listen to a busker, or observe particularly interesting graffiti, or attempt to pet a pigeon. It shouldn’t be cute, it should be embarrassing because Will truly never gets out, but it is — endearing. A little. Even if Nico can feel his stomach eating itself.

Will brightens when he finally stumbles across some gaudy, mint-green painted, hole-in-the-wall family restaurant, beaming back at Nico like he won a sparring match rather than stumbled upon somewhere to eat. But his eyes are squished shut, the way they are when he’s genuinely excited, and some early January snow dusts his golden hair, and his nose is red from the cold, and it’s just —

It’s a lot.

They find a booth tucked in the back corner. Will slides in next to Nico, not across from him, and it makes him — flush, for some reason, cheeks glowing as bright as Will’s massive, dorky scarf.

The waitress brings them sodas. Nico doesn’t remember ordering them, but it’s cherry coke — his favourite — so he must’ve. Will has a water, because he’s annoying and pretentious, and he tries to blow his straw wrapper at Nico but he’s too fast and catches it. Will pouts.

“You’re no fun.”

“I’ll show you fun.”

He’s balled up the wrapper as tiny as possible and flicks it at Will’s face before he can stop him, except it hits him in the — eye, and Will shouts in surprise, and Nico jumps and rushes to apologise but he’s laughing too hard for it to be sincere, and Will scowls playfully at him, and Nico bangs his knee on the rickety table trying to move it and it only makes him laugh harder, and Will cracks soon, too. And he can’t sing for shit but his laughter is musical, low and baritone and a little raspy on the edges, like the country music he loves so damn much. And all the laughter gets sucked right out of Nico’s lungs as he watches him, bright-eyed, red-nosed and freezing, still wearing his stupid parka even though it’s barely below forty degrees, and he is suddenly achingly truly and obviously the most beautiful thing Nico has ever seen in his life, and he thinks oh, no. But it doesn’t hurt.

It doesn’t hurt at all.

———

(After the diner, they go window shopping, and Nico feels like he can’t function. His chest aches with new knowledge that he doesn’t know where to put. New York air is disgusting but Will smells like eucalyptus and sunshine, always, and the look on his face when they pass a dusty antique shop is blinding. He’s rambling about old anatomy textbooks and gods knows what else and Nico nods along with a stupid, endless smile on his face that he couldn’t tamp down if he tried.)

(In the back of the shop there’s a big, ancient, beautiful mahogany desk. It has a divot for an inkwell and more drawers than Nico can count. It’s nine hundred dollars. Nico pulls out the credit card his father gave him for emergencies, buys it before Will can stop him, and shadow travels all three of them — himself, Will, and the unbelievably massive desk — back to Cabin 13, passing out immediately after to the sound of Will’s shout.)

(His father is the first thing he sees in his dreams, arms crossed, legs tapping.)

(“I believe I told you that card was for emergencies,” says the Lord of the Dead, “not crises over cute boys.”)

(“You were down so bad you kidnapped your wife instead of talking to her like a normal person,” Nico blurts, and immediately wishes he would melt into shadows.)

(He wakes up to another arms-crossed, foot-tapping figure: Will lectures him for two and a half hours. He times it.)

(But Will does all his paperwork in the Hades cabin, now, skin glowing amber under the Greek fire torches, often falling asleep on the smooth wooden surface. He hasn’t spent a night in the infirmary in months. Often, if Nico can wake him, he’ll crawl into Nico’s massive bed, curling all six-two of him into a ball around the centre and puffing tiny little snores into his pillow.)

(His cabin smells like eucalyptus and sunshine all the time, now.)

———

He tells himself that this will be his last thing.

(It isn’t.)

It takes him four separate times to muster up the courage. It’s — humiliating, is what it is, and he’s never been a coward except for maybe about this one thing.

“Dude,” says Katie Gardener, the fifth time he walks by her cabin without saying something, “this is getting embarrassing. Pull yourself together.”

“I’m — pulled,” he defends, wishing he didn’t get red so damn easy. “And — what are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be at college, or something?”

“College ends in April, stupid,” she says, as if Nico has more than a fourth grade education and would somehow know that. He refrains from sticking out his tongue because that is Undignified, and clearly he is the more mature one of the two of them. “What do you need, flowers for Will or something? You don’t need to bother. He likes dandelions.”

“I know what flowers he likes,” Nico snaps, and wallows in immediate despair as she snickers. He should consider having Will remove whatever part of his brain is responsible for Stupid, Emotional Outbursts. Or just get a lobotomy. Whatever’s faster, honestly.

“I need — a garden.”

“…A garden.”

“Please don’t make me say it again,” he begs.

Perhaps college has somehow made her merciful — which he doubts, anyone who sustains a relationship with Travis freaking Stoll stopped worrying about mercy long ago — or perhaps he truly is that pitiful. But she relents, rolling her eyes and muttering something about stupid teenagers and refusal to communicate, blah blah blah. Nico knows he’s a mess. He would appreciate it if everyone else politely pretended he wasn’t. She comes back minutes later with a truly massive bucket of soil, a handful of gardening tools, and several packets of seeds.

“Well, you don’t have a lot of space for it, kid, seeing as your cabin is kind of tucked —”

“I want it on the roof,” Nico interrupts. He manages to keep his face in check. “Uh, that would make the most sense, anyways. It’s flat and I can get there easy and — yeah.”

She narrows her eyes at him. Years of Hermes cabin pranks have left her with a truly magnificent BS detector, but after a moment she sighs.

“Whatever, kid. Let’s go. Nothing will grow for a couple months, anyways.”

———

The last thing is what, eventually, gives him away.

The issue is that camp is crowded in the summer. And, really, he would have gotten it done in the spring, except he needed help — he needed an architect.

And he only really knew one, and her school year was kind of packed.

“You want,” says Annabeth slowly, “to entirely restructure your cabin.”

Nico squirms. “I just want to change the windows,” he mumbles.

She stares at him, fingers steepled, for what feels like ten solid minutes. At minimum.

“Kid —” Nico scowls, she is barely three years older than he is and technically almost a century younger — “installing floor to ceiling windows in your cabin will restructure it — entirely.” She pulls out a paper and pencil out of, as far as Nico can tell, absolutely nowhere, and begins to sketch. “There are foundations here, see? So everything has to be moved and reorganized to keep the structure standing. I can’t just, like…knock out the wall. It doesn’t work that way.”

Nico slumps. “So it’s not possible?”

“I didn’t say that,” she snaps, offended. “I just said it won’t be easy. Gimme a couple hours, I’ll have blueprints.”

She barely hears him as he thanks her, nose already pressed to the paper. Nico smiles at her anyway. She’s the best and brightest of them for a reason, after all, and he appreciates her help.

The walk back to his cabin is a surprisingly pleasant one. A lot of his friends (which, woah) are finally back, and Nico is realising he’s missed them, and it’s nice to see them again. It’s also nice to see camp as busy as it is, as much as he likes the quiet chill of the winter months. All the cabin doors are wide open as people sweep out the dust, shake out sheets, air out the staleness that has been locked inside some of them for months. Chatter fills every corner, and the air smells like strawberries.

His small smile widens as he approaches his own cabin — the flowers he and Katie planted a few months back have started to bloom, and with them comes the memory of Will’s gasping excitement when he’d seen them, the smile that lit up his face. They’re regular plants, but Katie — enchanted them, somehow, protected them; even when Nico is having his worst days, they don’t wither. (And they keep growing, too. Nico has taken to picking a flower every morning and leaving it in his (Will’s) desk — to brighten up the room, on paper, but the flower always ends up whenever Will is by the end of the day. (And, more often than not, tucked behind his ear, locks of golden hair caught among brightly coloured petals; a crown of his own making.)

The cabin is empty when he walks in, unsurprisingly considering how often Will is usually locked in the infirmary for the first week of camp.

(He’ll be back tonight, to do his paperwork before heading back to his cabin. Nico’ll have to be sure he actually makes it back to his cabin — Chiron has been turning a blind eye, because Will needs more sleep and Kayla and Austin can handle themselves, but the little kids need their counsellor. Well, most days.)

Nico stands in the door and realises: things have changed.

Maybe a silly thing to think. But — a year ago, this place was unliveable. Dark, and dreary, coffin-shaped and miserable, it was no wonder it had never felt like home. But the sight of Hazel’s bed (and the sketchbook she left on it last time she was here) fills him with warmth, and the windows are always open, now, so even the air feels lighter. Dozens of Will’s textbooks are strewn around the room, Lou Ellen’s jacket hangs on the back of the desk chair, a deck of cards is sprawled on the floor. A sun lamp is plugged into the wall. Nico’s giant bed is unmade. He’s got laundry peeking out of the closet doors, and he needs to clean his bathroom. A pair of obnoxiously patterned flipflops sit by the door.

It looks lived in. It looks like somewhere that can be lived in, and most of all, his friends — Will — have been living in it with him.

He swallows the lump in the back of his throat, stepping in and shutting the door behind him.

It takes him time to tidy up. He leaves Hazel’s sketchbook where it is, along with most of Will’s stuff — although he shoves a couple textbooks in random drawers when he trips over them. He puts the rest of his friends’ stuff by the door so he doesn’t forget to return it, and makes his bed (which, frankly, he hardly does, because it’s a massive pain — he tucks in one corner of the mattress cover and has to freaking summon Jules Albert to get to the other. But it was worth it). He barely makes it to dinner, too distracted to hear the horn.

“Finally,” bursts a voice sometime around nine, throwing open the door and flopping on the bed. Nico smiles, setting down his game and running light fingers through Will’s frizzy hair. He groans, leaning into it.

“I hate the first week of camp!”

Nico snorts. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes I do! It’s miserable! It’s all —” he contorts just face, mocking — “‘Will, do this.’ ‘Will, do that.’ ‘Will, I forgot how hard the climbing wall was and incinerated myself.’ ‘Will, we need you to treat the group of kids Clarisse beat up.’ Will, Will, Will! Constant!”

“How dare they take up all your time,” Nico says, grinning.

“Right! They should be less — I dunno, disastrous! I am one person! I can only be pulled in so many directions at once!”

Despite all his complaining, the slightest of smiles pulls at Will’s mouth — as Nico would expect. He’s exhausted and perpetually overworked, sure, but there’s nothing in the world Will relishes like being needed.

“I just —” He sighs, leaning further into Nico’s touch. Nico’s throat goes dry. “Man, I’m so glad we have this place to ourselves. It’s the only privacy I get. Sometimes I just wanna close the blinds and never come out, you know?”

Nico freezes. “Uh.”

“And it’s — nice, in here. Smells like you. And it just, well —” He smiles, broad and soft, and, suddenly, Nico understands his father on a level he never thought he would. If Will looked him in the eye and asked him for all the riches under the Earth, asked him to defy Zeus, asked him to rule the dead — Nico would bend time and space to do that for him. He understands, abruptly and wholly, why loving mortals ends in tragedy, why the gods promise more than they can give. He wants to give Will everything. “I like when it’s just you and me sometimes,” he says, softly. “It can be nice to disappear.”

There’s so much love bursting out Nico’s chest he doesn’t know what to do with it. He feels like every part of him is screaming his affection, every molecule is straining to meet with Will’s. He’s dizzy.

“I,” he starts, then freezes again. He doesn’t know what — what. Every thought he’s ever had hits him at once, and he can’t pick one out, can’t think with all the clutter in his head.

Will perks up. “Yes?”

“I have to. Cancel. My plans. With Annabeth.”

Will deflates. “Oh.”

There is something here, something charged, something about to change — and Nico is losing it. He panics.

“I asked her to restructure the cabin!” he shouts, startling Will. He squeezes his eyes shut instead of looking at those wide, wide blue eyes. “To! Make. Floor to ceiling windows.” He waits a bit. “Apparently you can’t just bust down the wall. You have to. Restructure.”

It’s silent for so long Nico is half-convinced Will left, if it weren’t for the faint sound of him breathing and the heat Nico can always feel leeching off of him. He peeks his eyes back open.

“Why?” asks Will quietly when their eyes meet.

Nico swallows. It takes several tries to moisten his throat enough to speak. “Why what?”

“Why do you want to…have floor to ceiling windows?”

“Same reason I wanted this massive bed,” he admits, quiet, whispering, near silent. “Same reason I — changed my Ambassador uniform. Same reason for the desk and the —” he stumbles over his words, blushing — “the garden and the flowers and — this, right now.”

“Nico,” says Will, very very quietly.

“I just. Well. You were joking, you know? And, gods, it’s been a year, now, but I think you were telling the truth? A little bit? And anyway, I want you to have the things you like, and —”

“Nico,” Will says again, louder this time, a particular quality to his voice Nico can’t name. He falters.

“…Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

Nico doesn’t even have the chance to be offended. He doesn’t even have the chance to think. Before he can rationalize the situation and connect the dots in front of him, Will’s hands are sliding into his hair, his face is inches away, and then they’re kissing.

They’re kissing.

Will tastes like Blistex, like mint gum, and like the breath he sighs into his mouth. His eyes are closed, and for a full six seconds before Nico recovers enough to close his, he has the best view of his pale, fanning eyelashes that he’s ever seen — long enough to think: oh, this is a child of the sun. He smells familiar and — intoxicating. Nico never wants to know pure air again, never wants to move without the brand of Will’s over-heated hands on the back of his neck. Never wants to forget the rough scrape of Will’s chapped lips, the tiny little sounds and sighs he makes every time Nico moves their mouths, the slightest curl of his lips when he smiles, unable to hold it back. The rapid beat of his heart, pressed against his own chest.

“Nico,” he says again, slightly more urgent, pulling away just enough that their lips still brush every time he speaks, “Nico, I love you to death.”

“I would do anything for you,” Nico chokes out. He meets Will’s eyes and tries to — communicate it to him, tries to beam his thoughts into his head. “I would — move the moon and stars for you, do you understand that? Do you know how precious you are to me? My tesoro,” he says, feeling Will’s breath hitch. “Il mio cuore. Il mio cuore battendo, sole.”

For a second Nico frightens himself. He’s never spoken words like that to anyone in his life — not his mother, not Bianca, not Hazel, nobody.

But Will’s smile is radiant. And he still holds Nico, gently, and says over and over, “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

Something slots back into place in his chest.

[film-in-my-soul]

thecutefactor.tumblr.com | 815 | schweet_heart / @schweetheart

Summary: Arthur has a secret. Unfortunately, Merlin finds out.

Ozymandias | 837 | Solarcat / @solarcat

Summary: Arthur can feel his grasp on the world slipping

Three Days | 938 | Zaharya / @zaharya

Summary: Merlin is injured, Arthur is worried.

