#but in the past year I feel like I’m gnawing on the bars of a too small kennel

[lesbiansanemi]

I need to Get Out of the Midwest. I think it’s draining me of all life and energy like some kind of regional soul-sucking vampire

[spookyserenades]

Trouvaille - Chapter Twelve

Pairing(s); BTS OT7 x Reader

Genre/Themes; Hybrid!AU, themes of the supernatural and the occult, religious themes, violence, hurt/comfort, horror, romance

Rated; 18+ for swearing, violence/gore, future sexual themes. Reader discretion is advised.

Word Count; 16.6k

Trouvaille Masterlist

Trouvaille playlist

Updates on the 7th of each month

Hi babes!! Welcome to the latest update (a crazy one!!) Lot's going on in this chapter, including a boatload of angst, a bit of fluff, some ~spice~, and lots of emotions. It is a pretty Yoongi-heavy chapter (nice) so for all my Yoongi stans-- this one is for you! I hope you all enjoy this update, and let me know what you think if you'd like, and I'm sending you all my love 💕

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Yoongi leaned against the grimy plaster that made up the back hallway of The Black Lodge, trying not to grimace as he felt the silky material of his button-down sticking to the years of smoke residue and alcohol fumes. The air was thick with wispy clouds of cigar and cigarette smoke, as it always was, and the strange, dark energy of the bar was still ever-present; but Yoongi wasn’t entirely focused on that, for once. 

He could really use a cigarette, himself. Yoongi quit smoking around the time his mother passed away– no, don’t think about it. Using his pointed incisors, he bit down on his lower lip enough to draw blood, the piercing pain chasing any thoughts of his mother from his mind, a coping mechanism he’d picked up over the past year. Refusing to cut his hair, abstaining from composing, gnawing his lips into shreds; anything to distract, or perhaps to punish, to forget. 

Time marched on, unfortunately. Mourning in an already mournful place was useless and made him feel like he was drowning in a pit of molten tar. Even clinging to hope, that one day he’d be able to manage breaking free and finding somewhere else to live, the hope grew dimmer by the day. 

The frown on the leopard hybrid’s face deepened as the sound of someone retching in the men’s bathroom he was standing across from reached his sensitive ears. Sometimes, he wished he could stick pencils in the spotted appendages– he’d take normal, dim human hearing from his other set over some of the shit he had managed to overhear with hybrid ears during his nearly 28 years of life. Absently, he reached up to fiddle with one of the earrings dangling from his lobe– the silver, pointed shape of a feathered wing gliding between the pads of his forefinger and thumb. 

His frown turned into the faintest ghost of a smile, that vicious and searing sensation of growing hope knocking the wind out of him as he caught the scent of jasmine– mingling with sharp botanicals, a saccharine underlying sweetness, and something uniquely human. He straightened up immediately, the door of the women’s bathroom creaking open and a great gust of that delicious scent smacking him square in the face. 

“I-? I what?” Y/N squeaked, not only unable to recover from the tender kisses Yoongi had showered over her wrist and hand, but the words that had come out of his mouth immediately after he pulled away from her slightly. “Y-yoongi. We kissed? I asked you to kiss me?”

Yoongi was now rather quiet, slowly moving away from her and staring out his window, his face somewhat closed off now that he had revealed what Y/N knew he was leaving out of the whole story of their first meeting. His tail was curling around his own waist mindlessly, and Y/N was cold and reeling with the absence of his body heat that was once accelerating her heartbeat into a gallop. 

It seemed that Yoongi was giving Y/N a few moments to process everything he confessed, a poorly-constructed imaginary wall in between them as she babbled nonsensically. 

��I’m? I don’t even know what to say. I never get that drunk, enough to ask for a kiss from a total stranger,” Y/N blurted out something that actually made sense after a few moments of stuttering, however, the statement that left her lips had Yoongi hissing and a flash of hurt sparking up his feline hazel gaze. Abruptly, Y/N wished she could collect her words from the air and stuff them back into her mouth. “I’m so, so sorry, Yoongi… I shouldn’t have forced you into a corner like that.”

Yoongi was astonished, his tail beginning to flick back and forth so sharply Y/N knew that he was very agitated. Deciding to shut up before she offended the leopard hybrid any more than she clearly already had, Y/N began to approach Yoongi at snail’s pace to prevent him from flinching away. 

“When did I say that you had forced me into a corner, Y/N? Are you serious right now?” Yoongi used her name for the first time in what felt like months, taking her off guard and making her swallow thickly. His voice was soft, but had a deadly edge to it, and the way his jaw was clenched had shivers rolling down her spine– Yoongi actually looked like the predatory leopard he was. 

“I was just saying, um, like I feel bad that I threw myself at you like that,” Y/N wished she could rewind time and relive the tender moment they had right before the bombshell was dropped, but that tenderness seemed to be leagues out of her grasp. 

“You did nothing of the sort. I told you, we talked for almost two hours. We were hardly strangers by the time I kissed you, by the way,” Yoongi crossed his arms over his chest, staring down at Y/N with a dangerous look in his eyes. It made Y/N want to back up and shrivel beneath his gaze, but she knew that Yoongi would never hurt her, so she stood her ground, albeit shakily. “I liked you, Y/N. I wanted to kiss you.”

“L-liked?” Y/N couldn’t help but emphasize the end of the word, the past tense, where Yoongi had implied that his affection for her had disappeared over the course of the year. 

After all, she made him wait, got his hopes up, and was now implying herself that he was nothing but a drunken mistake. Heart plummeting into her stomach, she watched Yoongi’s nose twitch, likely picking up on her anxiety and rising stress levels, the stoniness of his features loosening up a tad. The air was charged, tense, and Y/N wasn’t sure who would cut it first, and where the complicated conversation was going. 

“Y/N–” Yoongi took a step forward, his hand raised as if to place it on her cheek, before the sound of his bedroom door being blasted open cut him off with a surprised grunt, blood draining from his face. 

“HEY, YOONGI. WHAT TIME IS DINNER?” Hoseok jogged into the room shouting, loud rap music coming out of the earpods he was wearing, his breathing labored. 

The fox hybrid must have just come back from a run, and nothing on his face indicating he had a flying fucking clue what Y/N and Yoongi were talking about– he didn’t even seem to notice the tension swirling around the room, Y/N’s stricken expression, or the fact that she was just standing in the middle of Yoongi’s bedroom. Urgently, Yoongi put space between her and himself, dropping back into his composed attitude, like nothing had occurred at all. 

Ambling forward calmly, Yoongi yanked one of Hoseok’s earpods out, Hoseok grinning at him cheekily and switching off the music on his phone. Still standing in the center of the room motionless, Y/N gawked at Yoongi’s flawless attempt to appear normal and nonchalant. 

