#blanket-heap-of-trash

[leriexoxo]

Truth or Strip

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

PART ONE

Tags: Slowburn smut, best friends to lovers, teasing, playful tension, emotional filth, alcohol, heavy teasing, strip games, oral (f + m receiving), 69, mutual masturbation, fingering, cock worship, dirty talk, creampie, overstimulation, switchy energy, possessiveness

Word Count: 6.6k

Summary: You and Chan have been best friends since middle school. No blurred lines, no awkward crushes—just pure, chaotic, platonic energy. That is, until a drunk night turns into a strip game, and suddenly, there’s too much skin and not enough self-control.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Your living room was a mess of snack bags, empty cans, and strewn jackets—somehow, you and Chan had survived the party without losing a limb or a phone, which felt like a miracle considering how trashed everyone else had gotten.

You’d made it home mostly in one piece, shoes off by the door, laughter still bubbling out of you both as you collapsed onto the floor in front of the couch, limbs tangled in a heap of jackets and throw pillows.

Chan was still chuckling when he flopped onto his back beside you, his face flushed from the vodka, dark curls messy from dancing like an idiot two hours earlier.

“You’re gonna have the worst hangover in the morning,” you mumbled, swiping at his cheek with your sleeve to wipe away some glitter. “Who the hell even put this on you?”

“I think it was that girl in the pink dress,” he said with a grin. “She told me I had ‘main character energy.’”

You snorted. “You? More like comic relief.”

He clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “Rude. You know I’m the main event.”

You laughed until your stomach hurt. It felt good—easy. This was always the best part of a night out. Not the chaos or the noise, but the quiet hours after, when it was just you and Chan. You’d been doing this since high school: crashing at each other’s places, splitting hangovers, waking up tangled in blankets on the couch like siblings. Nothing new.

Except tonight, something felt different. Not in a big way. Just a flicker. A tension in the air. Maybe it was the leftover adrenaline, or the way his shirt had ridden up just slightly to show the V of his hip when he stretched his arms above his head, yawning.

“Alright,” you said, sitting up and tossing a pillow at him. “We’re not gonna fall asleep any time soon. Let’s play something.”

He blinked at you. “Like what? We’re not sixteen anymore.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Lame,” he groaned, but he was grinning.

You shrugged. “Got a better idea?”

“Hmm.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes gleaming. “Truth or strip?”

You paused, blinking at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little bit,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Come on. Truth or dare is boring. But truth or strip? That’s some high-stakes sh*t.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just wanna see me naked.”

He barked a laugh. “Please, I’ve seen you in worse. Remember Vegas?”

“Fair point.” You bit your lip. “Alright, fine. But you’re playing by the same rules.”

“Obviously,” he said, holding out his pinky. “Swear?”

You linked your pinky with his. His skin was warm—too warm—and for some reason, you felt your stomach do a stupid little twist. Don’t read into it. You were just tipsy and sleep-deprived.

“Alright,” you said, settling in cross-legged on the floor, facing him. “You start.”

He grinned like the devil. “Truth or strip?”

Your smirk was smug. “Truth.”

He pretended to be deep in thought. “Okay. Have you ever faked an orgasm?”

Your jaw dropped. “We’re starting there?”

“Game’s the game, sweetheart.”

You reached for your drink, trying to hide your grin. “Fine. Yes.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Wait—really?”

“Multiple times.”

“With who?”

“Not your turn to ask more than one,” you said, sticking out your tongue.

He laughed, clearly intrigued. “Okay, okay. Your turn.”

You cocked your head. “Truth or strip?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Truth.”

“What’s the weirdest porn category you’ve ever clicked?”

He choked. “Dude.”

You grinned. “Answer the question, Christopher.”

He groaned, rubbing his face. “Fine. One time I ended up on a step-sibling thing by accident. I panicked and closed it, but like… I stayed for the acting.”

You lost it, laughing so hard you fell back onto the couch cushions.

“You stayed for the acting?!”

“It was a dramatic plot!” he defended. “There was betrayal! Emotional arcs!”

“Oh my God,” you wheezed. “You’re so full of sh*t.”

His face was bright red, but he was laughing too. This was good. Safe. Still funny.

But you both knew the game couldn’t stay innocent forever.

“Alright,” he said, grinning wickedly now. “Truth or strip?”

You paused. Not because you were scared—but because something in his gaze had shifted just a little. Still playful, but there was heat there now. Or maybe you were imagining it.

“…Strip,” you said softly.

His brows lifted, impressed. “Bold.”

You slipped off your hoodie, leaving yourself in a little black crop top. Nothing scandalous. Still friendly. Still harmless.

But you noticed his eyes flick down and linger just a second too long.

And just like that—the air got a little thicker.

You were already warmer than you should’ve been.

Not just from the vodka, or from the buzz of lingering laughter between you and Chan—but from the subtle shift in the air. The way your hoodie sat discarded beside you, leaving you in a crop top and high-rise shorts while his eyes danced anywhere but directly at you. Except when they did.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and lazy, tapping his finger against a half-empty can. “Truth or strip?”

You caught the glint in his eye. Not teasing anymore. Or at least, not just teasing.

“…Strip.”

You weren’t drunk enough to not feel it. The nerves. The hesitation. You’d been friends for years. You’d fallen asleep beside him a hundred times. Shared beds. Shared hangovers. Shared so much.

But never this.

Your hands were steady, even though your heart wasn’t. You reached for the hem of your crop top slowly, half expecting him to interrupt. To laugh. To call your bluff.

He didn’t.

And maybe that was the worst part.

You peeled it over your head in one fluid motion and let it drop to the floor.

Silence.

No bra. Just bare skin and freckles and the weight of his gaze when it finally—finally—dragged up to meet yours.

You crossed your arms instinctively, even though you weren’t cold.

“Say something,” you muttered, not looking at him.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You peeked at him, and—yeah. That was not a casual face. That was not a best-friend-safe-zone face. That was a holy shit, my best friend is topless face.

He cleared his throat, eyes jumping anywhere but your chest. “I—sorry. I just… wasn’t expecting you to actually…”

“You said strip,” you said, trying to act like you weren’t burning alive.

“I did, yeah. I just thought you’d maybe… like, take off a sock.”

You let out a breathless laugh, wrapping your arms tighter across your chest. “You’re the one who suggested this game, idiot.”

“Right,” he muttered, running a hand through his curls. “Right. That’s on me.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His cheeks were flushed. His jaw was tight. His eyes flicked to your arms, then away again.

He was trying not to look. Trying so hard.

And for some reason, that only made it worse.

“I can put it back on,” you said, voice softer now.

His eyes shot to yours. “No. No—it’s… it’s fine.”

You both froze.

Just… sitting there. On your living room floor. Shirtless. Buzzed. And suddenly so far from where the night started.

You let out a nervous breath and tried to laugh it off. “Okay, new rule. No stripping unless we’re okay with getting weird.”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Totally. That’s fair.”

You stayed like that for a beat too long.

And then you said, quietly: “Truth or strip?”

His head jerked toward you like he forgot you were still playing. “…Truth.”

You studied him for a second. Not smiling anymore.

“Have you ever been turned on by something you didn’t expect?”

His breath hitched.

A full second passed before he said, “That’s a loaded question.”

You tilted your head. “That’s a yes.”

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “We’re not gonna be friends after this game.”

“Why? ’Cause you’re scared I’ll win?”

“Because I’m starting to feel like this might actually f**k us up.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“Do you want to stop?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Chan looked at you like he wanted to say yes. But instead, his voice came out rough:

“No. I just think we should be careful what we ask next.”

And God, something about that—that—was hotter than any strip or dare.

You both sat in silence for a long moment, your pulse loud in your ears. There was music playing faintly from your bedroom—something slow and bass-heavy—but it felt far away. Like the world had gotten quieter since you took off your shirt.

You could still feel Chan’s gaze flicker over you and then away, like his eyes couldn’t decide whether to look or run for their lives.

You were still covering yourself with your arms, elbows resting on your knees. Trying to pretend it wasn’t weird. That your nipples weren’t tight from the air. That you weren’t hyper-aware of how small this room suddenly felt.

“I’m just saying,” you said eventually, breaking the silence, “if you get to ask if I’ve ever been choked, I get to ask something borderline illegal too.”

Chan huffed a laugh, visibly relaxing. “Alright, hit me.”

You tilted your head, letting your eyes rake over him slowly.

“…Strip.”

His brows lifted. “No truth?”

“Nope.”

He looked at you for a beat—then reached for the hem of his tank top. His fingers curled under it, and for some reason, that movement alone made your stomach clench.

He pulled it off in one smooth motion, revealing the lines and curves you’d seen a million times at the beach, in the gym, shirtless in your kitchen—but somehow this time it was different. The air in the room shifted like it knew.

You tried not to stare. You failed.

You’d forgotten how solid he was. Broad shoulders, defined chest, those little indentations near his hips that only appeared when he was fully relaxed. Which, ironically, he didn’t look now.

Chan tossed the tank top aside. You followed the motion. Watched it flutter to the floor and suddenly realized—between the two of you, there wasn’t much left to take off.

You were braless in just your shorts. He was shirtless in sweats.

Dangerous territory.

You both sat there for another beat, and then Chan leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower.

“…Wanna make it more interesting?”

Your heart jumped.

“How?” you asked, even though you already knew this was the moment the game turned fatal.

He smirked, but it was softer now. Like he was testing your reaction.

“What if we add… dares?”

You blinked. “Dares?”

“Yeah. Like… if you don’t want to answer a question or strip, you can take a dare.”

“That’s just—Chan, that’s just truth or dare with extra steps.”

“Yeah,” he grinned, “but sexy.”

You raised a brow. “Define sexy.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I dare you to do something dumb. Or risky. Or…”

His voice trailed off, and his eyes dropped to your mouth for just a split second. You felt it like a match striking.

“…or?”

He shrugged, playing innocent. “Who knows. That’s the fun of it.”

Your heart thudded harder. This felt like a crossroads. Like a moment you could still laugh off or steer away from. But instead, your voice came out quieter, steadier:

“…Okay. Let’s do it.”

His eyes flicked back up to yours. And just like that, you were in even deeper.

He nodded. “Alright. Truth, strip, or dare?”

You licked your lips. Thought about it. Then: “Dare.”

The way his smile curled slowly across his lips was unholy.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked straight at you.

“I dare you…” he paused, letting the silence stretch, “to take your arms down.”

You froze.

You weren’t even cold. But you’d kept them there the entire time, like a half-hearted attempt at modesty. Like a shield.

And now he was daring you to drop it.

Not touch him. Not take anything else off. Just… let him see you.

Your arms stayed in place for a beat longer. You bit the inside of your cheek.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

“I know.”

Slowly—so slowly—you uncrossed your arms and let them fall to your sides.

His eyes dropped like gravity pulled them there.

And when they did—when he finally looked, really looked—he didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease.

He just stared.

You could see the exact moment his breath caught. The slight flare of his nostrils. The clench in his jaw. The ripple of something restrained deep in his chest.

He looked at you like you were a secret he wasn’t supposed to know.

You shifted, suddenly restless under the weight of it. “Okay. Now you.”

He dragged his gaze back up slowly, his voice a little hoarser now. “Truth, strip, or dare?”

“Truth.”

He raised a brow. “Playing it safe?”

“Playing it smart,” you said.

“Fine,” he murmured. “Have you ever wanted to kiss me?”

You blinked.

Then laughed. “What happened to sexy dares?”

“Answer the question.”

You hesitated.

Wanted to kiss him? No. Never. You’d never thought about it. Never let yourself.

But right now, with him shirtless and flushed and watching you like he wasn’t sure what the hell he’d just asked—it didn’t feel so absurd.

“…No,” you said finally. “Not until maybe two minutes ago.”

Chan’s mouth parted just slightly. Like you’d slapped him and kissed him all at once.

“Your turn,” you said, heart thudding now. “Truth, strip, or dare?”

He didn’t look away.

“…Dare.”

You felt it. That wicked spark at the back of your throat.

“Touch me.”

His brows lifted.

“Where?” he asked.

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “Dealer’s choice.”

You could hear your heart.

Not figuratively. Not romantically. Literally. It was thudding in your ears like a war drum—deep, steady, traitorous.

Chan didn’t move right away. Just watched you, as if checking one last time to make sure this was okay. That he wasn’t hallucinating the dare that just came out of your mouth.

And then—he shifted.

He leaned in slowly, like any sudden movement might shatter the moment, and reached out with the hand that always used to ruffle your hair or flick your forehead or pass you a drink like it was nothing.

But this time, his fingers didn’t feel like nothing.

They brushed your bare shoulder, the pads of them soft and impossibly careful. He dragged them up—along your collarbone, then higher—skimming the slope of your neck in one long, reverent line that left your skin goosebumped and buzzing.

You tilted your head without meaning to.

And that’s when his hand slid up the side of your face, his thumb catching beneath your jaw as he guided your head to the side—gently, but with the kind of confidence that made your pulse slam.

You breathed out, shaky.

His fingers disappeared into your hair at the back of your head, and then—God.

He tugged.

A small, firm pull.

Not painful. Not even rough. Just assertive. Controlled. Possessive in a way that made your thighs clench and your thoughts scatter like marbles.

“Chan,” you whispered. Barely.

But he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you—really looked. His face close. His breath warm. His grip steady.

Your chest rose and fell faster than it should have.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring until his fingers relaxed and slid away, trailing down your neck like he was reluctant to stop.

You sucked in a breath like you’d been holding it forever.

Silence.

Until you muttered, almost accusing, “You’re good at that.”

Chan blinked, looking a little shaken himself. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

You stared at him.

He stared right back.

And then, just when it felt like the tension might tip into something you couldn’t undo, he exhaled hard, sat back on his heels, and said:

“…Okay. My turn.”

You blinked, trying to reboot your brain. “Your what?”

“Truth, strip, or dare,” he said, voice rough, “I pick strip.”

You stared at him. “You don’t even wanna hear the options first?”

He shook his head, jaw tense. “I need to lose something.”

And with that, his hands slid to his hips, and you realized—with a full-body jolt—that he only had one layer left too.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweats, and for the first time tonight, you were the one staring like a deer caught in headlights.

He pulled them down slowly—gray cotton dragging over tanned skin—and when he tossed them aside, what was left was…

Obvious.

Not exaggerated. Not cartoonish. But undeniably, definitively, a problem.

You blinked at the bulge pressing against his dark briefs, very real and very impossible to unsee.

Neither of you spoke.

Chan shifted slightly, like the pressure was getting to him, and you watched the twitch in his thigh, the tight clench of his abs, the subtle flex in his fingers like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

“…That a side effect of vodka?” you asked, trying to make your voice light, even as your brain short-circuited.

Chan snorted. “That’s a side effect of having your tits out for the past ten minutes while telling me to touch you.”

You blinked.

Your mouth opened, then closed again.

“You’re not… embarrassed?”

He shook his head. “I think we passed embarrassed somewhere back when you dared me to touch you like that.”

“…Fair.”

Another beat passed.

Then his eyes cut to you, warm and half-lidded.

“Truth, strip, or dare?” Chan asked again, but this time his voice was different.

Lower. Darker.

Less of a question and more of a challenge.

You should’ve been drunker.

You weren’t sober by any means, but in this moment—sitting on your bed in nothing but shorts while your best friend sat shirtless, flushed, hard, and watching you like a fucking meal—you felt painfully aware of every choice you’d made to get here.

You met his gaze. “Strip me.”

He blinked. “What?”

Your lips twitched. “You heard me.”

He hesitated—just long enough to make your stomach flip—and then leaned forward, his hand moving slowly toward the waistband of your shorts.

You held still. Let him.

His knuckles brushed your hip.

Then, with quiet fingers, he tugged the hem down. You lifted your hips instinctively, and the fabric dragged over your thighs, past your knees, to the floor—leaving you in just your lace thong, nothing else, the cool air brushing every inch of bare skin and making you shiver.

Chan sat back, eyes stuck on you like he was trying to memorize the whole scene in case it disappeared.

“You’re—” He swallowed, hard. “Shit.”

You gave a breathless little laugh. “That all you’ve got?”

He looked up, eyes flickering over your face, and for a moment, it felt like he wasn’t your best friend anymore. Like something had shifted permanently.

And then—of course—he tilted his head, and said:

“…Dare.”

Your pulse jumped. “What?”

He smirked. “You said I could strip you. So I did. But it’s still my turn.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off, already moving forward.

“I dare you…” His voice was molten now, every word sliding under your skin, “…to get on my lap.”

Your heart practically stopped.

Not “sit next to me.” Not “touch me.” Climb into his fucking lap.

“You want me to sit on you?” you asked, voice smaller than you intended.

He raised a brow. “I said lap, not cock. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You blinked at him. Jaw slack.

But he just leaned back on his palms, legs slightly parted, abs tightening as he waited.

Waiting for you to make the move.

Your skin was already on fire. Every part of you felt exposed, not just physically—but mentally, emotionally, like this wasn’t just a dare anymore. This was something else.

Still… a dare was a dare.

So you crawled over slowly—like each movement might detonate something—and settled yourself on his thighs, careful not to touch too much.

But even that little bit of contact—your knees bracketing his hips, your chest dangerously close to his, your barely-covered core pressed against the heat straining under his briefs—made both of you tense.

He inhaled, slow and deep.

You swallowed.

“Still just a game, right?” you whispered.

Chan’s eyes flicked to your lips. “We’re still playing.”

But he didn’t smile this time.

Didn’t laugh.

He just sat there with you on his lap, staring like he was seconds from forgetting his own rules.

Your breath hitched. “Your turn.”

“Truth, strip, or dare?” he murmured.

Your voice came out soft. “Dare.”

He stared at you for a beat. Then, quiet:

“…I dare you to tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

You froze.

The tension between you buzzed like live wire.

Your thighs clenched slightly. You could feel him under you, hot and heavy and undeniably affected. And yet, somehow, he still wanted the truth before the touch.

You licked your lips. Breathed in.

“…I’m thinking,” you said slowly, “that if you move your hands even once, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

He blinked.

Then, ever so slightly, his fingers twitched behind him.

“Careful,” Chan muttered, voice strained. “You keep talking and moving like that, and this game’s gonna end real fast.”

You gave him a sweet little blink, all innocence. “I’m just sitting.”

“You’re grinding.”

“Am I?” You tilted your head. “Weird. Didn’t notice.”

Chan exhaled sharp through his nose, clearly fighting for composure. His hands were still braced behind him, his biceps flexed, and the muscle in his jaw ticked once—hard.

“Behave,” he warned low, but it wasn’t convincing. Not with the way his eyes refused to leave your chest. You could feel them there, like a second kind of heat, burning over the curve of your breasts. Your nipples had been hard since the second he touched your neck, but now? Under his gaze, they felt damn near untouchable.

“You’re staring,” you said, biting back a smirk.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t even blink.

“Hard not to,” he muttered. “They’re just… right there.”

You arched your spine slightly, just enough for your tits to bounce once, subtle and unintentional on purpose.

Chan swallowed.

His eyes darkened.

“I warned you,” he said, but it was a growl now. Less of a threat and more of a promise.

Still—you didn’t back down.

“Okay, then,” you said casually, “my turn.”

He blinked, a beat late. “Huh?”

“I get to ask now, remember?” You smiled sweetly. “Truth, strip, or dare?”

He scoffed. “You’re literally naked. I’m hard as fuck. I think it’s safe to say there’s no more stripping left.”

“Then pick something else.”

He hesitated. For a long moment, he looked like he was weighing every possibility.

Finally: “Truth.”

You leaned in—close enough for your bare chest to brush his as you whispered:

“Coward.”

He laughed—tight and hoarse—but you didn’t let him recover.

“Wrong answer,” you said. “Try again. Truth’s not allowed anymore.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You just made that rule up.”

“I’m not the one rock hard in my own boxers begging for mercy. Pick again.”

Chan stared at you. His entire face was flushed now—not embarrassed, but aroused. Frustrated. Barely holding it together.

“…Fine,” he said, voice rough. “Dare.”

You smiled slow. Dangerous. And then dropped it like a lit match:

“I dare you to put your mouth on me.”

Everything in him went still.

You felt it—the way his thighs tensed beneath you, the way his eyes flicked up to yours like he couldn’t quite believe you said that.

But you didn’t flinch.

You leaned in until your forehead brushed his, until your lips hovered so close he could taste the breath between them.

“I didn’t say where,” you whispered. “Or how long. Just your mouth. Somewhere. Anywhere.”

His eyes flicked to your lips.

Then your neck.

Then lower—much lower.

He exhaled, long and trembling, and his voice came out so deep it sounded like gravel.

“…You’re evil.”

You smirked.

“Still playing, though.”

⸻

Chan still hadn’t moved.

Not even an inch.

But his jaw was clenched, the muscle tight under his skin, and his eyes were flickering over your face like he needed permission to breathe.

“You’re really gonna make me do this?” he muttered.

You grinned. “It’s a dare.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose—then leaned in.

Slow.

Measured.

Like you were something sacred he was about to defile.

The first place his mouth landed was your neck.

Just under your jawline. Warm, plush lips grazing the thrum of your pulse, and lingering. Not a quick kiss. Not even close.

It wasn’t even a kiss—it was a taste. The kind of mouth-on-skin contact that made your whole body hum and your thighs press harder around him without realizing it.

Your breath hitched. He felt it. Smirked.

And then moved lower.

The next kiss landed in the center of your chest, just above the curve of your breast. Hot. Open. His tongue swiped lightly over your skin like he was testing it.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against you.

“No, I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not when he tilted his head—lips still on you—and dragged his mouth downward.

And then he stopped.

Right at the swell of your left breast, so close his breath fanned over your nipple, and froze.

His lips parted.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t take.

Didn’t dare.

You felt his breath hitch, his throat bob as he swallowed.

“You said anywhere,” he said, voice hoarse. “Didn’t say I had to choose.”

Your heart felt like it was gonna punch through your ribs.

You didn’t move either.

“Then what?” you whispered.

His hand slid up your thigh. Not rushing. Just claiming.

Then he leaned up, lips brushing your ear.

“I want you to tell me,” he whispered. “Say where.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

His mouth was still close enough to feel, his hand still not touching where you wanted it, and now—he was flipping the script. Holding himself back, just to make you ask for it.

Your dare.

His rules.

You felt his nose nudge your temple, his breath fanning your cheek.

“Say it, baby,” he murmured. “You want my mouth? Tell me where to put it.”

You swallowed thickly.

Your hips flexed just slightly against his lap, and he groaned under you, soft and strangled.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

He smiled into your skin. “No, you don’t.”

Your fingers curled against his shoulders, your whole body tensed in the electric silence between you.

And then—

The tension snapped in your chest like a livewire.

You didn’t say a word.

Didn’t warn him.

Your hand just moved—fast, instinctive—sliding up into his hair, gripping the back of his head, and pulling.

His breath stuttered out of him.

You didn’t stop.

You guided him down, slow but firm, until his lips met the bare swell of your breast—and then you pressed harder.

Right there.

Right on your nipple.

His reaction?

Fucking feral.

A low, helpless sound tore out of his throat the second his mouth made contact. His hands flew up, grabbing your hips like restraint was no longer an option. And then—oh god—

He groaned.

Long and broken.

It rumbled against your chest like thunder, and his lips parted immediately, open-mouth kissing over the soft skin, dragging the flat of his tongue just under your nipple, breath shaking.

“Fuck,” he muttered, muffled against you. “Fucking hell, you—”

You arched into him, your thighs squeezing tighter around his lap as the sensation pulsed through you like a jolt.

His mouth was hot.

And his tongue—

God, his tongue teased your nipple like he’d been dying to taste it all night.