(see more recommendations below!)

i saw you and the world went away | 645 | ariadne_odair

Summary: Arthur narrows his eyes. “Are you going to complain about the cold all the way home?” Merlin shrugs. “Probably.” Arthur rolls his eyes, then reaches for the clasp at his neck. He shrugs off his cloak and drapes it around Merlin’s shoulders. “There.” Or - Merlin is cold and the world is quieter away from Camelot.

Ten Minutes | 691 | wangler

Summary: It wasn't a charity kiss.

Cornflower Heart | 700 | queerofthedagger / @queerofthedagger

Summary: “Tell me a secret,” Arthur says, the words meeting the night air softly.

the one you reached for | 700 | queerofthedagger / @queerofthedagger

Summary: “Who did this to you?” Arthur finally chokes out, because someone must have—done this to him, that is. Arthur has learnt two things in the last few months. One; Merlin is more powerful than any one human should be (but if someone has to have this power, it is right that it is Merlin; it could only ever be Merlin). Two; he is as incapable of backing down from anything as Arthur is (even if it is each other; even if it tears them apart).

Bruises | 760 | Solarcat / @solarcat

Summary: Arthur doesn't see the bruises, but he knows where they are because he put them there.

a kingdom or this | 800 | schweet_heart / @schweetheart

Summary: They take him from his cell just after dawn, when a pale streak of pink is barely visible above the eastern gate.

Sleeping beauty | 940 | Fleetling / @fleet-of-words

Summary: Gwaine grew up knowing knights and other people of war, and so he's a little surprised at how deeply the Prince of Camelot sleeps. That is, when Merlin is around. The rest of the time, he's basically an insomniac.

Epistemology | 840 | Solarcat / @solarcat

Summary: Arthur knows, and Merlin knows he knows, and Arthur knows that Merlin knows that he knows.

The Sacrifice | 849 | Malu_3 (Grainne) / @penaltykeks

Summary: Fifty-six days since the Sidhe broke through the last of the old seals and declared war on Great Britain. Fifty-five days since Arthur's return from Avalon. Thirty-five days since the start of Arthur's personal sexual revolution… In which Kil is still a meddling so-and-so but, when it comes to wartime sacrifices, Merlin will take a debauched pop culture icon over a dead friend in any lifetime.

the unhidden heart | 965 | schweet_heart / @schweetheart

Summary: “What?” he asks, belligerent. Merlin doesn’t flinch. “You saw.” “I see a lot of things.” He doesn’t know why he can’t just come out and say it. I saw you using magic. I know you saved my life. Or maybe he does: saying the words out loud would mean he has to do something about them, like confirm that the truth exists outside of this liminal space. “More than you give me credit for, apparently.”

You Are Here | 747 | Malu_3 (Grainne) / @penaltykeks

Summary: How might we improve your experience? Let me blow you in Rainforests of the World.

The one with the Magic Wand | 748 | marguerite_26 / @marguerite26

Summary: “Oh shit.” Panic curls down Merlin’s spine, sweat pooling at his lower back. He tugs again and feels the sting of the hard plastic slipping deeper. “Fuck.”

I Will Dream My Dream Of You | 749 | samyazaz / @samyazaz

Summary: Written for Week 4 of Summerpornathon 2013

The one with werewolf!Merlin | 749 | marguerite_26 / @marguerite26

Summary: He finds the human in a clearing, his blond hair shimmering in the moonlight. Merlin steps cautiously forward. He sees no weapons, smells no other humans, but he’s been tricked before.

One of the Impossible Places | 750 | glim

Summary: Arthur always knows, though he tries to forget; awareness creeps at the edge of his thoughts, ripples between his senses, whispers to him that only his mind could hold so many impossible people and places.

Don’t tap the glass | 753 | marguerite_26 / @marguerite26

Summary: Written for summerpornathon Round 1. (NWS) Image Prompt

Cold | 754 | elirwen / @elirwen

Summary: It’s snowing when he finds him, the chill of winter biting even through his coat. Kneeling in a puddle of half-melted snow, his hands and ankles tied to a stake, he looks up at Arthur defiantly, even though he’s swaying with exhaustion, his whole body shaking. “Here to finish the job?” he asks, coughing. If it wasn’t for the rope around his wrists he’d fall to the cold ground.

A Nose in Need | 755 | Malu_3 (Grainne) / @penaltykeks

Summary: Six weeks back and Arthur feels he's coping admirably. And yet… This world, it smells all wrong.

not enough | 826 | withlightning / @existenceisthis

Summary: They’re on number four and Merlin can’t get enough of Arthur’s orgasms.

Status Quo | 848 | samyazaz / @samyazaz

Summary: It's easy, holding himself back. Arthur's the guy who's got a new girl on his arm every other week, the sort of guy who groans and covers his eyes and objects loudly should he be witness to even the briefest glimpse of male nudity in a TV show or movie. It makes it easy for Merlin, knowing he's straight, knowing there's no chance.

comprehensively, unequivocally (absolutely everything) | 863 | withlightning / @existenceisthis

Summary: Watching Merlin's body taking him in again and again, greedily, is one of Arthur's favorite views; his cock glistening with come and oil, dragging the slick out and pushing it back in with every stroke. I made this, Arthur thinks, this is mine, and then, the loudest thought of all, he's mine.

(our love is) a hundred pitchers of honey | 935 | schweet_heart / @schweetheart

Summary: Egypt, 1920. It's too hot to work, so Merlin and Arthur find other ways to occupy themselves instead. Meanwhile, the desert waits.

love, like the edge of a blade | 958 | schweet_heart / @schweetheart

Summary: He could easily kill Merlin like this, yet Merlin knows, knows that he won’t, and that certainty is enough to let him tilt his head, baring his throat to the knife.

See | 986 | wangler

Summary: Arthur is obsessed with Merlin's body, and whether it bears marks from his encounters at the sex club.

Amok Time | 998 | Leandra

Summary: Arthur notices that his roommate and secret crush is acting irritable, quickly angered and irrational. All of these are emotions that could be attributed to the stress of the approaching mid-term exams - if Merlin weren't Vulcan.

my kinds of madness | 998 | schweet_heart / @schweetheart

Summary: Star Trek crossover/fusion. Merlin has a secret. (Un)fortunately, Arthur is about to find out what it is.

Blog Info ☆ 2025 Reclists ☆ 2024 Reclists

[ochrearia]

Proud of You!

"DRABBLE" I yell to my reflection in the mirror, pointing an accusatory finger at myself as if that would work. Nope. 2k words again. I'm physically incapable of making anything short right now I guess. Fluff bomb!

BFs in this one-shot: PoPr!BF (Biff, mine), fc!BF (Boyf, Keyy's), S2!BF (Bee, Isaac's), Yourself (YS)

Letting any of these idiots in was proving to be a mistake. Not that YS couldn’t trust them, moreso that the minute he got comfortable around them it turned into them being smarter than he bargained for and finding out too quickly how to placate him. They were doing it on purpose. He was convinced that they’d still do it even if they didn’t manage to derive comfort out of it just because they thought seeing him so unfocused was funny.

Though suppose it was his mistake for believing other visions of himself wouldn’t be absolute fucking menaces.

The TV was on but offered nothing good to watch, which was the norm. YS really should consider investing in a better cable plan before he ends up chucking the thing out the window. Doing that would still be better entertainment than the channels he actually had on it. That was the least of his concerns, though, because while he was sitting on the couch he’d managed to catch three parasitic leeches. All of which were clinging to him like koala bears on steroids, very adamant to not let go until something gave. Biff attached to his left side, Boyf his right, and Bee right in the middle. Good thing the only tall one wasn’t right in front of him, at least he could still see over Bee’s head which was laid right on his sternum.

“Must you all do this to the point I can’t move? What if I wanted to get up for a snack or use the bathroom?” YS questioned aloud.

“Don’t care.” Biff whined back. “Had a bad day. Pico and Cherry are busy. Can’t get comfort from my partners so of course I’m coming here and getting the best hug in the world. Don’t tell them I said that.”

YS snorted out a laugh at that. “Blackmail.”

“Can’t believe you’d be so mean to even consider depriving your little brothers of quality comfort time. How could you?”

“You can’t kick me out, these two have had so much more time to get your attention compared to me and I need to catch up.” Bee insisted, chin digging slightly into where he was resting his head. “If you wanted to be able to move freely then you should have thought not to be so fucking comfy.”

“Oh yeah, sorry, totally my fault.” Playful sarcasm dripped from YS’s tone. “Are you sure I’m the comfy one or is it just this hoodie you all got for me? Was that your master plan all along, get me something you knew would be soft and then abuse the fact I can’t say no to any of you? Why the hell did I ever let you guys in, I’ve never known peace since.”

“I can’t believe you can wear this thing 24/7 and still pile yourself under a billion other heat sources and be fine. It’s like you’ve never been too hot before. How fucking cold are you all the time?” Boyf questioned. Normally he’d use his text-to-speech but his hands were occupied.

“Mm. I’m always cold.” YS hummed, the combined body heat slowing his thoughts. “Sucks. Heat is comfort but I can’t make my own it seems. Er- well, that’s what it feels like anyways, yeah.”

Nice save, moron. Damn these idiots for knowing warmth was another way to incapacitate him, the secrets they could pull in this state if they just asked the right questions…

“I hate all of you for figuring out so fast that warmth is a way to shut my brain down.” YS grumbled, trying to move quickly past his slip-up. “Though I guess if you have to know one I’d prefer this one over the other one…”

“You should stop insinuating that there’s multiple ways to take you down if you don’t want people knowing about the other one, man.” Biff cackled lightly. “I mean, I know, but Bee and Boyf don’t. Keep talking so loosely and they’re going to find out and we’re both screwed.”

“Beef wouldn’t tell me what it was.” Bee pouted in response. “It seemed like he really wanted to, but YS’s threats got the better of him. What could possibly be so embarrassing that you’re threatening everyone into silence?”

“If we keep guessing long enough surely we’ll get it right eventually. Biff, give us a hint at least, come on.”

“Fuck no.” Biff shook his head against YS’s shoulder. “Absolutely not. I made that mistake saying it to Beef and he’s going to use it against me too. It’s a shared thing which is why I haven’t gone shouting it around by now. No thank you.”

“I would rather take that shit to my grave before any more of you figure it out.” YS grumbled, slowly bringing his arms up around Biff and Boyf and squeezing tightly. “Fucking morons, I don’t have enough arms for all three of you.”

“Your arms are freakishly long and you literally are a shapeshifter, figure it out.” Biff bit back. “Don’t leave Bee hanging.”

“Yeah, what the fuck man.” Bee continued to complain. “These fuckers have so many YS hugs under their belt and I need to catch up like I said. More please.”

Toddlers. Three fully adult babies. YS sighed, rolling his eyes before stretching his arms further to reach Bee’s back. His arms were long, but not long enough to be able to connect behind all three of them. He actually had to abuse his shapeshifting to make them slightly longer so he could lock his hands together.

“There. Happy?”

“Yes.” All three of them chorused together.

YS rolled his eyes again, letting his head roll back a little to look up at the ceiling. At least it wasn’t all seven today. All seven vying for his attention was such a mind-boggling concept because he’d really done nothing to make them want to do that. Why was his attention so sought after, anyway? Why had they gotten so attached to him compared to getting attached to each other?

“Hey, I actually know of another way to shut his brain down that isn’t the way he’s refusing to admit to.” Biff spoke up suddenly, and YS could hear the grin in his tone.

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re about to say but you better not.”

“Don’t let the big brother title intimidate you Biff. Say it.”

“Yeah, say it so I can have something Beef doesn’t know! Then we’d be even!”

“Okay!” Biff replied, happily ignoring YS’s threat. “This one’s just as good. And it’s really cute, and YS hates being cute, ruins his cool and mysterious facade. You also have to genuinely mean it but I don’t think any of us will struggle with that. Look him in the eye and seriously tell him you’re proud of him. It works every time. He loves being told that it makes him so happy that it derails everything in his head.”

“Stop TELLING them these things what is your problem-”

Boyf immediately shifted. He pulled away just enough that he was still in range of keeping YS’s arm around his back, but now his face was visible and he was able to look the taller in the eye. He seemed to consider something in his head for a few seconds, before offering a bright smile with a slight head tilt.

“Prow’ ah you!” Boyf spoke. Not a thought, not text-to-speech. In the few seconds he’d known the information Biff had said it clicked enough in his brain to know this was something that needed to be said out loud regardless of his aversion to speaking.

YS’s brain genuinely stalled. He’d never actually heard Boyf speak out loud before. He knew that he had the ability to, even though he barely bothered to do so. Proud of you! God, the first words he heard this asshole speak had to be that, didn’t it? First thing he really said to him was that he was proud of him. Fuck, he could feel his eyes starting to water already. Come on, why now?!

“Oh my god he’s crying.” Bee snickered in awe. “You prided him into silence and tears. Aw man, that’s cute but also how long did you go without anyone telling you that to even get to this point of reaction?”

“I-” YS stumbled, trying to blink the tears away. “Fuck you, Biff. Come on. What is your problem with me being cool and mysterious, man, can’t I just be that?”

“No.” Biff said smugly. “Because it’s bullshit. That whole thing is a facade to keep yourself guarded and disconnected and that’s not allowed. You can’t stay disconnected forever. You’re important to us, you’re our big brother and we want to be close to you. You come here wanting to be our support, our comfort, you want to help us and let us live good lives. How many times do I have to say we want that for you too before you start believing it?”

Dammit.

“You do so much even after having gone through so much already.” Bee said. “After everything you’re still here. I told you the day we met I wanted to help you like you were determined to help me. You’re doing it all despite your own issues, and hey, I’m so proud of you for that.”

Oh, he was going to lose his mind. A stray thought said YS wanted to strangle Biff for being a little shit and saying all these things, but god, his heart was aching in such a good way and he couldn’t stay mad. He wasn’t even mad in the first place. They were all looking at him with damn soft looks, offering stupid and nice smiles, and he couldn’t move with them all still hugging him like their lives depended on it.

“We’re all proud of you.” The teasing in Biff’s voice was suddenly gone. “And you should be proud of yourself. You might not think so, but you should. Look at all this good you’ve been doing. We’re all here because of you. You might think we’d all be better off staying with our partners when you’re having a bad day, thinking that you butted in for nothing. Nah. I’m so glad I get to have a big brother.”

They were doing it on purpose. They were trying to make him cry on purpose, he was sure of it, and dammit, they were succeeding. Fuck, but how else was he supposed to respond? YS wasn’t a crier, he didn’t like showing his emotions, but he couldn’t stop it. He wanted to hear them say every word so much. Wanted to be vulnerable, allowed to not be the strong pillar all the time. Wanted to be happy. Oh- he wanted to be happy.