“Foxy, you trying to blow out your eardrums?” Yoongi grumbled, frowning deeply when Hoseok plopped down on the leopard hybrid’s bed. “Dude, you’re fucking soaked. Get off my bed.”

Hoseok did nothing of the sort, simply repeating his question about dinner, flicking his sweaty bangs off of his forehead with a smirk and leaning back on Yoongi’s cushy beige comforter smugly. 

“I don’t know when dinner will be ready. I was going to make something carb-heavy because I have a game tomorrow night. There’s pasta dough in the fridge…” Yoongi began tying up his hair with a purple scrunchie Y/N had got for him at work, the sight of him both using it and the fact that he didn’t let her put up his hair for the first time in weeks, making her chest squeeze in pain. “Can you help roll out the pasta for the machine, Foxy? I think Y/N mentioned she wanted to shower before dinner, which honestly you should be doing instead of perspiring all over my bed.”

Y/N hadn’t mentioned taking a shower before dinner at all, and she didn’t know if Yoongi wanted space from her and didn’t want to come out and say it, but the lie stung nonetheless. 

“Ah, I’ll shower before bed. Especially if I’m going to be covered in sweat and flour,” Hoseok heaved himself off of Yoongi’s bed, following Yoongi to the door and out into the hall. 

Willing her legs to move, Y/N felt her throat grow thick, confused and left out in the cold. Swiftly, she made her way into her bedroom once she was confident Hoseok and Yoongi were in the kitchen, hastily getting right into the shower so she could put off a crying session. Having red eyes and a swollen face at dinner wasn’t appealing to her, and would attract way too many questions. 

There was a lot for her to think about surrounding the state of her and Yoongi’s relationship now, but Y/N knew if she dwelled on it for too long, her attempt to keep tears at bay would be spoiled. She would give anything to pull the memory of her night at The Black Lodge with Yoongi out of the deep corners of her mind; to relive it, to understand her thought process and how her brain absorbed it. Her body felt weakened after the intensity of what she had learned, head pounding and legs like jelly, and she wasn’t sure if she could make it through dinner acting like everything was okay when she really just wanted to burrow into her bed for the next three weeks. 

Y/N took her sweet time massaging her jasmine lotion into her skin, selecting a warm set of pajamas, and even tidying up some clutter around her room to make sure she was only in the kitchen long enough to choke down some food before she could pull her cozy quilt over her head and sleep away all of her confusing thoughts. It would be damn near impossible for her to get out of the nightly movie routine she had created with all of the boys, and it was her turn to pick out the movie that night as well, but perhaps she could act like she was too exhausted to stay up past dinner. 

Taking Yoongi to his game the following day ought to be awkward. It wasn’t like they could exactly continue their conversation– the rest of the hybrids were going to tag along, so they could grab some dinner afterwards and have a nice Saturday night out on the town. In reality, she wasn’t sure she’d get more one-on-one time with Yoongi until their next piano lesson, if he kept dragging other hybrids into helping him with meals rather than her. 

Slapping moisturizer onto her face, Y/N stared at herself in the old silver mirror hanging over her sink vanity, miraculously appearing pretty normal despite the pure bewilderment she was still experiencing. There was barely detectable puffiness around her lash lines, probably from the effort of holding back frustrated tears in the shower, and she was fairly positive no one would even notice– that is, unless Taehyung got close up to her face, which was always a frequent occurrence. 

 Hoseok 🦊: dinner’s ready, darling~~~

Y/N’s phone chimed, a message and photo coming in from Hoseok. He sent her a selfie, flour dusted across his nose, holding up a plate of fettuccine alfredo, with broccoli and chicken, from the looks of it. Immediately, she saved the picture and added it as his contact photo, loving the little grin on his face– it replaced the former incredibly attractive photo of him post-track meet sweaty and smirking at the camera. Brightening upon seeing Hoseok’s good-natured, radiant smile, Y/N felt a whole lot better about heading out into the kitchen. Whatever was going on between her and Yoongi would eventually be sorted out and addressed, but it wasn’t fair to the others for her to hole up in her room and ignore their nightly routines.

Exiting her room, she headed straight to Namjoon’s half-open door, the crackly sound of his Walkman playing an old Bob Dylan tape filling his cozy space. The room was filled with lamplight, and Namjoon even had a stick of amber incense going on his desk, and she felt immense comfort in even just hanging out in the threshold of his door. However, the wolf hybrid wasn’t in either of his usual spots– the wooden desk chair or the cushy window seat. 

“Joonie?” Y/N called out softly, wondering if he had popped out to his van to retrieve a book or something. 

In response to the sound of his nickname being called, the door to Namjoon’s bathroom creaked open, a mumbled ‘hold on’ coming from him gruffly. Y/N took it upon herself to enter his room further; ever since his birthday, Namjoon really didn’t have a problem with her in his space, and often invited her into his room when he wanted her opinion on something. Typically, it was over a Tarot card meaning or her thoughts on a passage in a book he was reading; Y/N thought it was really sweet of him, and besides– she loved talking to Namjoon, he was insightful and overwhelmingly intelligent. 

Finally, the wolf hybrid emerged from his steamy bathroom, silvery hair towel-dried and ears similarly damp. It looked like he haphazardly threw on a wrinkly gray sleep shirt and sweatpants, Y/N realizing she must have caught him just out of the shower. The reality of that had her stomach flipping over, sheepishly cowering by his desk as he tossed his towel into the hamper and turned the volume down on his Walkman. 

“Is that tape one of the ones you got from the music store last time?” Y/N tried not to snort at the reediness of Bob Dylan’s croon, Namjoon meeting her at his desk and stubbing out the burning stick of incense. “I thought you only saved the ones that weren’t grating,” Y/N recalled Namjoon’s comment from that day, which seemed years ago, with a fond, teasing smile. 

Namjoon shook his head with a playful grimace, catching her gaze out of the corner of his eyes. He smelled really good, homey and masculine, and he was close enough for Y/N to try and pick out the top notes of his body wash: honey, musk, pine?

“Believe me. Dylan was one of the least grating of the bunch,” Namjoon responded, a dimple appearing on his cheek as the corner of his mouth curled up into a smirk. “Besides. ‘Visions Of Johanna’ is one of the most beautiful songs ever written. Lyrically speaking.”

“I’ll make sure to give it a listen, if that’s what you think,” Y/N automatically responded, already adding the song to a queue on her phone. Lately, she’d been getting really fantastic music recommendations from each hybrid, which was a lovely thing to share with them. It allowed her a tiny window into all of their different, complex personalities. “Dinner’s ready, by the way. Wanted to grab you before I headed to the kitchen.”