“You said anywhere,” you gasped, tilting your head back. “So I picked for you.”

Chan’s breath hitched. His lips moved to your other breast, not even hesitating now, sucking your nipple into his mouth with a low moan like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

Your hand stayed in his hair, fisted tight. Your hips rocked once against him—just once—but it was enough.

He felt it.

Felt everything.

His hips jolted up under you, and you swore under your breath at the heat and thickness pressing against your center through the thin lace of your underwear.

He was rock hard.

So hard you could feel the outline of him now.

Still clothed—but barely.

Chan pulled back slightly, eyes glassy, lips swollen, chest heaving.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasped.

You smiled, breathless.

“You’re still playing, aren’t you?”

He blinked slowly, a dangerous kind of haze settling over his face.

Chan’s eyes were wild now.

Dark and shining, pupils blown wide. His hands slid slow up your thighs, stopping at the crease between hip and waist, right where your lace clung tight.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he said roughly.

You didn’t deny it.

Didn’t need to.

You were sitting on his lap with your tits in his face—dripping into his boxers—trembling and bare and drunk on the kind of heat that didn’t come from alcohol.

Chan licked his bottom lip slowly.

And then—smirked.

“Truth, strip, or dare?” he asked again.

You opened your mouth to answer—but he didn’t let you.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw as he whispered:

“Never mind. I’m picking for you.”

Your heart slammed once, hard.

Then his hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading them just slightly over his lap.

He pulled back to meet your eyes.

And dropped it—low and lethal, right between your legs:

“I dare you…”

A pause.

Then a smile so cocky and devastating it made you clench.

“…to sit on my face.”

Silence.

Your lungs stopped working. You blinked, dizzy, absolutely reeling.

He saw it.

His grin widened.

“You heard me,” he said, voice like sin. “Come here, take these pretty thighs—” he ran both hands up them, slow and reverent, “—and sit. Right over my mouth. Let me taste everything you’ve been trying to pretend isn’t happening.”

You swallowed, hard.

Your breath stuttered.

And he kept going.

“I want your legs shaking around my head, baby girl,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “I wanna feel you lose it on my tongue. Right. Fucking. Here.”

Then—soft, almost cruel:

“What’s the matter? Scared of your best friend’s mouth?”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

You just looked at him, wide-eyed and flushed, like the dare alone had knocked the wind out of you.

Chan wasn’t smiling anymore.

Not really.

There was still a little curve to his lips—but it wasn’t cocky now.

It was hungry.

Serious.

Almost desperate.

“Too much?” he asked softly, eyes flickering between yours.

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

You were barely in your lace thong. Your breasts were still flushed from his mouth, your thighs slick and twitching from where they sat astride his lap—and now?

He wanted you over his face?

You weren’t supposed to think about Chan that way. Not ever. Not until tonight. Not until his tongue was on your chest and his voice was rasping filth that had your spine curling like a livewire.

You swallowed hard, trying to blink the fog from your head.

“Chan…”

“Say no,” he breathed. “Tell me no. I’ll stop.”

But then—he moved.

His hands slid down, gripping your ass, pulling you in at the same time that his hips grinded up—slow and thick and hard, dragging his length right against the soaked heat of your thong.

“Fuck—” you gasped, eyes flying open, your hands clenching against his chest.

His mouth fell open too, like he hadn’t even meant to do it.

Like his body moved without permission.

Then he did it again.

Grinding up.

Pressing you down.

Letting the friction between you grow deliberately unbearable.

You could feel him now. Feel the curve and weight of him, thick and straining beneath you, sliding through the drenched fabric like he already knew how wet you were.

Your hips jolted before you could stop them.

Chan groaned—low and ragged—fingers tightening.

“Babe…” he warned, voice shaking. “I’m not—”

Another roll of his hips. Babe

“I’m not playing anymore.”

Neither were you.

“Fuck it,” you whispered.

And then you shifted, rising slowly—legs shaking—only to grab the edge of the couch and lift yourself just enough to move forward.

Over his chest.

Then his collarbone.

Then—God help you—his face.

Chan’s breath hitched.

His head tilted back against the couch, eyes never leaving you as your knees slid up to either side of his head, your thighs trembling, fingers still digging into the cushions.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked.

You paused just inches above his mouth, heart hammering, pulse in your ears, lace clinging to the heat between your legs.

And then?

He reached up.

Grabbed your thighs.

And yanked you down.

The moment your thighs framed his face, Chan made a sound—deep and wrecked—and then he didn’t waste a single second.

There was no hesitation.

No teasing.

Just the sharp snap of fabric tearing and your startled gasp as his fingers ripped through the middle of your soaked thong like it was paper.

“What the fuck—!”

“Couldn’t wait,” he growled, voice hoarse, hungry. “Needed you.”

And then—he buried his face in you.

You choked on a cry, both hands flying to his hair as his mouth sealed over your bare, aching cunt, tongue dragging from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, filthy stroke.

Your thighs jerked.

Your spine arched.

And Chan—moaned.

Loud and desperate.

Like he was tasting fucking paradise.

He pulled you down harder, forcing your thighs to lock around his head as he licked you again, faster this time—his mouth moving with a rhythm that had your whole body shaking, his tongue working over your clit like he knew exactly what would break you.

“You’re so sweet,” he mumbled against you, voice muffled, drunk. “Fuck, you taste so—”

Another moan, this one so guttural it vibrated through you.

And then he just devoured.

Sucked your clit between his lips, tongue circling, teasing, driving you out of your mind. He kept going, relentless, like he was starving, hands roaming up your waist, squeezing your ass, holding you down when your thighs tried to run.

“Chan—fuck—I can’t—” you gasped, eyes rolling.

“You can,” he groaned. “You’re gonna.”

His eyes flicked up, locking with yours from between your thighs, wild and ravenous.

“Sit on my face and fucking come for me.”

You were close.

So fucking close.

Chan’s tongue was merciless, his grip bruising, and the slick sounds of him devouring you filled the room, matched only by your moans and gasps and the deep, desperate groans he let out every time your thighs clenched around his head.

You felt the heat snap up your spine.

You felt your legs start to shake.

You were seconds—seconds—from falling apart on his tongue—

And then you flipped.

In one breathless motion, you spun your body over his, never once lifting from his face. Your knees planted on the couch cushions, straddling him in reverse now—and facing his cock.

Chan moaned violently into you.

You heard it.

Felt it.

His hips jolted, thrusting up like he couldn’t help it, and suddenly your best friend’s hard, flushed length was right in front of your face—thick, leaking, twitching with the same need he was pouring into your cunt.

You grinned.

“Fuck,” you panted, glancing down between your legs, “you like this?”

Chan didn’t answer—his mouth was too busy buried in you, tongue dragging through your folds again with a new kind of urgency.

So you reached down and wrapped your hand around him.

He bucked.

A loud, muffled grunt punched into your pussy from below.

You giggled, breathless, and stroked him slow, your fist gliding over hot, slick skin, spreading the pre-cum at his tip.

“You’re so hard,” you whispered, licking your lips. “What the fuck, Channie…”

Then—you bent down.

And slid your mouth over his cock.

He fucking shouted.

The noise was muffled by your cunt, but it rattled through his chest.

His hips snapped up into your mouth so suddenly you almost choked—but you took it, sucking him deeper, tongue swirling, moaning around him while he screamed into your pussy.

His mouth was messy now—his tongue wild, his lips soaking you, sucking, lapping, chasing your orgasm like it was his only mission in life.

And all the while?

You kept sucking.

Pumping.

Ruining him.

Your mouth worked him with purpose, with rhythm, swallowing every desperate sound he made until his cock throbbed hard on your tongue.

You didn’t even care anymore.

You were lost.

Your thighs were clenching, your moans echoing into his skin, and Chan’s hands were digging into your hips, holding you down while he devoured you like he’d die without it.

And just before you tipped over the edge—

You both groaned at the same time.

Raw.

Ragged.

Feral.

His mouth was everywhere.

Your thighs had no strength left in them, your moans spilling out louder, broken, as Chan’s tongue moved in tight, fast circles, drawing orgasm after orgasm closer until your hips were trembling and your chest was heaving and—

“Chan—I’m gonna—”

He sucked your clit deep between his lips and groaned.

That sound—that sound—vibrated through you like an earthquake, tipping you straight off the edge.

You came hard.

Harder than you ever had in your life, your whole body clenching as pleasure ripped through your core and burst like fireworks behind your eyes. You ground against his face, breath caught, voice lost, shaking apart while your best friend held you there and licked you through it like he couldn’t stop.

Like he wouldn’t stop until you gave him every last drop.

Your thighs were still twitching when you started stroking him faster, hand slick and wet, mouth messy and open as you sucked him deep again—and Chan’s moan turned into a growl.

His hips bucked once.

Twice.

Then his hand flew to your ass, gripping tight as his cock pulsed in your mouth—and he came with a loud, shattered cry muffled into your pussy, spilling down your throat in thick, hot waves while his body convulsed beneath you.

You swallowed it all, trembling, moaning softly as his hips slowly stilled.

And then?

Silence.

You collapsed, barely able to breathe, sliding down off his face and rolling to the side, both of you gasping—sweaty, dazed, fucked-out.

He didn’t say anything.

Just turned toward you.

Grabbed you by the waist.

And pulled you into him—tight.

You melted, pressing your face into his neck, feeling his heart pound against your chest as the sweat on your skin cooled.

Neither of you spoke.

Not one word.

Because anything either of you said would change everything.

So you just stayed like that.

Tangled.

Sticky.

Wrecked.

And completely, utterly lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: BEFORE YOU KILL ME!! There will be a part 2 but we gotta be more interactive if you want me to keep feeding y’all lol. 100 notes and ill drop part 2 asap!

So encourage this horny writer and leave that like!! ❤️❤️

[mrabubu]

Commission for @wannareadstuff

“…Are you shitting me!?” He didn’t hesitate, desperately wading through the heaps of trash and hurling the overstuffed bags out of the dumpster. One, two, -five bags thrown, the blubbering becoming louder and louder - until finally; there it was. He still couldn’t believe it, seeing this living, breathing creature atop of trash, like it was some discarded toy - and subsequently, the babe could hardly believe its own eyes, crying ceased as it beheld its savior. His adrenaline was still high as he scooped the baby up - small enough to be held in one of his hands. Its heartbeat trembled into his palm, Leatherhead gently taking a finger to part the grimy blanket it had been wrapped in. He managed to free its face fully; revealing a lizard newborn, a gecko, if he was recalling species correctly. It was still staring at him as Leatherhead freed an arm next, and as it naturally felt led to do, grasped onto him with the little strength it had. Leatherhead felt his heart skip a beat - breath hitched in his throat as time stopped. The new, unknown feeling blossoming in his chest went beyond lending aid in the moment, denial forsaken as Leatherhead realized what it all meant. There was no way he could possibly make this work, but as the babe coughed, and coughed again, did desperation set in and reason flee. He needed a hospital - Immediately!

THE CHAPTER THE FIC

[sturniololuvz]

Hey darling! I'm wondering if you would be up for writing a sturniolo little sister fic? Little sister gets her period and its a bad one this time around? Horrible cramps and some severe nausea.

“The First Day Always Sucks”

You wake up feeling off. Worse than usual. It’s the kind of pain that doesn’t just sit in your stomach — it wraps around your entire body like something poisonous.

The cramps started last night, but now they’re deep and mean. You feel like your organs are tying themselves in knots. Your face is hot, your head’s spinning, and your stomach turns violently every time you try to move.

You barely make it to the couch before collapsing into a heap — hoodie on, blanket dragged with you, a heating pad clutched to your front like a lifeline. You press your face into the pillow and try to breathe through it, but nothing helps.

It’s bad. Worse than ever.

You’re sweating and shivering at the same time when you hear footsteps. Nick, of course.

“You good?” he asks, sleep rough in his voice.

You can’t answer. You just whimper, and that’s enough to make Nick panic.

“CHRIS. MATT. SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH HER.”

You groan as another cramp hits, sharp and sudden. Your whole body curls in.

By the time all three boys are there — bleary-eyed and full of concern — you feel like you’re about to pass out. Matt’s kneeling by your side with a Gatorade, Chris is brushing your hair out of your face, and Nick throws a box of Midol on the couch like it’s a bomb.

“Did you eat anything?” Matt asks gently.

You shake your head. “Can’t… hurts… feel sick.”

“Okay, it’s okay,” Chris says quickly. “Just breathe, alright?”

But it’s too late.

Your stomach flips, and you feel your body seize up. “I’m gonna be sick,” you whisper, and just barely manage to sit up and lean over the side of the couch before everything comes up.

Nick jumps back. Matt grabs a trash can and rushes it over. Chris is the one who holds your hair and rubs your back while you throw up.

It’s violent. Embarrassing. Awful.

And worst of all — you hate throwing up.

The second it’s over, your body starts to shake. Not from the nausea, but from panic. You can’t stop crying. Your hands are clenched, your whole face is hot, and the tears just keep falling. You can’t even talk through the sobs.

“I hate this—I hate this—I hate this,” you cry, your voice cracking over and over.

Chris pulls you into him without hesitation, not caring that your face is damp or your breath’s shaky. He just holds you.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, I know. It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Nick doesn’t make any jokes this time. He disappears for a second and comes back with a clean blanket and a cool washcloth for your face. “You’re alright now. It’s over. You’re safe.”

Matt sits on the arm of the couch and runs his hand gently down your back. “You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly. “We’re just here.”

You cry into Chris’s hoodie for what feels like forever — not just because you were sick, but because you feel helpless, gross, overwhelmed. And yet… they’re all still there.

When you finally pull back, eyes puffy and voice raw, Matt hands you water and Chris keeps his arm around your shoulders.

“Sorry,” you mumble.

“Don’t even start,” Nick says, pointing at you. “You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to throw up. You’re allowed to feel like garbage and still be loved.”

You blink at him, and despite yourself, you laugh — weak and watery.

“Didn’t know you were capable of saying stuff like that,” you tease.

Nick shrugs. “I contain multitudes.”

And then he throws a pillow at your head — not too hard.

Chris tucks the blanket around you tighter, and Matt sets up the trash can beside the couch just in case. No one makes you get up. No one leaves you alone.

Even at your most miserable — sick, crying, curled up in a hoodie — they’re still there. Exactly where you need them to be.

⸻

taglist : @sturniolo-szn2 @fadedstvrn @tezzzzzzzz @stayingstromboli @ivysturnss @sturniolofreakk @ihateemetoo @sturniolo-tease @sturniololuv3r @sturnsclam @nxvasturns @csturniolo43 @mattspillowprincess @sturniolo-fann @izzylovesmatt @sturniolosymphony @bernardmatthews @bugs-tags @emely9274 @arianna1342 @stevielovesmatt @riggysworld @ph3ebssturniolo @whore4chris @amelia4chris @pizzapocketpocketpizza @strxn-2 @xxxxxxlovesstuff @whump-loverz @sarahsturnn @urloveanaa @k-pevensie28 @chrissturniolobendmeovernow @chriss-slutt @lenus1aa @kitty-meow-meow44 @sturnslux3 @blahbel668 @kingofeverythingmb @kenah-sturniolo @sturniolobananas1 @le4hsblog

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

PHANTOM TROUPE HEADCANONS

all headcanons are based off of impressions from canon info!!!

General:

Has a weakness for women: Machi, Phinks, Pakunoda

Has a weakness for children: Franklin

Has a weakness for both: Chrollo, Hisoka (in a twisted way), Illumi (in a twisted way)

Doesn’t care; they’re all the same once they’re dead: Feitan, Shalnark, Shizuku, Bonolenov, Uvogin, Kortopi, Kalluto (Kalluto literally IS a kid😭)

Depends on the situation: Nobunaga

—

Showers once a day: Pakunoda, Machi, Hisoka, Nobunaga, Feitan

Showers once every three days: Shalnark, Franklin

Showers every time they remember to (they remember somewhat often): Chrollo, Shizuku, Illumi, Kalluto

Showers every time they remember to (they remember once every 3 months): Phinks, Uvogin, Bonolenov, Kortopi

—

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

“I’d study all of the worm behaviors, wants, needs, and communication skills just to be able to take the best care of you that I possibly can” - Chrollo, Shalnark, Franklin, Pakunoda

“Uh…” - Nobunaga, Phinks, Uvogin

“No.” - Feitan, Machi, Shizuku, Bonolenov, Kortopi, Kalluto

“I don’t know, would you be a hot worm?” - Hisoka

———

Individual

- Despite his rough attitude and appearance, Phinks has a soft spot for women, especially stern and nurturing women. As a child in Meteor City, he was always irresponsible and made stupid decisions. However, kind ladies who were just as poor as him would always help him out; whether it was giving him some extra food and water or knitting him a blanket when it was cold out and all of his shoes and clothes had holes in them. Since then, Phinks developed a more tender nature towards women.

- Shalnark once accidentally entered the Dark Web when the Troupe first began its operations (around age 13-14.) However, he quickly got addicted to it due to how advantageous it was for him, especially since residents of Meteor City “don’t exist” and therefore won’t have their identity exposed on the Dark Web. After learning that earning a Hunter License grants him even more freedom on the Dark Web, he did the Hunter Exam that year and passed with ease.

- Chrollo’s favorite foods are bread, soup, and stew. In Meteor City, stale bread seems to be the standard there. Soup was often just some leftover vegetables from nearby towns dumped inside of water, mixed, and then served. Stew was considered a delicacy in Meteor City and is only ever given to you on New Years, Christmas (because Meteor City seems to be very religious as the Church is the cleanest, largest, and seemingly richest building), and someone’s birthday. Chrollo often feels nostalgic whenever he eats these foods.

- When Pakunoda was younger, she had an “I wish I was a boy” phase. She wanted to be help others with carrying things and digging through trash heaps too, no matter how filthy it was. But all because she was a girl, she wasn’t allowed to. Although she was deeply grateful for her wet nurses (yes, it’s canon that wet nurses take care of the children in Meteor City), she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life just taking care of kids and doing nothing else, hence why she shaved all of her hair off.

- Feitan developed an emotional attachment to Phinks’ motorbike from when they were kids, and in the first time in his life, Feitan almost cried when the motorbike eventually broke down when they got older. It had been with him during his highs and lows, so for it to just suddenly stop working one day left Feitan in a state of shock. Even to this day, he still spends time in Meteor City cleaning it even though it doesn’t work anymore. Even Phinks has gotten over yet, and yet Feitan still hasn’t.

- Feitan is so short due to a mix of malnutrition and bad genes. When he was a child, he was mistreated by his parents, who were poor and couldn’t feed him, and so he was then abandoned at Meteor City. However, Meteor City had starvation even worse than at home. If Feitan had a normal childhood, his height expectancy rate would be around 5’6 or 5’7, which is barely average. However, because of his poor health and lack of food, as a child, he is now stuck at 5’1.

- Fun fact: Illumi and Hisoka aren’t actually married; it was a mistranslation mixed with misinformation mixed with misinterpretation mixed with crazy delusional shippers. I’ll make a post about it, so comment if you want to be on the taglist.

@silverhypnos @monosanimegenericzone @opalwatch

[threepandas]

Bad End, Hidden Heir: Part 2

Prev <-

A pounding headache and cave air, that's what I woke up too. The air was being choked, though, by familiar scents. All trying desperately to make the cold, wet, and softly echoing quiet, hospitable. It was nauseating in my current state. Weak and... drugged? Had I been drugged? I certainly hadn't been drunk.

So why did my head hurt so much?

Why did every motion, make my stomach want to rebel?

My limbs felt so WEAK. Heavy and useless. Barely budging when I try to lift them. To rub my head? Adjust the blanket? Sit up? I can't tell. Thinking... thinking is so hard past... the pounding in my head. The fog. I struggle to concentrate. God, that SMELL.

Like a perfume store combined with... with... ugh. Everything!

I could pick out individual scents I knew I liked, on their own, added to the nauseating chaos. My favorite potpourri was there. But so was the one I like for winter? Fall? That one I liked as a kid until I found Mrs. Tianna's blend...

And perfumes! Colognes! The clean products and scents I preferred the maids used. God it... it blended together like a trash heap. As though someone drove a carriage through a perfume shop at speed. Cloying and musk and spice and fruity and-!

I sucked air through my teeth, trying not to smell it, hoping to god I wouldn't TASTE it.

Finally I managed to pry my eyes open. Either hunger or thirst giving my the strength to push past the nauseating pain. I NEEDED to move. Find out what was happening. Survive.

My gaze... met the most elaborate embroidery I had ever seen. Tapestries had less art. Almost to the point of gaudiness. Possibly past it. It was...

It was everything I had ever said I liked.

Too anyone.

Puppies and flowers, history and art, books scenes and more. It kept GOING! Hideous and magnificent. Chaos. Unhinged. Flowing down from above me, along the rest of the curtains, for the canopy bed upon which I rest. So I would be surrounded by it all. Even the blanket... it was a sea of my favorite flowers, made eternal through string.

This wasn't something people just DID. Could just FIND. I could feel my panic under the muting pain and exhaustion. This was the work of YEARS. Obsessive, continuous, YEARS. Some of these threads cost more then certain house hold make in WEEKS! And for what? A secret canopy bed?!

I struggled, body barely able to obey me but trying desperately to assist. The blankets were heavy. The curtain around the bed equally so, thanks to all the embroidery. I.. I manage to roll. Squirm. Wriggle my way, undignified, to the edge. Flop over it and out from under the blanket. Too freedom.

The air is cold.

The scents WORSE out here. Now, I can see why.

It is a museum to all that I am. Every like carefully gathered in one place, every preference. Stacked and shoved together, with no regard for if they fit. Hoarded like a collection.

I can not even tell... if I am sitting, flopped down, on my favorite winter bedside carpet or just an exact copy. My entire life is shoved together and suddenly... suddenly I do not like any of these things at all. They feel dirty. Dangerous. Like they have betrayed me. I want to cry.

But I am nauseous. Hurting. Tired and thirsty. So very hungry dispite it all. I just... I just need to know what's going ON! This isn't... this isn't how the Game goes! Not for Protag-chan. Not for me! I know I changed my "character's" behavior... but...

I... I don't understand...

Try not to cry. It's... it's really hard.

I was right. I'm pretty sure this is the Caves of Spring in the northwest of the Duchy. The offical Heir has an estate near them. The stone looks like the cliffs I'd seen in passing.

Crawling is hard. My legs keep getting tangled in my fucking nightgown. My... my f.. favorite.. nightgown! I'm not gonna cry. Damn it. I'm NOT GONNA CRY. How dare he? How DARE he ruin even that? What did he DO to me!? When I was... was...

No, don't think about it!

Move.

A decanter. Needlessly pretty. I probably loved it as a girl, fresh into this world. Everything was so FANCY and I wasn't used to having money yet. Hadn't developed any real class or taste. It looks so fucking gaudy to me now. But God, it has water. Please... PLEASE let that be water!

I drag myself up on badly shaking limbs. Nothing wants to hold. Wrists buckling, knees giving, legs shaking like a new born lamb. My arms are so weak. But thirst... oh thirst is a powerful motivator.

I force myself to move.

The water is not enough. It is everything. Cold and perfect, I force myself to go slow. To not spill a single drop, as I collapse against the dresser it was placed upon. Letting my eyes explore my cage in the way my poor abused body can not.

There are thick bars buried deep into the bedrock, separating the "room" I'm in from the hall that leads away from it. And it IS a "room". Made in cruel mockery to resemble the luxury of the dukes estate. Perhaps even more aggressively decadent in certain aspects, though that isn't a good thing. It makes it border on a storage room, for how crowded with luxury it has become.

It is the reflection of an unwell mind.