When was the last time he’d thought that without believing he didn’t deserve it?

“I hate you three.” YS said wetly, rolling his head around to rest it on top of Bee’s instead. “I- thank you.” He was keeping his voice quiet, because he didn’t trust his normal tone to stay strong enough not to betray the pure emotion behind it. “That… You don’t know how happy you’ve all just made me feel.”

“Holy shit he admitted to it.” Biff gasped overdramatically. “Oh my god! We’re getting somewhere! Fucking finally, oh I’m going to say that so much more every time we hang out. You’re making progress, visible progress, fuck I am so proud of you holy shit-”

“Biff you’re gonna kill him.” Boyf thought with a snarky smile. “But he’s right. That’s so nice and exciting to hear you say. You know you’re going to be bombarded with these sentiments every time from us three now, right?”

“Had a feeling…” YS chuckled with a small shake of his head. “I’d say don’t overdo it but I don’t think you even could. I- I love hearing it.”

“Awww!” Bee squeezed his arms around YS’s waist more. “Big brother loooooves us!”

Yeah… YS thought slowly, mind swirling with happiness and warmth-induced sleepiness. It had been long enough, right? He could admit it now, right? Yeah, I do. 

[corazondebeskar-reads]

Kinktober 2023 - Day 13 (Din Djarin, Boba Fett, Cobb Vanth)

mhi me'dinui an

Kinktober 2023 - Day 13: Wrist Restraints/Triple Penetration

Din Djarin x f! reader x Boba Fett x Cobb Vanth

Word Count: 3.7k

Summary: After the events of The Book of Boba Fett, you get railed by Din Djarin, Boba Fett, and Cobb Vanth.

Warnings: Triple penetration, foursome, orgy, anal (f receiving), p in v unprotected sex, oral (m receiving), oral (f receiving), reader is pregnant but it's not an aspect of the sexual content, it's just because I'm incapable of writing pwp apparently, poly dynamics, mando'a, making up rules about bacta, din djarin removes the helmet, boba has a big ass bed, mild bondage, din and reader are dar'manda, din reader and boba speak mando'a, Grogu is with fennec or something ok lol

Prompts from this list by @absurdthirst.

title means "we share all," more mando'a translations at the end

also on ao3

“Fett,” Din beckons. He has you lying in his lap, pillow propped under your head. Vanth is already between your legs at the end of the bed, your knees over his shoulders.

Boba settles himself over you, legs spread wide to fit you and Din between them. It puts his cock right in line with your mouth.

Din reaches out and gives Boba a few firm strokes, turning your head toward himself with one hand.

“You still doing okay? Ready for more?” he says.

You nod and whine until he lets go so you can open your mouth, and releases Boba’s cock so the older man can slide it between your lips.

If this was their idea of easing you into it, you’d perhaps underestimated the proposition.

It started nearly two weeks ago when they had returned after the victory at Mos Espa. It wasn’t the first time Din had shared you with Boba. It wasn’t the second or tenth time, either. But that night had been its own kind of first, too.

You weren’t used to being left behind. Being the one waiting, flinching at every door sliding open, not even daring to hope. Taking on the goddamn Pyke syndicate with less men and less ammunition than ever before. A fool’s battle.

They hadn’t asked it of you, but you knew they wanted to. Whispering between themselves, avoiding your gaze.

You had been in a bath, resting your aching hips. Having broken your fifth month, your belly was just starting to peak out of the water, suds clinging to your damp skin. You had brought up the impending standoff, and Din had tried to leave the room, muttering something about needing to check in with Fennec.

“Never took you for a hut’uun,” you had finally snapped.

He had jerked to a stop as if he had taken a missile to the beskar. He turned, slowly, on his heel, and you immediately felt wretched.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

“Yes, you did.” He said.

You didn’t need the helmet off to hear the hurt in his voice. “No, that was too harsh. I’m sorry.”

He sat down on the side of the stone basin. “We were going to bring it up after dinner.”

“I should have been included in the discussion from the start.”

“I’m sorry, cyare. Fett is—”

“Boba can apologize to me himself,” you said, shaking your head. “But we all know how this conversation is going to end.”

“We would never—”

“I know.” And you did. Your lovers, born of battle themselves, would never ask you to stand down from a fight when your aliit was on the line. “I’m sorry I won’t be by your side.”

He helped you out of the tub. You didn’t want to admit it, because you would have chosen to stay out of harm’s way anyway, but the pregnancy was affecting your body far more than you had expected. You weren’t sure you could fight, anymore. Not fast enough, anyway.

The night they returned, bloodied but alive, was a wild thing. Just as it had started between the three of you. In the aftermath of a fight, still tightly wound and ready to spring. Fucking and biting and grinding until you were drained.

“Look at our girl, Din,” Boba had taunted while they split you in two. “A shame we can’t fill that pretty mouth, too.”

You had cum at the thought alone.

But you were all so high off adrenaline and your orgasms that it had slipped your mind. When Boba sat down for breakfast a week later and said, “I have an idea for how we can repay the good marshal,” you didn’t suspect a thing.

Vanth had come out of the bacta tank the day before. He needed time to recover and had accepted Boba’s offer to stay in one of the many vacant suites in the palace.

“Six camtonos of credits wasn’t enough?” you asked, sipping at your tea.

“Well, it’s for more than just Vanth.”

He and Din exchanged a look across the table through their helmets.

“Fine, don’t tell me,” you said, dropping your fork with a little more force than necessary and pushing away from the table.

“Alor’ika, wait,” Boba said, but you stomped off to sulk in your room.

You knew you were being silly and childish. It didn’t stop you from ignoring Din when he entered your shared bedroom and lay beside you.

He slipped an arm around your waist, anyway, and noticed your fist clenched the pendant against your chest, leather cord spilling from the side.

The Mythosaur. He should have known.

“You are no less of a Mandalorian than I am,” he said for the thousandth time.

“It’s not the same. I can’t put it back on.”

The last few months had been hard on your body. You had been constantly ill, not able to hold down solid food, and vomiting no matter what treatments you tried. The medic had said it wasn’t unheard of, and told you to come back if it didn’t pass.

It had, eventually. You had been feeling more like yourself for a few weeks now, but—no. Not yourself at all.

Like you’d never be yourself again.

Not when half of your identity was locked in the trunk in the corner of the room.

“How can you be okay with an aruetii raising your baby?”

“Hey, it could be Fett’s,” he said. It usually made you laugh, but this time, you just lay quietly.

“What if it is?” you whispered.

From the beginning, they said they didn’t care whose seed had taken hold in your womb, that you would all care for each other. It was normal for Mandalorian children to grow up in a tight-knit community, anyway. This is the Way.

It was that easy.

But since you had removed your helmet, that tether felt frayed.

“We are both dar’manda,” he reminded you quietly. “It doesn’t matter how long it takes, but we will find our redemption.” He laced his fingers through yours, wound together by the necklace.

(Boba found the whole thing ridiculous. When you were first upset after taking it off, he had been angry. “Certainly, that rule might have worked when you could hide away in your home on Mandalore,” he said, pacing. “It’s an impossible standard now.” But you knew he would never understand.)

“We didn’t mean to make you feel left out. I… had a thought, last night, and he took it upon himself to see if it was feasible.”

You rolled over to face him. “What thought?”

“Well, cyare, I thought maybe we had a solution to get you what you wanted. To let you be as full as possible. There aren’t many people in this galaxy that Fett or I would trust with you.”

“Vanth,” you said with a sharp breath.

Sometimes, you were thankful for the hormones. It made it easier to wipe your tears and move forward when you were very easily distracted by sex.

Like now.

“You want us to have our way with you, little one?” Boba asks as he fucks your face. “See if we can finally wear out our needy whore?”

You moan around his cock, barely any sound escaping for how taut your lips were around him. You tried to reach up to grab his thighs and pull him deeper into your mouth. You’d have done it yourself, but Din’s strong arms were holding you down while he toyed with your nipples.

“Ah, no,” Din stops to pull your arms down. “You said you wanted us to use you. You begged, not more than an hour ago, to ‘do whatever we wanted’ with you. Have you changed your mind?”

You pull off Boba’s cock, crying, “No, please.” You don't get to finish, as Boba pulls you back onto him.

“I don’t know if she can control herself,” he says to Din, shaking his head.

“I don’t think so either.”

“If she’s this desperate already, we may need to tie her down.”

Between the way Vanth was working you over with his fingers and tongue and the humiliation of being talked about like you weren’t even there, you come undone. Vanth groans as you squeeze your legs, trapping him at your cunt.

Boba moans his praise as your throat tightens around his cock. When you settle, he pulls out, a thick strand of saliva following his cock and dragging on your tits.

Din gathers it with his fingers and uses it to wet your nipples, tugging them until you cry out. With Vanth still gently licking at you, it's too much, and you squirm to get away.

“That’s your last strike, alor’ika,” Boba warns. “Would you like us to tie you down so you don’t have to try so hard?”

You nod. Though you were enjoying being held down by Din—his sure grasp always made you feel safe—you also knew he wouldn’t be sitting there all night.

Not that you knew what their plans were. You had easily agreed to their proposal, and they knew all your regular limits. Their offer to Vanth had been blunt and simple as well.

“Our girl here likes to get fucked,” Boba had said after Din had started to ask more delicately. “We want to fulfill her wish of being filled, but we don’t have enough cocks between us.”

Later, Vanth had cornered you alone in a passage. “You okay, with the things they said about you back there?”

It had been mortifying to tell him yes, and you were more than okay with the way they said them, too.

He had looked impressed for a moment and finally allowed himself to look you up and down. “I’d be more than happy to join, but I don’t take what isn’t given freely.”

“I don’t give what I can’t stand to lose,” you said. For good measure, you gave him a kiss on the cheek, patted your hand against it, and slipped away into another hall.

(It was strange to think that the only person in the room you hadn’t kissed was Din. Between Boba’s slow, firm lips and Cobb’s scruff, you thought maybe you could imagine it.)

Din pulls you by the underarms to sit in front of him, stealing you away from Cobb’s eager mouth.

“Hey, I wasn’t finished,” he says, sitting back on his heels.

“Yeah, you were,” Din says. “Mine next.” He pulls your arms behind your back and holds tight while Boba secures your wrists together with the rope. He pushes you forward, bent over, so he can slide out from behind you.

He rolls you onto your side and pulls you down closer to the edge of the bed. You feel Boba’s broad, bare chest against your back. They had spent plenty of time working you open with a frankly overwhelming amount of fingers and mouths, so when he lines his cock up at your asshole and pushes, your body welcomes him in.

This part you know well enough. He makes himself at home inside you and then holds infuriatingly still once there is no more to give. Din kneels on the bed, one of your legs around his waist and the other held open by Boba’s knee.

He takes his time tormenting your already sensitive cunt, sinking into you slowly with a hand on Boba’s leg. Meanwhile, Boba lifts your head and shoulders a little, helpless as you are to help arrange yourself, and holds you there while Vanth arranges himself.

“You’re not going to be able to lift yourself off his cock, cyare, so you tap Fett if you need help,” Din says.

True to his words, when Boba gently let you down, you had nowhere to go but onto Vanth’s cock. He wasn’t quite as thick as Din or as long as Boba, but it was still a decent prick. It bumped the back of your throat, and you gag a little.

“Grab her hair, you’ll have to help her,” Boba tells Vanth, who hesitates. “She likes it,” Boba says.

You try to reassure him, nodding fractionally and moaning a very muffled “uh-huh.”

Vanth grabs a handful of your hair and tests it out, which Din takes as an invitation to start fucking you in earnest.

If you thought you’d been thoroughly fucked before, you were wrong.

Vanth uses your throat like a cocksleeve, gentle but relentless, his taste heady on your tongue. Boba fills you near-constantly, preferring smaller thrusts focused deep rather than pulling back. And Din. Din never failed to take you apart; his honed focus and practiced hands zeroing in on the most sensitive parts of you. He made optimal use of his available equipment in any situation, and fucking was no exception.

He and Boba fall into a familiar rhythm, only slightly thrown off by Vanth, but it's dizzying. There isn’t a second when you aren’t being caressed or used or praised.

It's overwhelming in the best and worst ways. All you can taste, smell, and feel is flesh and musk. The air is humid, heavy with sweat, and the sheets cloistering. The press of their bodies holds you tethered to the world, pulling you down when the pleasure threatened to steal all the thoughts away in the current.

Din’s persistent fingers on your clit bring you tumbling into the haze, vision blanking. Vanth moans, holding you in place as you shake. Din’s fingers scrabble for more, working you past the threshold to rip more intense pleasure from you as you clamp down on his cock.

And Boba holds you tight against his chest, murmuring to you, voice like a beacon in a storm. “So good, alor’ika. Shh, that’s it, just take it, we’ve got you.”

Din takes mercy on you after the second orgasm wanes, and removes his fingers from your clit, bringing them up for Boba to taste. You almost hate being trapped on Vanth’s cock for a second, wishing you could watch him suck your juices from Din’s bare hand.

“Sweet as always,” Boba hums, pressing a kiss to Din’s fingers before letting him go.

Vanth is the first to fall. He gives you a warning, looking to Boba for help to move you.

“You can cum in her mouth,” Boba says. “She wants you to.”

“Is that true, darlin’?” Cobb says, tugging you up a little.

You try to cry “please” around his cock but settle for giving him a thumbs-up behind your back. Your arms are crushed against Boba, so he had to pass the message on.

“Well, if that’s what the lady wants,” Vanth says. He picks up the pace a little, and you focus on him,

He doesn't force it down your throat, content to let you swallow around him, trying not to let any of his thick, salty cum escape. It dribbles out around your lips, but he doesn't seem to mind at all. Fortunately, when he softens enough, he is able to adjust your head to lay in his lap instead of trying to extract himself.

Vanth leans against the headboard, wiping sweat from his eyes. He thanks you sweetly, brushing his hand through your hair. You press a kiss to his thigh and content yourself to be taken apart by your lovers.

Din doesn't last long after, but he refuses to let go unless you cum with him, so he picks back up his attentions to your clit. You thrash in Boba’s arms, and he tightens his grip so he won’t slide out.

“Udesii, alor’ika,” he says, pressing his lips to your neck. “Give it to him.”

When you hit your peak, the blood rushes to your head, everything tightening, and their voices lost to the waves. You come to only a few seconds later, with Din still pulsing inside your cunt and his shaky hand on your cheek.

“Stay with us for just a little longer,” Din says. “Gotta give us one more, okay, cyare? Just one more, and we’ll let you rest.”