“I know. Yoongi texted all of us,” Namjoon reached down to ruffle Y/N’s hair, as if she was being silly for even telling him. 

“Oh, really?” Y/N squeaked quietly, following Namjoon around his bedroom like a lost puppy. He was tidying up, something Y/N noticed he tended to do before bed (otherwise, he’d be sleeping with encyclopedias and chess pieces). “Hoseok texted me…”

“Yeah, in the group chat,” Namjoon murmured distractedly, not minding that Y/N was hovering behind him like a phantom while he stacked loose pieces of parchment onto his nightstand, her eyebrows furrowing. “That’s usually how Yoongi lets us know food is ready.”

Y/N didn’t know how to respond. Apparently, all the hybrids had a group chat between one another, one that didn’t include her, and she didn’t quite know how to feel about that. She wasn’t even sure if Namjoon realized that he had revealed a secret– perhaps it wasn’t and she was just unobservant– but he sensed something was up when she was quiet, looking over his shoulder inquisitively. 

“What’s the matter? You look like I just stole candy from you,” Namjoon accused, though his eyes were soft and filled with concern. “Your eyes are a little puffy, too, have you been crying? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Namjoon, I’m okay. Just tired, is all,” Y/N didn’t even care if Namjoon could sniff out her lie, considering everything she had gone through that day. She didn’t have a shred of energy left to try and hide her emotions from her hybrids, and Namjoon usually wasn’t one to pry, so she prayed he’d take the hint. “Let’s go eat, okay?”

Before she could get too far, Namjoon caught a hold of her shoulders, two large palms settling over the joints and spinning her around so he could get a good look at her face. She was shaking, slightly, under his strong grip, eager to escape the scrutiny of those penetrating eyes of his. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but don’t lie to me. If you’re upset, at least don’t try to cover it all up,” Namjoon said firmly, leveling a stern look her way. 

“Joon, please…” Y/N used her hands to ease his off of her, resigned. “It’s nothing, just some stress. I’ll be fine after I get some sleep tonight.”

Namjoon looked unconvinced, some unknown emotion flashing through his eyes, Y/N squeezing his hands before releasing them. She swore she could hear low growling coming from deep within his chest, but he composed himself and lightly cleared his throat, jerking his head towards the hallway. 

“Okay, I’ll drop it,” Namjoon began heading out to the foyer, Y/N close behind. “Maybe you should read a book before bed to relax and get some good sleep. You’re really tense, I felt it in your shoulders. Have Yoongi make you some tea, too.”

Jolting at the mention of the very hybrid causing her rise in blood pressure, Y/N made a noncommittal noise. On the other hand, Namjoon’s kind consideration and concern for her well-being had butterflies coasting in her stomach. 

“You’re sweet, Joonie,” Y/N murmured, mirroring his earlier action by reaching up high to ruffle his still-damp starlight hair. “Pick out a book for me, please?”

Though he was in front of her leading the way to the kitchen, Y/N could see the very tips of his human ears turn red as he grunted out an embarrassed ‘okay’. Namjoon, she found out, was more of a softie than she originally understood. Besides, he always picked out excellent books she’s never read before, which was a bonus. 

The kitchen was warm and thick with the smell of roasted chicken and buttery, cheesy pasta, Y/N’s mouth watering against her will. Spite started to well up inside of her, surpassing her confusion and melancholy, and she desperately prayed to the sky that somehow Yoongi had screwed up the seasoning so she would have an excuse to not enjoy his food. Following Namjoon with a swish of his silvery tail, Y/N begrudgingly slunk further into the room. 

She caught sight of Taehyung first, seated at the breakfast nook by himself, adjusting settings on the camera strapped around his neck. His hair was wild and curly like he just washed it, a vibrant multicolored, vintage-looking sweater slipping over his wrists giving him sweater paws. Cooing, Y/N made a beeline for the Kodiak hybrid– trying with all her might to appear as unaffected as Yoongi took garlic bread out of the oven and shot the breeze with Jimin about the cold weather. Taehyung was a more than wonderful distraction.

“Hi, Tae,” Y/N scooched into the booth, having no trouble cozying up to his furnacelike side, his chest rumbling as he instinctively used one of his arms to hook around her shoulders and pull her closer. “Working on something for the next expo? It’s a week before Christmas, right?”

Smiling with his mouth closed, Taehyung let Y/N wiggle closer into his warmth, wordlessly passing his camera over and resting his nose in her hair as she took it gingerly. Being pressed up so closely against him, Y/N could feel his chest expand with the deep inhale he took, Y/N so used to him and Jimin taking a whiff of her hair daily that it didn’t even register as odd to her anymore. Turning on the camera’s display, Y/N flicked through a couple of Taehyung’s latest works, his editing more streamlined than ever before and each shot more creative than the next. The subjects were images of nature, primarily the backyard and around the neighborhood, but taken from unique angles and using natural light in interesting ways. 

“You’re getting so good at this, Tae. Pretty soon, you’ll have people asking to take wedding pictures for them!” Y/N passed his camera back to him, resisting the urge to totally curl into him or climb into his lap. He was just too cuddly. 

“Thank you,” Taehyung now offered her his toothy smile, wide and showing just how beautiful it made his face, conveying joy contrary to his ever-so-quiet voice. “I still need to work on taking portraits. That’s the assignment for next week…”

“Well it’s fortunate that you live with seven other people to practice on, huh?” Y/N teased, loving the flush that dusted his cheeks and tip of his nose. 

Their moment was interrupted by a black shadow, Y/N somewhat peeling herself off of Taehyung a tad to look up. It wasn’t a black shadow at all, however, it was just Jeongguk– dressed all in black, naturally, and with an enormous bowl of pasta and chicken in his hands. 

“How was your day, Jeongguk? The Tarantino movies you guys were watching… which one was your favorite?” Y/N reached across the table to poke the top of his hand with each word she was speaking to capture his attention, knowing that doing so usually irritated him enough to answer her questions. Since Halloween, though, he’d been much less easily perturbed, and usually regarded her attempts to agitate with amused midnight-black eyes. 

“Kill Bill. The first one, not the second. Pulp Fiction was good, but didn’t live up to all of that bullshit hype college kids drone on and on about,” Jeongguk playfully slapped her hand away from him so he could pick up a fork and start eating, a tiny wry grin pulling up the corners of his mouth. 

“I don’t think I really liked any of them,” a new voice joined the conversation, Seokjin filling up the last empty space in the booth beside Y/N, miraculously balancing three bowls of pasta on his forearm to deliver to Y/N and Taehyung. “Gory, lots of swearing and violence.”