And staring up at the portraits of myself I KNOW I never sat for? The countless sketches pinned up beyond the bars? I am in trouble. I... I should have run. Not sent Creep away. I should have been the one to run. Before it was too late.

I think... I think it might be too late.

Footsteps.

I want to escape. But where can I run? I am caged. I feel close and far away. My head hurts. My body hurts. Everything stinks and I am cold. Why? Why did you do this? The foot steps are calm and commanding. Even. They do not break stride.

I do not bother to watch my hunter approach me. The monster I can not escape.

I close my eyes to spare myself the pounding in my head. Drink more water.

He makes a softly dismayed sound, as though he was not the one to drug me, to leave me here. The door to my cage opens. Closes. Ah... such a heavy lock. Should I be flattered?

Crisp steps, the rustle of fabric.

"My lady, the floor is so dirty! You shouldn't be out of bed yet. I was just about to make you tea."

The AUDACITY.

Tea? TEA! Ha ha! After DRUGGING my tea? He actually expects me to accept a cup from him again?! He truely IS insane, isn't he?

I am scooped up without my consent, unable to so much a truely struggle. Placed gently on a plush chair, a tea table moved in front of me. A familiar cup. My favorite blend. Pretty little snacks laid out deftly on lovely little plates. I grit my teeth. Slowly tip my head up to glare.

He pauses when our eye meet... then shudders, some terrible look of pleasure dancing across his face.

"That's right... look at me~" he whispers, leaning entirely too close. "I'm all that you have now. So you'll HAVE too now! No more others. No more distractions. No more sending me away! People trying to get between us. Trying to take you away. I'm all that you need, My Lady. All you'll EVER need."

"Just look at ME, your loyal dog. And I'll take such good care of you. I promise~♡"

[wheels-of-despair]

I Heart U Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Eddie and Evil Woman kill time by playing in the snow. Contains: Snow, a declaration of love, a Reefer Rick appearance. Words: 800ish

Rick's not home.

He asked Eddie to stop by after school, 'cause he had a present for him. So you'd dropped the kiddos off at Mike's, grabbed some snacks while Eddie topped off his tank, and headed to the house by the lake.

Rick's car wasn't there when you arrived, but you didn't mind. You had food, and the van to shelter you from the freezing cold outside, and most importantly: time alone with Eddie.

At least until some untrained trash panda unleashed a Frito Fart that drove you both out of the van and into the snow with murmurs of "Jesus Christ" and "I want a divorce."

Rather than lurk suspiciously in the driveway of your friendly neighborhood drug dealer, you crunched through a fresh blanket of snow around the side of the house and climbed the slick steps to Rick's back porch. All the chairs were covered with snow. Several inches of the stuff had fallen on the porch railing, showing you just how deep it was. Way more than that lying weather guy predicted.

Eddie tilts a metal chair. The snow slides off in a heap. He dusts the seat off with his hand, sits, and pops back up like a jack-in-the-box with a high-pitched shriek.

You can't help but laugh at him and his frozen ass. He glares. You quickly turn away and start drawing patterns in the snow piled on the porch railing.

A snowball hits you in the ass.

You whirl around to find Eddie grinning menacingly, holding another snowball in his hand.

He advances.

Instead of scrambling to make a snowball of your own, you drop an arm on the other side of the railing and whip it toward him. Eddie closes his eyes and braces himself. His body is showered with fresh fluffy snow. When he looks down to see that he's covered, he takes another step toward you and shakes it off like a dog. You yelp, instinctively covering your face, which makes him laugh.

"Let's make a snowman," you suggest, dusting yourself off. Best to derail him before this becomes a full-fledged snow war.

Eddie shrugs and puts his snowball on the part of the railing that you'd cleared off. You take a fistful of snow and make a smaller ball, pressing it on top. Eddie catches on quickly, making the smallest ball yet, and attaching a head to your little snowman.

This continues until you've created an entire family of little snowmen. Then you start to dream a bit bigger. You laugh and scheme and sculpt, losing track of time.

When you run out of room on the porch railing, you stand back to admire your creations. Eddie lights a cigarette.

"Not bad, Evil Woman. Not bad."

You knock against him with your shoulder, and he grins. He shuffles to the edge of the porch. You love the way the cigarette hangs out of his mouth. The way he squints his eyes to protect them from the sun, and the smoke unfurling in their direction. You love the way his hair hangs and frames his face. The way his flushed cheeks glow against the cold backdrop of Lover's Lake.

"What?" he grumbles, glancing over at you. "You never seen a guy take a leak before?"

"Sorry," you grin, feeling your face heat up. "You're just so pretty, I can't take my eyes off of you."

"Shut up," he mumbles, turning away and focusing on the task at hand. You detect a blush in his cheeks.

You roll your eyes and look away, watching the lake water lapping against the icy shore.

"C'mere," he orders a few seconds later, having concluded his business and zipped up.

You approach. He points down, at the yard. You lean over the railing to look at the ground.

"Did you just pee 'I Heart U' into the freakin' snow?"

"Yup," he grins.

You look from the yellow lines to the proud idiot beside you.

"You are so romantic, it makes me want to puke," you joke.

Eddie cackles, then pulls you in for a kiss.

"I heart you too, freak," you grumble as you part.

"Awww," Eddie coos, leaning down to kiss the tip of your frozen nose.

"Mr. and Mrs. Eddie!" Rick greets, throwing open the back door. "Sorry I'm late, I got to talkin' to somebody at the store and just couldn't get away. You know how it is."

"It's alright," you smile, tucking yourself under Eddie's arm. "We found ways to entertain ourselves."

Rick's eyes drift from you to the art you've left on his porch railing.

"Is that Godzilla eating a family of snowmen?"

"Close enough," Eddie laughs.

[renflowerwords]

Gentle Affection - SDV Harvey x Fem Reader fanfic

In which you are sick, and who better to take care of you than the valley's most friendly doctor, Harvey?

Harvey x Reader (Fem/Farmer) - 4.6k words - no smut, but it gets steamy? MDNI! - Harvey is beefy and I love him.

I wrote this after a large cup of coffee during finals instead of writing my final essays :D enjoy! ( also, I barely proofread this because I cannot read my own work for some reason, but it's still legible lol)

“It's so warm in here,” Harvey says as he walks into your room, surveying the darkness and the amorphous mass in bed, which is you. He kneels and unties his shoes, leaving them by the door before making his way towards your bed.

“I know,” you choke out from your makeshift shelter, wrapped in pounds of blankets and old tissues. You never really knew how to take care of yourself when you got sick. The go-to was always Nyquil, tea, peppermint tissues that left your nose red and sore, and heaps of blankets while you watched some old movie that would materialize into your fever dreams.

“My little farmer really is sick.”  His eyes soften as he takes in your appearance.

He places his doctor’s bag down on your floor, farthest away from the heaps of tissues. Your trashcan had been filled since the first night, and honestly, you couldn’t bring yourself to replace it.

“It’s not getting any better,” you say, followed by a weak cough and a sniffle.

“You should have told me sooner, y/n.” Before you can respond, he’s making his way to your bathroom, the yellow light illuminating your bedroom. You close your eyes, the fever-induced headache coming back tenfold by the light. “I didn’t want you to see me like this, Harv.” Another cough, this time partnered with a flying speck of spit. God, you were such a mess.

If he does respond, you don’t hear him. The sound of the tub faucet running fills the room. His shuffling in the bathroom ceases, and he makes his way back to your bed, holding a trash bag and adorning the thin gloves that come in hair dye boxes. You chuckle. “How’d you find those?”

 He starts picking up the random tissues and throwing them away while grabbing all the other trash, too. The Nyquil box, tea bags left in your empty mug, and the old Pho you ordered the night before that was half eaten. “I know my way around your bathroom y/n; you always keep leftover supplies.” He chuckles, continuing his search for more tissues under the first layer of blankets.

“Sorry about the mess.” You let out an embarrassed laugh before further looking around at the mess that is your room.

“Do you forget that I am a doctor? It’s my job to take care of the sick. Especially my loved ones.”

You feel like you're dreaming, and with the past few fever dreams you’ve been having, you wouldn’t doubt it. Here in your room was Harvey, your Harvey. You had been “dating” each other for a few months now, but you were still in that stage of wanting to be somewhat perfect to him. Sure, he had seen you passed out in the mines after forgoing your curfew and a few times when you were completely foul after taking care of the animals all day, but that was to be expected. You were a farmer, of course.

But this, for him to see you at your weakest, riddled with fever, was something else. You hadn’t left your room in three days, it and yourself being a sick mess. This wasn’t the result of hard work; it was the result of negligence. And now, despite your best wishes, he gets to see you at your worst.

To make matters even more terrible, you weren’t the only one sick. Plenty of people in the valley were falling ill, people who were more important and more at risk. You were taking Harvey away from them, away from his work. If only you had kept yourself inside for a few more days instead of trudging through the frozen mines, you would have been in tip-top shape and been able to help, instead of be helped.

When your fever wouldn’t let up after a few days, you called Harvey’s office to make a home visit, of course, downplaying your symptoms and telling him to come to see you last after everyone else because “it’s just a little cold.” That was this morning, and now, you had been feeling a hundred times worse. You had tried everything in the book to cure your ailments yourself, but evidently, you needed professional help.

In an effort to pull you from your thoughts, Harvey, mid-tissue search, kneels on the edge of your bed and presses a kiss to your forehead before pulling back and saying, “Hey, come back to me.”

“I’m here,” you breathe out, holding his gaze, his eyes seemingly healing your every ailment already. Suddenly, the warmth in your chest wasn’t just from the blankets trapping your body heat but from his presence. You lay there for a few seconds, staring back into his brown eyes before becoming presently aware of the crust that had been accumulating on your face. “I’ve been here unmoved for 72 two hours, actually.” You break his gaze with a turn of your head to let out a fake cough, anything to ease the tension.

His warm chuckle calls your eyes back to his, but he’s already moving away from the bed, placing the trash bag by your door.

“Never thought you’d be the type to crack jokes while sick, you're usually so serious when it comes to matters of health.” He walks towards the thermostat and inquisitively looks at the settings, knocking it with his knuckles before he turns back to you “Well, this explains the heat.” 

A feigned smile spreads across your face “Says you, and I’m trying to sweat it out, doctor.” 

Another chuckle erupts from him as he shakes his head, walking towards your bed again. This time, he sits right next to you and places his hand on your forehead. His hand, big and usually very warm, is cold when it touches your skin, and you wince at the contact. “You are very hot, let’s get you into a bath, okay? And then you can rest.”

You blame your fever brain for not noticing his outerwear, a thick wool brown sweater that you gifted him at the start of winter. It was bulky, and the ends were funky and crooked (you were a beginner; it was expected), but it was warm. Of course, he was hot in here.

Harvey sat silently, waiting for your approval, holding your gaze. 

That was all it took for him to get his way, not like you could fight him on this anyway. He wasn’t just some cute guy you were seeing at that moment; he was a medical professional.

You nod your head and pull yourself up with your arms, wobbling slightly. “Here.” He says before pulling off your blankets in one swift movement and holding you to his chest to lift you.

You let your arm fall into his chest and then recoil immediately, the itchy wool sweater feeling sharp and abrasive on your feverish skin. Before you can say anything, he lets go of you for a split second and pulls the sweater upward.

“Sorry, it’s just really itchy,” You say as you watch him pull the sweater over his head, his hair slightly frizzled and glasses crooked on his face from the action. Underneath his sweater, he’s wearing a thin white cotton t-shirt with the words ZuZu University in faded brown letters. It’s tight on his arms yet loose everywhere else, and even though he looks a bit frazzled, he is still shockingly handsome. This might also be the side effect of my fever brain, you think as you pull your eyes away from his thick arms and back up to his face. Big mistake.

He runs his hands through his hair and fixes his glasses with a warm flush on his cheeks. “Don’t apologize, you can’t help it.” He says without meeting your eyes and pulling you back into him, lifting your sick body with ease. He’s warm all over, and his chest is solid and soft. You could fall right back asleep in his arms.

The gentle lull of his walk and caress only eases you for a minute before the bright yellow light of the bathroom shines into your eyes. Becoming presently aware of the fact the light is now illuminating every gross aspect of your being, you turn your face into Harvey’s chest. “Are you okay?” He says as he places you on the bathroom counter, placing his hand on your forehead and then on your neck. His touch makes your whole body hotter, and you think you might die from overheating.

“Yeah, I'm just a little gross right now.” You say, head in your hands, as you attempt to rub the crust away from your eyes.

“Well, that’s the best thing about baths” You can hear him swirling his hand through the water, checking the temperature before turning back to you “They help you get clean.”

You laugh again, even though this entire scenario is a mix between your biggest nightmare and greatest fantasy. You’ve got Harvey’s attention all to yourself, but at what cost? Now, you’ve been reduced to a patient instead of a hot, hard-working girlfriend. Right now, you should be setting up a Christmas tree in his office or drinking hot cocoa in the park while stargazing.

Before you can say anything, Harvey makes his way to you and fiddles with the end of your tank top. “Do you want me to stay and help or wait in your room?” For the first time in the evening, you can sense his anxiety. This would be the first time he would see you naked, of course. A part of you dies inside at that fact. It wasn’t supposed to be this way!!

You let your eyes reach his again; he towers over you even with your position on the counter. His nervous face prompts a jolt in your stomach. Sure he’s probably seen plenty of his patients naked, but have any of them been potential girlfriends? You don’t want the answer to that question. Despite wanting to do it yourself, his shifty gaze and fleeting gentle touches at your abdomen under your tank top convince you otherwise.

This isn’t going to be romantic in any way, just a doctor helping a girl in need. You think to reassure yourself. 

“I could use a little help.” You breathe out finally, shifting yourself closer to the edge of the counter.

If Harvey is surprised by your answer, he doesn’t show it. He just nods slowly and goes to lift off your tank top. It’s not like you needed help taking your clothes off, but the sentiment was too good to deny.

Although the tank top was quite thin, its removal left you even more cold. You look up and see Harvey's flushed face and his eyes avoidance of your chest as he unties the strings of your sleep pants.

God, he really is heaven-sent.

You pull your arms up to cover your chest as he pulls you off the counter to take off your pants. He kneels down with the action, looking up at you when the pants hit your ankles. Your eyes meet, but you turn away first, suddenly embarrassed by the entire scenario.

 He looks at you as if you were an angel, haloed by bathroom light. The warmth in your chest is multiplied, and you think that if you were to die tonight, you’d definitely die happy.

He pulls your ankles up and releases them from your pants. You become acutely aware of his touch, nervous about what comes next. He takes his time folding the pants and tank top, standing up briefly to place them on the counter before kneeling down again, his warm hands on your hips.

Surprisingly, his hands are shaky. You feel your heart jolt and can’t tell if your light-headedness is from standing for so long or Harvey’s intoxicating presence and touch.

His hands remain on your hips for a few seconds before he hooks his thumbs into your underwear and begins to slowly pull them down. You can’t even look at him or his hands, your gaze centered on the ripples being created from the dripping faucet into the tub.

Your underwear is on your knees when you finally pull your eyes back to him, just to catch his. He’s not even looking at what he’s doing, not needing the reassurance of sight to pull off your underwear correctly. Slowly, he continues to pull them down, holding your eyes to his. His body contradicts the boldness of his actions, a bright flush on his cheeks that stretches to his ears and neck.

Okay, I could die from this. You think, offering a small smile to him, hoping it will ease his anxiety. He returns it with a gulp.

The feeling of his fingertips and the cotton on your skin makes you shiver, every sensation intensified by your skin’s heightened sensitivity.

When he finally does look down, it’s to pull your underwear from your ankles and render you completely naked.

He breaks the silence by clearing his throat, taking your hand without looking at you, and guiding you to the tub.

You step in, the lukewarm water sending another shiver through your body. Harvey, thumb tracing your hand, doesn’t let go of you until you are completely submerged up to your chest.

You wish that the water could provide some kind of shield for your naked body, which you and Harvey both presently aware of. But of course, the water doesn’t, and there’s nothing you can do or want to do to change that.

In silence, Harvey grabs your washcloth and wets it in the water before pulling it out, wringing it, and drawing it near your face. In silent response, you close your eyes and allow him to clean away the crust surrounding them.

His touch is gentle and caring, and you feel more confident with your eyes closed. If you can’t see the look in his eyes, then your heart won’t toss, surely?

Surely not. Slowly, he pulls the washcloth down to your neck and then to your chest, and in the darkness, you imagine him taking in your body with his eyes. Another flip of your heart before you open your eyes and see his steady face looking down into the tub at your body.

You clear your throat of its phlegm, despite feeling disgusted at the fact that even have phlegm around him, and his eyes fly quickly back to yours, embarrassed.

“I can uh- I can wash my own body, Harv.” You say, your hand grasping his and the cloth under the water, caressing it softly.

If he kept touching you in this way, even with the separation of the cloth, you fear you might combust into a million little stars.

He clears his throat, and his free hand goes to push his glasses up. “Oh, yeah.” He lets out a nervous chuckle. “Of course you can.”

Despite his agreement, his hand doesn’t leave yours under the water, and he doesn’t make any movement to leave or get up.

You take a deep breath, internally cursing yourself for even stopping him despite the need to be released from his constant touch.

“Do you wanna pass me the soap?” you say, lifting yourself up in the bathtub a little, finally releasing his hand.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, his eyes instinctively going down to your chest, now slightly peaking over the edge of the water, before he swiftly turns his head to grab the soap.

He hands you the bottle and rises, drying his hand on his jeans and then fiddling with the fabric when it’s dry. “I’m, uh, gonna go clean the room a bit more. Don’t over-exert yourself, okay?” He says, looking down at you in the tub, trying his best to maintain eye contact. You nod your head slowly and you work to squeeze soap onto the cloth, pulling it up your neck and beginning to scrub.

He stands there in silence for a few seconds before suddenly remembering that he was supposed to leave and hurriedly shuffles out of the bathroom, leaving the door cracked open behind him.

With his absence, you finally feel at ease. The ease is short-lived as you hear him shuffle around your bedroom, suddenly missing his presence. This stupid fever was making it hard for you to think clearly.

You clean your body slowly, savoring the feeling of water and the scent of soap. It wasn’t long until the lukewarm water turned cold; your feverish body was shivering continuously signifying it was time to wrap it up.

As you wring out the cloth and make your attempt to remove yourself from the water, you hear him approach the bathroom door, knuckles slowly rapping at the door. “Can I come in?”

His politeness awed you. There was truly no more need for niceties after he had just stripped you, and yet he still offered them.

“Yes.” You say.

He enters the bathroom holding a towel and a change of pajamas. You flush with embarrassment at the idea of him going through your drawers, remembering their unorganized state. “Did it take you a while to find something that matches?” You offer the joke in hopes of easing the tension. It works more for you than it does for him. His face is still flushing pink as he takes you in again.

“No, not really.” He says under his breath as he draws near with the towel and opens it. You stand slowly and allow him to wrap it around you, cherishing the warmth it offers.

He put it in the dryer so it would be warm. Your heart swells at the gesture as he ties the towel ends around your chest and takes your hand to stabilize your exit from the tub.

“Do you still feel gross?” he asks, taking it your refreshed face. You shake your head, unraveling the towel to dry your body, making an effort to position your body away from him. It would be wrong to continue this act of indecency when you are actually clean, for his sake.

“In fact, I'm feeling better already.” You turn your head over your shoulder and smile at him before continuing, “You really are the best doctor ever,” in a goofy voice, attempting to mimic Evelyn’s sentiments when she found out that something was going on between you two.

The both of you had agreed to keep your meetings secret because rumors tended to get quite twisted in the valley, but Evelyn caught the two of you together after you had a particularly nasty fall in the mines. You had interrupted her appointment with the giant gash in your leg that needed immediate attention. Harvey hadn’t wasted a single second getting you onto the table to care for you. Maybe it was the panic in his eyes as he took in your dirt and blood-covered state or the way he flinched alongside your flinches, stopping to search your eyes for pain every time with furrowed brows. But, if you had to guess, you were pretty sure it was the way he held you in his arms when he finished, whispering into your hair to be careful and that he doesn’t know what he’d do if you got injured worse than this. Evelyn had peeped her head in at that exact moment, nosily checking in on you as well. Of all the people to know, Evelyn was the least to worry about. At least that’s what you hoped. Nothing has gotten back to you yet, and that was a few weeks ago.

Harvey laughed at your imitation, saying, “I really hope that’s not supposed to be Evelyn,” before grabbing your lotion bottle and pumping some into his hands. You look up from his hands to his eyes in question before he signals you to sit on the counter with a flick of his head.  

You, in no position to truly object, obey. You keep the towel wrapped around your shoulders, but it doesn’t quite cover your body entirely. You sigh a bit. At this point, there’s nothing you can do to shield him from your nudity. You didn’t dislike being this way around him; you knew it was normal to him as a doctor, but his constant blushing and averted eyes made you feel nervous. He probably felt fine with nudity from his other patients. What made it so different with you? Uh, maybe because he likes me?

Your internal rumination is cut short when you feel his warm hands and lotion warmed up between them touch your legs. He halts for a second when he senses your leg tense, looking up at you. “Is this okay? I didn’t think you’d want to go to bed without any…” He quiets before quickly adding, “Sorry, I should have asked,” and pulling his hands away.

“No, it’s okay! Please continue.” You blurt out fast and a little bit loud, which makes your brain sob in embarrassment. He smiles and returns his hands back to your legs, rubbing the lavender lotion in slowly. Having his hands back on you feels right. Like there’s some magnetic pull between you.

You sit in silence as he rubs lotion down to your feet, caressing them gently before making his way to your knees and then to your thighs. You feel dizzy at the pressure of his hands, and the idea of where they’ll go next.

As he gets to your thighs, he reaches behind you and pulls you off the counter, landing you on your feet. “I’ll be quick,” he says, and for a second, you think it is because he’s about to rub lotion into your most erogenous zone, but then he adds, “You don’t need to be standing for so long.”

You feel the heat rise up your chest for the millionth time this night as you curse yourself for your thoughts.

Of course, that’s why he’s going to be quick, surely, if you weren’t sick, he would take his ti…

You shake that thought from your head, now wasn’t the time to be thinking like that. He’s just taking care of you.

He takes his hands and pulls your legs apart and it takes everything inside of you to not shrivel up from embarrassment, your brain torn between never allowing itself to be sick again and staying sick forever.

Pumping more lotion into his hands, he makes his way up your thighs slowly. Every brush of his fingers or swipe of his palm sends your heart tumbling and stomach flipping. Despite the intimacy of the act that was making everything hazy, it was the gentle care that he took as well. When he reached your sex, he never once actually touched it in fullness, slowly brushing his fingers around it.

It was actually embarrassing at how wet you got from it, and you prayed that he wouldn’t be able to notice.

Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything; he just continues the process of pumping lotion into his hands, warming it up, and rubbing it into your kiss. You let out a small sign of relief as he finishes rubbing lotion into your behind and slowly rises from his knees to get to your chest.

This time, you look at him instead of all around the bathroom. Surely, him rubbing lotion into your breasts would be less intense. Proving to be repetitive, you are wrong again.

When his hands finally reach your breasts, he pulls his eyes away from them and looks into yours. His circular motions around your nipples send a chill down your spine, one that only intensifies with the look on his face. Plain and simple to the common eye, but you could sense a deviousness lying underneath.

This side of Harvey wasn’t entirely new to you.

You recall your first kiss, down near the dock by the sea. He had held you so gently and pressed his lips slowly into yours before pulling back and searching for approval in your eyes. You, missing the warmth of his mouth, leaned back in and kissed him fuller. You sat there for a while kissing the tender kiss until you pulled back for a breath. The look in his eyes then was something similar to the one now. Enraptured fully in desire and need.