He pulls out, watching his cum leak out of you for a moment, before pushing it back in with his thick fingers and resuming rubbing a softer but demanding circle around your clit.

“You don’t have long,” he warns Boba, feeling the way your swollen bud throbs angrily under his thumb.

“Don’t need long,” Boba grunts, giving you a few harder thrusts. “Now,” he commands Din.

“Sorry, cyare,” Din lies a little. He does feel bad knowing how tired you are. But it doesn't stop him from pinching your clit between his thumb and forefinger and tugging gently.

You aren’t aware of Boba’s cock twitching inside you, filling you. You aren’t aware of how Vanth’s fingers tighten in your hair for a moment. Can’t feel Din’s fingers release you, can’t hear yourself scream.

When the world stops flashing vibrant strobes behind the darkness, you become aware first of the cool Tatooine night breeze across your bare arm, tickling across its path. The sheet is draped across you, and there’s no idle stickiness, so they must have cleaned you up. When you force open your sleep-heavy eyes, weariness and a pleasant ache deep in your bones, you see Boba and Vanth in conversation over glasses of deep brown liquor.

The fresher is running. Vanth’s hair is wet and slicked back; they must have insisted he go first.

You sit up, sheet pooling at your waist. Boba, already facing you, looks up at the first sign of movement.

“Did you have a good nap, alor’ika?” he teases. “How do you feel?”

“Fucking fantastic,” you assure, aware of how the worry lingered deep in him.

“Spoiled brat,” he says, shaking his head and taking a drink from his glass.

Vanth comes over to sit on the edge of the bed. “I wasn’t too rough with you, was I?”

“Not at all,” you reach out to hold his hand. “Thank you.”

“Thank me? I should be thanking you. Between the repairs and your company, I’m in debt to you all for the rest of my life.”

“Consider us even,” Din says. He closes the fresher door behind him, dressed in a clean linen tunic and loose pants. His arms and feet are bare, and droplets of water cling to his neck.

“If you say so, partner,” Vanth says. He gives your hand a squeeze and stands up. “I was just waitin’ for you to wake up, honey. Didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

“Thank you, Cobb,” you say with a soft smile.

“D’you mind if I have a kiss for the road?”

You lean up to meet him, his lips pressing firm but chaste against yours. He kisses your forehead before pulling away.

“I’ll walk with you,” Din says.

“Don’t be a stranger, now,” Vanth says to you and Boba, and the pair leave the room.

Your face falls, skin prickling. Boba is up in an instant, sitting beside you and pulling you to him.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I just feel… sad.”

“Rough come down, little one?” He rubs a hand in circles on your back. “That was quite intense.”

You climb into his lap, snuggling up against his chest, and he holds you tight while you let the feelings wash over you, breathing through them.

The door slides open to allow Din and his large tray of food back into the room. He brings it over and sets it on the mattress.

“Eat, and we can go to sleep, or have a bath,” Boba says, reaching around you to help himself to the small feast Din had delivered. It looked like overkill, but you knew it would be picked clean. They always had an appetite after fucking, and your stomach was growling, too.

Plus, now that you could eat, you were trying to get as much strength recovered as possible. You’d need it, in the days ahead.

As you pick through fruit, you realize something is missing. “Cyare, you forgot a plate,” you say to Din. “Did you eat in the kitchens?”

Boba looks up, and something prickles up your spine.

Din sits very still on the chair he had pulled up to the end of the bed.

Your chest is tight, every alarm in your body blaring.

When he moves, your brain doesn’t process it right away. Doesn't realize what the motions mean until the helmet is lifting off the top of his head, soft fluffs of hair not quite resettling.

You can’t breathe.

You hadn’t seen him, that night on Gideon’s ship. You had turned away, closed your eyes, even though it meant missing Grogu’s departure.

And apparently, his warm brown eyes and the way they crinkled at the corners. His disheveled hair, the salt and pepper of his mustache and beard, and his lips, turned down at the corners.

You can’t breathe, so you close your eyes.

He moves the tray off the bed and climbs onto it, kneeling in front of you and cupping your face in his hands. “Cyare, please.”

“Wh-why?” It comes out between shaky breaths. You aren’t sure if you are going to hyperventilate or cry. Or both.

“I told you, cyare. We are in this together. And I’m going to put it back on, and I hope someday you can, too. But I want you to know me. What’s the point of having taken it off at all if you don’t know me?”

The answer is cry, apparently. You open your eyes, letting the tears slip free, and look up at him. A shaky sob works its way out, and you reach to pull him close.

“Now you’ll have something handsome to look at,” Boba teases, “and not just an old man or your own reflection.”

“Don’t say that,” you smack a hand against his chest. “You’re very handsome.”

“Yes, very distinguished,” Din teases.

Boba reaches up and flicks him in the nose, breaking into a laugh when Din fails to move away, unused to needing to protect his face.

You laugh, too, and Din turns his pout on you.

“You think that’s funny, cyare?” he says, a playful lilt in his voice.

And in his smile.

It clenches at your chest, and you can’t take it anymore. You sit up and kiss him, the meal and bath long forgotten.

Mando'a (in order of use): hut'uun - coward but incredibly offensive to a Mandalorian cyare - beloved aliit - family alor'ika - princess, essentially aruetii - an outsider, a non-Mandalorian dar'manda - the state of no longer being Mandalorian udesii - quiet

I sat down to write this and SWORE I could just write pwp this time. "You don't need a plot. You don't need feelings. It's an orgy." And here we are.

I couldn't resist the punny title, but also the working title was "from the desert cums a stranger," so this is infinitely better.

[tgmsunmontue]

Upon which our souls touch 8/?

Hangster Fantasy!AU

SUMMARY

Tradition and the stories have been the same for thousands of years. Until Bradley and Jake came along and broke all the rules without ever speaking a word to one another...

ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN

(Map of the world in my head can by found here...)

(And I should/could maybe do a post detailing what the different parts of the chest sigils mean but they also contain spoilers...)

PART EIGHT - warning for some animal death/hunting/blood - just skip the last two paragraphs if needed.

                After they’ve eaten it is still only late afternoon and he’s been enjoying moving around without the travelling bag strapped to his back. The idea of running and being able to hunt, to provide something tangible as evidence of his gratitude rather than just words is making his blood thrum. He helps Bob tidy away, taking his gentle instructions in stride but notices that Bradley is very familiar with the layout and tasks that need doing. Then he’s unwrapping the blade of his axe and asking Bob for general directions to where he last spotted signs of the panther. He gets them and then sets off with a nod and grin, telling Bob he will be back.

                He sets off at a light jog, eyes scanning the ground and looking for scratches on trees and any scat that would provide evidence of recent movements, habits or trails. It should be asleep right now, if he can find its den and sneak up on it without it hearing him or smelling him. He can track ground prey easily, only needs to slow his steps to make them softer rather than crashing through the underbrush signaling his arrival. He has been running for a while when he spies fresh scratches and fur and he stops immediately, realizing that his presence may have already been noted.

…            …            …

                He always enjoys Bob’s company. He does not talk unnecessarily, content to let the silence between them be enough. It helps of course that he can tell when Bradley isn’t in the mood to talk, and can sense when Bradley wants to talk but doesn’t know how to start the conversation. It had eased the beginning of their friendship immeasurably. As they walk toward the herd of grazing deer Bradley wonders if the time away from Jake has been deliberately coordinated to give him a break. He would not put it past his friend to organize such a reprieve for him and he finds himself relaxing, the itch under his skin which has become present in Jake’s presence easing away.

                “You realize he is being well meaning with his offers?” Bob asks, and Bradley sighs. Of course he cannot escape talking about Jake even when he is not present.

                “What?”

                “He does not think you are incapable, it is simply something done in his tribe. Small gestures.”

                “Oh.”

                “He thinks you don’t like him…”

                Bradley pulls a face, because he can’t lie to Bob either way.

                “I do not know him.”

                “And yet you have not tried to get to know him.”

                “Bob…”

                “Bradley…” Bob repeats in the same tone.

                “We have nothing in common!”

                Bob raises an eyebrow and Bradley scowls, kicks at a pile of leaves as he walks past, feeling childish and he knows Bob is going to offer insights now, similar to what his mother would do and he will try his best to not let it annoy him.

                “Fine. We are both… unique. But I am not the first to not have any egg glow for me.”

                “And yet Jake is the same…”

                “No. He’s…”

                “He’s what?”

                “They all glowed for him. That’s what he said.”

                “Hmm. Interesting.”

                “Why?”

                “He has an affinity for… living things.”

                “And yet he was very eager to go off and hunt to kill.”

                “You judge very harshly very quickly my friend. I expressed a worry and he provided a solution. I was planning on taking care of it soon enough myself.”

                “Why did you just not ask?”

                “Asking means I doubt his ability to observe and consider what I need. Also he did not need to offer. Asking direct means he is put on the spot, must either decline and appear rude, or accept and then later face potential shame if he is incapable. He offered because he knew it was something I would like and he was confident he can complete the task successfully.”

                “Oh.”

                “Mmm. Very different from how your tribe works.”

                “Also you said you have nothing in common, as if that is a barrier to getting on, or becoming…” Bob pauses, his gaze going distant for a moment. “…friends. Your mother has nothing in common with many of the people she considers friends, and yet she finds great joy in their company.”

                Bradley sighs, because Bob and his mother are almost two peas in a pod, and he should have known Bob would bring her into this.

                “I will try harder to talk with him.”

                “Ask him about his customs and share your own. Once you understand your differences you will begin to find your similarities…”

                Bradley is reminded again why Bob is so often brought in to mediate and negotiate between factions that are experiencing unrest. Of course he’s going to apply the same techniques to Bradley’s life, and he can also no doubt sense Bradley’s annoyance.

                “I only want to make your life easier. You make it more difficult without seeming to try…”

                “Yeah, okay. You can stop paying attention to how I’m feeling. Let us hunt and restock your supplies.”

                “Mmm. And I won’t have a panther to worry about coming to steal the meat while it dries either. Very helpful.”

                Bradley chuffs, Bob’s point made and he shakes his head. He will try better to talk with Jake about things. It’s not like they don’t have plenty of time in which to talk.

                Their hunt is easy, the two of them working together and used to it. Bob will want the entire carcass, insides and all so Bradley hoists it to carry back to his cabin after allowing Bob to do some bloodletting and then bury the soil onto which the blood spilled. When they arrive he set up near the river, a little bit away from the cabin and begins the process in earnest, Bob setting out the different tools and racks in preparation. He works quickly and efficiently, rinsing and drying his hands when they get too slippery with blood and other bodily fluids of the deer.

                Then he hears the crack and crunch of dry leaves and twigs underfoot and he turns to see Jake approaching. He’s covered in blood and Bradley wonders why he hasn’t stopped to rinse himself off, the body of the panther draped over his shoulders clearly already gutted. He raises a hand in greeting but goes back to what he’s doing, letting Bob act as intermediary for now.

                Plenty of time for him to get to talk to him.

NINE

[magicshopaholic]

Aphrodite (Namjoon x OC)

Summary: You and Namjoon consider all the reasons you shouldn’t be together.

Pairing: Namjoon x OC

Genre: Fluff, some angst, some smut

Word count: 7.1 K

Rating: 18+

Warnings: language, alcohol, making out, fingering, allusions to sex

A/N: Wrote this in a word coma. Set over a period of three months, beginning a week after Voice of an Angel. Can be read standalone.

Special thanks to this anon who casually dropped this idea in my inbox and bounced, leaving me to be plagued with heart-stoppingly beautiful scenarios that I wrote on my phone in a full-day seminar because I was incapable of thinking about anything else. Well played, anon.

(The song rec is also one I've been waiting to use and one of Daniel Ricciardo's biggest contributions to my life; apropos in these turbulent times)

Tagging: @bbl32, @quarter-life-crisis2, @margopinkerton, @faearchives, @whoisbts, @purpleseoul7, @kflixnet (if you want to be added to the taglist, lmk)

Listen to: “wake up with you” by emerson leif

namjoon masterlist | main masterlist

The first reason is brought up on the last night.

Seoul shouldn’t be this empty this time of night, thinks Namjoon. But they’re near the suburbs now, the apartment building mostly with families, so maybe it’s always like this? Either way, he should count himself lucky, for if Kaya’s last night here was punctuated with camera phones being secretly pointed at him and his manager hissing at him to be careful, he might have thrown something.

As it is, it’s peaceful. Their fingers linger next to each other as they walk back to her aunt’s house; Namjoon doesn’t know if she expects him to take her hand. He doesn’t want to be presumptuous, but after what they’ve just done at his penthouse, is this really where the line needs to be drawn?

“Good call to walk.” Kaya turns to him slightly and raises her eyebrows. “Instead of taking a car.”

“The weather’s too nice for it,” he lies, noting how his shirt is already sticking to his shoulders slightly and how she’s swept her long hair off her neck and tied it up, despite the light sundress she’s wearing.

It’s embarrassing to think that the reason he’d proposed to walk was so he’d have a little more time with her before she left forever. He feels ridiculous for even thinking this way - when did he become so dramatic?

“It is,” she agrees. “It's nicer than Amsterdam.”

Namjoon’s stomach settles slightly. At least he’s not the only one lying through his teeth.

“Do you need to pack tonight?” he asks hopefully, wondering if they can take another detour before he drops her back.

“A little,” she admits, “but mostly I just need to close out some stuff for work that’s due the day after tomorrow.” 

Namjoon frowns. “Because… you’re preparing for jet lag?”

“Yeah, exactly. It’s a really long flight,” she adds, groaning softly in anticipation. 

The sound makes his stomach flip and he tries not to think about the same sounds an hour ago, in his bed, against his skin.

“Tell me about it.” It occurs to Namjoon that unlike him, she won’t be flying business class. “Can’t blame you for not visiting more often. Jieun, I mean,” he adds quickly.

“Uh-huh.” Kaya gives him a small, knowing smile as they reach the building. “It’s also really expensive,” she says, turning around to face him.

“It is.” He swallows and puts his hands in his pockets, looking at the ground. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been dreading this moment; nothing he wants to say would be appropriate for saying goodbye to a week-long summer fling.

She touches his elbow, holding the newspaper-wrapped package in the same hand. Whatever it is, it’s definitely not a book, she’d joked when he’d given it to her and asked her not to open it until he left.

“Namjoon.” Her voice is soft, the foreign accent making his name sound so special. “It’s probably a good thing I can’t visit that often.”

He presses his tongue into his chin and nods, hating that she’s right. It’s too far and it’s too expensive, so maybe a week-long summer fling was already the bonus that fate had given them. It takes him a moment but he takes a deep breath and looks up at her, thinking once again that she has such Disney princess eyes. 

He silently steps forward to hug her for the last time.