“Grow some balls, Pink Panther,” Jeongguk rolled his eyes, Y/N finding it extremely difficult not to laugh– he was quick on his feet to come up with that nickname, since Seokjin was wearing his favorite ballet-pink hoodie. “Why am I surprised? You could barely make it through an episode of Tokyo Ghoul, and that’s fuckin’ animated blood.”

“Oh, leave him be, Jeongguk. Action or gore isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and that’s totally okay,” Y/N emphasized her point by using her slipper-clad foot to collide lightly with his shin under the booth, a free hand coming up to smooth over Seokjin’s back affectionately. “Also, it’s hard to take you seriously when you’re talking over a mouthful of half-chewed chicken.”

There was Seokjin’s squeaky-sounding laugh coming from her right, Jeongguk rolling his eyes again, taking a swig of whatever cocktail he had made for himself. Looking down at the food Yoongi made and Seokjin had brought to her, she felt her stomach turning. While it looked and smelled delicious, she didn’t want to give Yoongi the satisfaction of horking the whole plate down right away. Instead, she watched everyone in the booth tuck in promptly, Y/N glowering at her slab of garlic bread with feigned disinterest. 

“Not hungry?” Taehyung’s voice was in her ear, as always, low and indulgently rich. Concern lit up his eyes, his fork and knife paused mid-air as he studied the side of her face, even giving an animalistic sniff in her direction. 

“I had a big lunch,” Y/N admitted, even though that was a bit of a lie. She had been so nervous about her piano lesson with Yoongi earlier in the day, all she could choke down at lunchtime was a handful of baby carrots and hummus. 

Taehyung lifted a brow, definitely not buying the lie, but let it go without a word, mercifully. Y/N discovered that keeping her emotions under wraps from everybody while thoughts of Yoongi swirled around in her head constantly was more challenging than anything she had dealt with before. 

Yoongi’s words kept echoing like a pagan chant in her ears: ‘I know how you feel. About us, all of us’. Was Yoongi that keen, already able to intimately decipher her emotions and feelings through scent alone, or was she painfully obvious about her embarrassingly large crushes on each hybrid she adopted? Flames licked her cheeks, and she afforded a look past Seokjin’s wide shoulders to Yoongi sitting beside Jimin at the island, his back to her. Even now, Y/N could detect a whisper of tension threading through the lean muscles of his back through his shirt, and though she was puzzled– at best– by everything that went down between them in the last few hours, she was pleased to see how much he had filled out with muscle between consistent meals and his basketball practices. 

Sighing lightly, Y/N picked her way through her meal once tearing her eyes from Yoongi, not wanting to attract more attention by not eating dinner. Besides, her stomach was beginning to make embarrassing rumbling sounds, earning an annoyed side-eye from Namjoon across the room, pointedly using the tip of his nose to gesture towards her untouched plate. She resisted the split-second impulse to stick her tongue out at him, reconsidering upon remembering how intimidating Namjoon could be when teased. 

Throughout dinner, Y/N distracted herself from her thoughts and the lack of typical banter she’d have with Yoongi by cozying up to Seokjin and Taehyung; asking them about their preferences for birthday meals during fast-approaching December. Jeongguk asked her if she happened to celebrate Christmas– she replied yes; while her and her mother celebrated the pagan holiday of Yule, her father was more of a traditionalist and loved Christmas. 

“Yule lasts several days, and is made up of just some quiet rituals and whatnot– burning a Yule log, for example. But my dad adores all of the fun traditions of Christmas he had growing up, so he wanted to share that with me, too. We’d deck out the house in all of the lights, bake a thousand Christmas cookies, go out every year to pick out a tree… watch holiday movies in corny matching pajamas. My mom called it ‘Commercial Christmas’, but it was always really fun, and she was just poking fun at how silly my dad can get with it,” Y/N explained to the elk hybrid, him nodding along to her words while pushing broccoli around on his plate. “Oh! And there’s a Holiday Market in the city, too, if you guys are interested in checking that out next month. Food, decorations, music, all of that.”

It dawned on Y/N that her hybrids had likely never celebrated Christmas in the way she had in her youth. She had similar thoughts before, based on each of their strange, varied behaviors during the last three birthdays and Halloween, as well. It had her lower lip jutting out slightly, and she knew that perhaps the reason she worked so hard to make these events extra special in the past few months was because she was making up for their lost years of merriment and celebration of milestones. 

Dwelling on that, she totally zoned out at the breakfast nook, only coming to when Seokjin collected her near-empty plate from her, snapping back to reality when he stood and her hand slipped from the middle of his back, where she was absently rubbing circles into the cozy material of his hoodie. All the jaguar hybrid did was flash her a sweet smile, bringing the dishes to the sink with a purr. 

Shaking off her nerves, Y/N also rose from her seat, taking Taehyung with her so she’d have an excuse to cling to someone (and avoid Yoongi), by pulling him by the loose sleeve of his sweater, the Kodiak hybrid happily being hauled away from his camera and half-drunk glass of wine. Taehyung was one of the hybrids that didn’t drink as much as the others, or even Y/N herself, so sometimes a half of a glass of wine was all he needed for a pretty flush to color his cheeks and his tongue to loosen. 

“What are we watching tonight, Y/N? Nothing scary, I pray?” Y/N managed to scoop Jimin up in her grasp, as well, his expression filled with trepidation as she sandwiched herself between the two hybrids and dragged them into the parlor. 

The fire was roaring, and Taehyung broke free from her hold on his sweater to add another log to the tall flames in the fireplace– he was very serious about keeping it going strong until everyone headed off to bed, like it was an unspoken household duty he felt responsible for completely. Thankfully, he was quick to return to her, eager to claim one of the spots on either of her sides before anyone else could. As Ben had joked about over the phone with her, the hybrids did almost claw at each other in order to get a seat next to her on the couch, even Jeongguk, at that point. With Jimin and Taehyung being the ‘lucky’ ones that night, Y/N didn’t have to worry about sitting awkwardly inches away from Yoongi. 

“No, sweet pea, nothing scary. Just for you and Hoseok, though… on second thought, Seokjinnie, too. I’ll save the horror marathons for another time. I was thinking we could watch something funny?” 

Jimin’s shoulders relaxed downwards several inches, and his ears perked back up to their natural position as he handed her the remote, soothed that she wasn’t about to repeat her surprise showing of Suspiria from last month. Hoseok had to leave the room during the last few scenes of that one, in fact. 

Y/N scrolled through the options in her digital library, avoiding romcoms at all costs, landing on some random comedy with Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn. She needed something mindless, something that required not much critical thinking, so she could forget about the tangled cobwebs clogging up the cavity that once held her brain. 