Before you could even fully catch your breath, his warm hand was on your neck, pulling your mouth back to his. His tongue prodded at your mouth, and when you let him in, he whined. Like actually whined into your mouth, drinking the taste of the strawberry wine you had shared with one another earlier intertwined with your spit.

He has the one to pull back the next time, a thin line of saliva drawn between your mouths that, after an inch of separation of your faces, fell onto your chin. His lips, still slick, rushed down to your chin and licked it back up into your mouth, kissing you again, hot and heavy.

“All done,” he says as he takes the lotion and puts it into your cabinet. This snaps you out of your daydream, and you see a small smile on his face.

Okay, we have got to stay focused.  

“Thank you, Harvey.” You say as you reach for your fresh clothes and dress yourself.

“Anytime.” He says as he leans towards you and presses a kiss to your temple before leaving the bathroom. Another toss in your stomach.

You finish dressing, staring at yourself ashamedly in the mirror.

It didn’t take you long to finish getting ready for bed, doing your skincare for the first time in what felt like forever, and putting your hair in two braids. Weirdly enough, you had felt strength return to your body, albeit only a little. What you wanted most right now was some food, some tea, and (hopefully) some cuddles.

It was a stupid desire really, Harvey wouldn’t risk himself getting sick and staying the night. Still, you can’t blame yourself for trying.

When you finally emerge from the bathroom you see Harvey sitting on your bed in…his pajamas. A smile stretches across your face as you crawl into your bed, noticing the two cups of tea and thermos on your bedside table.

Harvey lifts the blanket up for you, and you lay your body half on top of his. “Are you feeling better?” he asks as he pulls your leg further around him, and you position your head on his chest. “Mhm.” You respond, taking in his warmth.

He chuckles lowly and reaches over to grab the tea mug and pills from the bedside table, “Here, take these, and then have some soup.”

It isn’t hard to obey his orders. You sip on the tea, sweet with honey, and take the pills without question. “Mmm, perfect,” you say, nose a little stuffy now that you’ve laid down.

“Did you make the soup?” You ask as you finish your tea with one big gulp.

“Yep, it’s got everything my little farmer needs to get strong again.” Your body heats up, and you feel so warm. “Here.” He takes the spoon from the thermos and brings it to your lips. You could object and feed yourself, but there was something in being the object of his gentle affection that you were addicted to. You had never been cared for like this before, and you most definitely were going to get in the way of it.

You eat the soup as quickly as possible, feeling exhaustion flood over your body. Harvey, as if he could sense it, closed up the thermos and laid your head on his shoulder, caressing your head. “get some rest love.” Love, you loved it when he called you that.

It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep, Harvey’s gentle breath lulling you to sleep like a metronome.

[justpoliteconversations]

Midnight Impulses [Chain + Healer!Reader]

Keeping your abilities hidden is difficult when the object of your attention is so close.

It keeps growing. Will the trash heap never end?

Masterlist

TW: None.

Disclaimer: Don't own The Legend of Zelda franchise. Linked Universe is the fan creation of jojo56830.

---

You stare up at the night sky with a pinched expression, something ominously similar to a pout pulling at your lips. The blankets are pulled up to your nose, and above the soft rim your eyes glare squinty-eyed at the man laying beside you.

In the light of the pit fire, you can see the way his shoulders and back are tense with pain and fitful sleep. The shine of his hair taunts you where it highlights the delicate curve of his ear, the soft pink of a bang an elegant curve contrasting the harsh shadows of the fire light.

His bare skin. If only you could touch his skin without waking him, even just the tips of your fingers. But he's always been cagey, especially when he's in so much pain. He'd snap awake before you could even pull your hand from your covers, and then he'd be awake and suspicious all night. Just like every night before.

Your fingers grip into the inside of your bedroll, jaw clenching, resisting the temptation to rush him while he's vulnerable and force your healing magic into his aching joints and creaking, burning bones.

It wouldn't take long. If you could get your whole hand onto his face or maybe an arm, the deed could be done in less than a minute. He'd struggle, yes, but his gauntlets are off and you could keep him pinned for a few precious seconds after he manages to escape the confines of his covers.

Just one minute of struggle, and it'll be done. Sure, he'll hate you more than ever and will most certainly never trust you again. But his arthritis and damaged body (so damaged, laden with so many old, untreated wounds it makes your heart ache) will be gone.

He'll be free of them all. The pain, the weakness, the insecurities and the memories. He'll finally be able to put all those hurts behind him and just live, free of the burdens his path forced upon him. Free to look forward to a future not overshadowed by the slow, inevitable breaking of his body.

Free of a future that sees him stripped of mobility and restful night by the time he's 30. If he even lives that long, damaged as he's been by the cruel hand of destiny.

It would be worth it. Just one moment of struggle. One final twist and ache of his bones as he fights against your hands and arms and full body grip, and then he'll be released from the bondage of everlasting degeneration. The agony of a body sacrified for the greater good.

Just one-

No. The thought is irrational and unfair to the man in question. It would also reveal your hand to the Chain, and you had no intention of putting yourself in that situation.

You'd learned your lesson. Even the kindest and most honorable of men can be brought low by the promise of life. The guarantee of no more brothers lost to the slow hand of time, and the knowledge that tomorrow will find you and all you love there to greet it.

Life is so precious. Who wouldn't be tempted to keep it forever by your side.

You envied Hyrule. For his strength and his cunning. For no shackles shall ever find his wrists, no tether will ever bind his arms and legs. No force on this plain of existence will ever break his spirit.

You are nothing like him. Not a hero. Not a fairy borne. Not a beloved brother of the many powerful men who came before him.

You are just yourself. Someone who got unlucky with their blessings.

You envied him, for your healing is nothing like his. It is slow and bone deep, poorly suited to the riggers of field wounds but inevitable in its power nonetheless.

In this world of fairies and potions and the blessing of Goddesses, the hand of death will not come in the blaze of battle. No. It will creep slow and steady into the very marrow of your bones. It will start with aches so deep no fairy light can reach them, with a cough so thin no potion can grasp it.

For many, death will not be by the sword, but by the bone deep memory of what it left behind.

If you could still the hand of fate, wouldn't you? Wouldn't they, whom fate has chosen so readily? Even if it cost just a sliver of thier humanity?

You never intended to find out if these men had it in them to pay that price. No need to tempt fate. Not with men like these, who live and die by such sacrifices.

The ear twitches in his sleep and so do your fingers, the shine of his ruffled hair like a siren's call to your eyes.

You suck in a sharp breath. The temptation flaring once more within you, pushing you forward like strong wind at your back. Calling you like the promise of cool water under the desert sun. Like the shelter of home as a thundering storm shakes the land.

It twitches again. The shine of hair.

'Fuck.'

---

"He's messing with them again." Twilight grumbled, arms crossed as he levels his most unimpressed stare at the Vet's back.

Time chuckled, stretching along the log at his back and savoring the smooth roll of muscles and bones unhindered by pain or aches. He couldn't wait to bring you home to Malon and let you work your magic. His beloved wife had even planned out their sleeping arrangements to encourage your helpful nature.

"If Legend wants to drag this out, let him be. He's the only one suffering from it." He smiled then, more of a grin than anything. "And it's cute." The older man admitted impishly, leaning fully back against the log he'd been stretching over in a boneless sprawl.

Twilight wanted to say something back, but honestly couldn't deny any of it. Especially not when Legend rolled over and let his hand fall just inches from your bedroll. And your eyes widened and then narrowed, your mouth twisting into an obvious pout. How you whipped your back to him with a growl, hiding your face in the covers. Only to peek over your shoulder moments later to glare at the motionless hand with a single, leering eye.

Not when Warriors was hiding his face in Wind's sea-salt hair, trying to cover his amused grin and single cracked eye. Not with Wind's shoulders shaking with mirth, just barely hidden beneath Warrior's greater size.

Not with Hyrule smothering his laughter with both hands, back turned purposely to you so you wouldn't see. Not with Sky out like a light, breathing free and soft and unrestrained for the first time since they'd been forced onto this quest.

And not when Time looks so relaxed, spine arched freely like a man who'd not known the burden of the world pressing down on his shoulders. The effortless roll of his muscles a stark contrast to the painful twists of naught a week before.

"Fine." He eventually conceded, narrowing his eyes. "But if this keeps up for more than a week, game's over. They've not slept well in the last 3 days."

Time nodded, eye closing as he began to drift into a light, mediative doze. "Of course. We wouldn't want our shyest member to lose too much sleep over our brother's aches, now would we."

The heavily ringed finger twitched when you rolled back over to face Legend's back and began hesitantly reaching for it. You squawked at the unexpected movement and jerked back, hands flying to your mouth when you realized what you'd done.

Legend opened his eyes then, feigning sleepiness as he snapped. "What are you looking at, hah?"

You glared back. "Nothing!" Before turning your back to him once more and crossing your arms with an even deeper pout. Hunkering down in your covers.

Vet huffed, though an amused grin stole across his face the moment you looked away. "Weirdo." He snapped in a falsly waspish tone, his grin growing when you growled lowly under you breath.

Twilight looked at Time again. Frowning.

"Tomorrow. I'll talk to him." Time hummed in assurance, though he didn't bother to open his eye.

Twilight sighed again, and Time chuckled.

Near the fire, the shifting of covers, the reveal of a bare neck and another quiet gasp. The smothered giggles of Hyrule laying closest to them. The whisper of Warrior's trying to keep Wind from blowing their cover. Four returning from his watch, multi-colored eyes already rolling skyward with exasperation at the now very familiar sight.

'Yeah.' Twilight thought. 'You and me both.'

---

Return to the shadows.

[nyxjackson]

Heartbeat in the Silence - Chapter 1

The house was quiet except for the low hum of the TV in the background, where a late-night rerun of Family Guy played on mute. Marshall sat at the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, brow furrowed, not at the show, but at her.

Y/N.

She was curled up in the corner of the sectional, wrapped in one of his hoodies three sizes too big. Her curls were piled on top of her head in a messy bun, eyes closed, face calm. Too calm. That was the first sign.

She’d been sleeping more. Eating less. Crying over things she’d usually laugh at. And the smell of his cologne—his damn cologne—had made her gag this morning. She tried to play it off with a laugh and a shrug, but he caught the flicker of panic in her eyes.

He'd been here before. Not exactly here, but close enough.

Marshall raked a hand down his face and leaned back, letting his head hit the couch. Could it be…?

He glanced at her again. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.

Peaceful. He didn’t want to disturb her, but the thought burrowed itself deep in his mind like a worm in an apple. She hadn’t said anything—maybe she didn’t know yet. But something was different. He felt it in his gut.

And he trusted his gut more than most things in this world.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Over the next few days, the signs piled up like unopened fan mail.

Y/N turned down wine at dinner with a soft “I’m not in the mood.” She asked for extra pickles on her burger—which she hated. And when they were at Target, she doubled back twice to stare at baby socks with a strange, faraway look in her eyes.

Marshall didn’t say a word. Not yet. Not until he was sure.

Instead, he watched. Quietly. Carefully. Trying not to freak her out. Trying not to freak himself out.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want kids—he loved Hailie more than life—but this… this was different. This wasn’t a plan. This was a holy shit, what if?

One night, he came back from the studio and found her curled up in bed with three blankets, the room ice-cold even though the thermostat said 72. She looked up when he walked in and said, “Do I look pale to you?”

He crossed the room, sat beside her, and studied her face. “You okay?”

She blinked. “Just tired. Like, really tired.”

He nodded. “You’ve been off lately.”

She laughed weakly. “You noticed?”

“Hard not to.”

She paused. “Think I’m getting sick or something?”

“Or something,” he said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She didn’t ask what he meant.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

A week later, she bought the test.

Marshall found the crumpled CVS bag at the bottom of the trash, under a heap of tissues and a takeout container from that new Thai place she said she wanted to try—then said it “tasted like metal.” He didn’t dig further. He didn’t have to.

She came out of the bathroom twenty minutes later, holding the stick like it might bite her.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed again, heart thumping in his ears.

Her voice was small. “I… I didn’t think it was real.”

He looked up. “But it is?”

She nodded.

He stood, walked toward her, took her free hand. “I knew.”

She blinked. “You knew?”

“I saw the way you looked at the pickles.”

She laughed, teary-eyed. “Are you serious right now?”

He nodded, smiling for the first time in days. “Dead serious.”

Chapter 2

[the-cauldron-witch]

Eeeermmmm👉👈

13. "I'm not letting go, so you can stop fighting it." With raph pls(or anybody, people usually specify the character too but I see you didn't ask for that so I wasn't sure).. :^

That's absolutely okay! I probably would have written for Raph anyhow, it's a very Raph coded line honestly. I hope you enjoy! 🫂🫂🫂

Tag list: @silverwatergalaxy @thelaundrybitch @sophiacloud28 @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @iridescentflamingo @redsrooftopprincess @yorshie @truffle-draws-turtles @ninnosaurus @thepinkpanther83 @avery73 @luckycharms1701 @tmnt-tychou @suksiskovaikkakuuseen

The last set of stairs felt like a mountain as you trudged up them, each step sending a wave of pain from your feet up to your hips as you ascended. After standing on your feet all day working a double shift from 7AM to 7PM, not to mention every single break continuously being interrupted by coworkers asking for assistance or some stupid question they could literally ask anybody else, it felt like your day just had no end to it. Just a little further, you kept thinking despite feeling like the hallway was impossibly long.

Once at your apartment door you let out a withering sigh, you knew all too well your day wasn’t over just yet. Behind the beige painted door awaited more chores; the dishes you had been neglecting since yesterday, various laundry piles scattered about your room growing with each passing day, on top of the floors that needed desperate vacuuming and trash that you forgot to take out when leaving this morning. Keys jingling as you unlock the deadbolt, you dragged yourself inside and wanted to simply collapse.

Exhaustion weighed so heavily on your shoulders you almost didn’t register the sound of your kitchen faucet running. Did you leave it on this morning? No, you couldn’t have, you didn’t even have time to make coffee this morning because you woke up late. It didn’t come as a surprise to you though, knowing well who was using your sink. Kicking your shoes off with enough force for them to bounce on the floor once before joining the other pairs in a heap, you round the corner to the kitchen.

“Hey, you,” You called as you entered the kitchen, tossing your belongings onto your kitchen table. Cutting off the faucet and drying his hands Raph turned from the sink and smiled at you warmly, plucking the dish towel from where it hung on the wall. “Did you really do my dishes for me?”

“And your laundry and trash is taken out as well,” Raph stated proudly, grinning widely as your shoulders slouched with pure relief. It felt like a weight had been physically removed from your shoulders. Hanging the dish towel back on its hook Raph gave you no time to thank him, his massive arms sweeping you clean off your feet and holding you to his chest.

“Ah! What’re you doing?” You giggled as Raph began walking to your living room, squirming and kicking your feet in a half-hearted attempt to escape his grasp. Rolling his eyes he didn’t respond to you verbally, simply holding you tighter against his chest to keep you there.

“I’m not letting go, so you can stop fighting it” He chuckled, squeezing you firmly against his chest while leaning down to press his lips to your forehead. Not giving you a chance to question further, Raph hopped himself over the back and flopped onto the couch as lightly as a three hundred-something pound turtle could. Pizza, some of your favorite drinks, snacks, and plenty of blankets.

Grabbing one of the many blankets crumpled onto the couch, Raph kept you pressed against his plastron gently while getting comfortable on and settling down on the couch. With how little energy you currently were running on there was absolutely none left to argue, so you didn’t. Resting your head against his chest and listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat you finally allowed your body to relax against the warmth of your boyfriend.

[zerooup]

Abababa,, minific of Papa/CG Swan + Sleepy Baby Curly and Big Sister/Brother Anya + Daisuke regressors maybe?

Of course!

Papa Swansea , sleepy regressor Curly , and big siblings Anya and Daisuke!

"I've been walking, you've been hiding and you look half dead half the time, monitoring you; like machines do. you've still got it, I'm just keeping an eye . . . You know you're better than this, come back and start, got your heart in a headlock. No, I don't believe any of it. You say too late to start with your heart in a headlock; You know you're better than this. Afraid to start got your heart in a headlock; I don't believe any of it." [Headlock - Imogen heap]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ Swansea moved to the lounge, he'd been working all morning; With a sigh he finally sat down, Daisuke flopping down next to the older man, complaining playfully. "Remind me to NEVER ask you how to do that again." Swansea chuckled, ruffling his hair. "Ya did good kid, and ya did it quick so we've got nothin' for the rest of today."

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ The two continued their chat, a.. very tired Curly emerging from the cockpit and entering the lounge and heading to one of the vending machines... punching in the numbers for a coffee. Fuck his head was pounding, he'd barely slept a wink these past few days. He got the cup, sitting down at the lounge to enjoy it, listening to Daisuke and Swansea, whatever they were on about.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ He took a few drinks of the bitter liquid, it never did work to wake him up in times like this. Before he'd even noticed, he had eyes looking at him. Quickly apologizing. "Oh... sorry, am I in the way?" He asked, a soft smile playing on his face; Swansea glaring in concern. "When's the last time you slept?" Curly's face shifted, thinking. "Oh, I slept last night-" He was cut off, Swansea introjecting. "The full 5 hours the company allows you?" Curly sighed. "Well no- Jimmy had an issue in the cockpit so he woke me up-" Swansea pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look.. go get changed okay? You need sleep." With a sigh, Curly finished the coffee; tossing the cup in the trash before turning to do as Swansea has asked.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ While Curly was getting changed and everything of that sort, Daisuke had gone and got Anya.. The two deciding to play whatever dice game they deemed most fun, the two usually regressed when they played anyway; so Swansea just had to keep an eye on those two.. and hold curly till he fell asleep.. Easy, right..? Well, that's what he'd hoped so at least. Curly re-entered the lounge, plush in his arms; blanket over his shoulders and thumb in his mouth as he toddled over to Swansea, going into his lap as he curled as close as he could. "You okay buddy?" He felt a soft nod on his shoulder, just holding the blonde close as he played with Anya and Daisuke.

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ After an hour or so, Swansea had laid Anya to bed, but .. Daisuke wanted to play! So he tugged on Curly's hair. Which earned a VERY loud whine, followed by the blonde fussing once he woke up. He was NOT pleased about being woken up; once Swansea had come back he saw the blonde in tears, he; swiftly came over. Within a few seconds Curly was up and in Swansea's arms .. which did settle him a bit, Daisuke sitting with his arms folded. "Daisuke, did you hit him?" He shook his head swiftly. "Nuh-uh! I just tugged his hair..! it's not naptime yet!!" Swansea sighed. "I know you wanna play with him buddy; but he's really little right now.. He's not gonna have the same naptimes you do buddy." He folded his arms, pouting.. Curly had thankfully dozed back off. So Swansea raised a proposal. "Yknow, he'll be awake if you take a nap?" The younger responded "Really???" With a soft nod, Swansea confirmed it. Daisuke curling into his other side and getting comfy. Eventually, with a bit of a chat; they both fell asleep.

[anarchy-and-piglins]

Phil knew that living out in the middle of nowhere brought the danger of wild animals, but he thought he'd taken his precautions.

He'd built fences around the cabin, lit torches when needed and his garden was occupied by a frankly fucking ridiculous amount of scarecrows to keep those pesky birds (and other critters) away from his crops. And yet, for the sixth time in as many days, he'd woken up to find his trash overturned and his food scraps dug through, with clear claw marks on the wood.

He felt bad doing it, he really did. But at this rate, he wouldn't feel safe allowing Wilbur and Tommy outside anymore. So after a week of this torment, Phil put down a snare.

The animal doing this couldn't be much bigger than a dog from what Phil could tell. It might even be one, a feral mutt from a nearby village. Though Phil found that hard to believe. Whatever it was, the snare would hopefully catch it. Then Phil could deal with it himself, even if that meant killing it.

That was the plan... that had been the plan...

The wolf pup Phil watched struggling in his snare was smaller than he expected. Malnutrition probably had stunted its growth. It must not have a pack to care for it - truthfully Phil was surprised to see a wolf this far south at all. Maybe its mother had set out to establish a new territory but had died on the way, leaving the pup to fend for itself. Or it was abandoned because of its unusual genes. Whatever the reason was, the thing looked more pathetic than a carnivorous animal had any right to, all unkempt white fur and bright red-pink eyes that looked around for an escape route.

Its teeth were bared in an intimidating snarl, snapping at Phil's hand when he tried to reach out.

"I'm not- Look, I'm sorry, okay." Phil had no fucking clue why he was talking to it. Maybe he was losing it a little, but there was a strange sense of intelligence radiating from this animal. For some reason, he felt like it would understand.

And almost as if to confirm that, the pup calmed down when he apologized, sitting on its haunches to stare at him suspiciously.

Yeah, Phil must be losing his mind for sure.

"Let me just get you out of there."

The metal wire had cut into the wolf's hind paw, blood soaking into the grass. What had seemed like such a clever idea this morning suddenly made Phil feel stupidly guilty.

He loosened the snare. As soon as it fell away, the pup tried to take off but then it instantly stumbled over its injured paw, landing in a heap. It wouldn't be able to walk anywhere. Phil grabbed it, mildly relieved it didn't instantly bite him. He carried it inside.

Carefully, Phil tended to the wound and settled the pup on the couch with an improvised nest made of blankets. The wolf curled up in it, tilting its head curious as if it didn't entirely understand what Phil was doing.

Phil didn't understand it himself. 

From the moment he laid eyes on the pup, he could tell there was something... off about it. It was just too hard to pinpoint what. Could be the sleep deprivation, of course. Maybe that was why, after he made sure the pup was all settled and the doors were locked so it couldn't go off causing trouble, Phil fell asleep on the couch himself. Right before he drifted off, he could feel the animal shift to lie against him.

And when he woke up, it was to two blue eyes blinking up at him instead.

Phil watched in pure confusion as the boy sat up, stretched his arms over his head, and then rubbed slightly over his long pink hair. Somehow he looked just as unkempt in this form, and just as tiny too. He was probably only a couple years younger than Wilbur. The boy held his stomach with a little frown.

"Are you... hungry?" Phil asked.

They looked up at him and nodded.

With a smile, Phil sighed and stood. "Let's get you some breakfast then." 

If there was one thing nobody could say about Phil, it would be that he didn't adjust to the weird things life was ever so fond of throwing on his path.

Now if only he could figure out how he was going to explain this to Wilbur and Tommy.

[katsukikitten]

Zodel only has patience for you. Everyone else is a stepping stone to reach the Heavens and drag them down to Hell himself.

What others call junk you call treasure.

Fingers smoothing over threadbare blankets or jackets, mange looking faux fur on old stuffed animals. Smooth flat metal of scissors until rust begins to eat at the edges making them jagged.

Useless.

Garbage.

But it was all jinki to you.

Pieces of people's souls could be trapped in items, embedded into the very atoms that made the item smooth or rough to the touch. As if woven into the fabric itself and if you were a Giver, which you were, jinki was all that much more valuable.

So here you stand with your sewn together backpack, black velveteen fabric well worn, eyes replaced with loving x stitching and one of the cat ears long since gone. It's belly swollen and full of treasures clinking together, whispering their thanks to you as you shift through the garbage in the contaminated zone. Spiked gas mask snug against your face as it filters the rancid air while you fixate on the items in the pale moonlight.

No need for you to be too vigilant considering no one was ever out this far, at least no one with half a mind. Trash beasts, raiders or vandals would be the most company you'd get and even then that was few and far in between the major cities of the Abyss. You spent the majority of your time under the haze of the stinking trash listening out for the loudest jinki, the most angry, resentful, growling thing before your ears perked.