—

The second reason is brought up nearly a month later, in the middle of the night in Amsterdam. 

Kaya groans at the sound of her alarm, feeling distinctly as though she just fell asleep. She reaches for her phone and frowns when she sees the time: she did just fall asleep. It’s also not her alarm, but her phone ringing.

The call is from Namjoon, though; it makes her slightly less annoyed at being woken up. She clears her throat and answers.

“Hello?”

“Hey!” He sounds hurried, as though he’s on his way somewhere. “I’m so glad you answered.”

“Okay?” Kaya can hear her voice sound thick with sleep. “Uh… why?”

“Because of last night. Because - wait, were you asleep?”

“Was,” she can’t resist saying, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to hold onto some remaining sleep. Tomorrow’s schedule is chock-full of classes. “It’s two am, Namjoon.”

“It’s -” There’s a shuffle. “Did I calculate the time difference wrong? Why did I think I was ten hours ahead?”

“I dunno,” she mumbles into her pillow. “What’s wrong?”

“I just wanted to apologise,” he says, sounding incredibly guilty. “For last night. I… I kind of fell asleep.”

Nothing he’s said makes any sense to Kaya. Sighing, she turns over slightly and frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Earlier,” he clarifies. “In the evening for you, I guess. We were talking and I…”

“You fell asleep.” She remembers now. 

Despite parting in Seoul on a bittersweet note, with the mutual but unsaid knowledge of their dalliance ending, they hadn’t been able to cut ties fully. Namjoon had messaged her late the next day asking if she’d landed safely, she’d sent him a picture from her cab in response, and the conversation never ended.

It was still restrained, for the most part. Kaya, at least, was aware that an emotional connect had been built in Seoul - but they’d said goodbye and gone back to their lives. Anything further should be nothing more than friendly, like pen pals who kept each other updated on their lives.

Earlier this evening, they’d been talking on the phone about something extremely mundane. Kaya was in a pub with her friends, but knowing that Namjoon probably didn’t have a lot of time, she excused herself for a few minutes and went to a spot away from the music, near the washrooms. She was leaning back against the wooden wall and talking about her thesis but every time she tried to change the topic to something less boring, he asked her to continue, sounding genuinely interested in a very operational aspect of her work.

He was tired - that much she could hear. He still kept the conversation going, at first with questions and eventually progressing to occasional exclamations, until suddenly, he went completely silent. Kaya guessed he may have fallen asleep; a quick calculation reminded her it was three am in Seoul, so on some level she was actually glad he was finally resting.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding apologetic. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“No, don’t worry about it,” she murmurs, brushing her hair off her face. “It was really late for you.”

“Yeah, but I could’ve said good night,” he points out. “Sorry about that. And… I’m sorry about waking you up right now,” he adds, audibly wincing. “For some reason I thought I was ten hours ahead.”

She chuckles sleepily. “Happens to the best of us. Timezones are always a pain.”

“Not something we need to worry about, right?” Namjoon says after a moment, and she thinks his half-chuckle sounds a little forced.

“Nope. Good thing we quit while we were ahead.”

There’s silence on the line for a few seconds while Kaya, in her half-asleep state, imagines what it might be like to fall asleep with him in person. She’d almost considered it on her last night in Seoul; they’d been under the covers, naked and talking about nothing in particular when he’d softly offered for her to stay the night. 

Had she been a more impulsive person, she may have said yes, but it seemed too intimate to do with a person she’d technically known for a little more than a week. Now, she wonders idly if she’d been too hasty with her decision.

“You should sleep,” he says after a moment, still sounding a bit guilty.

“You woke me up, you put me back to sleep,” she retorts softly.

“Yeah? You want a bedtime story?”

“Sure, why not?”

Namjoon laughs, and the sound makes her toes curl inside her blanket. “Wait, are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.” She pulls her covers up to her chin and curls up into a comfortable position. “Hit it, music producer.”

He chuckles a little disbelievingly. “Um, okay? Here goes nothing.” He takes a deep breath and starts, barely getting four words out before she interrupts him.

“Wait. Joon… you know I don’t understand Korean, right?”

The nickname is a first for her, and it sounds as though he’s picked up on it, too. “Yeah, I know. But you want to be put to sleep and I thought it might actually help.”

It’s genius. Kaya grins to herself, knowing somewhere deep down that she’s just setting herself up for heartbreak someday. She should stop this, quit while they’re ahead.

Instead, she hears herself tell him to continue.

—

The next reason comes up the day Namjoon learns about Damien Herjavec.

He’d made the executive decision to give Kaya his private Instagram handle a few days after she’d left Seoul. She’d never brought up following each other on social media until he did because despite how much he liked her, giving her access to something this personal required thought. It wasn’t until he went back to the bookstore where they’d bumped into each other for the first time, and he realised he wanted her to know that without him having to actually tell her, that he decided to do it. 

He searched her name on Instagram and followed her, trying to restrain himself from checking if she’d followed him back. She did eventually, a couple of hours later, and to a genuinely embarrassing amount of delight, she commented on his picture: Careful in the English section.

Kaya didn’t seem to use Instagram very often other than to put up very random pictures on her story of ordinary city shots: a street outside her campus, her own legs in faded jeans, a unicycle in the park in the distance. It was whimsical and cute, but also highlighted the few times she did post something else - such as a picture of her and three other people, sitting at a table with name cards in front of them and smiling into the camera.

Namjoon doesn’t immediately register the male in the picture. His focus is on Kaya, in a blazer and slinky black trousers and beige heels, her long hair straight and framing her face as she smiles. His heart skips a beat at the thought of her like this earlier today, in real-time, and he suddenly feels closer to her than he has in weeks. It stays all day, the lingering feeling, as though she’s finally in reach and he hasn’t been imagining her all this time, that he realises it's longing. He’s missing her, and the discovery immediately terrifies him.

He decides it’s officially time to end this transatlantic pseudo-fling and resolves not to call her or text her anymore, knowing they need to phase this out of their lives for both their good. It lasts a whole five hours until she texts him, with nothing more than a Hey.

Namjoon swallows and closes his eyes, knowing he’s in so much trouble. Hey, his fingers type out, as though of their own accord.

I think God sent me an angel today.

Yeah? Wings and everything?

Chinos and Vans, but I’ll take it. As long as he gives me an extra set of hands on this research project, I’ll worship whoever sent him to me.

Oh, your professor finally brought in someone else? That’s great!

Yess, it is. Maybe now I’ll remember to eat a meal and get more than a couple hours of sleep. Oh, and focus on my actual job.

I get that. I’m happy for you. You should be getting more sleep.

I know, right? Damien might just be the answer to my problems. Even staying up late in the conference room and checking survey results is better now because at least I’m not alone. I shouldn’t be complaining to you though - I know you have a worse workload.

Not true. I was in the studio till dawn but at least it has a comfortable couch.

You’re right. I have it worse.

Not now that you have Damien. The reply is out and sent before Namjoon can stop himself and he immediately cringes.

Yeah, well. I don’t know how long he’s going to be around for. Once this project is over, maybe I’ll refer him to Professor Llyod so he doesn’t keep tapping me to grade his papers.

Sounds like a plan. I’m sure Professor Lloyd will be happy.

His happiness isn’t really my concern, if I’m being honest. I wouldn’t mind if Damien stays. He actually has more than a few braincells and - get this - showers. 

Namjoon stares at his phone for a second. He sounds like the complete package.

You joke, but it’s a serious epidemic on a college campus. Having a colleague who smells good is a bigger bonus than you think.

How long do you think this project will be?

A couple of months? Hopefully? I don’t know - the professor heading it keeps adding problem statements constantly so it feels endless. I’m just really really tired.

Namjoon wants to offer words of comfort but he can’t think of any. In fact, all he can think about is how he, too, has a ridiculously long day ahead of photoshoots ahead of him tomorrow, where he won’t be allowed to eat much or drink any water, followed by filming.

He remembers about how he’s been thinking about her all day and knows he needs to at least try to nip this in the bud.

You know the worst thing about being a workaholic?

What?

Dating somebody who’s also a workaholic.

Kaya’s reply takes a few moments. Haha, point taken. Good thing that’s not a problem for us.

—

The next few reasons come up around the same time, and some of them are just downright silly.

Despite his best intentions to keep a distance, the moment he finds out he’s needed in Amsterdam for a collaboration, Namjoon not only says yes instantly but he also works his schedule to plan leaves and invent meetings around the same time, eventually extending his total trip to ten days.

He knows he’ll be working for some of that time; it’s the only reason he doesn’t feel desperate and clingy when he informs Kaya of the trip, asking as calmly as possible if she’d like to meet.

Kaya, for her part, feels like her heart might explode. It takes every bit of her willpower to suppress the smile on her face during the mid-term she’s invigilating; the undergrads, barely younger than her, don’t need to know anything about her personal life.

Oh, that’s great. Sure, we should catch up.

He’s coming for work and she already has a lot of it on her plate, but somehow it still feels as though every moment that can be squeezed out from their schedules is spent with each other. A lot of the deliberate distance that they tried to maintain while apart seems to have also gradually evaporated. 

It starts on his first night with dinner at a riverside cafe, where they greet each other with a casual hug like they’re classmates from high school. They walk back to her apartment with a respectful distance between them where she invites him for a cup of horrid instant coffee, like it’s the end of a blind date. 

It’s only when they’re actually indoors and alone and it’s dark because Kaya hasn’t even switched on the light yet that some of the pretence is dropped. She sees his tall silhouette come closer and smells his cologne; her hands go up automatically to rest on his shoulders as he kisses her, his hands large around her waist as he gently backs her up against the door.

They hang out in her apartment when they’re not outside; Namjoon says he’s sick of hotels and she can imagine (and she secretly doesn’t want him to leave), so she doesn’t mind much. Her apartment is small but the location is convenient and the sight of him in it, casual and comfortable, is something she feels she can’t get enough of.

“It’s an amazing view,” he says one morning, sitting sideways on the bench in her balcony. He’s got his glasses on and is sitting with a book, having woken up almost an hour before her. “I can even see the river from here.”

“It’s pretty great,” she admits, coming over and sitting next to him, leaning back against his legs. “The rent also takes a decent chunk out of my paycheck,” she adds dryly, shrugging, “but it’s worth it.”

“Don’t you get a place on campus? I thought all students do.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So why didn’t you take it? Wouldn’t you save a lot?” he asks curiously.

Kaya bites her lip, still looking at the view. “I don’t like living on campus.”

“Really? You’d live right there - you’d probably save a ton of time on commute and everything, no? Plus, it would be safer than returning in the middle of the -”

“It’s not really my thing,” she interrupts him. “Do you want to go to Stedelijk today? If you do, we should leave soon.”

Namjoon nods and she smiles, patting his leg and going back inside. They leave in an hour; it’s a Sunday and it’s beautiful outside. The museum is just as incredible as she remembers from the first time she visited it, except now Namjoon is here, too, his fingers lingering right next to hers and brushing them every few seconds. 

They’ve had sex several times, they’ve fallen asleep together, they’ve even showered together once, but this - holding hands - still feels too soon. It feels like admitting something, something she knows by now that they’re both trying to deny because it just makes more sense that way. They can’t hold hands, for that’s the beginning of a very slippery slope.

“Hey, your view is so much better than mine,” says Kaya after a while, when they’re having lunch at a cafe near the museum. She’s looking at a picture on his phone of his gigantic window, the Han river flowing majestically outside it. “The river from my balcony is a speck in the distance.”

“I do have a good view,” he says fairly, taking back the phone. “But I mostly use my balcony for company. It feels too depressing otherwise. But yours honestly just feels like a bedroom with no roof,” he points out, something she’d never considered. “It has the mattress, the lights, the coasters. It’s like a haven in the middle of the city.”

“Really?” She’s both proud and slightly confused. “My mum’s been pestering me to get some plants in there but I just know I’m going to make a mess and forget about them and then they’ll eventually die. But, hey, who needs plants when I’ve got a whole haven?” 

Namjoon grins. “You want me to help you pick out some plants? I have a ton.”

She pauses mid-bite, a little disbelieving at how he continues to surprise her. “Seriously? You - you plant stuff?”

“Yeah. Why is that surprising?”

“Oh, it’s not -” She doesn’t know how to say that she can’t quite reconcile the posters of him that Jae-lin has shown her and the music videos she’s watched here and there of him rapping in oversized clothes, with someone who could tend to a garden. “It’s just… unexpected.”

“I plant a lot of things,” he informs her, cutting his steak and dipping it in the sauce. “For example, right now, I’ve just planted an idea in your head.” He smiles, his dimple popping. “So? Want to go plant shopping with me?”

Kaya watches him wince as the piece of steak breaks and falls in the bowl of sauce and he fishes it out, swearing under his breath. This is about the plants, she decides, trying to subtly place her hand over her mouth and cover her smile. He’s perfect but he’s not hers, and that’s the way it should be.

“Sure. I’ll go plant shopping with you.”

They look up the closest nursery and head there after lunch, pulling their caps over their heads in the afternoon sun. The desire to slip her hand into his is getting stronger; she imagines how big it would be around her own, the pressure both comforting and playful. To save herself from the temptation, she hooks her fingers around the strap of her sling bag and settles for just feeling his bicep brush against her shoulder.

The nursery is quaint and unbelievably colourful, looking like a kaleidoscope on the side of the road. They step into the shade and begin examining the small pots, reading the description underneath each.

“Definitely the tabebuia, if I may suggest it,” says Namjoon, pointing to a pretty pink plant. “It blossoms in the summer and it’s just gorgeous. It’ll be the highlight of your balcony.”

“Duly noted. What about its support acts?”

“Well -” He walks slowly towards her and points at another sapling. “The poppy is always nice. And - oh, dude, they have orchids here,” he adds in wonder, peering at the card underneath it. “I have one just like it - hang on -” He pulls out his phone and begins tapping on it.

Kaya surveys a few more saplings and turns to him slightly. “What about this one? It says it’s conducive to warm weather and grows even in harsh conditions such as -” She sees a movement out of the corner of her eye and looks to see Namjoon turning around and walking away. For a moment she thinks he’s going towards another plant but he just keeps walking until he’s passed the nursery, head still bent low over his phone.

Something stings in her heart, insulted at being cut off mid-sentence and ignored. She’s about to call his name when she hears the gasps.

“It’s RM!” 

There are two or three voices, accents foreign. Kaya freezes and turns away slightly, her mind working out why he abruptly walked away the way he did.

“I think it was him!”

“RM? Are you sure?”