The room slowly filled up with the rest of the hybrids, Hoseok tossing wrapped Klondike bars to everyone, Jeongguk taking up the recliner; Namjoon took his usual seat at Y/N’s feet, while Seokjin and Yoongi ended up sitting on the floor next to the couch. Yoongi minded his business, not even sending Y/N a glance as he sank to the floor with his glass of wine. Seokjin didn’t seem pleased that he was so far from Y/N, but knew that her rotating who she sat next to was in an effort to be fair– and he respected that. 

“I know how you feel. About us, all of us.”

“Ben, can you just listen before you say ‘I told you so’?” Y/N stirred cream into her coffee, her lower eyelid twitching when she tasted the concoction on her tongue. Somehow, ever since Yoongi started making her coffee for her each morning, she couldn’t seem to make her favorite ratio quite as precise as he did– even though she had been making it perfectly fine years before he took up the task for her. “I’ll let you say it all you want after I get some of this off my chest.”

Saturday morning, Y/N met up with Ben in the city at their favorite brunch spot on Newbury street, leaving all of her hybrids at home for a lazy morning by themselves. It was rare these days that she’d carve out time to go out with her human friends without at least one of the boys tagging along with her, but miraculously, she was able to break free for a few hours to catch up– or vent– with Ben. Ben cocked an eyebrow at her, taking a measured sip of his mimosa.

“I can do that, but first–” Ben reached into his briefcase, rummaging around within the depths of the leather bag, boldly pulling out a nip of Kahlua and swiftly dumping it into Y/N’s coffee. “You look like you’re one inconvenience away from a nervous breakdown. Happy Saturday, have a drink.”

“Thanks,” Y/N grimaced, sucking down the entirety of the scalding, now spiked, coffee in one go, Ben waving his hand as if to say ‘don’t mention it’. “Christ, I don’t even know where to start…”

Y/N had spent the night tossing and turning, even after the stupid movie she watched with the hybrids and a few shots of gin, waking up with dark circles under her eyes and two hours of sleep under her belt. In those two hours, she had dreams of red curtains, whiskey-scented whispers, piano, and hazel, feline eyes. 

“I think I have an idea of where this is going,” Ben broke the ice after several moments, once the waiter came by to take their brunch orders and bring another round of drinks. This time, Y/N got herself a mimosa, too. “Let me guess. You fell for one of them.”

Y/N felt her stomach drop, the Kahlua, coffee, and champagne churning in her gut as Ben stared at her expectantly. Ben was always quick to pick up on how Y/N felt, particularly when it had to do with her romantic life, but it wasn’t like she was around him enough these days for him to observe her around all of her hybrids… fell for one? She had to laugh, and the sound came out snorted and pathetic. 

“Oh, it’s worse than I thought. More than one? Taking cues from those reverse-harem animes you used to love in high school, huh?” Ben pressed, his nose scrunching up upon hearing the braying donkey laugh Y/N was trying to cover up by chugging her mimosa, a swig of it going down her windpipe. 

“Nnn–ugh! Fuck me, Ben. Lower your voice,” Y/N coughed into her cloth napkin, frantically glancing around the restaurant as if she was being surveilled.

“Relax, Y/N, they’re not even here. They can’t hear you all the way from the Haunted Mansion, even with hybrid ears. Get on with it, spill. You’ll feel better,” Ben pushed a hand through his coiffed red hair, sucking his teeth as he assessed Y/N’s frazzled appearance and erratic behavior. She must have looked like a nutcase. 

“I… Stop looking at me like that! If you’re so smart, you must have pieced together everything already, so why bother?” Y/N accused, but when Ben simply hardened his cerulean gaze, Y/N knew that he was encouraging her to talk through her feelings rather than squirreling them away until she exploded. “Fine. Yeah, okay. I have a crush on them, all of them, as a matter of fact, if that’s even humanly possible… and I know what you’re thinking, I’m batshit, I’m gross, and I’ve put myself in a horrible scenario.”

“Y/N, will you just take a breath, please? We’ve been friends for over a decade. Nothing you say to me is going to scare me off or make me ‘shame’ you Cersei-Game-of-Thrones-style. So, you’re attracted to all seven of them? I mean seriously, Y/N, I can’t blame you, and if you called Laura or Alice, they wouldn’t either. They’re all gorgeous,” Ben leaned back in his seat, both seriousness and amusement dancing across his features. 

Y/N wrestled the champagne bottle resting in the tableside bucket of ice up and out of the shards, pouring herself another glass and completely ignoring the orange juice pitcher nearby that would make her mimosa, well, a mimosa. 

“You know, Y/N… humans and hybrids can be in romantic relationships, and before you fly off of the handle, let me finish! Listen, I know, you know, and your hybrids know that you didn’t adopt them to use-and-abuse, obviously. You’ve always been a romantic, Y/N, it’s not like you can control how you feel, especially when it comes to love.”

Processing this, Y/N gawked at Ben, suddenly unable to come up with any kind of retort. Their waiter came by with their food, and the smell of Y/N’s French toast made her utterly nauseous as soon as it was placed in front of her. Grimacing, she pushed the plate to the side, Ben smirking over a bite of crispy bacon. 

“Love…” Y/N squeaked, the four-letter-word wheezing from her chest painfully, Ben having the nerve to roll his eyes. 

“You do love them, don’t you? Besides the fact that it's obvious to me, as your wonderful best friend, when you fall, you fall hard,” Ben nudged Y/N’s plate back in front of her, sticking a fork in her hand with mischief in his eyes. “It’s a different kind of love– but I love Daisy, she’s my daughter, and I can’t imagine my life without her anymore. That must be similar to how you feel, no?” 

For at least a month, Y/N kept herself in blissful, complete denial, trying to squash down her feelings as best she could in an effort to keep them from the hybrids. She didn’t know if she was fooling them, because she definitely wasn’t fooling Ben, who looked like he was trying to refrain from laughing. The more she thought about her recent behavior; stuttering, blushing, heart racing, constant cuddling, the more stupid she felt. 

“God, I’m a moron,” Y/N stuffed a piece of French toast into her dried-out mouth, the consistency like glue as she chewed. “They probably already know and are just too nice to reject me. Or they’re scared to.”

Ben didn’t say anything, just letting Y/N come to terms with the startling realization: she loved them. Seven different men, she was in love with seven, and the gravity of that realization was driving her to silent lunacy.

“Whatever scenario you’re coming up with in your head, stop it, you’ll start panicking,” Ben reached across the table to grasp Y/N’s hand lightly, his thumb smoothing over the back of it. “It’s kind of a scary, tricky… uh, delicate, subject, but how would you feel about maybe just talking to them about it instead of bottling things up? Even at the cookout in August, I could tell most of them cared about you quite deeply.”