Body on instinct dropping to the ground before you hear the footsteps and then the voices.

But most of all the jinki.

“Boss…”

“Don't.” Sharper than any knife you've held, gaze sharper still as it turns onto the goon that follows. You can't see from this distance, everything mostly a blob and their voices barely carry out to you. But even if you could hear them all you can focus on is the loud humming coming from the poorly sewn together jacket on the man's broad shoulders.

I can help comes the soft whisper from the pile of trash, your fingers digging into the heap, dark power snaking from one piece to another as if being passed along before you finally land in a doll. Hair burnt off and ripped out, missing both arms, a leg but thankfully she still had one good eye.

The doll lies close to the two men, unblinking gaze fixated on them as you close your left to see better.

One is skinny, lanky and with long tightly woven dreads, fingers covered in claws that retract to rings as he falls into step behind the much larger man with dark midnight hair.

Dreads’ jinki are loud, hard to ignore, muttering endlessly between themselves in gravely rasps. Hissing, agitated sounds over one another as it morphs into a quickening slurred babble, almost as if paranoia drives their conversation.

The second is wrapped around the broader man, dark black and filled with so much power it hums. Loudly, to the point it begins to drown out the rushing blood in your ears, drown out every thought as the buzzing continues to grow. He adjusts the jacket and it preens before back to the constant almost nauseating drone.

You want that fuckin jinki.

“Boss I couldn't get the sky person but-” Dreads attempts again to get a word in edgewise before he's interrupted by another pointed tone.

“You failed did you not?” Cold dark eyes look over his shoulder as they continue to walk along the tall trash heap, much taller than them as the duster jacket held together by large staples and stitches steadily hums.

Dreads doesn't answer, crazed eyes dropping to the junk underfoot in shame.

“Twice.” Dreads flinches as if struck but the broad man doesn't move an inch. Nothing more than a turn of his head as a shadow slinks from the jacket, up his throat and cheek trying to snake over his eye before a portal opens up in front of the boss. Illuminating them both in a washed out ethereal glow before he steps through.

Dreads waits outside, gritting his teeth until bone grinds against bone, tick in his jaw that creaks before the voice in the swirling void calls out.

“Come.” And Dreads obeys like any good dog.

The portal disappears in a matter of seconds leaving you to count all the way up to sixty before you will the doll to move. Legs of inky black jutting out where plastic limbs once were, slinking towards where the portal appeared. Lurking around what looks to be a base now that you're really paying attention only to come up empty in your search for an entrance.

Tapping your fingers as you think. Whoever had the portal jinki couldn't always be available right? Plus the big scary boss man didn't seem the type to rely fully on one person especially since one of his goons already proved a failure so there had to be a hidden entrance somewhere.

The doll wanders aimlessly for hours by your command until you spy it, the smallest flutter of a breeze coming from the pile. Kicking your feet as you think of just how good that jacket will feel swallowing up your frame even more so than the stocky build it sat on.

Having the doll wait idle until you see yourself approaching through its dingy glassy eye. The plastic lid and long singed lashes flutter shut as you come to squat near the item. Let your fingers curve over her skull feeling the fuzz of worn down faux hair.

“Thank you.” A breathy whisper before you release the item, letting it rest against the wall where it would surely blend in with all the other discards from Heaven. Sharp claws slipping under the metal pulling harshly waiting for the hinges to whine from the strain of resisting the lock.

It's up high, well above your head before you're pulling your bag off of one of your shoulders. Digging around for the perfect tool, an old ornate letter opener. You use your gift to sharpen the bread to a deadly point, reaching on tiptoes before the blade connects with the lock. Yanking it towards your body and it slices through the metal with ease and the door yawns open. You return the jinki and your mask to your backpack before you wander around the base.

Following the sound of the hum and ignoring the loud slow beat that faintly reminds you of a heart beat. Ignoring the pacing, the clinking of tools, the hiss of pleasure, the electric charge as a comb brushes through hair because all you can hear is the all consuming hum.

Sneaking into a dark room, pitch black and giving your eyes a moment to adjust to the tiny flecks of moon light let in from the small holes in the walls. Holding your breath as you listen, pushing down the hum to hear the deep slow breathing of the man who owns the jinki. Once you've determined he's asleep you tiptoe into the room in a rush spying the dark item hanging on the back of a chair.

“Hello.” A breathy whisper to the jacket as your fingers brush over the fabric, the feeling vibrates in your very marrow and it makes you smile manically. It's heavy even if it is half stitched and stapled together, thick and yet you think you wouldn't overheat under the sun.

Lifting it gently from the chair slipping one arm through makes you a little light headed, the shadow sneaking up your throat in a curious purr. Crawling up your jaw as you go to put your other arm through and when the jacket is fully over your shoulders you sigh slowly. You can smell the previous wearer, a mixture of musky sweat and well worn leather warmed by the sun, it makes you feel good. Relaxed. So you nestle deeper and the shadow comes out further. Caressing over your lips as it starts to work its way up to cover your other eye, slowly, so slowly, the jacket begins to wear you.

Large rough hands slip under the shoulders of the jacket, smooth over the thin fabric of your t-shirt as the coat is pulled away from your body. The shadow retreats.

For now.

You turn to look over your shoulder, face half shrouded in shadow darker than night, the jacket still trying to cling to you. But your focus isn't on the purring from the fabric, it's on the tall broad man who stands behind you. His dark midnight hair is messy from sleep, more strands falling over his forehead than before, eyes dark and cold as they bite into you despite the gentle touch at your back.

He's shirtless himself, clothes mostly discarded at the foot of the bed, only the jacket was placed with care.

You reach around you, grabbing onto his thick forearms with sharp claws, nails hardened with a razor's edge. For whatever reason you hesitate, let it barely poke his skin and only small droplets bead to the surface.

“Careful.” His voice is deep and dark from disuse, having been in a deep enough sleep, it gives him even more of an edge. He leans closer, face impassive and frozen like any marble statue you'd seen in books discarded from the heavens. It is as if he's studying you, pulling the coat away from you gently, slowly and the shadow whines as it returns to the black fabric it came from, “What are you doing here?”

“Your jinki called me.” A half truth, mostly it just hummed from its own great power but the way it whispers to you now, to pull the fabric back up and have the high collar protect your throat gives more truth to your statement. Moving your hands from his skin to avoid a fight, fisting the opening of his jacket almost nervously.

Even after a long stretch of silence he doesn't reply, if he's dissatisfied or pleased with your answer you cannot tell, face still stone cold as his unblinking eyes stare down at you.

“I just love well worn things.” You unclasp your hands from around the opening of the jacket and let him peel it from your frame, “They have so much to tell me.”

The sound is soft and breathy like a confession in mass and it stills his movements. His hands stopping at the crook of your elbows now with the jacket half on and the shadow fully gone. You freeze, pulling in a shallow breath to hold.

You expect to be taunted, laughed at or struck, since that's what normally happened when you claim you could actually hear what the jinki said. Because even among the rejects you didn't belong. Too sharp, too quick, too loud, too cruel or too much. Always always too much until only the jinki liked your company.

Or maybe they just tolerated you since they couldn't move, it's not as if there was anyone else to hear them.

He cradles your jaw, tilting you up to face him instead of looking at the floor.

“There is no shame in that.” His tone and intense gaze soften minutely, missed in the dark as you stare back up at him.

“There isn't?”

“No.” He allows his hands to move on their own, allows his thumb to swipe over the apple of your cheek, “Is that not how jinki becomes jinki?”

Sliding over your throat, fingers slipping under your collar to notice you don't have a com necklace, that you acted alone, tracing your smooth skin. Engulfing and squeezing at the tender column before slowly grazing your cheek and palming the curve of your skull.

“How things and people become precious? Because they are loved?” Monotone as he delivers his lines and you're still too mesmerized to move, “Even if they are discarded by the Heavens and the sky people.”

“What's a sky person? I heard you two earlier. Is it that boy with the cleaners?” You blink up at him owlishly and he sighs deeply. Returns to his task of taking his jinki off of you, following down your exposed skin with his rough palms before gently placing it in your lap for now. You wrap your arms around it like a hug, bringing it to your chest as you watch him. He picks up a clean white button up, leaving a few open at the top before his muscular thighs slip into dark pants.

“No one saw you slip in, little stray?” He asks, holding out his hand towards you, reluctantly you place the heavy duster in his hands. He flips the dark fabric around as he slides his arms into it. Adjusting it just so and now the high collar of his jacket frames his jaw.

“No.” He helps you to your feet from the chair, “I heard them. They're noisy.”

“Hmm.” He hums, fingers slipping under the straps of your backpack earning a jolt from you when he tries to remove it, “Don't worry. You want to stay right?”

You take a step back and like a patient predator he doesn't move.

“Be close to my jinki? Since it loves to hum such sweet songs to you.” He stands as if there were a rod in his back, speaks with little to no emotion and if you were being honest he scares you a little.

Yet at the same time, when he lifts his arm in a silent invention, you step forward. Slipping your arm under his to press your face into his chest. His shirt smells like clean linen and his skin still smells like well worn leather in the sun with that bit of sweat that you hope clings to you.

The jinki purrs its approval before going silent when his arm wraps around you, pulls you closer in an uncharacteristic notion. A part of you thinks this is a farce, that he has other plans for you, that he knows affection, false promises you'll fall for, and patience are how he can trap the feral cat that is you.

“Would you like to be mine, stray?” He's tilting your chin to look into his eyes again, fingers tight on your jaw as he stares down at you with dark rich eyes. Even with your suspicion of ulterior motives your tongue moves all on its own.

“Yes.” Breaking free of his grip to hide your face in his chest again, his heart rate is slow, unhurriedly, and soft while yours roars. This attraction is odd and magnetic when you usually shoved people out of your life, yet here you stood stepping into his shadow most likely becoming just another one of his disposable goons.

“But only for a little while.”

[darl-ingfics]

Sicktember Day 18: "My body is one big ache"

Fandom: Seventeen

Sickie: Seungkwan (flu)

Caregiver(s): The8

Word Count: 1,416

Notes: Semi-based on my friend saying the "I shouldn't have dropped it low so many times" line, but about back issues rather than illness. It's just too good NOT to use!

When Minghao stumbled to the bathroom at two in the morning for a glass of water, he was genuinely shocked to find the light already on, door halfway open, and Seungkwan crumpled in a heap on the floor. Naturally, Minghao’s sleepiness disappeared in a flash, and he basically fell to the floor and slid on his knees over to the younger man, grasping him by the shoulders. Seungkwan startled awake, helpless, confused, glassy eyes blinking up at Minghao.

“Kwannie, what the fuck?!” the dancer whispered, looking the vocalist up and down. “What’s wrong?!”

Seungkwan’s lower lip jutted out and his eyes filled with tears. “Hao, I don’t feel good.” 

Minghao’s panic slowly eased out of his body as he ran his hands up and down Seungkwan’s arms. “I know, bud. What’s wrong? Why aren’t you in bed?”

“When I woke up, I felt kinda nauseous, so I figured it was safer to be here than there.” 

Minghao frowned, taking a knee to slide a hand against Seungkwan’s burning forehead. “How are you feeling now?”

“My body is one big ache.” The vocalist groaned. “Maybe I shouldn’t have dropped it low so many times last night.” He hid his face in his hands, squeezing at the space between his eyebrows in disappointment. 

Minghao smirked. “Or maybe you shouldn’t have performed on stage with the flu.” Seungkwan whined, the noise somehow both raspy and congested, and the dancer’s heart melted for his friend. “You still feel nauseous?”

Seungkwan shook his head. “That stopped literally as soon as I walked in here. I think I just…” His hand circled around his head. “Dizzy from the medicine wearing off. Do I feel warm to you?” He leaned forward slightly, and Minghao obligingly felt his skin again. 

“You’re burning up, kid.” Seungkwan fell back against the wall, eyes closing. “How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know! There’s no clock in here!” Minghao had to stop himself from laughing at how pitiful Seungkwan’s voice was. “And now I’m too tired to walk back to my bed.”

“Well, I can help with that.” Minghao pushed himself to his feet, hands finding his hips.“You wanna shower first? You’re really sweaty.”

Seungkwan pouted. “Mean.”

“Not mean. Accurate.”

“Not kind.”

Minghao rolled his eyes. “Do you want to shower or just change clothes?”

“Change clothes, please.”

“Okay. Can you chill here for a sec?” Seungkwan nodded, and Minghao raced off into the hall. He made a stop in his own room, grabbing his electric blanket before heading to Seungkwan’s room. Minghao set about his work quickly: plug in the electric blanket and position it on the bed, pick out the coziest pair of pajamas he could find, pull the bag in the trash can closed and move the empty can closer to the bed just in case the nausea was real…

In no time, he was back in the bathroom. Seungkwan was still leaning heavily against the wall, heavy eyelids drooping closed. He looked up when Minghao entered. 

“You good?”

“Stupid question.” 

Minghao nodded. “Fair enough.” He held out his hands. “Let’s get you to bed.” Seungkwan simply stared back and forth from Minghao’s hands to his eyes. “Kwannie, I love you, but I’m too tired to carry you. It’s this or I drag your ass down the hall.”

Seungkwan shook his head. “Don’t want to get you sick…”

Minghao rolled his eyes skyward, then reached forward and physically pulled Seungkwan to his feet. The younger man whined, slumping against Minghao’s shoulder. “I’m here, aren’t I? If I cared about getting sick, I would’ve woken someone else to deal with you.”

“I’m sorry…”

“I didn’t mean it like that, love.” Minghao’s voice softened immediately as he began to walk Seungkwan back to his room. He knew from experience how much Seungkwan hated being a burden, how he bottled up all of his feelings just so it wouldn’t hurt anyone else. How much he hated having to be ‘dealt with’ in anyway. Usually, such an expression would’ve been taken as the joke it was, but clearly this wasn’t a usual circumstance. “I was trying to be funny. This isn’t an inconvenience at all. I’m happy to be here, and I really don’t give a shit about your germs. I just care about you.”

Seungkwan’s head fell against his shoulder. “I love you, Hao.”

“Love you too.” 

When they arrived in Seungkwan’s room, the vocalist stepped away from Minghao’s embrace, stumbling to the bed as he was coughed harshly into his sleeve. Minghao winced, his eyes darting to the bedside table. He reached for the water bottle there, shaking it to assess the water left. It felt empty. “I’ll be right back.” 

He didn’t wait for a response, running back to the bathroom to refill Seungkwan’s water bottle. While there, he searched the cabinet for their cold and flu medicine. Medical terminology always took him an extra moment to make sense of, but he was used to the color of the bottle, and, upon reading the label, he quickly found the words he was looking for: ‘don’t take on an empty stomach.

Minghao returned to Seungkwan’s room just long enough to place both bottles (water and medicine) on the nightstand, pointing at his patient. “Hang on…” He darted away again, this time to the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets there for something quick and easy to eat. He found a box of crackers, and grabbed the open sleeve, presenting them to Seungkwan upon his return. 

“What?” the vocalist asked, clearly confused. 

“You can’t take medicine on an empty stomach, and you mentioned how your previous meds had worn off, so…” Minghao shook the crackers once. “Eat up.” Seungkwan nodded, accepting the crackers. Minghao nodded back, hands on his hips again, surveying the room. His back straightened with a new thought. “Okay, one more time, and then I’ll be back.” He raced back to the bathroom, pulling their thermometer gun from the drawer. 

“How many do I need to eat?” Seungkwan asked immediately when Minghao walked back through his door. 

The dancer shrugged. “I don’t know? Eight? Ten? Maybe nine?” 

“Okay.” Seungkwan frowned down at the cracker in his hand before taking a cautious bite out of it. 

It took every strand of will power Minghao had not to laugh. “How many have you had?”

Seungkwan shrugged. “Six?”

“That’ll be fine.” 

“Are you sure?”

Minghao nodded. “We just need something in your stomach.” Seungkwan sighed gratefully, carefully placing the remaining sleeve of crackers on the nightstand. Minghao moved to point the thermometer at his forehead. He nodded at the numbers. “Not terrible. But still not great.”

“That’s what the medicine is for.”

“Right.” Minghao measured out a dose of the liquid, passing it to Seungkwan and waiting avidly with his water bottle. As soon as the medicine was down, Seungkwan rolled over into his bed, inching like a worm to get into a comfy position. Minghao waited until he was satisfied before pulling the blankets over him.

Seungkwan sat up almost immediately, hands fumbling in the material on top of him Minghao tensed. “Is this your blanket?” Seungkwan looked up at him with wide eyes. 

“Yeah. You said you were really achy, and the electric blanket it my favorite remedy for sore muscles.” Minghao shrugged, some of the tension leaving his body. “I can also go grab my heating pad if there’s something else you want to…”

“Thank you.” The pure gratitude in Seungkwan’s voice, the genuine relief, melted Minghao’s heart on the spot.

The dancer carded his fingers through Seungkwan’s hair. “Of course, angel. Now lay back down.” Seungkwan did as told. “Rest. That’s what your body needs.” After one final reassuring smile, he turned to go.

“Hey Hao?”

Minghao turned back. “Yeah?”

“Can you… can you stay here? Until I fall asleep?”

Minghao smiled, returning to the bed, and sitting down on the edge. “Of course.” Seugnkwan returned his smile before he curled up on his side, body facing Minghao. One hand popped out of the blanket, and the dancer took it instantly. They sat like that, comfortably silent, for an indeterminate amount of time (Minghao hadn’t brought his phone and Seungkwan’s room, much like the bathroom, didn’t have a clock.) But that didn’t stop Minghao from disappearing into his own thoughts as he hummed a soft melody for his friend. 

He genuinely thought Seungkwan was asleep when he whispered, “Hey Hao?”

“Yes, hun?”

“I love you.”

The softest smile. “I love you more.”

[bwabys-scenarios]

Fixer Upper

Perv!Kurapika x Fem!Reader

Part 23

part 22

part 24

!!REBLOGS APPRECIATED!!

warning: mentions of vomiting, characters sick, Kurapika keeps trying to cop a feel while he’s sick and feverish, mentions of child abuse/neglect, Killua has abandonment issues

A/N: shout-out to @bugmomwrites for helping me with this chapter!!

taglist: @fabitheraven @tsukilover11 @ashdownunderscorebeloved @lemonslut @homeinmydreams @superweeniehutjrsblog @bugmomwrites @heartsforseo @lixiawinter @altaircc @itszenava @fiightforlovee @mimi-sanisanidiot @monainanuttshell @wow-im-gay @whorermoviestar @lightshowerrr @mama-m1na @nenggie @wicked-binch @jamayah

If you’d like to be ADDED to the taglist, please comment a red heart ❤️, make sure you’re able to be tagged/mentioned, and have your age in your bio(IF YOU ARE ALREADY ON THE TAGLIST, YOU DON’T NEED TO ASK TO BE ADDED AGAIN!!)

(Name) was woken up at 3 am the next night by a knock on her door. She blinked awake slowly, wobbling over to the door before opening it.

Gon stood behind it, looking a little pale, with flushed cheeks. “(Name)… I threw up…”

(Name) took a moment to stare at him, taking a deep breath before sighing. “Come here baby, I’ll get you some medicine.”

Gon sat on her bed as she fished through her cabinet for some medicine, but he came rushing into her bathroom to throw up into the toilet again before she could find it.

“Oh, Gon…”

She patted his back as he hurled, cooing softly. “That’s it sweetheart, get it all up. I’m here.”

When he was done, she gently wiped his face before guiding him back to her bed. “Lay down… shit, you’re burning up!”

(Name) rubbed his back before standing back up. ‘Shit… I hope this is just some food poisoning and not anything contagious.’

It didn’t take long for Killua and Kurapika to arrive as well, both looking tired and confused.

“What’s wrong with Gon? He ran out of our room a minute ago…” Killua asked, concern evident in his tired eyes.

“Yeah, I heard him throwing up in the downstairs bathroom.” Kurapika said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

(Name) sighed softly, comforting Gon as he held his stomach. “I’m not sure, I would call Leorio to come check on him, but after he helped me drop off my van yesterday, he had to leave for a medical conference hosted by his college. He’ll be busy for the next few days.”

Killua sat down next to (Name) patting Gon’s back tenderly. “You’re gonna be okay, I’m here.”

Kurapika yawned. “I’m going back to bed, come get me if something else happens.”

The blonde left, walking downstairs. “Killua, you should get to bed too. I’ll take care of Gon, you get some rest.”

Killua looked like he didn’t want to leave, gently brushing some of Gon’s hair back. “I’ll be okay, Killua. (Name) will take care of me…”

Killua swallowed, glancing at (Name) before getting up and leaving. “Goodnight…”

(Name) took care of Gon through the night, barely getting any sleep. Near dawn, Gon settled down enough for her to pass out next to him, only to be awakened two hours later by the sound of someone throwing up.

“Gon, baby, do you need me to come hold your hair-“

But Gon was still lying next to her in bed, face flushed with fever.

“No…”

She jumped up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she sprinted down the stairs. In the hallway, Killua said in a crumpled heap, vomit covering the floor. “Oh, Killua…”

He looked up weakly, looking absolutely miserable. “I tried to get to the bathroom…”

Her heart broke, he looked embarrassed and was attempting to stand and clean up his mess. “No, no sweetheart it’s okay. Shh…”

She gently picked him up, carrying the teen to the living room and laying him down on the couch. She grabbed a bucket and put a trash bag in it, setting it beside him before covering him in a blanket. “Rest sweetheart, if you can’t make it to the bathroom, there’s a bucket right there okay?”

He nodded, eyes fluttering closed as he panted softly. (Name) placed her hand on his forehead, her eyebrows knitting together in concern. ‘He has a fever too. Well, this confirms it, whatever Gon has is contagious.’

(Name) made quick work of cleaning up the throw up in the hallway, hearing a door open near her and someone yawn. “(Name)? What are y-“

He spotted what she was cleaning up and made a face. “Did Gon walk downstairs just to throw up on the floor?”

(Name) held back a snicker, giving him a look. “No, Killua is sick too. Speaking of Gon, do you think you can carry him downstairs? It’ll be easier to take care of them both if they’re in the same spot.”

Kurapika nodded. “I’ll put some coffee on too.”

(Name) sighed in relief, giving him a grateful smile. “Thank you.”

(Name) placed an air mattress on the floor, finishing blowing it up just in time for Kurapika to come in carrying Gon. “He’s burning up.”

(Name) nodded. “Yeah, it’s about time for his next round of medicine.”

Kurapika watched as she quickly gave the both of them medication, before sitting down at the kitchen table to sip her coffee. From the bags under her eyes and her messy hair he could tell she barely slept.

“(Name)… do you need some help? Taking care of two kids won’t be easy.”

She nodded, rubbing her temple. “Yes, that would make things a hell of a lot easier on me.”

The blonde followed her to the kitchen, watching as she began taking out vegetables. “You can cut these up while I put some chicken on to boil. After that I’ll need to check their temperature again.”

The sound of one of them throwing up again had her rushing out of the kitchen. Kurapika winced. ‘How is she able to deal with that? I can’t even look at vomit without getting sick.’

He sat at the kitchen table cutting up vegetables, glancing up when she walked back in. “Killua is still throwing up, and can’t keep his medicine down. I’m hoping if I get his fever to go down he’ll be able to take some medicine, so I’ll need to cool him off…”

She got a rag wet, squeezing out the excess water before returning to place it on his forehead. “Mom… mom please don’t go…”

Killua grabbed her arm, his face flushed with fever. She sighed, gently pushing back his hair. “I’m so sorry, Killua, but I have to cook and take care of Gon too. I promise when I’m done I’ll come and sit with you, okay?”