“We can check…”

There’s some scuffling and words in a language Kaya can’t place in the moment, taken too off guard by the sudden interruption. She tries to breathe, willing the annoyance in her chest to go away. From a little way away, she spots what looks like a family with two teenage girls and a third one slightly older, gravitating towards the direction in which Namjoon left. 

She tries to look casually; he’s much further away by now, ducking into a coffee shop. The girls, in their minor confusion, seem to have lost sight of him. As they trudge away, disappointment evident in their voices, Kaya begins walking in the same direction, passing by the coffee shop as well. She texts him and continues down the path, stopping after a few minutes and waiting for him in a less crowded area.

She spots him sooner than expected. Even from a distance, she can see his lips pursed and his forehead creased, looking apologetic.

“Oh, my God,” she gasps softly when he’s within earshot. “It’s RM.”

Namjoon shakes his head. “I’m sorry,” he says, coming over and wrapping his arms around her waist before kissing her softly. 

“M-hm.”

“I didn’t want them to see you. That’s all.” He takes a small step back and tilts his head. “All it takes is one picture on the internet and then…”

“I know,” she says finally, patting his arm comfortingly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Yeah?”

Kaya nods. “It’s not your fault. Besides, I’m sure it would be way worse for your girlfriend. You know, if… whenever…”

It’s his turn to nod knowingly, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah. So you don’t need to worry.”

“I’m not worrying. Not about you, not about your fans,” she lists as they resume walking. “Not about your girlfriend… none of it.”

“Good.” Namjoon bumps her shoulder gently.

She doesn’t say anything. After a moment, she slips her hand into his.

Later that night, Kaya’s forgotten all about it, the only coherent thoughts in her mind being the feel of her sheets underneath her, Namjoon’s lips at her neck and his fingers inside her, moving right at her g-spot.

“F-fuck,” she stutters, knowing she’s close. Namjoon is a wizard with his fingers, she’s discovered. They are long, slender and move with a grace she hadn’t expected, and his hands find ways to elicit pleasure that even she hasn’t been able to unearth yet.

“Your pussy is so pretty,” he murmurs in her ear, his deep voice making her moan softly. He nips gently at her earlobe. “Open your legs wider for me, baby?”

Kaya obeys; she can’t imagine not doing so. Her head is starting to spin. “I - I can’t,” she breathes, panting. “Oh, my God…”

“You want me to stop?” he asks, slowing down slightly.

“No!” she exclaims, eyes snapping open. “I just - oh, God - I can’t take this on a regular basis,” she explains tightly, fists clenching around the sheets. “I think I might die…” She flashes a dreamy smile, eyes fluttering shut. “Good thing you’re not my boyfriend, huh?”

Namjoon nods, coming up slightly and moving his fingers slightly faster. “Uh-huh. Lucky you,” he says, brushing his lips lightly over her nipple.

Kaya moans loudly at that; she’s got seconds before she probably passes out from the intensity of what he’s doing. At this very inopportune moment where it’s just her, him and their clammy, naked bodies against each other, her phone pings.

Namjoon swears softly in Korean but thankfully doesn’t stop. “Ignore it,” she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut. “I don’t care what it is.”

“What if it’s something important?” he murmurs calmly, pressing kisses down her jaw. “You sure you don’t want to answer it?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, biting down on her lip now. “It’s probably just - just Damien texting to confirm if - oh, God!” Her mind goes blank the moment he flattens his hand and rubs his palm over her clit. “Oh, God, baby - don’t stop, don’t - oh, my -” 

Unable to form words any longer, Kaya drops her head back on the pillow and moans loudly as her orgasm hits her, her back arching on the bed as Namjoon whispers low words of praise, voice so deep she can feel it in her stomach.

His fingers slide out slowly, her ears still ringing slightly. Her heart is going  a mile a minute and she drops her head to the side into his neck as she tries to breathe normally before she opens her eyes and looks up at him.

Namjoon brushes her bangs off her face affectionately, his dimple appearing faintly. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “You were saying?”

But she shakes her head. “I don’t remember,” she mutters, heart skipping a beat at his satisfied grin.

—

The next day, three days before Namjoon is to leave, they decide to plant her saplings.

“Somehow, I expected this to be more technical.” Kaya steps back and tilts her head, observing her handiwork. She’s still potting the tabebuia, while Namjoon seems to have already finished two and is working on his third.

“What do you mean?” he asks, gently picking up the poppy plant and lowering it into the pot. He steadies it on the low ledge where five newly purchased pots sit, soil littered around them. 

“Just.” She tosses a loose lock of hair out of her face, her hands muddy with dark soil. “You always see people with a ton of gardening tools and gloves and… you know. Outfits,” she adds. 

“We’re just potting plants,” he points out. “Your outfit is cute.”

“It’s pajamas.”

“What’s your point?”

Kaya smiles but then groans. “I suck at this, though. All your plants look perfect and mine looks like something that got trampled by a herd of cows.”

Namjoon snickers, neatly finishing with his plant. “It’s always messy at first, but it’s worth it at the end.” He gathers the spilt soil into a small mound and moves it to the corner before coming up to her. “Alright, what’s wrong?”

“I think I’m holding the plant wrong or something because it keeps falling over,” she mutters, bending slightly to examine it. “Look, I think it’s - oh.” She breaks off when she suddenly feels his torso against her back and sees his arms come up in front of her, reaching for the tabebuia plant.

“Okay, so you need to hold it here,” he says calmly, as though the casual intimacy of their position isn’t causing explosions in his stomach like it is for her. “And then -” He pours a handful of soil into the pot. “- it stays still. Here, try it.”

If he notices her hands shaking, he doesn’t say anything. He takes them in his and places them in the correct position and they quietly pot the plant, the pale pink buds peeking through the leaves. Once they’re done, they stay there, and Kaya feels her chest start to contract, like she might suddenly cry.

She’s falling for him.

From behind her, Namjoon rests his hands on the ledge, encasing her. He gently bumps her head with his chin. “Should we name them?”

She nods like this was obvious, exhaling. “That one’s Fitzwilliam,” she declares, pointing to the one at the end.

“I’m sorry - what?”

“Fitzwilliam,” she repeats. “Like Fitzwilliam Darcy. Look at him - he’s right in the corner, not even on the same ledge as the others.”

“Yeah… because there’s no more space on this one.”

“It’s also the only plant that’s not a flower.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Fitzwilliam.”

“Fine. You freak,” he mutters, bumping her head again. “What about that one?”

They name the next three together, teasing each other with each one. Finally, they get to the tabebuia.

Kaya strokes one of the leaves. “This one’s easy. She’s Aphrodite.”

Namjoon nods. “I get that. A heavy name to live up to, though.”

“It makes complete sense. She’s the prettiest one here.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “It’s probably a good thing we’re not together,” he says finally. “I don’t think I could handle not seeing her every day.”

Kaya swallows. Despite her heart feeling heavy again, she leans back against him, memorising his strong chest behind her. She wonders if she’s imagining his heartbeat. “You’re talking about…”

“Aphrodite,” he murmurs, partly against her hair. “Who else?”

She can feel his nose press against the side of her head. Don’t do it, she thinks desperately. Don’t do it, don’t do it. It would open up a pit of emotions she doesn’t want to face. 

“Maybe we can share custody,” she suggests half-heartedly. 

She can feel him smile slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. Don’t do it. But it doesn’t work; he takes a deep breath and presses a kiss to her hair, and the dread settles deep in her stomach.

—

Kaya knew this day would come. After all, the only reason they even got this week was because Namjoon had work in Amsterdam. If it weren’t for that, this would’ve ended in Seoul. 

The last two days were spent largely apart; Namjoon had to fulfil his actual professional obligations and despite wanting to make the best of his time here, Kaya was glad to have some space for she wasn’t sure she was doing a good job hiding how she felt about his impending departure.

But the morning of his flight, she’s finally forced to face it.

It’s early, and Kaya has a class in two hours. She can’t think about that, though - which is worrying, because she always thinks about work. She sits on one of the dining chairs, the same one she sat on the first night he’d spent here, feet up and hugging her knees as she watches him speak to someone on the phone. In his hand is a shopping bag, half-filled with stuff he’s left here over the week.

“Yeah, okay,” he says vaguely, nodding. The phone is tucked between his shoulder and his ear as he ties his shoelaces. He replies in Korean before hanging up and slipping the phone into the pocket of his jeans.

“My cab will be at the hotel in an hour,” he tells her.

“Okay.” Now that his attention is on her, she finds she can’t look at him. It occurs to her that she might be sulking; it’s just another embarrassment on top of the stupidity at feeling this horrible about Namjoon leaving. “Sure you have everything?”

“Yeah.” When she still doesn’t look at him, focusing intently on a pattern on her tablecloth, he sighs. “Kaya? Are you okay?”

No. But she’d rather die than admit that.

“Yeah.” She swallows and forces herself to look at him. “This just… really sucks. That’s all.”

Namjoon nods, and she wonders if he really knows how much. It would be too good to be true if they actually ever see each other again. The reasons not to are plenty and they’ve been laid out, several times, but all that’s needed is a single distraction in one of their lives, and they will be strangers again. Her heart shouldn’t hurt this much over someone who’s going to be a stranger.

He clears his throat. “Imagine if we were -”

“Yeah. I know.” She holds his gaze this time until he looks away. “Good thing we’re not.”

His phone pings then and they’re snapped out of the moment. “I need to go,” says Namjoon in a low voice. “Can I…”

Kaya nods, because of course he can, and gets up from the chair to walk over to him. He looks a little relieved that she came at all and gives her a small smile.

One kiss. That’s all. She steels herself, determined not to go beyond a quick, nice kiss that would be appropriate for a one-week fling that turned into two weeks. Namjoon tilts her chin up slightly and presses his lips to hers, their mouths opening together for a simple last kiss.

But then her hand goes up to his face and his arm comes around her waist and before they know it, they’re locked together in her living room, desperate to keep the moment going a little longer.

—

Namjoon loves London. It reminds him of his favourite weather in Seoul; the rain, the grey tint, the cloudy sky. It’s thoughtful, inspiring and romantic, and he honestly doesn’t understand why everyone complains about it so much.

Today, however, the weather has been worrying him. Throughout their interview, the radio show, the live performance and the retakes, he’s had one eye on the window, hoping the rain will ease up so Kaya’s flight can finally land. 

It feels like a miracle that she even said yes to coming. Ever since he’d left Amsterdam, he thought he could feel her becoming a bit distant. He wasn’t sure what it was; they still spoke, but topics stayed neutral and casual. She texted more than she called and one of their few common timeslots - her night and his morning - no longer worked because she said she was working late more often now. He tried not to think about it as Damien Herjavec stealing his time with Kaya away from him.

Maybe Namjoon was imagining it, or maybe it was everything he’d been dreading and they were finally, finally drifting apart. It hurt more than he expected it to and he was surprised at his reluctance to accept the fact, persevering in his efforts to stay in touch. 

She didn’t even confirm this trip immediately, citing her calendar and other conflicts, the entire time leaving Namjoon to imagine every possible reason on earth that she wouldn’t want to meet him. Finally, after nearly a week, she agreed out of the blue.

Let’s do it, had been her message, curt and to the point.

“For God’s sake,” says Yoongi dryly, his eyes not leaving the television in their shared hotel room, “just call her and ask her where she is.”

It’s a thought and an obvious one at that, but Namjoon has his reasons for not doing so. Her shortened replies and guarded conversations continued even after she accepted his invite; it’s confusing and worrying all at once, for now he has no idea what to expect when she finally arrives.

Kaya’s been texting him en route, though, so he knows her plane landed a couple of hours late, after which it took her a long time to get a cab, followed by a ridiculous amount of traffic throughout London. Namjoon taps his foot impatiently on the floor until Hoseok stares at him from across the room, and he relents.

Not bothering to change or tell his manager where he’s going, Namjoon takes the elevator downstairs and jogs out of the lobby and outside the hotel. It’s almost ten pm and this particular street seems to be largely empty. He’s glad; he’s still in the suit he was wearing all day and the last thing he needs right now is to worry about being recognised.

Kaya hasn’t responded to his last message; he tries not to worry, for she’d told him that her phone would probably die soon. It’s cold - freezing, actually - but the anxiety is superseding it to the point where his hands are actually feeling clammy.

Namjoon doesn’t want to think about the other reason she could be pulling away. Ever since Amsterdam, their conversations have started including more and more mentions of Damien, Kaya’s research partner. They’re random and harmless on the surface, but the name jumps out at Namjoon each time.

He doesn’t know if it’s just that she’s working more with Damien now or if she’s doing it on purpose, trying to hint at a development and giving him a kind way out of this. Or maybe he’s overthinking it; from all accounts, Damien seems to have made her life easier and is a good colleague, so it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for her to bring him up.

Then again, the possibility of it being something more is enormous. Kaya is beautiful and intelligent and thoughtful; Namjoon can’t imagine that if she were to send even the smallest signal, that she would remain single for long.

One night, with his self-respect somewhere around his ankles, Namjoon resorted to looking up Damien on Facebook (he wasn’t on Instagram), huddled in the dark under his blanket. Damien seemed to be in his late twenties at best, with reddish blond hair and a tall, lanky frame. The stalking exercise didn’t result in anything conclusive, except that Namjoon now had a face to put to the name of this individual who seemed likely to steal his girl.

His stomach twists. He hates how much he cares, hates how much mind space it’s taking up for him. But mostly, he hates that it might be true. 

When Kaya had agreed to come to London, his nerves had eased slightly. But the curtness of her response still stayed in his mind, as though she had suddenly decided to do something. It’s occurred to him more than once that she might be coming just to end this in person. It doesn’t seem like something she would do, but he’s also been forced to admit that he doesn’t know her well enough to be sure of that.

The traffic is crazy.

Namjoon exhales shakily at her text and is about to reply when another message pops up.

Should be about twenty minutes now.

Damn there’s a road closure.

Might be quicker to walk.

Okay, I’m walking.

See you in a few.

The messages appear in rapid succession and Namjoon scans them quickly, realising that she’d probably lost signal somewhere along the way. Based on the time stamps, she should be arriving any minute now.

His head snaps up to look in both directions in front of the hotel. It’s started to drizzle now; Namjoon runs a hand through his hair and feels the hairspray having faded away, leaving damp strands of hair to fall on his forehead. He exhales; if she’s coming to end this, he’s not ready. If she isn’t, then he knows, finally, what he’s going to do.

It’s only about two minutes later, but it feels like a lifetime that he’s been waiting to see Kaya again. He spots her at the end of the street, dressed in jeans and a slim, grey blazer. Her boots splash softly in the tiny puddles as she walks and her head is tilted up at the buildings across the street, as though looking for a landmark. Behind her is a compact suitcase being pulled on wheels, rolling smoothly on the concrete.