“Can you imagine that conversation, Ben? ‘Hey guys, I know we’re in the middle of dinner and it’s not like you can get away from me after this, but I accidentally fell in love with all of you, so that’s why I’ve been walking around like a bumbling idiot’,” Y/N hissed, her face going hot just by visualizing that scene in her head. “Also, I haven’t even told you what happened yesterday, and if a confession to the seven of them went anything like what went down last night, I’d have to move to a rock out in the middle of the sea.”

 Motioning for her to explain, Y/N launched into the long, complicated report on her interaction with Yoongi post piano lesson, speaking in a hurried and hushed tone. Ben listened carefully, but Y/N chose to leave out some of the more supernatural aspects of her first meeting with Yoongi in The Black Lodge– Ben was a skeptic, at best, so she told him she had gotten too drunk and forgot about meeting Yoongi. By the time she had ended her story with how Yoongi seemed to be acting like nothing happened, Ben’s eyebrows were knitted and their breakfasts had long since been polished off and forgotten. 

“Uh…” Ben leaned back in his seat after he was stunned speechless for several moments, robotically passing his credit card to the waiter, his free hand coming up to rub his close-cut beard. “You weren’t bullshitting me with that text last night. That’s a lot to unpack.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. He pretty much revealed to me that he knows I’m crushing on them all, totally called me out on it. Even went as far as saying it wouldn’t be long before the others figure it out, too,” Y/N moaned miserably into her hands, covering her face exhaustedly. 

“Y/N… from what you told me,” Ben started gently, as if he was trying not to spook a nervous animal. “I think Yoongi likes you too. I mean, he waited for a year for you to remember him, he said he enjoyed talking to you, and honey– he kissed you. You shouldn’t take that bit lightly, either. Predator hybrids like Yoongi, specifically the big cats or canines, are extremely selective when it comes to choosing their romantic partners. To them, it’s like finding their mate.”

“I– no. If that was the case, he would have told me, I’m sure of it. You’ve seen him, right? Met him? He’s gorgeous, funny, caring, can cook like a dream and is a talented pianist; he could have anybody he wants, and I’m not exempt from that, and he knows it… so that’s my reasoning, I guess.”

“Why are you spewing nonsense? You’re starting to tick me off. You were never this full of self doubt in the past, especially over a man. You have to talk to him about this, sooner rather than later. Tell him how you feel, and don’t beat around the bush. And even though I’m almost positive that he likes you romantically, you two need to sort it out before the others catch on and it spirals into something even more tangled,” Ben, as they prepared to leave the restaurant, helped Y/N shrug into her coat, his hands on her shoulders as he gave her a necessary reality check– though his expression was sympathetic and full of concern. “I’ll help you out. I can borrow a couple of your guys on Monday to watch Daisy while I go into the office, and you see if you can somehow get Yoongi alone, okay?”

“Monday…” Y/N blanched, not prepared to throw caution to the wind and admit her feelings that soon. “I-I guess I can make that work. Seokjin and Joonie will be at the library with my mom for the book club, Tae at the rec center preparing for his next expo…”

“Alright. I’ll take the other three for babysitting– the cowboy, the grump, and Foxy, am I correct?” Ben attempted to lighten the mood, holding the restaurant door open for Y/N with a wry grin. “You can do this, Y/N. You’re a smart, beautiful young woman, and I know how much you love those boys. They all deserve to know how much you do– but start with Yoongi.”

Y/N made a noncommittal, grumbling noise, grinding her teeth as the bitter wind whipped through the streets of Boston. Autumn was nearly over, and the harsh winter was well on its way, Christmas decorations already beginning to pop up on certain storefronts. 

“If it goes to shit, I’m calling you. You know how I am with romantic confessions. Remember Liam in high school? I broke out in hives asking him to homecoming,” Y/N muttered, grabbing Ben’s hand and shoving their joined palms into his coat pocket, her best friend snickering at the memory. “Can we change the subject? I’m starting to feel itchy. You can still swing by Copley with me, right?”

“Yeah, I have some time. What are you going there for?” Ben steered her in a different direction than they were going, cutting through some side streets to get to the mall. 

“I’m picking up some things for Seokjin’s birthday, it’s coming up really soon. I found some cookware online I think he’d like, he’s been into culinary pursuits recently,” Y/N felt some of her anxiety dissipate as she thought about sweet Seokjin. He had pouted that morning when she left to meet Ben, and it was hard to pry him off of her as she was heading out the front door. 

“Oh! That reminds me. Has Sarah gotten in touch with you?” 

“She did, actually. We’re planning to meet at some point after the holidays, probably in January. I don’t know if I should tell Seokjin, or keep it a surprise for a little while…” Y/N bit her lip, recalling the pleasant email exchanges she had with the woman who had adopted Hannah. 

“With everything you’ve got going on right now, I think it’s alright to hold off on telling him until the plan is more concrete. Focus on the two birthdays you have coming up, Christmas, and sorting out the thing with Yoongi,” Ben shrugged, squeezing Y/N’s fingers as they ambled down the frosty sidewalk. 

“Shit. I have to order Christmas presents soon…” Y/N used her free hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, thanking the sky that she had that extra income from the boarded horses– gifts for seven hybrids and her other friends and family would certainly add up cost-wise. “I wish I had an assistant to keep track of everything I have to do.”

“Ah, you say that, but I haven’t seen you this happy in years, Y/N,” Ben countered, winking at her. “Even with all of the romantic drama, adopting those boys brought you back to life.”

“Stop being sappy, I’ll cry. Seriously, I will! They’re not around to fuss over me right now and I can do so freely, and that’s an opportunity I would take if you keep it up,” Y/N nudged Ben in the ribs, separating from him as they reached the revolving doors of Copley Place. 

Once in the toasty mall, she and Ben changed the direction of their conversation, Y/N feeling merry despite the looming task of confronting Yoongi in two day’s time. They made plans to have a holiday get-together at her house, with Roy and Daisy, and the Santos twins as well, all while piling items into a cart for Seokjin’s birthday. 

“Come on, sweets, won’t you do it for me?” Y/N was perched on the velvet bench at the foot of Jeongguk’s bed, attempting to convince him to go willingly to Ben’s for ‘babysitting’ early Monday afternoon. She tried to make her eyes as doelike as possible, Jeongguk chewing on his lip ring with his arms crossed, staring down at her. 

“That pouting doesn’t work on me. Go find literally anyone else in the house it does work on, Y/N,” Jeongguk tsked, pulling a few buttons loose on the creamy button-down he was wearing. 

“Okay, shithead. You want to be sassy today? Be my guest. Just saying though, Daisy has been asking for you. Ben says you’re one of her favorites,” Y/N bit back, just to see if guilting him was the way to go. Jeongguk simply shook his head, having the audacity to look amused by her outburst. She was already on edge, and his nonchalance and stubbornness did not make things better. “Maybe this will sweeten the pot. Ben said he was going to pay you guys.”