He nodded slowly, letting her sleeve go. (Name) gave him a soft smile before she returned to the kitchen to wash her hands. “Kurapika, could you go watch over them while I cook? Just come get me if they start throwing up or if they need me.”

(Name) continued cooking, pulling on her frilly pink apron. It only took five minutes for Kurapika to walk back in, looking defeated.

“Kurapika? Do they need something?”

He shook his head, collapsing into a chair. “Killua started crying as soon as I showed my face. He said he already felt sick enough without having me ‘stinking up the place’.”

He used air quotes on the last part, giving (Name) an annoyed look. “Even when he’s sick he’s such a-“

“Kurapika.”

She wielded a wooden spoon, shaking it at him. “He’s sick, I promise he doesn’t actually hate you.”

She turned back to the stove, frowning. “Probably.”

Kurapika scoffed, crossing one leg over the other. “Even you can’t say for sure if he hates me. What have I don’t that’s so bad he can’t even let me take care of him?”

The silence that filled the kitchen was deafening.

‘Oh. That, I did that.’

Kurapika rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, remembering all the things he’s said and done. “(Name), I…”

She held up her hand, glancing back at him with a soft smile. “Please, I don’t want to think about that right now. I have enough on my mind.”

He looked at his lap, clutching the fabric of his sweatpants. Kurapika hated that he couldn’t just apologize and move on.

He held onto his anger, it was the only thing that kept him warm at night during those two years he spent apart from her. If it faded away and she didn’t want him, what would he have left? He’d spent half his life in a blinding rage, stuck in the past. Kurapika didn’t know anything else.

So he stayed quiet, helping her prepare the chicken noodle soup and hand out medicine. Kurapika at least wanted to be somewhat useful to her, after taking advantage of her love and kindness over and over again.

Kurapika spent the next few hours hovering around her, jumping up to do whatever she asked of him. Unfortunately, Kurapika hadn’t taken care of someone sick since he was young. Pairo was the last person he’d tended to in such a way, and that had been nearly a decade ago.

He attempted to carry their soup to them, only to spill it. “It’s okay, Kurapika, I can just make them some more. Just clean it up for me!”

She came back after feeding them to see him sulking in his seat, his shirt covered in soup. “… Kurapika? What happened?”

“… I fell in the soup.”

“What?”

She tried not to laugh, but he was looking up at her, his shirt covered in soup, looking distraught.

“Haha, go change, silly.”

She pulled him up, patting his back reassuringly. “Okay… I’ll be right back.”

——————

(Name) collapsed onto the air mattress her and Kurapika would be sharing, the blonde rubbing soothing circles into her back. “You should rest, (Name). If they make some sound, you’ll hear them.”

She whines a little, groaning into her pillow. “Ugh… you’re right but just thinking of them getting sick and not having me with them makes me anxious. Killua gets… he gets scared when I’m gone for too long.”

Kurapika raised an eyebrow. “Scared? Why would Killua be scared if you’re gone for too long?”

She was hiding something from him, and it was beginning to frustrate him. “What are you hiding from me, (Name)? Something happened to have Killua act like this. He has nightmares, he can’t be away from you too long… what happened?”

She couldn’t look at him, pulling the blanket they shared up to her chin. “… it’s too much for you. You don’t want to know.”

Kurapika scoffed, causing her to blink and look at him. “Oh please, you think anything you been through is worse than what I’ve dealt with?”

When she didn’t answer and instead scooted away from him, he stopped, attempting to place a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, (Name), I didn’t mean it like th-“

She pushed his hand off of his shoulder, facing away from him. “… just go to sleep, Kurapika.”

Kurapika didn’t push any further, cursing himself for being stupid. But a part of him really believed what he said. What could she have gone through that he wouldn’t be able to handle hearing?

If only he knew.

——————

(Name) fell asleep angry, and hurt. ‘How could he say that? He doesn’t even know what happened, the pain we went through…’

But when she woke up a few hours later, hearing the man behind her groaning in pain, her anger faded away into worry. “Kurapika?”

She attempted to turn around to look at him, but was kept still by his arms wrapping around her waist. She kept still, gently grasping his hand. “Are you okay?”

His hand was hot and clammy, his breath warm against her neck. He was panting, and just from the sound of his breathing alone he could hear he was congested.

(Name) attempted to get up, but the blonde whined, pulling her closer. “No… don’t leave… I’m sorry for… for earlier…”

She was trying to get up to get him some medicine before he got any worse, having forgotten his harsh words from before. “Kurapika…”

He nuzzled his head into her shoulder, panting softly. “Please… just… just want you to stay with me…”

She wanted to wiggle away, to scold him, but couldn’t. His hands were trembling, his tone desperate and needy. Kurapika needed her in this moment, and she wouldn’t deny him human kindness and comfort.

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere.”

This caused the blonde to relax, his grip loosening slightly. She reached her hand back to caress his cheek. “Go back to sleep, Kurapika. You’re going ti need it.”

As if he was a child being commanded to sleepy by his mother, the usually defiant Kurapika settled back down, falling asleep against her.

(Name) waited for him to fall into a deep sleep before she wiggled out of his grasp and stood up to check on the others. Both of them were still sound asleep, so she simply replaced the rags on their foreheads with fresh, cool ones to keep their fevers down before grabbing some medicine for Kurapika.

His face was flushed, his eyebrows furrowed as he searched for (Name) in his sleep. She held onto his hand, the blonde relaxing once she did. “Kurapika, sweetheart, wake up.”

He did, looking absolutely miserable. She helped him sit up, letting the blonde lean against her shoulder as she gave him his medicine.

She turned, about to leave to put the medicine up. “You’re doing good, Pika. Now just lay back d-“

Before she could finish, the blonde pulled her into his arms by her hips. She squeaked, feeling him nuzzle into her neck, leaving little kisses on her sensitive skin.

“H-hey, stop th-“

She gasped when his hand travelled down, playing with waistband of her panties. His breath was hot against her neck, and she could feel his hard on pressing against her ass.

“Made me… made me feel good in the van. Wanna… return the favor…”

She wiggled in his grasp, face burning hot. “K-Kurapika, you don’t have to do that, you’re sick, you’re not thinking str-“

The feeling of his warm fingers sliding into her panties made her whine, and she knew if she couldn’t reason with him, she’d have to take drastic measures.

“Sorry, Pika!”

She grabbed his arm and used her nen to speed up his cells, making his grip loosen as he lost consciousness due to the stamina his body would need to catch up.

(Name) sighed in relief, wiggling out of his arms and deciding to sleep on the floor instead.

But she couldn’t help the warmth pooling between her legs, the woman biting her lip as she slipped her hand downwards. ‘He… he was so close to touching me…’

——————

(Name) woke up to the sound of someone shuffling past her to the bathroom. She looked up to see Gon, his face pale and eyes sleepy.

‘At least he’s able to walk.’ she thought, sitting up and stretching. (Name) glanced down at Kurapika, who was panting and sweating in his sleep.

“Shit, Kurapika? Are you okay?”

When he didn’t answer, she sprinted to the kitchen to get a cool, wet rag. She placed it on his forward, pushing his sweaty hair out of his face.

It took a few minutes, but when he cooled down enough, he looked up at her with blurry eyes.

“Hahh… you’re like… an angel…”

She blinked, her own cheeks beginning to heat up. “H-huh? Angel?”

He reached his hand up to cup her cheek, smiling fondly. “So pretty… my angel, my own angel…”

His words were making her head feel fuzzy, and she couldn’t help but look down at him, here eyes soft. “Mhm, I’m your angel, Kurapika. I’m here to take care of you.”

She caressed his cheek, helping to soothe him back to sleep. After that, she glanced over to see Killua watching her with a pout.

“You said you’d come sit with me…”

She tried not to laugh at his grumpy expression, standing up. “You’re right, I did. Make some room.”

(Name) sat down on the couch, turning the TV back on and letting killua lay his head in her lap. She played with his hair, watching as Gon walked back in. He took one look at the two before climbing onto the couch and laying next to Killua.

She wanted to squeal, the looked so cute cuddling together, their heads resting on her lap. After making sure they were sound asleep, (Name) took a quick picture of the two. ‘This is going on our Christmas card..’

(Name) only got up when their heads got too heavy, gently pushing them off before getting up to get their next round of medicine and food.

Killua and Gon munched on a banana each as (Name) spoon fed Kurapika some chicken noodle soup. Thankfully Kurapika hadn’t been throwing up, she had caught his sickness just in time to prevent him from getting to Gon and Killua’s stage.

“This is good… you made it?” Kurapika asked, still clinging to her.

“I did, and you helped me, remember?” she asked, gently wiping soup soup from his chin with a napkin. He looked at her with those hazy, half lidded eyes.

“Mmm… don’t think I did…”

He munched on some bread she served with the soup, leaning on her shoulder. Kurapika had been extremely clingy the past day, finding any opportunity to muzzle into her, his hands roaming downwards until they reached the waistband of her pants.

(Name) had to smack his hand, giving him a stern look. “No, Kurapika. No touching, now lay back down.”

He whined a little, pouting at her before turning around with a huff and covering his head with his blanket. Kurapika’s sock covered feet poked out, and (Name) could only snicker. ‘What a brat.’

As she got everyone ready for bed, (Name) realized she was starting to feel… tired. She looked over to the others, Gon and Killua shivering from fevers and Kurapika mumbling in his sleep about angels.

‘I hope I’m not sick too, who will take care of them?’

(Name) sighed, lying own on her makeshift pallet. “Goodnight, boys…”

In the middle of the night, (Name) woke with a start, jumping up and running to the bathroom. She barely had time to fall in front of the toilet before she was throwing up, moaning miserably.

“(Name)..?”

Kurapika stumbled to the bathroom, looking concerned. His face was still flushed with fever, but he sat behind her and pulled her hair back as she continued. “It’s okay…”

He patted her back, trying to be as soothing as his fever riddled brain could let him.

When she was done, she stood up and walked with shaky legs to the sink, rinsing out her mouth and washing off her face. “Shit…”

Kurapika say ok the floor, watching her as she pulled out her phone. She scrolled through her contacts, holding her stomach.

“(Name)? Sunshine, is something wrong?”

(Name) sighed, pushing back her hair from her sweaty forehead. “Leorio, when will you be back? The other three were sick and I was taking care of them, but now I’m sick too.”

“You’re sick? What are your symptoms?”

As (Name) listed out her symptoms, Kurapika couldn’t help but feel like it was her fault he was sick. He’d been clinging to her like a child, insisting she hold him.

But Kurapika hadn’t had someone to take care of him when he was sick for a while. After losing his clan at the age of twelve, he’d been taking care of himself since. There were days he’d sit in a tent, shivering from his fever and the cold as a thunderstorm raged outside, having no one but himself.

So when (Name) began taking care of him so tenderly, he leaned into it. His tired, feverish mind couldn’t help but want her comfort, it was as if the child inside him needed to be taken care of even more than his sickness.

“I can be home by tomorrow. Can you handle it until then?”

(Name) sighed into the phone, rubbing her forehead. “Yeah, yeah I can do it. Good thing I prepared s-“

She groaned, handing her phone to Kurapika as she began to vomit into the toilet again.

“(Name)? (Name) what’s going on?! Are you okay?”

Kurapika held the phone up to his ear, his words slightly slurred from the fever. “She’s throwing up, Leorio. What… what can I do to help her?”

Leorio sighed. “Just be there for her. Hold back her hair and help her lay back down. I’ve got to go, please… make sure she doesn’t overwork herself.”

The phone call ended, Kurapika moving to hold back her hair.

——————

“(Name)…”

Killua looked to the person he considered his mom, watching as she stumbled out of the kitchen, carrying medicine and food. “Mom, you shouldn’t be walking right now. You’re sick too.”

She sat down next to him and Gon, offering them some medicine. They took it, only because they didn’t want her stressing over it.

“I’m fine, Killua. If I don’t take care of us, then no one will. Leorio will be here by tomorrow, I can tough it out until then.”

She tried to smile to relieve his worries, but it didn’t seem to be working. Killua held onto her arm, his lip quivering. “Mom… please. I don’t… I don’t want to be a burden to you.”

Her eyes widened when tears started to fall down his cheeks. Gon, who had been silently watching moved closer to hug him, (Name) pulling them both into her arms. “Oh, killua baby, what’s gotten into you? You’ve never been a…”

He’d fallen asleep before she could say anything else, sniffling in his sleep. Gon gave her a look of concern, frowning. “He… he’s right, you should also rest. I… I…”

Gon started to cry too, and now she was having to tuck Killua in while Gon cried into her shoulder. ‘My poor babies…’

Kurapika watched this from his air mattress, clutching his pillow tight. ‘She’s trying so hard… I… I don’t want her to get any worse…’

And now he was crying too, (Name) spotting him. “K-Kurapika, you too? Why is everyone so sad?”

She sat on the floor so she could pat both of their heads, stretching her arms to reach them.

After they also fell asleep, she took some medicine for herself, eating a bit of a banana to put something on her stomach.

Memories of being a child flashed in her mind, specifically ones involving her and and brothers.

“Pepper, Mint, are you okay?”

(Name), then only 8 years old, stared down at her 4 year old twin brothers, who were crying with flushed cheeks. “Mama… mama…”

She sighed, pulling them close to her, kissing both of their heads. Her little brothers had called her mama ever since they learned how to speak.

(Name)’s mother wanted nothing to do with raising them after all, only providing the absolute bare needs. She did everything else. Dressing them, feeding them, taking care of them when they were sick, these were all things she had to do from a young age.

“What’s wrong? Are you tired?”

Mint shook his head, pointing to the bathroom. When she investigated, (Name) realized he had gotten sick and threw up. And she knew that if one of them were sick, the other was too, or would be soon enough.

She sighed, flushing the toilet and getting them to bed. “I’ll get you some medicine from Mom’s room. Just be good, okay? No crying and being loud, or Daddy will be mad.”

The twins nodded, curling up under (Name)’s comforter.

Going to their mothers room was never easy. The smell of cigarettes smoke and the lingering odor it left behind was enough to make anyone gag, especially a young child with asthma like (Name).

She held her shirt over her nose, tiptoeing to the bathroom, trying to be quiet.

“The hell are you sneaking around for?”

(Name) froze, a shiver running up her spine as she heard her mother sit up in bed. It was the middle of the night, and she was hoping she’d be knocked out well enough that (Name) wouldn’t have to worry.

“S-sorry mom, the twins are sick and I was getting them some medicine so I wouldn’t have to bother you.”

The woman scoffed, lighting up a a cigarette and taking a drag. “You’ve already bothered me plenty, you little pest. Get the medicine and get out of here, before your father wakes up and makes all of us deal with his bullshit.”

She nodded and quickly walked into the bathroom, grabbing the proper medicine then tiptoeing away. Her mother didn’t spare her a second glance, no thank you either. It’s not like (Name) was expecting it, her mother never thanked her for anything, but it would have been nice.

“Hey, wait a second (Name).”

The girl stopped, feeling a small stirring of hope in her chest as she turned to face her mother. “Yes, mom?”

The woman coughed into her fist, spitting into the trash next to her. “If you use up all that medicine, I’m taking it out of your lunch money for school. Not like you need the lunch anyways, god damn pig.”

(Name) quickly turned away before her mother could see the tears prickling in the corners of her eyes, nodding. “Yes ma’am. Goodnight.”

She closed the door behind her, moving as fast and as quietly as she could back to her room. The night would be spent staying awake and taking care of her sick brothers, with no help from her parents. She would still be forced to go to school the next day, being separated from them.

(Name) shuddered at the memory, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I miss them… I miss them so much…’

She hadn’t seen her brothers in nearly four years now, and from the one letter she got from them, it seemed they didn’t want to see her. They claimed she abandoned them, and she was sure her parents had something to do with it.

After all, (Name)’s only use to them had been as a future trophy wife to a rich man. When she didn’t fulfill that goal, they sent her to college so she would at least get a medical license to “take care of her parents” in the future. They claimed she owed them, that they clothed and fed her.

But they never loved (Name). The only reason they began treating her brothers better by their tenth birthday was because they would be carrying on the family legacy, going out and making money. (Name) wasn’t allowed to have the same dreams her brothers got to, but she was happy for them nonetheless. She loved them with all her heart, more like a mother than a sister.

When she dropped out of school because she couldn’t afford to take care of herself, her parents had cut her off, and because her little brothers were minors, that meant she couldn’t see them anymore either. It broke her heart, and her mother knew it did. She was a vengeful, evil woman that likes to make (Name) suffer. It made her feel better about herself to put (Name) down.

She sighed softly, sniffling as she brought her knees to her chest. In this moment (Name) felt so alone, everyone else asleep as she sat, plagued by her past.

Before she could stop, she began to cry. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks, falling into her laps as her soft cries turned into a violent, loud sob.

(Name) wanted to be taken care of too! She wanted someone to kiss her forehead, to tuck her in and tell her everything would be okay. Was it too much to ask for, to be loved and cared for as thoroughly as she did for others? (Name) never asked for much, but her sickness was making her want to scream and throw a tantrum. She wanted to comforted!

A hand on her shoulder made her stop, her sobs dying down into sniffles. She looked over her shoulder to see Kurapika sitting behind her. “(Name)? Why are you crying?”

She couldn’t help it. Her lip quivered, and she quickly turned around to bury her face in his chest. “My tummy hurts, I don’t feel g-good!”

Kurapika, who was also still sick, nodded, using his clammy palm to smooth out her hair. “I know… I know, (Name)…”

She cried and cried, covering his shirt and snot and tears before she began to tire herself out. (Name) sniffled one last time before she pulled away to wipe away her tears.

If she was being honest with herself, she was expecting to look up and see Kurapika glaring down at her with a disgusted or annoyed look.

But he wasn’t. Kurapika looked worried, his face still flushed with fever, scrunched up in concern as he gently cupped her cheek. “You tired?”

She nodded, and he patted the air mattress next to them. “Come on, let’s take a nap.”

The two climbed in, and Kurapika held her as she slept, giving her the comfort she had been so desperately craving.

When she woke up the next morning, it was to the sound of her front door opening. “Oh, sunshine…”

(Name) felt someone’s hand touch her sweaty forehand. “You’re burning up…”

She looked up weakly to see Leorio wearing gloves and a face mask, his brows knit together in concern as he crouched down next to her.

“Leorio…”

She began to cry again, the man’s eyes widening when he spotted the tears falling down her cheeks. “I tried so hard… I…”

He patted her head, sighing softly. “You did, (Name). You took care of them to your best ability, and now it’s my turn. You just go back to sleep, okay? I’ll take care of you.”

She nodded, turning back to face Kurapika, who was holding onto her hand in his sleep, their fingers interlocked. (Name) snuggled into his chest, hearing him make some quiet noises of contentment before he wrapped his arms around her.

———————

The day was spent with the sick members of the group being taken care of by Leorio, and by the next day they were all better. (Name) was the only one with a fever, sleeping it off in her room as the others chatted downstairs.

Killua kept glancing at the stairs as Leorio cleaned up the living room. “Is she going to be okay?”

Leorio nodded, packing up the air mattress. “Yeah, she should be better by tonight. Kurapika, you’re leaving the day after tomorrow, yeah?”

“… yes.”

Kurapika was folding up the blankets they had used after washing them to get rid of any lingering germs. Killua didn’t seem to happy about this, leaning back on the couch as Gon napped next to him.

“You’re leaving? And do you actually plan on coming back?”

Kurapika was quiet for a moment. This is something he’d been thinking about for the past few days. Did he really have it in him to come back, knowing there was always the possibility he’d eventually have to leave for good?

“… I’m not sure yet.”

Killua rolled his eyes, crossing on leg over the other. “Yeah, well if you’re not coming back, don’t be a coward and tell her this time. I don’t want her wasting her energy on someone who’s so quick to abandon her.”

Kurapika’s frown deepened. He quickly walked away to put up the extra blankets in the spare closet.

Leorio didn’t move to stop either of them from arguing, simply sighing before standing up. Kurapika walked back in a few minutes later, the blankets gone from his arms. He looked calmer, giving Leorio a shy smile.

“So, you said you wanted to talk to us about something?”

Leorio stretched, giving the blonde a smile back. “Yeah. Killua, wake up Gon. We have some planning to do.”

(Name) woke up at around dinner time, feeling a lot better. She walked down the stairs, rubbing at her sleepy eyes.

“Guys? What are w-“

Killua and Gon hugged her, Killua giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Mom, are you feeling better?”

She laughed, pulling them both into arms. “Yeah, I’m feeling a lot better.”

They grinned, pulling back as she rubbed her eyes again. “Where are the other two?”

“They went to go get some dinner.” Gon answered, walking over to the table and picking up two pills. “Leorio told us to give you these if you woke up while he was gone. It’s your last dose!”

She nodded, taking the pills with a glass of juice. “Ahh, thank you Gon, Killua.”

She placed her empty glass in the sink, about to start doing the dishes but was stopped by Killua. “Wait, no mom. Leorio said you can’t do any cleaning. The most you should be doing tonight is walking around to stretch your legs.”

She huffed, put relented, dropping her rag in the sink and shuffling towards the couch in her bunny slippers. “Alright, alright. I hope there’s something good on Netflix to watch…”

Right before she was about to sit down, the front door opened, revealing Leorio and Kurapika, who had takeout bags in their hands. “(Name), you’re awake!”

Kurapika placed his bags on the table before jogging towards her, taking her hands and smiling. She immediately remembered the way he’d tried to slip his hand into her panties multiple times, her face heating up.

“U-Um, Kurapika… do you remember anything from when you were sick?”

He tilted his head, recognizing the flustered look on her face. “Not much, just that… you were my guardian angel the whole time.”

He blushed, squeezing her hand with a sweet smile on his face. ‘He doesn’t remember…’

“Why do you ask, (Name)? Did something happen?”

She looked away, her face growing hotter by the second. “… nope, nothing at all.”

Kurapika didn’t believe this for a second, his heart beginning to thump against his chest. “Did I do something? Did… did I say something stupid?”

“Um, anyways!”

(Name) moved past him, going to get her takeout food. Leorio, who she had told what happened whne they were alone a few hours ago, have Kurapika a look.

“I’ll tell you later.” Leorio whispered into Kurapika’s ear.

After dinner, Leorio met the blonde in his room, leaning against the wall as Kurapika fidgeted with his comforter. “So? What… what happened?”

Leorio made a face. “Are you sure you want to know, Kurapika?”

Kurapika turned pale, a nervous sweat beginning to bead at his forehead. “… is it that bad?”

“It’s pretty bad.”

Kurapika hissed through his teeth, rubbing his temple. “Okay, just rip the bandaid off. Tell me.”

Leorio moved to sit on the bed, giving him a reassuring pat to his shoulder. “Well, first of all you kept whining and making her cuddle you.”

Kurapika groaned, feeling his cheeks heat up with embarrassment. “You say that as if it’s not the only embarrassing thing I did.”

“… well…”

The blonde looked at him in astonishment.

“You kind of… slipped your hand into her panties.”

“…”

“More than once.”

“Oh my god.”

Now, not only was he embarrassed, but he was rock hard. (Name) must hate him now!

“Did… did I-“

“Don’t worry, she pushed you away before you uh… touched her.”

Kurapika sighed, leaning against his bed. Leorio glanced down at him, raising an eyebrow. “She said you were really intent on making up for… her helping you in the van. Which by the way, she wouldn’t give me any details on. Did she give you a blowjob or something?”

Kurapika hit Leorio with his pillow. “Hey, that’s not any of your business. And… no. We uh… kept all of our clothes on.”

“No… don’t tell me… dry humping? You came in your pants?”

Kurapika’s face burned bright red. “Shut up!”