Namjoon’s heart leaps at the sight of her. She’s frowning, though; he hopes it’s out of concentration and tiredness. As she gets closer, he notices her long hair slightly wavy, as though wet in the drizzle. She must be cold; he makes a mental note to offer a hot shower as soon as they go inside.

Kaya looks straight ahead then - and her face breaks into a smile. It lights up and Namjoon knows he isn’t imagining it. He tries to ignore the hope igniting inside of him and tugs at his tie to loosen it. It’s now or never; he can’t risk feeling like this for a moment longer or he’s afraid it might kill him.

Four feet away from him, she pauses momentarily to straighten her suitcase and let go of it, continuing her stride towards him. The smile has faded and her expression is blazing, Disney princess eyes locking onto his. She looks more determined than ever and all other thoughts leave Namjoon’s mind.

“Please tell me you’re not dating this Damien person,” he blurts out desperately, noting how she flashes him a breathless smile.

“No,” she answers, a moment before she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him. Namjoon’s arms go around her automatically, memorising her exact shape and feel against him. It takes him a moment to remember to be relieved; it’s just her lips and her hair and her beautiful, familiar, incredible form back in his arms and in his life.

Kaya pulls away first, panting a bit and tossing her long hair out of her eyes, her arms still around him. “Why? You want to date me instead?”

“Yes,” he says instantly. His heart skips a beat at that smile again, almost blinding him, and he takes it. “Yes,” he repeats, bringing one hand to her face and kissing her again, murmuring the same word against her lips. “Yes, yes, yes…”

—

Thanks for reading. Don't forget to leave a review :)

[karama9]

For the fic writer asks: 3, 10, 27, 50

Thank you for the ask @amelias-hart!

I got a bit long winded, sorry.

3. What are some tropes or details that you think are very characteristic of your fics?

I think I lean towards extremes when it comes to emotions and motivations. This often leads to dealing with some kind of trauma or extreme situation. When I did a redemption arc, it was with a character who went very very dark out of love and grief and exaggerated loyalty that was the result of early trauma. And when they finally got their sense of right and wrong back, what they had done gave them PTSD, including blaming themselves even for the part that was genuinely not their fault.

My first Zelda fic involved a hero who was absolutely terrified of basically everything. And, yes, it was because of a traumatic event (to put it mildly). Couldn’t write a slightly nervous hero with one or two phobias, nope.

In my current WIP, the protagonist grew up fully aware that their status as the chosen one could get them killed and that if that happened, everyone and everything might be doomed or, best case scenario, several other people would have to sacrifice themselves to prevent that. They responded by becoming an overachiever and perfectionist.

It’s not that I can’t write more moderated feelings, I do all the time, but I’m always drawn to making the main characters at least have very big feelings.

10. How do you decide what to write?

Not in the most healthy way, admittedly: I have a hard time motivating myself to write stories if I don’t think they’re ‘different’ enough. To be clear, this is absolutely bonkers on my part. People have been writing for centuries, nothing I do is actually going to be unique unless it’s complete nonsense, and even nonsense has been done.

Just the same, the ideas I tend to come back to and that eventually become stories are, for the most part, the ones that I feel are more original. Not all the time, but often.

And sometimes it’s because an idea that I wouldn’t think was original turns out to have no fic I can find so I end up having to do the work myself. That’s what happened with Arashikage.

I don’t recommend this mentality of trying to be original. Remember, “Holy crap, two cakes!” is the truth.

27. How long did it take to write [insert fic]? Describe the process.

I… don’t keep track. ATHU took a long time to write, and is still not done, because I had trouble finalizing the plot and I was plagued with constant doubt on whether I even should write it. I remember posting on tumblr looking for encouragement before I posted the first chapter, and back then I had like three followers who weren’t bots so of course I got nothing. So I just did it scared.

My typical process is to write a summary. If it doesn’t come easily, I write three: a five line one to force myself to identify what’s actually important, a fifteen line one to add some key elements while still keeping a bird’s eye view, and then the full summary. Once that’s done, I start drafting, mostly from top to bottom but with occasional scenes written early.

I am completely incapable of posting without reviewing each chapter at least twice, so that’s part of the process too.

With Rogue, I’m trying something new by doing a lot of world building and notes in obsidian.

50 -> 5. What do you wish someone would ask you about [insert fic]? Answer it now!

For ATHU, I’m a bit disappointed nobody asked WHY Link is so formal and polite to strangers, both in terms of what he says and how he says it, speaking slowly and evenly.

I ended up putting it on discord as a fun fact: it’s conflict avoidance, he’s trying very hard to make sure he’s not intimidating or doing anything to make people mad.

There’s another level of why in there but of course nobody’s asked THAT either…

[crownmemes]

House Sentences, Vol. 2

(Sentences from House (2004-2012). Adjust phrasing where needed)

"I'm too handsome to do paperwork."

"Why are you doing this? It's not going to keep you out of jail."

"Humility is an important quality, especially if you’re wrong a lot."

"How many of those pills are you taking?"

"I can’t believe you authorised this!"

"You really don't need to know everything about everybody."

"You know, in some cultures, it’s considered almost rude for one friend to spy on another."

"Oh, I’m sorry, I thought we were having a state-the-obvious contest."

"Did you need to be so cruel?"

"You know, there are other ways to manage pain."

"The brain has a gating mechanism for pain. It registers the most severe injury and blocks out the others."

"You always trust me. Big mistake."

"You’re going through withdrawal."

"I said I was an addict. I didn't say I had a problem."

"I've been alienating people since I was three."

"You’re miserable, and you’re afraid to face yourself!"

"Is there any way in which that is not a lie?"

"Didn't your mother teach you that two wrongs don't make a right?"

"You've got a big 'keep out' sign stapled on your forehead."

"Even if real human contact is something you don’t have, or even want or need, you should at least be able to see it in other people."

"What? You're saying I've only got one friend?"

"I loved him until I figured out that it hurts a lot less to just not care."

"He’s your dad. It doesn’t matter what he does, you’re going to love him."

"Aren't doctors supposed to wear lab coats?"

"Suddenly ethical lapses are a major concern for you?"

"That's an incredibly inappropriate question!"

"This would be a very good time to offer me a bribe."

"You value our friendship more than your ethical responsibilities."

"My opinions shouldn’t be rejected just because people don’t like me!"

"You are uniquely talented in many areas, but office politics is not one of them."

"Save your pathetic insincerity for your boyfriend."

"You think you’re incapable of making a mistake?"

"I need to know that whatever I ask you to do, no matter how distasteful you find it, you’ll do it."

"You’re doing this because you can’t deal with your feelings for me."

"I will protect you, as long as I need you."

"My understanding was that you believed in rationality above all else."

"The faster we can get you better, the faster you can get out of here."

"Why is everybody so ashamed of sex all of a sudden?"

"It must be miserable always assuming the worst in people."

"Are you alright? You look a little pale..."

"You always find some tiny, little flaw to push people away."

"Wear the sky blue shirt. It almost makes you look nice."

"Some relationships aren't meant to happen."

"You're worried I'm going to break his heart?"

[taysdorothea13]

how would travis deal with things as jj got older? assuming taylor wasnt in the picture etc her first period, her first heartbreak, her teenage mood swings: because i feel dads always picture their daughters as daddy's little girl and the mood swings cut em deep

travis is more prepared than anyone anticipated for teenage jj. he knows she’ll always be his little girl, the same way he’s still his moms little boy. that’s the one thing travis has over jason. jason had never realized how much of an asshole he was to his parents until he had his own kids and grew up enough to realize they were always looking out for him. travis, however, has probably apologized to donna seven hundred times since he turned twenty three and grew up. jj has tampons and pads in her bathroom at eleven. does she need them? no. but travis knows that one day she’s going to and neither one of them will be prepared for it if they don’t start getting things in order now. he asked kylie about everything. when did you start your period? did you prefer tampons or pads? should i get her tampons at all to start, or should i just show her how to use a pad. how do i show her? do i have to show her? jj’s not an idiot, i don’t want to make her feel like she’s incapable. big guy is stressed out, but he refuses to fail his daughter and for that, kylie sits through his questions because she knows that she’s all travis has.

when jj did get her period at fourteen, she and travis were home for the night after a late night practice. she’d been saying her stomach hurt all day, so travis had assumed she was coming down with something or it was just one of those days where you didn’t feel quite right, but then she came out of her bedroom with shaking hands looking pale, and she cuddled up into his chest and he could just tell she was trying to find the confidence to say something to him. he sat and waited. kylie hadn’t been able to give him much advice about this part. all she’d said is don’t do anything that you think might be embarassing for an emotional teenage girl… which it’s probably good he didn’t say anything because jj was a wreck of emotions. when she finally did tell him she got her period, she followed up by saying, that she doesn’t think it’s supposed to burn which immediately had travis’ red flags raising. jj was allergic to certain chemicals in diapers as a baby, she broke out into a rash every time they touched her skin even if it were only for a handful of minutes. travis felt like the biggest idiot. hed tried to hard to make sure that this wasn’t anything scary or pivotal. he tried so hard to make it normal because it is, but he’d entirely forgotten about how sensitive jj’s skin could be, and he feels like the worlds worst dad. he can’t even imagine being jj. getting your period for the first time, being uncomfortable and in pain all day, and now being burnt by chemicals. he goes out to get her another kind of pad, calling kylie once again to ask if there’s a specific brand that advertises clean skin or rash free, and he picks up ice cream and legos.

jj didn’t want to come. she’d already gone to practice with him thinking her stomach would stop hurting, and he was entirely spent. he came home to find her passed out on the couch, cuddling up to a teddy bear he hadn’t seen in years. he woke her up to change, because he did not want to see her get a rash the same way she had as a baby, and then they sat on the couch and ate ice cream and built her lego which now takes up a permanent place on the mantel. and he explained that it might take sometime for her to get used to this. he told her that sometimes kylie’s period comes early or late, that it’s absolutely okay if she gets blood on her clothes or her sheets. jj wants to roll her eyes at him, she really does because he sounds ridiculous telling her things she already knows, but then he looks at her with this smile and she feels her heart swell with warmth. she knows this is hard for him. that he has no idea what any of this means or how it feels, but he’s trying to hard for her she can only nod her head in acceptance of his efforts. and she does need the motivational speech because the first time she does leak onto her bed, she starts freaking out, but travis comes in the second he hears her frantically throwing things on the floor and his heart breaks as he sees his baby pulling at her bedsheets with tears on her face and blood on her favorite pink pajamas. he washes everything right then and there. it’s two in the morning, but he’s going to prove to his daughter that he can handle anything. he can handle periods and blood, he can handle glitter and pop stars, he can handle crushes and boy talk. he can handle every single part of being a teenage girl. jj doesn’t know how lucky she is, and travis is glad. he doesn’t want her to ever experience being unknown, invisible, etc.

he treats her first heartbreak like it’s the end of the world, and jj has never felt so validated in her entire life. he definitely pissed her off when he said he’d beat the kid up, but then he calmed down and just laid with her in bed watching stupid movies that make her cry even when she’s happy and eating sour candy that isn’t even good but she loves it regardless. and when she decides that she’s not sad anymore, she’s angry, travis tells her that’s good. he tells her not to harp on anyone who isn’t worthy of her love, and then he takes her to a rage room and makes her laugh after he smashes a lamp with a hammer.

bonus for taylor dealing with jj on her period: jj gets some of the worst cramps ever, and taylor can sympathize with that. jj comes home from school and seeks out taylor. like travis could he in the kitchen making her a snack, and she just huffs, throws her backpack on the floor, and stomps up the stairs until she finds taylor and then she cuddles up into her and just moans and whines about her belly and her head and “i have three new pimples and it’s only been three hours since i got my stupid period”. travis tries his best to make things normal, and he succeeds, but taylor’s better at actually combatting the emotions and hormones. she drags jj to her bathroom, she sifts through pimple patches and creams that reduce redness and scarring. she gives jj midol, forces her to wash her face and then put on a serum, and then they get into taylor’s bed and watch stupid movies and music videos while taylor rubs her stomach. travis comes upstairs with her after school snack and just backs away with his hands raised because somehow jj on her period always means taylor’s going to act like she’s on her period and he’s a brave little soldier but never brave enough to handle two women on their periods looking for blood and revenge

[starlightrows]

15 — Shadow

Hiding In Plain Sight

← Previous - Next →

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: Serious illness, discussion of death

Summary: You are happy to be reunited with your team, but begin to struggle with some worrying health concerns

Your relaxing three days of “guard duty” doesn’t last nearly as long as you would have hoped. The moment you return to The Radiant you are caught up in the backlog of work you’ve missed and the current workload that comes your way. Long hours in the med bay, endless paperwork, returning to physical training and going out on assignment with the team whenever called upon.

Each day that passes leaves you feeling like you have less and less energy to start with each morning. Caf feels like it’s becoming less effective, but you still need it just to stay awake during your designated time for your notes and reports. You’re lifting lighter weights during training, physically incapable of making your usual mile time even when you push yourself, and just the other day you noticed after showering that your body is looking slimmer than what is normal for you. But you are not the only one who has begun picking up on these subtle changes.

Wolffe repeats your name for a second time, “Did you hear what I said?”

“Huh?” You snap out of your brain fog and look up from your data pad though you have no idea what you were just looking at on it, or what you and Wolffe had been talking about before you looked down at it.

“I said Ashoka will be joining us for the Uttresh mission” he repeats “Are you feeling alright?”

“Oh yeah, it’ll be nice to see her again” you nod “I’m fine, just tired”

“Just tired huh?” He gives you a stern look “You and I both know that this is more than just a little tired. You haven’t been yourself lately”

“Wolffe, I’m fine, really” you try to assure him, standing from your desk and coming around to stand close to him.

He brushes down the length of your arm and takes your hand, his face is still serious and unconvinced. “I know you don’t want to, but I really think you should take the rest of the day off, and maybe call one of your medic friends for a second opinion. It’s been three months and you’re still struggling. Don’t think I haven’t noticed”

Your face seems to fall when he says that. “I guess I can send my lab work out for a second opinion”

He lifts your chin “You can’t take care of us if you can’t take care of yourself, remember?”

“Yeah” you nod, you preach that to them all of the time. You need to listen to your own advice.

“Go take a nap, I’ll let training out early tonight and come spend time with you” he says, trying to sound positive

“And if I sneak back into the med bay to work?” you grin mischievously

“Then I’m going to sneak lock you in an exam room to rest” he counters “Don’t make me order you to go”

“Order me anyway, just for fun” you grin

He rolls his eyes and leans down to kiss you “Go take a nap. That’s an order, Captain”

“Yes sir” you kiss him back and leave the office.