“Bribery, coercion, ass-kissing… you must really want me out of the house today,” Jeongguk drawled, turning away from Y/N as he used his floor-length mirror to clasp the necklace her mother gave him for his birthday around his neck. Through the thin material of his light-colored shirt, Y/N could faintly detect the black lines of the mystery tattoo on his back. 

“No, but it wouldn’t kill you, Jeongguk. Don’t you want to get out for a little bit? You, Hoseok, and Jimin can take Daisy to the playground in the Common, get some food, walk around…” Y/N refrained from flinching when the elk hybrid accurately called her out for shooing him out. 

“How the fuck can we go out without a human with us? Won’t the four of us get scooped up by agents and tossed back into Gerry’s shithole shelter? Besides, why does a four-year-old hybrid need three babysitters, aren’t Foxy and Blondie enough?” Jeongguk approached Y/N once more, using his thumb and forefinger to gently flick her forehead. 

“Ugh, you’re such a little shit,” Y/N rubbed the spot he flicked, even though it didn’t hurt at all. “I ordered you all ID’s, remember? They arrived this morning. If you get stopped, you show agents your ID, and it tells them that you’re adopted and can roam even without me being present. Daisy has one too, the version for children… She needed it for enrollment in her daycare.”

Jeongguk paused in contemplation, his eyes scanning her face thoughtfully as she squirmed on the bench under his scrutiny, one of his ears lazily twitching. It was a stare-down, Y/N needed to have that talk with Yoongi, and she wanted the conversation to be as private as possible, and Jeongguk seemed a touch suspicious. 

“You really want me to go babysit the bunny that badly?” Jeongguk narrowed his eyes, a spark of triumph lighting up inside of Y/N as she sensed him beginning to cave. 

“Yes, please! I’ll call in some baked ziti for you from Sal’s for dinner,” Y/N jumped to her feet, Jeongguk rolling his eyes and sticking his notebook into the pocket of his baggy black cargo pants. 

“Yeah, yeah. You’re only saying that because I’m doing you a favor, and you probably want pizza yourself, kiddo,” Jeongguk grunted as Y/N elbowed him in the ribs, scoffing at him indignantly. 

“I’m only like a year younger than you. ‘Kiddo’, really?” Y/N paused by his bedroom door, softening up once seeing the twinkle of merriment in Jeongguk’s dark eyes. 

Suddenly overwhelmed with affection for the elk hybrid, considering how much he had warmed up to her over the past few weeks, she leaned up on her tip-toes, lips brushing over his sharp cheekbone for a barely-there kiss while he froze to a complete stand-still. Pulling away as quickly as she could before he could say anything, she giggled at how round his eyes became before heading out to the hall. 

“Thanks for the favor, sweets. Ben will be here in 15 minutes to pick you and the other two up!” She called over her shoulder, hurrying away with the image of Jeongguk looking adorably stunned burned into her retinas. 

Bounding downstairs, Y/N managed to round up Jimin and Hoseok from the backyard, both of them more than willing to watch Daisy for a bit– the both of them practically doted on her. She handed out their new-and-shiny ID’s, Y/N smiling at the pictures on the cards. Staring at Jeongguk’s picture, with a serious expression on his face, she snorted at the way his antlers didn’t quite fit in the frame. 

“Tae did a nice job with all of your photos for these, huh?” Y/N gushed, brushing her fingertips over the tiny picture on Namjoon’s ID, which she’d have to give to him later. “Next time I get my license renewed, I want him to take my picture too, I always look washed out and horrendous in the ones taken at the DMV.”

“I doubt that, Y/N. You always look nice in pictures, even the ones Taehyung takes of you,” Jimin disagreed with her, grinning when she pinched his fleshy cheek bashfully. 

“Such a charmer, Jiminie. Aw, her heart’s racing,” Hoseok crooned, squeezing himself in between her and the coyote hybrid, a wicked smirk on his face as he patted his chest to mimic heartbeats.

Hissing, Y/N tried to step away from the teasing bastard, even more humiliated now, but Hoseok was far too quick for her to make a feeble human’s attempt at escape. Boldly, he grabbed her by the belt loops of her jeans, bending low to press one of his ears over her heart. Squeaking as she wiggled in his grasp, a few of his fingertips slipping into the waistband of her jeans to keep her in place, his skin burning hot with hybrid heat. 

“Hear that, Jiminie? It’s beating even faster now!” Hoseok continued gleefully, squeezing the flesh over her hip bones before he– mercifully– pulled away. “How cute, darling, you’re way too easy to flatter, and even easier to tease.”

“Hoseok,” Y/N used all of her strength to prevent herself from melting into the floorboards, not even noticing that Jimin’s shoulders were shaking with laughter and Jeongguk had crept into the foyer during the spectacle. “Stop fucking with me, the playing field isn’t even. I can’t hear your heartbeat, or smell your embarrassment, or whatever.”

“You could always try flattery, you have a knack for it,” Jeongguk leaned against the front door, seemingly recovered from the smooch she planted on his cheek only moments ago. 

“Brat,” Y/N sneered, though it was half hearted, and she was interrupted by a three-beat honk from outside. “Ooh, Ben’s here. Okay, I think you two have poked enough fun at me, get going. See you soon, sweetheart, have fun and be safe.”

Y/N murmured her last statement directly to Jimin, using a hand to shove Hoseok towards Jeongguk and out of the front door. Patting Jimin’s shoulder lightly, she leaned up to whisper into his ear. 

“You’re in charge, make sure those two don’t swear in front of Daisy, please,” though Y/N was whispering in Jimin’s ear, she was the one shivering with the proximity, intoxicating, dark lavender filling her senses and calming her steadily-climbing anxiety; it was almost time for her to look for Yoongi, who she hadn’t seen the entire day. 

“See you later, Y/N,” Jimin grinned like he knew something she didn’t, craning his neck sideways to press a kiss to one of her knuckles, her hand turning clammy as it slipped from his shoulder when he strolled out the front door. 

Y/N stood in the threshold of the door, watching the three hybrids get into Ben’s car, and stayed until Ben drove off down the street. The silence that followed their departure was eerie, Y/N wondering if Yoongi was taking a nap or was even in the house at all. Typically, during the early afternoon, the leopard hybrid would be messing around on the piano or reading a book in the parlor, but there was no music coming from upstairs and the heavily trafficked parlor was deserted and dark. Sighing, Y/N started to stack logs into the fireplace, knowing if Taehyung came home later and there was no fire, he’d be upset. She knew that she was stalling the inevitable, finding Yoongi and having the conversation she had been dreading for 48 hours, but she tried to summon courage to face him from the growing flames in the fireplace. 