Leorio sighed, looking up at the ceiling. “God that’s hot. Wish it were me.”

Kurapika stared at him for a minute, before smacking him with his pillow over and over. “Fucking pervert!”

“Ouch! Ouch, hey you have no room to talk! I’m not the one that stole her-“

Kurapika held the pillow over his head, suffocating him. “Perish.”

Leorio wiggles around, smacking Kurapika’s arm. Before anything else could happen, there was a knock on the door. “Kurapika? Leorio?”

It was (Name)’s voice!

Kurapika pulled the pillow off of Leorio’s face, walking towards the door and smiling as if nothing happened. “(Name), are you feeling better?”

She groaned, waving her hand. “Yess, I’m feeling fine. I just wanted to gone and say goodnight.”

(Name) was wearing a fresh pair of pajamas, her hair still wet from her shower. Honestly she smelled amazing, and Kurapika was having trouble concentrating.

“Well… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She turned to leave, but Kurapika grabbed her wrist. “W-wait!”

He pulled her closer, looking down her with his soft, scarlet eyes. “I… wanted to thank you for taking care of me. I don’t… remember much, but I do know you made me feel…”

‘Loved, safe, taken care of-‘

“Better. You made me feel better.”

There were so many other ways she made him feel, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the more tender, intimate ways. “Pika, I promise it was no trouble, you don’t have to thank me.”

He shook his head, squeezing her hand. “No, I appreciate it. Really.”

He took a deep breath, hyping himself up before he said the next thing.

“When I was sick… when you were there for me when I hurt my head during the hunter exam… you were like my guardian angel.”

She felt her cheeks heat up when he brought her hand up to his lips, giving her knuckles a kiss. “Thank you, angel.”

“A-angel?”

He gave her a smile, one that (Name) couldn’t decide being shy or sly. “Yes, angel. Goodnight.”

Kurapika watched her walk away before closing his bedroom door and sliding against it to the floor, his heart thundering in his chest. He knew his face had to be bright red, and he could hear Leorio laughing at him faintly as the blood rushed to his ears.

“Holy shit, that was smooth. Angel, huh?”

Kurapika glared at the man, but was too flustered, trying to recover from his flirting attempt to do anything other than that.

“Why are you still in here? Go away.”

Leorio rolled his eyes, sitting up and walking towards the door. Before he left, his shoulders became tense, and he looked back at Kurapika with a neutral expression.

“Killua was right about what he said earlier, Kurapika. If you’re going to leave for good, tell (Name). Don’t lead her on then abandon her once she’s finally gotten comfortable with the thought of you sticking around.”

Leorio opened the door, looking forward again. “I don’t think she could take that.”

Kurapika felt his heart slow down, the weight of Leorio’s words sinking in. “… I understand.”

“Good. See you in the morning, Kurapika.”

Kurapika nodded, watching Leorio leave before climbing into bed.

———————

(Name) was feeling completely better by the next morning, waking up and cooking breakfast. Leorio was the first to join her in the kitchen, a soft smile on his face.

“Hey sunshine, you feelin’ better?”

She giggled, looking back at him. “God, how many times do I have to say I’m okay? You all worry too much.”

He huffed, coming up behind her to each around and place a hand on her forehead. “Hmm… no fever. Any symptoms? Vomiting, diarrhea, nausea, chest aches-“

“Leorio, don’t talk about that stuff while I’m cooking, you’ll actually make me sick.”

He chuckled, pulling his hand away and leaning against the counter near her. “Sorry, sorry. We were all pretty worried about you, ya know? Especially Killua and Kurapika. They were both crying when I carried you upstairs for your own private rest time.”

She glanced at him, trying not to laugh. “They cried, really?”

“Well, Killua was also saying things like ‘no mom don’t leave me with Kurapika, I’m sick enough already!’ while Kurapika attempted to cling to your leg.”

She let out a giggle, holding a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, what brats.”

“You’re telling me!”

They both laughed, Leorio feeling his heart race at her smiling face. He gently tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, his eyes soft.

“You know, since you’re feeling better, I wanted to see if you were up for something fun tonight. Kurapika’s leaving for his mission tomorrow morning, and Gon is going back home to whale island that night.”

(Name) hummed, placing another pancake on the platter next to her before pouring more batter into her skillet. “What did you have planned, Leorio?”

The man scratched the back of his neck. “Haha, how did you know I have something planned?”

“I didn’t, you just told me you did now.”

Leorio blinked, his lips pursing. “Oh, you tricky woman.”

She turned off the stove, turning back to him. “So? What’s your big plans, sweetheart?”

The faintest blush appeared on his cheeks. (Name) didn’t use pet names with him often, but every time she did it made his heart race. “Well… I heard the local corn maze just opened up last weekend.”

She gasped, nearly dropping her spatula, Leorio catching it for her. “Really? Oh, I wanted to go last year but-“

“The crocodile incident, yeah I remember. I heard you can buy tickets online to cut the line, so I bought us some!”

Leorio held up his phone, showing her the digital tickets. She grinned up at him, pulling him into a hug. “Leorio, have I ever told you what a sweetheart you are?”

He laughed, patting her back and planting a kiss on the top of her head. “A few times, yes.”

She looked up at him, smiling brightly. “Oh, I’m so excited now. I’ll have to wear something cute!”

Leorio cupped her cheek, squishing it playfully. “Everything you wear is cute, but you should wear something warm. It’s going to be in the 60s tonight.”

She nodded, pulling away from him. “I should go wake up everyone before breakfast gets cold.”

He felt his smile fade when she glanced to Kurapika’s face, that same shy, flustered look in her eye should would get when around the blonde during the Hunter exam.

“Yeah, you should. I’ll make my plate.”

He watched her go, his gaze turning towards the pancakes.

‘… if he doesn’t treat her right…’

His eyes glanced up, following her figure as she walked towards Kurapika’s room.

‘I’ll be taking her for myself.’

——————

(Name) looked over herself later that night, turning a few times as she tried to decide if the outfit she had on would be what she was wearing that night.

It was a long , wine red, velvet dress, with a black lace trim and a sweetheart neckline. The sleeves were short, so she paired it with a black cardigan that had a white ghost pattern. “Hehe, I look like a modern vampire.”

She spinned, giggling. “It’s perfect!”

‘And it’s Kurapika’s favorite color…’

Her face became hot when she thought this, quickly shaking her head and moving on. ‘N-not like that matters, he’s my friend. I don’t have to impress him.

But the thought of him finding her dress pretty did make a certain spot between her legs wet. Ever since the car incident, she’d been having frequent naughty thoughts about him, and was having trouble thinking of anything else when he was around.

And with him trying to slip his hand into her panties recently, these naughty thoughts were driving her crazy!

‘Ahh, I can’t think of this now, I have to get ready!’

She paired her outfit with a pair of frilly ankle socks and black Mary Janes. With one last look, she began her walk downstairs to join her friends.

Everyone was already ready, waiting for her in the living room. When Kurapika heard her footsteps, he lazily glanced up from the book he’d been reading, only for his jaw to drop.

“(Name), wow… you…”

She smiled, her cheeks warm as he looked at her. Leorio looked up at well, giving her a wink. “Hey, good looking. You ready?”

She giggled, pulling on her backpack. “Yep! Let’s get going!”

Everyone stood, Kurapika’s eyes glued to her. He had to admit, she looked damn good in red. It was hard to look away, especially when the sweetheart neckline exposed a good portion of her cleavage.

“You’re staring, blondie.” Killua said, pinching Kurapika’s arm.

Kurapika helped, finally looking away to glare at the white haired boy. “I did you a favor, you don’t want her finding out you’re a creep, do you?”

He scowled. “I’m not a creep.”

“Uh huh, whatever you say, blondie.”

Before the two could start up a fight, Leorio smacked them both over the head. “Hey, I didn’t do anything!” Kurapika complained, rubbing his temple.

“Yeah, but you were about to. Get in the car, (Name) and Gon are waiting.”

The two grumbled, but climbed into the mom van without another word.

——————

The corn maze took place further out in the country, on a small farm where a fair was held. There were little games, a food truck selling various fair foods, and of course the corn maze.

“So, I’ve been meaning to ask this, but what is a corn maze?”

The groups swiveled their heads to look at Kurapika, who blinked. “What?”

Killua grabbed (Name)’s arm, laughing. “Wait, don’t tell him. It’ll make this even funnier.”

(Name) rolled her eyes. “Killua, that’s mean. A corn maze is a maze you walk through with friends, sometimes full of scare actors that jump out and… well, scare you.”

Kurapika scowled, his blonde brows knitting together in concern. “When it’s fight or flight, I usually choose flight.”

Leorio and (Name) glanced at each other nervously. “Well shit, Kurapika. You sure you want to do this, then? Hitting the workers will get us kicked out.”

Kurapika scoffed, waving his hand dismissively at Leorio. “Oh please, I can handle some teenagers in dollar store masks.”

Gon smiled, patting his friend’s shoulder. “If you get scared, you can hold my hand, Kurapika!”

The blonde couldn’t be mad at Gon, so he only sighed with a small smile. “Thanks, Gon.”

(Name) grabbed Kurapika’s hand, giving him a shy. “I um… can hold your hand too.”

The blonde blushed, quickly turning his head away. “O-oh, that would be appreciated.”

They walked towards the corn maze hand in hand. Leorio showed the woman up front their tickets, and they were able to walk in without waiting in the long line.

“Okay everyone, let’s stick together a-“

Gon and Killua were already running off, hand in hand and laughing. They were too cute, so (Name) could only sigh. “Well, they’re a lost cause. We should try to stick together, though.”

Leorio nodded, taking the lead. “Don’t worry ladies, I’ll protect you.”

(Name) giggled, but Kurapika only narrowed his eyes at the taller man.

They began their walk, the sound of people screaming and soft, horror themed music playing as fog clung to their heels. It was mostly peaceful at first, (Name) and Kurapika sharing flustered looks as they walked with their fingers interlocked.

That was until someone jumped out at (Name), brandishing a fake knife. “AH!”

She screamed, hiding her face in Kurapika’s chest. The blonde tried not to show he’d been scared as well, coughing to hide his fear. “It’s okay, (Name), I’ve got you.”

The man, who seemed to take joy in (Name)’s fear, continued to approach the two. “You scared, little girls? I eat pretty things like you two for brea-“

Leorio raised an eyebrow, staring down at the actor as he slowly looked up. Now, Leorio was intimidating to most with his height alone, but in the dark with his glasses glinting in the faint light, he looked terrifying.

“Back off.”

The man held up his hands and backed away into the darkness, the two sighing in relief. They both hugged Leorio, the tall man blinking in surprise when even Kurapika seemed grateful.

“Leorio, thank you for being so tall and muscular and handsome… and for saving us.”

Kurapika blinked, pulling away from Leorio and glancing at (Name). “Were the first few things necessary?”

Leorio laughed, his face growing red, the man glad his blush could be hidden in the darkness. “Y-yeah sunshine, you didn’t need to say all that.”

She pouted, holding him tighter. “But I meant it! If you weren’t so damn handsome that guy wouldn’t have run away! He must of been intimated by your good looks!”

Neither of them had the heart to tell her the man had run away due to being a behemoth of a man. She didn’t see him as scary, and that was okay. “Yeah yeah, let’s keep moving.”

Now the two stuck close to Leorio, like ducklings following their mother into traffic.

They were scared a few more times, running into dead ends and laughing at the bad decorations before they reached the midway point. “I think we’re getting closer to the end, guys!”

(Name) giggled, spinning around happily, not even noticing that someone snuck up behind her until she bumped into their bare chest.

“Oh? Picking a fight with me, little girl?”

Her wrist was grabbed, the man holding her arm behind her back and laughing maniacally. “H-hey!”

Kurapika and Leorio suddenly became very serious, the latter stepping forward. “Hey, you’re not supposed to touch her.”

The actor rolled his eyes, letting (Name) go and pushing her slightly so she fell onto the ground. “Oh don’t ruin the fun, you bunch of babies.”

She hissed out in pain, revealing a big scrape on her knee. Leorio gasped, kneeling down beside her. “Hey you douchebag, she j- Kurapika?”

The blonde had gone wide eyed, his eyes scarlet behind his gray contacts. “You…”

Kurapika hadn’t even processed (Name)’s pain, his eyes focused on the man’s chest.

There, on his left breast, was a small spider tattoo, with the number 15 on it. When Leorio noticed, his jaw dropped, his arms wrapping around (Name) in an attempt to shield her. “Is he..?”

Kurapika didn’t speak, stepping forward and grabbing the man by his arm, pinning him to the ground and wrenching his arm behind his back.

The actor screamed in pain, trying to wiggle out of Kurapika’s grasp. “Hey, what the hell are you-“

“Do you have any idea what that tattoo means, you scum?”

The man went quiet, shivering. “W-what? It’s a fake tattoo!”

Kurapika sneered, gripping his arm tighter. “I’m well aware. The Phantom Troupe only has 12 members.”

The man began to cry, struggling. “I don’t know what that is, I just saw this fake tattoo in the store and-“

Kurapika growled. “Ignorance won’t save you. That is the mark of a member of the Phantom Troupe, a band of murderous thieves that killed my entire-“

(Name) covered Kurapika’s mouth from behind, whispering into his ear. “Kurapika, shh. You have no idea who could be listening. You’re laying low, remember?”

Kurapika took a moment to calm down before nodding. He let go of the man’s arm, standing up and brushing off his tabard. “Go wash that off, before I rip it off of your skin.”

The actor scurried away, not bothering to pick up his mask that fell. Kurapika’s eyes followed him, only leaning his form when he disappeared from sight. “Kurapika…”

(Name) held onto his hand, squeezing lightly. The blonde didn’t say anything, but he didn’t pull away from her. It was definitely an improvement.

“… let’s keep going. I’m ready to go home.” Kurapika said, pulling (Name) forward by the hand. Leorio gave them a worried look.

Actors seemed to avoid them now, Kurapika’s aura enough to scare them off. Some even pointed shaky fingers towards the correct path, the blonde not sparing them a second glance.

“Wow, Kurapika. I think you might be the scariest thing in this maze.” (Name) said, trying to lighten the mood.

His lip twitched up in a smile, the blonde giving her hand a light squeeze. “I’m only scary when I need to be, angel.”

She felt her face warm up at the pet name. ‘He’s still calling me angel… I thought it was just a little joke.’

Leorio trailed behind them, making sure neither of them tripped and that they got to have their time together.

As they neared the end of the maze, Kurapika’s mood steadily improved. He even laughed when (Name) jumped into his arms after someone spooked her.

“Careful, you stepped on my foot.” he teased, bumping into some of the corn.

Unfortunately, this small bump would be the end of their happy moment.

He felt something fall on his head, the blonde blinking and reaching his hand up to pick up the object.

(Name) knew when the hand she held in hers gripped into hers so tightly she could feel his nails dog into her skin, that something bad had happened.

Everything happened so quickly. Kurapika revealed the object that fell on him, a palm sized plastic spider. The two others blinked, the memory of Kurapika telling them how much he hated spiders popping up in their mind.

Next came the screaming. Kurapika threw the spider as hard as he could, the poor googly eyed thing breaking on the ground. (Name) nearly toppled over when Kurapika launched himself into her, the woman ending up with him in her arms bridal style.

He couldn’t speak. The incident earlier already had his nerves shot, so the spider falling on his was his breaking point. Tears streamed down his cheeks, panic in his scarlet eyes. (Name) let him bury his face in her neck, glancing at Leorio helplessly.

The tall man nodded, leading them both out of the maze, his glare enough to keep anyone else from bothering them. (Name) hurried to the mom van to get Kurapika to a quiet, safe place.

She attempted to set him down, but he wouldn’t unhand her. He clung to her separately, his chest heaving as a panic attack wracked his body.

“Shh, I’m right here Pika.”

She climbed into the backseat with him in his arms, allowing him to cry into her chest as she tried her best to soothe him. She gave him a few minutes before she cupped his cheek. “Come on, let’s breathe together okay?”

She employed the same tactic she used when they were staying at the Zoldyck estate, having him follow her lead until he finally calmed down.

The blonde leaned his forehead against hers, his tears falling onto her cheeks. “(Name)… thank you… th-thank you…”

He smiled, his eyes a little puffy and red from crying. She wiped away his tears, moving her hands to grasp his own. “It’s no problem, really. I-“

They both screamed when a mannequin head pressed against the car window, banging against the glass as someone screamed. This sent Kurapika back into a panic attack, his eyes wide in terror as he began to cry again.

Someone laughing outside could be heard, and (Name) felt her heart sink when she recognized it.

“Killua Zoldyck!? What the fuck??”

The laughter stopped suddenly, the mannequin head falling to the ground as Killua’s face popped up. He looked confused and… scared.

When he spotted Kurapika’s tears and (Name)’s angered face, he realized that he fucked.

“Killua, that was beyond too far! Can’t you see he’s fucking terrified!? Why would you do that?”

Tears ran down her own cheeks, and the look of disappointment and disbelief in her eyes didn’t go unnoticed by Killua. “W-wait mom, I didn’t-“

She held up her hand, shaking her head. “Go find Leorio, I’ll deal with you later.”

He felt tears well up in his own eyes, terror slowly sinking into his chest. Killua didn’t say another word, leaving.

“Shh, shh, it was just Killua. He’s gone now…”

(Name) felt conflicted. She hadn’t meant to yell at Killua, but he’d just done something incredibly cruel. Even if he and Kurapika had some kind of feud going on, it was beyond fucked up to scare him during a panic attack.

Calming him down the second time was much harder, and even after he stopped crying, he clung to her desperately, his hands shaking.

Killua walked back to the fair grounds, his eyes full of tears and his body trembling. (Name) had never yelled like that at him before, never LOOKED at him like that before. ‘She’s gonna… she’s gonna give up on me.’

Leorio and Gon spotted Killua, the two running up to him. “Hey bud, we’ve been looking f… Killua?”

Killua looked up at Leorio, his lip trembling. “Mom… mom is mad at me. I… I didn’t… I didn’t know…”

Leorio, one of the only people besides (Name) and Gon to see him cry sighed and pulled him into a hug, Gon joining. “Hey, bud, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened?”

Killua explained, stuttering and stumbling over his words. Leorio sighed, patting his back. “And you didn’t know he was upset?”

“N-No! I just saw that they were in the van and wanted to scare them!”

Gon leaned his head against Killua’s shoulder. “I understand why (Name) was angry, but I’m sure if we explain things to her, she’ll understand.”

Killua have a shaky nod, his hand gripping Leorio’s sweater. The tall man pat his head. “Alright boys, let’s go clear things up.”

———————

(Name finally got Kurapika to relax, the blonde now sleeping with his head resting on her shoulder. She only glanced up briefly when Leorio opened the door on her side. “(Name), how is he doing?”

She smiled tiredly, giving a thumbs up. He fell asleep, so I’d say pretty good.”

Leorio nodded, glancing off to the right. “About Killua…”

(Name) pursed her lips. “Did he come to apologize?”

Leorio sighed, pulling Killua into view. “(Name), listen to what he has to say before you say anything else.”

(Name) furrowed her brows, but sighed. “Okay, go on.”

Killua couldn’t meet her eyes, and the sight of tears running down his cheeks made her eyes soften. “M-mom I… I didn’t know what happens to Kurapika. I just wanted to scare you two, I promise I wouldn’t have if I knew how upset he was!”

She nodded, giving him a soft smile. “Okay, okay I believe you kiddo. Sorry for yelling at you earlier.”

Her words didn’t seem to calm him down though, the boy only stiffly nodding before moving to sit in the front seat. Gon glanced at him with a worried look before sliding in next to (Name).

“Uh, I’ll drive since… you’ve got him.”

(Name) nodded, turning her ficus back in Kurapika. He was sleeping soundly, clutching her shirt as they rode home.

Kurapika wouldn’t leave (Name)’s side even when they arrived back at her house, meaning they had to sleep in the same bed together. She ended up crashing with him in his room, thinking it would be more comfortable and familiar for him.

Through the night, Kurapika would wake up with night terrors, screaming and thrashing before being settled back into sleep by gentle cooing and touches.

In the morning, (Name) had to wake him up so she could drive him to his bus stop, the blonde feeling exhausted, but no longer scared.

He honestly felt embarrassed over his behavior, having to be reassured multiple times that nothing he did would make her think any less of him. “It’s okay, Kurapika. Everyone has their moments, even me.”

The two got ready, Kurapika hesitantly letting her leave to get dressed in her room. Once they were ready, the two left for the bus stop.

Kurapika rode shotgun, glancing at her nervously with his cheeks pink as they approached their destination.

They got out, (Name) helping him with his duffel bag before smiling. “Kurapika, I really enjoyed having you with us. These past two months have been some of the happiest I’ve had in a long time.”

Her soft, sad smile made his heart ache. In that moment, he knew that she assumed he’d be leaving her for good. It hurt, but he didn’t blame her for thinking that way. Hell, he thought that was how this story would end too.

But instead, Kurapika dropped his duffel bag on the ground, stepping forward and cupping her cheeks, his face burning red as he placed his lips on hers, hoping to convey his intense feelings through the kiss.

(Name)’s eyes went so wide she felt like they might bulge out of her skull. This wasn’t acting for a mission, Kurapika didn’t need help getting off so he wouldn’t embarrassed, he was kissing her.

And she couldn’t understand why.

He pulled away, his thumb brushing against her lip as he stared at her with those pretty brown eyes. “(Name)… I promise I’ll be back. Please… please believe me.”

There was no love confession, no passionate embrace, just a promise that he would return.

And that was more than enough for (Name). She nodded, leaning into his touch, sighing softly. “Okay, I believe you, my Pika.”

Kurapika’s breath hitched in his throat, the blonde considering going in for another kiss before his bus pulled up. He cursed it under his breath, picking up his duffle bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you in a month, (Name).”

She nodded, giving him a brave smile. “I’ll really miss you.”

With that, he boarded his bus, biting his lip as she faded from view. ‘I… I’ll ask her out on a date when I get back. I will.”

Kurapika sat down, a giddy smile on his face as he touched his fingers to his lips. ‘God I love her.’

——————

Even that night after Gon had left for whale island and Leorio went home, (Name) was still on another planet, her face hot and eyes distant. She kept replaying the moment in her head over and over, feeling her heart thump against her ribs harder and harder.

‘He kissed me, he really kissed me…’

She didn’t even notice Killua coming up behind her, his arm trembling as he reached a hand up to tap her shoulder. “Mom?

(Name) jumped, letting out a yelp before holding a hand over her heart. “Holy- oh Killua you scared me!”

He flinched at her slightly raised voice, the woman immediately taking notice. “Killua? Baby is something wrong?”

The young boy looked up at her, the beginnings of tears beading in the corners of his eyes. “Do you… do you ever regret taking me in?”

(Name) felt her heart sink, her hands immediately going to his cheeks to cup them, wiping away his tears. “Oh my… Killua, no, no never. You’re the best thing to come out of everything. Having you here makes everything better. Why would you anything else, sweetheart?”

He shook his head, clinging his fists. “It’s just… I know there’s a lot going on and I don’t always behave-“

“Killua.”

She pulled him into a hug, sinking down onto the floor with him when his knees buckled. He began to sob into her shoulder, holding onto him tightly. “Listen baby, I will never give up on you. This is your home just as much as it is mine. No matter who you choose to be, this will always be somewhere you can come back to, and I will always be here to support and love you every step of the way.”

He clutched her shirt, crying harder. “B-but I’ve killed and hurt people, I’ve gotten you in trouble so many times!”

“Humans are constantly evolving, Killua. To stagnate is a fate worse than death.”

She soothed him, running her fingers through his hair as he sobbed. “But… but you said you were going to ‘deal with me later’.”