He’s glad to hear you teasing and joking, but it stings because he knows you’re covering for how miserable you are right now. True to his word, he lets the team out early from physical training and heads off to find you. He finds you laying on your bed, not sleeping just laying on your side and staring off into space. The door closes behind him and begins to take off his kit and boots, leaving it all by the door so he can lay down behind you. He curls himself around your body, snaking an arm around your waist and pulling you in close. He presses his nose into your hair and kisses your head.

“Did you nap?” He asks, lacing his fingers with yours

“Yeah” your voice is soft and relaxed “I sent off the lab work to several of my colleagues. You were right, this is getting out of hand and I can’t afford to ignore it any longer”

His lip twitches, a pulse of frustration comes before the relief that you made the right call. You shouldn’t have to be dealing with this. And the prospect of this mysterious condition being something serious causes a sense of panic in his body that he shuts down and pushes away immediately.

“Whatever this is, we will figure it out together” he says “I promise”

“Thank you” you smile, breathing deeply “I prefer this you know. Being sick and with you, than working in that nightmare med station without you”

He chuckles a little, “I would rather you be safe and healthy, but I agree this is much better than the alternative”

You hum in agreement. A lull falls over you both. Happy to have the time and space to just be near each other, but below the grateful surface is anxiety and dread. The war doesn’t stop and this strange exhaustion and weakness is putting you at risk. There’s no sense in talking about it now when there is nothing to be done. Now you wait. Until the symptoms go away. Until a test comes back conclusive. Until one of your colleagues has a theory. Until the bloody war ends.

Weeks pass and you hear nothing from your friends and colleagues. You continue on as best you can, trying to make time to rest and research the cause of your sudden weakness and fatigue.

One afternoon Wolffe sits with you in your office, drinking caf and completing some joint paperwork.

“No responses from any of your friends yet?” He asks, he’s been trying not to ask every single day.

You shake your head sadly, “No”

“Not even to acknowledge the request or that they received the lab work?” He’s been more frustrated with this whole situation lately.

“A few did, most didn’t” you frown at the document you’re working on “It’s unlike them not to respond at all like that…. It gives me a bad feeling about all of this”

A gentle tap on the door stops him before he can respond, you look past him towards the door “Come in”

General Plo stands on the other side of the door when it slides open. “Good afternoon Captain” he address you “Commander” he nods to Wolffe.

“To what do I owe the pleasure General?” You ask, sitting up straighter and giving him a smile.

“Captain, might I have a word with you?” General Plo asks

“Of course, General” you look to Wolffe

“I’ll see you later” he nods to you “General” he nods, slipping out of your office and disappearing down the hall.

“What can I do for you General?” You ask, gesturing for him to take the seat across from you. He nods graciously and sits down.

“Over the last several weeks since your return I have noticed a difference in you. Forgive me, I do not mean to overstep into your jurisdiction as the team's medical lead, but are you feeling alright?”

“You would have to be blind to not see it” You admit “To be completely honest with you, I have not been feeling myself lately… and it scares me because I can’t determine what’s causing it”

“I assume you have run through an extensive list of conditions and illnesses”

You nod “And sent off my blood work, test results, and symptoms to several colleagues for other opinions. Haven’t gotten any responses yet”

“If you would be open to it, I spent many years in the halls of healing during my time as a Padawan. I am no doctor or medical professional by any means, but I can lead you through a meditation and try to delve deeper into the force to search for a possible cause or solution to your ailment”

“It couldn’t hurt… I would be honored General”

“Come” he rises and extends a hand to you, helping you stand from your chair. He leads you into the training room and uses the force to place mats down on the floor. You take a seat while he dims the lights in the training room. He joins you on the floor and begins to lead you through a breathing exercise to help you relax into a meditative state.

You’ve done meditations with General Plo many times, the breathing exercises and feeling of surrendering your mind to just be in the moment is familiar to you. Your body feels heavy. Like the ends of your extremities are weighed down with lead. It is so much effort to sit with proper posture that it exhausts you even just to sit. You hope that whatever General Plo can see or feel will be insightful or helpful in some way.

Plo senses the profound discomfort in your body, without even needing to delve into the force, he can see it in the way your shoulders sag and your normally bright features have grown dull in the last several months. He closes his eyes and reaches out into the void with his mind, open to whatever insight The Force may offer him.

He tunes himself into the sound of your breathing, the beating of your heart. And suddenly he can hear not just your heartbeat, but many. Hundreds, thousands of heartbeats, but they’re off time and slowing. He can see endless rows of crisp white linen sheets on sick beds. He can feel an acrid layer of sadness, anger, and loss clouding this vision. Death. He senses death, in insurmountable numbers. The future, or a possible future.

He pushes deeper into the vision, embracing its message and seeking answers to questions he has not yet formed. He knows you are sick, and now he knows that you are not the only one. He sees you collapse and Wolffe at your side to catch you. His heart clenches at the pulsing anger, frustration and pain he senses from Wolffe in this vision. He feels your fear, your sadness and regret. He watches the light fade from your eyes and suffering snap its jaws around Wolffe and the rest of the team.

Plo turns his focus away from that future and sees another path. He looks into this alternate vision, and feels the same anger, frustrations and pain, but instead of staying to the bitter end he senses something else. A choice. One that leads to a departure, separation, but not loss. Not yet. The choice to hold on or let go. But it is not you who has to make this terrible choice. It is not in your hands anymore. Your fate is in the hands of those who love you most.

As Plo relinquishes his concentration and comes back to the present moment, he takes an extra moment to look at you and acknowledge his own feelings on the situation. You have always been a good soldier, a good doctor, a good team member. General Plo cares about every one of his soldiers under his command, appreciates them for who they are, and cares about their well being. And there is nothing he can do to save you from what you are already enduring or what is coming. There is just as much chance that you will live and there is that you will die. What a painful truth to reckon with.

He opens his eyes and severs the connection, “You are not alone Captain” General Plo says

“I know” you sigh “I appreciate the support”

“No, I mean to say that you are not the only one suffering from this mysterious illness. Thousands are beginning to realize it, more will follow” he explains

“What?” Your heart drops into your stomach

“I believe that this is not a singular case. I believe something has caused this illness and has already affected more people across the galaxy. I must return to Coruscant and speak to the council. Together we may be able to learn more through group meditation” he says, getting to his feet and extending his hand in offerance to help you stand as well. You take it and slowly get yourself up right.

“General, thank you for doing this with me… but I have to ask, did you see something you aren’t telling me?”

Plo had no intention of telling you the specifics of what he saw, he has learned better than to rely on the certainty of visions.

You take his beat of silence as a ‘yes’ “Listen, if I’m going to die I would so much rather know”

“I do not know the answer to that” he squeezes your hand “But may I ask, if I knew for certain that you would die, what would you do differently than if you knew for certain that you would live?”

“I would go into my final moments with my friends knowing just that. That it was the end. I would savor it and make sure the memories were happy and fun, so they would remember me that way” you say “I would make sure the people I care about know that I love them”

“Have no fear on that Captain” he pats your hand “Your love for those who are dear to you is unmistakable”

He departs within the hour, taking a shuttle cruiser to Coruscant having already notified the council of his visions and concerns. To his surprise, he is not the only Jedi that has suspected something was amiss.

—

Meanwhile, Wolffe retreated to his office. He didn’t really have any work to do there, he just needed to be alone for a little while. He’s glad General Plo has stepped in, maybe now you would get some answers or at least have a place to start looking for answers as to why you’ve been feeling so weak and sick lately. He absent mindedly starts sketching shapes and shading while he mulls over his heavy feelings. He’d picked up the habit while you were gone.

He realized he had no holo images of you. As the days bled into weeks, and further into months he had longed to see your face. He spent many hours laying up at night thinking about the shape of your lips, the bridge of your nose, the line of your jaw. He agonized over the shape of your eyebrows. Eventually he started putting lines on paper, continuing in spare moments of time until he realized that he had essentially been unconsciously making portraits of you. Now he does it all the time, especially when he’s stressed. Like right now.

It’s been torture for him to watch. He thought being separated was the hardest thing he’s ever gone through, but this is so much worse. You’re here with him, but each day you seem to be less and less of yourself. He’s watching you waste away and there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s not a doctor or a Jedi, he’s not a General with authority to relieve you of military service so you can fully rest and recover. He would do anything to fix this, to save you.

A knock at the door breaks him out of this spiral, he quickly slips the notepad into the drawer of his desk and beckons the apparent intruder to come in. Instantly he regrets making his presence in his office known, because Roy strolls in with a smug look at a pile of paperwork.

“Ah, Commander Wolffe. I have a few matters I need to discuss with you” Roy closes the door behind him and sits down without invitation.

“Can it wait?” Wolffe glares at him as he sits

“No Commander, I believe that these matters are of the utmost importance and should be resolved immediately” Roy rifles through the papers, and places them on the desk in front of him.

Wolffe checks his chronometer, as if he actually had an appointment or somewhere to be, “You have three minutes” he relents.

Roy looks miffed at the minuscule time window he’s been given to make his case, but proceeds nonetheless “I have noticed that the Captain has been neglecting certain duties. Namely the reports pertaining to the annual health checks for all personnel in the legion, her obligations to be available for questions and contact as the senior medical officer. In addition to this she has made no effort to take on new mentorship opportunities or put in any recognition to the rest of medical staff's achievements. All of this leads me to believe that she has either grown lazy in her duties or become unfit to serve as lead medic. I insist that she be placed on probation until she can prove herself worthy of her station or removed from service altogether if she is truly incapable of doing her job.”

Wolffe sets his jaw and forces himself to hold his tongue, “Are you finished?”

“Yes, I think so” Roy says with a self satisfied look, and presses the stack of paperwork towards Wolffe

“Good. Listen very carefully” Wolffe says, standing up and leaning forward over the desk “She is your superior officer. Because she has put in the work and earned her place in the military and on this team. You are a spineless, selfish, arrogant worm and I have had enough of your self righteous demands for respect and valor you have not earned. Unfortunately, it is not within my power to have your transferred or discharged from the service, but I will be speaking to the Captain and General Plo about your insubordination”

Roy’s jaw hangs open and he blinks in surprise. Wolffe looks him up and down with a disdainful glare “If there’s nothing else, get back to work” Wolffe hisses, lowering himself back into his seat.

Roy’s shock evaporates and he returns the glare. The two of them sit in silence for a few moments, staring each other down. Finally Roy stands and exits the room. Wolffe shakes his head and scrubs a hand down his face in exasperation.

This can not continue. He knows there is almost no chance of getting him discharged or even reassigned, especially with you being unwell. He won’t say it. He can’t even think about it. If you have to be placed on leave because of this sickness… no. He will not let it come to that. He won’t lose you again. He holds you a little tighter while you sleep that night, no sense in telling you about the interaction with Roy, but still he held you close for his own sake. As if his mere presence could ward off all that seems to be plaguing you.

You didn’t hear from General Plo after he left for Coruscant. Irrationally you had hoped he could com within a day or two with news that he and the other Jedi used The Force and determined a cause that could be corrected. But no word came.

With each passing day the fog clouding you mind grew more dense, your energy sapped by the effort it took to move, to walk, to breathe, and then it all came to ahead. You were working in the med bay, no one was there who needed treatment, and you were on shift on your own with just a medical assistant droid.

One moment you were walking to put away some equipment and the next you were waking up on the floor. The medical droid trying to speak to you and some kind of alarm hazily blaring. It’s too much. The lights are too bright, the sound is too sharp, and you can’t find the strength to stand.

Wolffe drops everything when he receives the com that you’ve collapsed in the med bay. He drops everything and takes off sprinting down the halls with no regard for who sees or what they may think. Slush and Boost are right on his heels.

One look at you and Wolffe knows, this ship does not have the equipment or the staff to help you right now. Wolffe swallows hard and forces himself to breathe and stay calm.

“Boost, make contact with the nearest medical frigate and tell them we’re transferring a patient that needs intensive care” Wolffe orders

“Yes sir” Boost turns quickly and runs out of the med bay to make contact with the frigate

“Slush, prep the ship” Wolffe yanks Slush up by the arm and shoved him towards the door

“Yes sir” Slush backs out of the room, turns and runs too.

Wolffe is starting to feel bile creeping up into the back of his throat, like he wants to wretch. Panic. He can not panic. He turns to the droid

“Get her on the gurney, you will accompany us to the frigate” he says

“But sir, I am a —“ the droid begins to protest

“You are a medical droid. Your primary function is to treat wounded and sick soldiers. She is sick. Help me get her onto a gurney, now!” He snaps. The droid complies and helps move your comatose form onto a gurney. The droid puts you on oxygen and monitors your vitals.

Wolffe feels like he’s in a dream or a simulation. He walks with heavy and haunted steps as he guides the gurney down the halls and helps to load the ship. He barely recognizes his own voice when he tells Sinker

“You have command of the 104th until our return”

He doesn’t register anything Slush says to him, he just sits beside you as the ship takes off, and holds your limp hand.

It’s not until he realizes his com is buzzing from an incoming transmission that he is able to tear his focus away from you and the ringing in his ears. He takes a few steps away from you and answers the com. A holo image appears, of someone he did not expect.

“Rex?”

“Commander, where is she? Is she alright?” Rex asks, sounding frantic.

“She’s being transported to a medical frigate and we— hang on? How did you know something was wrong?” His mind is reeling

“They all are” Rex says gravely

“They? They who?”

“The doctors. The medics. The surgeons and nurses. Everyone that was reassigned to aid the wounded on Atraken” Rex explains

“What? What are you talking about?” Wolffe has to sit down. None of this is making any sense.

“All that left the base to go back to their normal assignments. They’re dropping like flies”

“Fuck….” At a loss for words “Fuck…. What-what’s wrong with them?”

“From what I’ve been hearing…. Organ failure… almost a hundred confirmed dead already” Rex can see Wolffe’s image on the holo, and sees his own fear and confusion reflected back at him.

“So…is it contagious? Is anyone else at risk?” Wolffe asks

“Not as far as we can tell. Just those directly exposed”

“What do we do? What can we do? We have to do something!” Wolffe’s heart is thundering in his chest, adrenaline with nowhere to go or do

“For now… get her to the frigate. And do not let the doctors give her any bacta. It’s accelerating the processes and killing them faster…” Rex says “General Skywalker is working on a plan, I’ll let you know when I have more information”

Wolffe nods vacantly. There is nothing he can do.

Tag List:

@maulslittlemeowmeow @lucyysthings @justanothersadperson93 @lackofhonor @paige6768 @thefact0rygirl @ttzamara @nekotaetae @jennrosefx @kashasenpai @littledragonlady @love-space-nerd