She blinked, looking at him. “Yeah, as in ground or talk to you. What did you think I meant- oh.”

(Name) remembered that punishment in the Zoldyck household usually involves torture and emotional neglect. She cursed herself for not thinking, kissing his forehead.

“It’s okay to act like a kid. Most kids get into trouble, I knew that when I decided to take you in. I’m not going to hurt or shun you for doing something any other kid would do. You’re safe here, Killua. My love isn’t conditional.”

He sniffled, looking up at her. “Really? You aren’t… you aren’t going to abandon me?”

She nodded, wiping away his tears. “Never. I would rather die than leave you alone.”

It took a few minutes for him to calm down, and when he did, (Name) picked him up and carried him to the couch. “I’ll order us some takeout and we can watch whatever you want, okay?”

He nodded, curling up under the quilt (Name) made for him years ago.

The two spent the night together, (Name) making sure he knew he wasn’t alone. They ended up passing out on the couch after binging Housewives of York New, popcorn strewn across the floor.

[geniusboyy]

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 53

The Sight

     Ford had been gone for a day and a half—gone in the way a room is gone once the lights are cut, present only in negative space and residual energy. The body remained, but the animating force had retreated somewhere deep, below the floorboards of consciousness. In his place, Bill moved.

     The cabin bore the marks of what had come before: the neglect, the fracture, the collapse. The scorched aftermath of breathless panic still clung to the air—metallic, sharp, and sour with the memory of a mind seizing shut.

     Bill stood in Ford’s frame at the center of it all. Ford’s hands—his hands now—braced on either side of the doorframe, fingers spread like measuring tools. He inhaled.

     The kitchen was in ruins. All the cabinets and drawers hung open, dishes stacked on every surface, broken porcelain still glittering like salt across tile—baseboard to baseboard. Bill surveyed the wreckage with a mild, almost parental disappointment.

     “Well… look at this mess,” he murmured aloud, voice curling over Ford’s vocal cords—warm, coaxing, proprietary. “No wonder you’re so fidgety.”

     He rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles once—then stepped into the wreckage.

        He began in the kitchen.

     Plates disappeared beneath scalding water; milky grease bloomed, then vanished beneath a squall of soap. The rhythm was meditative. Scrub. Rinse. Stack. Just as he’d seen Ford do. Each cleaned mug was a small, incremental spell—proof that these hands were capable of gentleness.

     Cobwebs came next: whisked from ceiling corners with the broom’s bristles, delicate ladders collapsing at a touch. Shards of the mug—every pale-blue fragment—were swept, then swept again, until the tiles showed no trace of fracture. 

     One piece he kept aside. Just for a moment. He let it ride the pad of Ford’s thumb, watching the razor edge press into the skin—not deep, not breaking the surface, but just enough to feel. 

     He dropped into an open trash bag with the rest. Then tied the bag and set it beside the others lined neatly by the back door.

     The floorboards sighed beneath bare feet—clean now, no grit to catch between toes. Bill opened the windows a crack, just wide enough to let the stale air bleed out. The breeze stirred the edges of papers, coaxing motion into what had gone inert.

     He folded blankets. Straightened the cushions. Lined the pencil jars by descending height, then rotated them so each label faced outward. He adjusted the angle of the desk lamp, nudged the typewriter two centimeters to the left, then stood with both palms pressed to the desktop—hovering above the curated altar of Ford’s labor, the museum of his mind.

        He stood like that for a long time.

     All afternoon, the cabin reshaped itself around him. By the early evening, only the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional call of a loon disturbed the silence. A set, staged for the moment of return. Bill stood in the doorway and admired the effect.

     Dependency, after all, was easiest to forge in moments of gratitude.

     He lifted a hand, turned it palm-up: still, it trembled—faintly, a tremor belonging to muscle memory, signs of a nervous system still unsettled: not ready, not yet. 

     The shower hissed to life with a clatter behind the walls—pipes rattling, steam beginning to ghost through the air. Ford’s shirt slid off one arm, then the other, before the fabric dropped to the floor in a loose heap. His jeans followed. Socks peeled.

    He looked down at the body that hosted him, studying with clinical tenderness. He let Ford’s fingers trail lightly across the hollow just below the navel, then down over the pronounced line of one hipbone—the subtle pulse beneath the skin, the twitch of muscle. The body responded to touch, even without him.

     “Beautiful machine,” Bill whispered, then guided Ford under the spray.

     Water sluiced away three days of sweat, smoke, and neglect. It cascaded down the broad slope of Ford’s shoulders, raced the curve of his spine. Bill soaped each limb deliberately, knuckling lather into forearms, down calves, over the joints of each finger. He worked into the curls until they slackened, heavy and soft. 

     He admired Ford’s proportions from this angle: the heft of his biceps, the gentle swell of his belly over the muscle packed beneath, the coarse hair that cloaked his limbs and torso like bramble. A small shiver traced up Ford’s spine. Not Bill’s doing, not entirely—the body remembered how to respond to being looked at.

        Bill smiled. But there was no time for deeper indulgence. Pleasure, after all, was best when shared—and Ford, for now, was still sleeping.

     After the shower came the nails. Bill trimmed the ragged half-moons, shaping them with concentration before scraping a week's worth of soot and oil out from underneath them.

     Dressing came next—a plain shirt pulled snug across the shoulders. Dark jeans, slightly loose in the waist. Black leather belt to match black leather boots—well-worn but comfortable. Bill relished the decision-making. Ford rarely indulged in such things, but Bill did. He watched himself in the bedroom mirror, hands on Ford’s hips, appraising the lines of the outfit, the way the fabric sat on each contour.

        Hello gorgeous. 

     He slicked the damp curls back from Ford’s brow with a slow sweep of the hand, smoothing the wildness into place like calming the pelt of a restless animal. Ford’s face emerged more fully in the mirror now—ordered, composed. Presentable.

     Bill felt the hollow in Ford’s gut—flaring more with time. Bill pressed a palm against it, frowning.

  The body was past empty. Several meals deep into deficit, running on nicotine, stress, and whatever was left of adrenaline. That wouldn’t do. Not if he wanted Ford to find everything perfect when he came back.

        Bill moved back toward the kitchen.

     He opened the cabinets with cautious optimism—rummaging—but found little. A box of baking soda, the husk of instant potatoes. In the fridge: half a carton of gray-water milk, three ancient carrots, a jar of mustard, a single egg floating, cracked, in a carton like a drowned survivor.

        He considered the rat kibble.

     A sigh rattled through Ford’s nose as Bill shut the fridge.

     Then his gaze caught something on the door: a cheap little magnet calendar. One date marked in red—June 15th: Ford’s 33rd—Inked in stuttering ballpoint, unmistakably Fiddleford’s handwriting.

     Bill thought for a moment, counting on Ford’s fingers before grinning. “Birthday boy.” he mused.

     A quiet laugh slips out—low, dismissive. Cake? Friends? The nearest companion Ford had now was a resentful lab rat and the demon rifling through his pantry. No fanfare. No candles—poor thing.

     The hunger twisted again—sharper now. It didn’t care about pride, or detachment, or intellectual disdain for holidays. The body still wanted.

     Bill opened the fridge again, as if it might’ve refilled itself in the last thirty seconds. Nothing. He shut it harder this time and rubbed Ford’s face with one hand, stretching the skin downward over the bone.

     Well. No getting around it. He’d have to go out. A risk—but risk tasted better than spoiled milk.

     Bill stood in Ford’s mirror again—studying the reflection: the tilt of the shoulders, aiming for the neutral stance Ford affects. Straightened, slouched, straightened again—toggling through postures until the seam between Bill’s Ford and Ford’s Ford felt close enough.

     Voice next. He cleared Ford’s throat, trying a greeting:

     “Hello. Just the usual.” too high—edges like glass. Not even close. “Ah—hello.” Lower now. East Coast vowels, dried out and clipped at the ends. He tacked on just a hint of derision, the kind Ford couldn’t help when he felt cornered by small talk.

     Better, although the cadence still catches on Bill’s innate swagger. 

     “Hello—hello…” he tried, a third attempt, this one sharper, shaped into Ford’s usual brusque economy. “I’m Doctor Pines.” He added—and smiled again at the echo of authority.

     He tested the walk next. Ford’s gait was purposeful, forward-leaning, heavy on the heels. No swing in the arms. No bounce. Bill mimicked it down the hall—but every now and then, a dancer’s swivel snuck into the hips, a flicker of theatrical flair in the wrists.

      Close enough, he thought. Who’s gonna notice?

     He tucked stray curls behind one ear, then pocketed Ford’s wallet and keys.

     A rinsed-clean evening began to unfold around the cabin as Bill descended the front steps. The gravel driveway still glistened where the rain hadn't yet burned off, each stone catching light like a dull shard of glass in the setting sun. 

        Gravity Falls was winding downlight by light, window by window. Shopfronts locked up with rust-bitten clatters, their gates dragging across concrete like afterthoughts. Kids on bikes raced each other home, their laughter high and erratic in the dusk, trying to outrun the streetlights as they blinked to life—one by one, like watchful eyes along the road.

     Outside the garage, a pair of mechanics shared a cigarette. Grease smudged their knuckles and the hems of their uniforms. One of them said something that made the other bark a laugh, half-shouldered and sharp. Bill passed by them, slow, watchful, and let his gaze linger.

     He watched the world with a collector’s detachment—the way an entomologist might observe a jar of ants: noting the loops, the patterns, the tiny predictable collisions. He felt no kinship with these people. Only a sharp, sparking curiosity. What ticked behind their eyes? What rote mechanisms held them here, anchored them to this soggy little corner of the universe?

     A woman in gumboots dragged a reluctant Labrador past him. Bill smiled—perhaps too broadly—and said—perhaps too boldly—“Hello.”

     The woman startled slightly, gave a tight, obligatory nod—but the dog stopped cold. Its ears went back. Hackles lifted in a bristle. It gave a low, confused whine and backed away from him on stiff legs, the whites of its eyes glinting. 

     Bill’s grin deepened. Sensitive creatures, he thought—filing it away like a sugar cube in Ford’s pocket.

      He kept walking.

     The diner sat squat on Main Street, huddled beneath a flickering neon sign that buzzed like a bug zapper on its last leg. Grease-glossed windows blurred the inside into warm shapes. Inside: the dull clatter of dishes, the low drone of a jukebox trapped between eras.

      Bill adjusted Ford’s shoulders, rolled them once to settle the posture, then pushed open the door with the kind of casual weight Ford might use. The tin bell overhead tattled out a shrill little report.

        A few heads turned.

Bill walked slow, deliberate. He counted the seconds between each stride. He moved Ford’s legs with care, folding into the nearest booth with precise adjustments—calibrating the crook of one knee, the lean of one elbow, the angle of his spine against the vinyl backrest. He placed both hands on the table, palms down. Just so.

     A waitress appeared beside him in the next breath—apron smudged, cheeks ruddy. “Well I’ll be,” she said, with a surprised laugh. “Professor Pines. How are you?”

     Bill’s gaze dropped to the name tag: Susan. He thumbed through the catalog of Ford’s expressions and settled on something mild. He folded it over Ford’s face like a sheet. “Have we met?” he asked, tone dry, voice scraped just right.

     She tilted her head. “Sure—Reggie’s, a few months back… It was brief.” She said, then she chuckled. “You probably don’t remember—you were pretty stoned. Coffee?”

       “Yes,” Bill replied.

     She poured. The spout whistled a little as it filled the mug—Bill nodded his thanks. She lingered a beat longer, then turned at the sound of the bell behind them.

         “Well, speak of the devil—hey, shug!”

     The shift came a moment before the voice—like a change in barometric pressure. A subtle ripple in the molecules behind him. The smell arrived first: Patchouli. Dense. Herbal. Aggressively nostalgic. It rolled across Bill’s borrowed palate in blooming waves.

     “My, my…” said the voice—smooth as lacquer, low and amused. “Stanford Pines. Fancy seeing you out and upright.”

     Bill straightened. Ford’s spine realigned with a quiet pop. He flexed Ford’s jaw once, testing it for poise, then let a slow breath slip through Ford’s nose. The expression he turned over his shoulder was calm. Controlled. Precise. 

        “Reggie,” he said.

     A smile—small, deliberate—touched Ford’s borrowed mouth.

        “It’s a pleasure.”

     Reggie’s laugh unfurled—slow, oaky, touched with smoke—before he slid into the booth opposite, folding his fingers beneath his chin with a catlike ease.

  “Is it office hours?” he teased lightly, eyes sweeping upward—tracking the neat part in Ford’s hair, the pressed shirt, the way he sat straight-backed like something mounted for display. “It’s been too long.”

     Bill lifted the mug. Steam wreathed the lenses of Ford’s glasses. “I suppose it has.”

     “You suppose?” Reggie echoed, smiling with just a touch too much tooth. His hand slipped into a pocket, procuring a dainty pack of Virginia Slims. He held one between his teeth, then thumbed another before tilting the box toward Ford. 

     Ford was never one to turn down a cigarette—so, Bill accepted, reaching forward and plucking it out of the pack. Reggie lit his with the flick of a lighter, then passed it off—watching Ford do the same.

     Bill inhaled the delicate smoke—Reggie’s cigarettes were far more forgiving than Ford’s, minty, smooth—and Bill was frustrated by the fact he liked them.

    Reggie’s eyes flicked around the diner, feigning distraction—but it was a deliberate circuit, returning almost immediately. When they landed, they stayed. “I remember our last meeting fondly,” he said softly. “You let me ramble—had me thinking you’d bought every word... Then bounced before the check arrived.”

     “Bad habit,” Bill said, nudging Ford’s glasses up the bridge of his nose with one practiced finger. “I’ve got a lot of those.”

     Reggie’s eyes scanned Ford’s face. “You never stopped by for another visit.”

     The remark pricked. Something flared—territorial, proprietary—at the hint that Ford had been expected, wanted, waited for. That he had left a door open.

     “Busy season,” Bill replied, mouth curling around the rim of the cup as he drank.

     “I understand,” Reggie said. “These days no one has time. At least… not serious people—like you.” he said carefully, his arm slithering across the back of the booth. “People on the verge of changing the world…” He tilted his head, drawing the sentence out to its bleeding edge. “Or am I wrong?”

     A pause held between them. The ceiling lights hummed faintly above—then flickered, not enough to draw attention, but enough that the molecules shifted. Bill felt the catch: the tug of something real behind Reggie’s words, a twist in the frequency.

     Reggie leaned forward slightly. “You look tired, Professor.” The words lulled. “You should take it easy.”

     “There’s no gratification in things that come easily,” Bill replied, dry as chalk.

Reggie hummed. “Indulged by your own intellect—like a yuppie is indulged to a pocket full of marching powder.” he said, his grin widening. “You’re like a man possessed.” 

     Ford’s nostrils flared. But the gaze—Bill’s gaze—didn’t waver.

     Reggie leaned in, a subtle shift. Just enough to make the table feel smaller. “Sucked inside your own head. Floating through this little town like a ghost.” He grinned. “Though you’ve still managed to make a name for yourself.”

        “Oh?” Bill asked, teeth just behind the smile.

     “Reclusive. Brilliant. Impossible to approach.” Reggie ticked them off like vices. “Short-tempered. Maybe dangerous. There’s a rumor you laid out Buck Davis in the Dusk 2 Dawn parking lot last fall.”

     Bill tilted Ford’s head, squinting with mild disdain, then waved a hand. “I’m a victim of circumstance,”

     Reggie laughed, a burst of warmth against the tension. “I would expect nothing less from a Gemini.” He tapped the table. “I like it.”

     Bill didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. He didn’t like this performance. Acting like he knew Ford—he didn’t.

     The quiet pressed closer. Grease hissed on the diner griddle. The jukebox tripped into something torchy and faint. Reggie let the hush settle, let the air draw tight and warm—then folded forward, forearms on the Formica, voice pitched just low enough to be swallowed by the next booth’s background chatter.

        “Still seeing someone?”

     Bill’s lashes drifted half-mast—then lifted. “Every night.”

     A satisfied sound vibrated in Reggie’s throat. “Except tonight?” He worried his lower lip with one small bite. “Must be my good karma.”

     Bill set the mug down. Porcelain touched saucer with a clean, intimate sound. The smile that followed was sharp. Small but dazzling. Moonlight on a knife’s edge. “Or mine.”

     The overhead bulb flickered once, just enough to deepen the shadows at the edges of the booth—and both men, predator and unwitting interloper, leaned infinitesimally closer, as if the air itself had tightened the leash.

      Reggie’s cigarette glowed ember-bright as he dipped two fingers—deft, sure—into the inner fold of his jacket. Ash drifted like saffron dust while he drew a card from the silk lining—matte black, edges kissed with metallic sheen, lettering stamped in lunar silver. He laid it down between them with two ringed fingers—an elegant, theatrical gesture—and slid it forward half an inch.

     “In case you ever tire of your… current arrangement.”

     Bill let Ford’s hand drift down. His humb brushed the embossed letters—Reginald L. Carabali—followed by a short list in precise serifs: 

· Astrology · Chiromancy · Parapsychology · Discretion

     And beneath that: a single phone number. The kind that never appeared in a phone book. The kind you didn’t find. The kind that found you.

     A whimsy-résumé, novelty to most. But to Bill, it was unmistakably an invitation—one addressed to Ford, not the occupant.

     “Karma’s a curious ledger,” Bill murmured, letting the card slip from Ford’s fingers. It fluttered once—then settled on the table with a hush of contact. “It very rarely favors the impatient.”

    “No hurry, Professor. We have the whole night ahead of us.” Reggie crooned, tapping ash into a saucer, smoke coiling upward in lazy arabesques. Then he straightened, his fingers drumming once on the table’s surface. “How about something stronger than caffeine?”

     Bill tipped Ford’s head, considering. He echoed the offer in a single raised brow, a movement Ford had perfected for debate and rejection alike—

        “It is your birthday, after all.”

     The expression Bill held dropped from Ford’s face a fraction too fast. “How did you know that?” he asked, a chill slipping through Ford’s tone.

     Reggie didn't miss a beat. “Fiddy mentioned it a while back,” he said. “He had something planned, I think, but…” A slight shrug. “I guess duty calls.”

     He let the moment breathe—then added, smooth as rum, “Maybe that’s more of our good karma.” he said, his knuckles grazing Ford’s wrist.

     Bill felt the contact like a blade slipped beneath his skin. Possessive heat flared: he did not want Ford handled. Not like that. Not by him.

     He studied Reggie through the veil of Ford’s lashes: He certainly was attractive—that was undeniable. A devastatingly symmetrical face with high cheekbones. Dark, radiant skin, the kind that collected all the colors around him, making every hue his. That dense, curling smile tightly lined by a meticulously groomed pencil moustache. His hair—puffy coils illuminated at the edges by cafe lights—crowned his skull like an umber halo.

     Bill took all of it—the rings, the voice, that signature scent clinging to his deliberately casual denim jacket that lingered long after he left—as a threat.

  But it was that pause, that hitch in Ford’s breath—the unguarded flicker of tension—that gave the game away.

     “Come on, Professor.” Reggie coaxed. “Have a drink with me.” 

     He picked the card back up—twirled it once between his fingers—then leaned forward, slipping it into the breast pocket of Ford’s shirt with slow precision.

        A quiet, daring intimacy.

     “Don’t make me ask twice.”

     Bill’s pulse flickered under Reggie’s hand—one beat, hard and hot—then steadied. “Alright,” he said. “But you’ll have to keep up.”

        After that, things unspooled fast.

     Susan’s gave way to Murphy’s, then to El Rey’s Cantina, then to Zoots—One drink became two, then four, Each stop darker, louder, a little farther from the rust-rimmed city-line sign. The air grew thick with old smoke and bass, with sweat and neon and stories no one would remember in the morning.

     Bill let Ford’s body drift toward the deepest hole the woods had to offer, a dowsing rod for experience. Reggie matched him pour for pour, emptying tumblers with a showman’s flourish. Spirits—liquid or otherwise—posed no threat to him.

     Then the fourth stop: a windowless place Reggie described as a little out of orbit, where they could ‘be themselves’. Bill learned quickly: this meant the building was full of men unafraid to touch each other in public. Inside, everything pulsed violet. Low ceilings, higher heat. Bodies touched without flinch: hands on hips, fingertips under chins, laughter looping around chain smoke.

     Bill found the concept silly—the issue humans raised about sexuality. They crowned it king, yet weighed it down with rules and rituals. Fear dressed as etiquette. Fascination laced with shame—it was confusing. It was stupid.

     Although, it also came with a sense of exclusivity. A secret world only a brave slice of the population managed to see—and now that included him.

     He moved like liquid in Ford’s frame. On the floor they became orbitals: Reggie’s palm flattened over Ford’s ribs, heat moving through damp cotton. Bill let it linger, counted two, three, then set his fingertips against Reggie’s sternum—no shove, merely a teasing reset of distance. 

     Reggie only grinned, pupils blown wide in the strobing dark.

     Moments later they collided again in a slash of light: Ford’s curls slick with sweat, Reggie’s lips shining mezcal-sweet. Their faces hovered inches apart—two masks illuminated by the intermittent seizure of strobes.

     Reggie’s breath was hot against Ford’s cheek. “What is this little game you play, Professor?” he shouted over the beat. “Or are you really this hard to get?”

     Bill hooked one finger through a belt loop at Reggie’s hip and tugged him closer. Reggie gasped—hands landing on Ford’s shoulders, gripping tightly. Bill slid Ford’s palms down to Reggie’s waist—guiding his movements with ease, rolling him through the rhythm like tidewater pulling at driftwood.

     “I didn’t have you pegged for a dancer,” Reggie murmured breathlessly, nose brushing Ford’s jaw. “What else are you?”

     Ford’s canines flashed, made feral by strobe. He leaned until his teeth grazed the shell of Reggie’s ear, just as Reggie’s parted mouth found the throb in Ford’s throat, and he whispered:

              “A demon.”

        The syllables plunged through Reggie’s skin like a needle of ice. He froze.

     Then he pulled back just enough to see Ford’s eyes—strobe-flecked, dark, utterly unblinking. 

     Recognition flickered. Something in Reggie’s expression twisted—humor fading, replaced by something weightless. He stared.

     And Bill let him. He didn’t move, didn’t explain. Just stared back

     Music snarled around them, bodies jostled, lights strobed—but between them was a static hush, dense as snowfall, drowning everything out. 

     Finally Reggie’s throat worked around a swallow. His shoes scraped against the sticky floor as he stepped back—slowly, his eyes never leaving Ford’s face.

     Bill just tipped his head—almost courteous, allowing the medium safe passage.

     Reggie turned. The narrow corridor of the bar seemed to telescope before him—walls pulsing inward with each beat of the bass. The EXIT sign burned like a tiny red stitch at the far end, pulsing in time with his breath.

     He pushed forward, slipping through weaving dancers, all sweat and blur and blurting laughter. Someone knocked into his shoulder and apologized loudly—he didn’t answer. Didn’t hear. The air was thick with heat and synthetic fog and fear. 

     He reached the door. Laid a hand on the crash-bar—paused.

      Against instinct, against reason, he looked back. Ford was still there, exactly where he’d been left, motionless in a sea of bodies. 

     The dancers spun and reeled around him like leaves caught in a whirlpool, but he didn’t move. Not a finger. Not a breath. His hands hung loose at his sides, shoulders easy, relaxed. But his eyes—those eyes—gleamed over the rims of his glasses.

        And then he smiled—slow and unsettlingly wide and far too pleased.

     Reggie’s stomach flipped. He pushed through the door with a shove that rattled the frame and slipped into the night, leaving the door to clang shut behind him.

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