Once she had mustered enough nerve, Y/N wandered through the house to find Yoongi. She searched every nook and cranny, every back hallway and hidden passageway, but clearly he wasn’t inside. Muttering under her breath, she dropped some clean laundry off in Namjoon’s room, pulling on the sherpa-lined jean jacket he had draped over his desk chair to prepare herself for traipsing around the yard. Inhaling Namjoon’s scent on the collar of his jacket, the oversized fabric swallowing her whole, she felt warmth fill her up with the notes of honey and Namjoon. 

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Y/N whimpered as soon as she opened the slider to the backyard, wrapping Namjoon’s coat more tightly around her torso. In the distance, horses were whinnying in the stable, and there were some creepy looking turkey vultures sitting in the naked oak tree next to the picnic table. “Where’s my angel…”

The sky was a gloomy gray, and Y/N wondered if snow was on the way with the way the frost-dusted grass was crunching under her feet. That quiet, still sensation just before a snowstorm was present, as well, which is why the echoing sound of a basketball striking asphalt made her jolt in surprise. Bingo. 

Weaving her way past the gate to the driveway and garage, Y/N let out a nervous breath, becoming a misty cloud of white in front of her. The turkey vultures in the oak tree started making their disturbing, guttural shrieks, sending a chill down her spine. Quickening her pace, butterflies started fluttering in her stomach as the basketball hoop came into view. 

Aware that Yoongi could both hear and smell her, she paused several feet away, eyes sweeping the area for the leopard hybrid. He was just there, she was sure of it, but he was nowhere in sight. 

“Yoongi? Where are you?” Y/N called, annoyed with the possibility that he was avoiding her on purpose. She knelt down, numb fingers grasping the acid-washed hoodie Yoongi must have tossed onto the ground, when a pair of sneakers appeared in her line of vision, she glanced up at the owner, swearing colorfully. 

Yoongi was staring down at her, basketball tucked under his arm, very sweaty and very much without a shirt. Mouth drying up, she felt a range of emotions flood through her; fluster, affection, happiness, concern, before finally landing on anger. 

“Oh my god, it’s like thirty degrees out here! Put this on,” Y/N impulsively threw his sweatshirt at him, hitting him square in the chest before it unceremoniously fell back onto the pavement. 

“I was too hot. Hybrid body heat, silly girl,” Yoongi replied simply, his old nickname for her making a comeback. Unfortunately for Y/N, paired with his damp, long hair and naked chest, it sent a bolt of arousal through her unexpectedly. Hopefully he couldn’t smell it. “What’s up? Where is everyone?”

Y/N read between the lines– that was Yoongi’s newest code for ‘find one of the others, I don’t want to talk to you’. Gritting her teeth, she managed to straighten up, forcing herself to look him in the eyes and not the dewy skin over his collarbones. 

“They’re all out. It’s just you and I, at the moment,” Y/N cleared her throat, getting a strong blast of vanilla-and-cloves as Yoongi passed a veiny hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “Please, for my sake, put on the sweatshirt. I don’t want you turning into a popsicle.”

“Nah,” Yoongi turned away from her, dribbling the ball and aiming to shoot it into the basket, his tail curling around his leg as it usually did when he’d play. “Why, don’t like what you see?”

Y/N’s eyes glazed over as she watched the muscles in his back move and flex, effortlessly sinking the ball into the basket and elegantly slinking to the hoop to retrieve the ball before it could bounce away. The pale skin of his chest was slightly flushed pink, making Y/N’s mouth water, and all at once she felt like a creep. 

“Cat’s got your tongue?” Yoongi drawled, his gravelly voice raising goosebumps on her flesh. Apparently, her hybrids felt like toying with her that day. 

Steeling herself, she approached Yoongi with determination, forgetting all about his sweatshirt, his expression growing curious and spotted ears flattening against his head at their proximity.

“Are you avoiding me again? We never finished our… conversation,” Y/N began, chickening out on professing her love right away, considering his lack of a shirt. 

“You reek like the wolf,” Yoongi dodged the question and subject entirely, moving like he was going to take another shot at the hoop. Before he could get far, Y/N reached out and yanked the basketball out of his hands, scowling. 

“We need to talk, Yoongi. You’ve hardly been able to stand in the same room as me longer than five minutes since that night,” Y/N averted her eyes from his face, finding it hard to look at him with all the emotions running through her. 

Yoongi sighed, the sound of it seemingly coming from the depths of his soul, scooping his sweatshirt off of the ground and shrugging it on. 

“Let’s go inside. Seokjin would die if he saw you out here without a hat,” Yoongi mumbled, resigned, and motioned for Y/N to follow him into the house. 

They were quiet, Y/N’s pulse thundering in her ears, positively dreading the conversation they were about to have. If Yoongi rejected her, she’d have to lock herself in her room to cry and  lick her wounds for hours, but if he didn’t… how on earth would she explain the situation between her and Yoongi to the others?

“So, what is there to ‘finish’ about our conversation?” Yoongi broke the silence as he followed her up to the music room– the most soundproof room in the house, lest someone come home early and interrupt them. Yoongi sounded bitter, like the words on his tongue tasted of grave dirt, Y/N wincing knowing that she was the cause of it. “I thought we wrapped it up already. What’s the use of beating a dead horse? We met before, you forgot, we kissed, now we’re here. End of story.”

“No, Yoongi, it’s not. I–” Y/N cut herself off, sinking down onto the couch with her head in her hands. “Let me apologize, first. I don’t want you to think that our kiss was a drunken mistake to me. I shouldn’t have insinuated that. I’m sorry, angel.”

Yoongi stiffened, at either her words or her nickname for him, she didn’t know. He remained standing in front of her, ears perked up and alert, hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie. 

“I’m sorry I can’t remember. Believe me, I want to, more than anything. I’ve been having dreams, though, flashes of a memory. Maybe it will return to me, in time,” Y/N peeked at Yoongi through her fingertips, nervously chewing on her lip. 

“Y/N–” 

“Please, just, can you hear me out for a minute?” Y/N interrupted whatever warning he was undoubtedly trying to dole out, desperate to get it over with before she lost her nerve. “Last time we talked about this, you said you knew how I felt, about you, about the others, but I changed the subject.”

Yoongi nodded, his eyes narrowing and arms crossing over his chest, waiting for her to continue. Taking a deep breath, Y/N dropped her hands from her face, finally making eye-contact with the leopard hybrid, who appeared to be taking in all of her micro reactions. 

“You were right, or are right, about my feelings. I’m only starting to, um, understand those feelings, but you noticed them before I even realized they were there,” Y/N fidgeted with her fingers in her lap, growing hot in the face. “I’m sorry for hiding it, and I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable.”

Met with silence, Y/N’s worst fear was coming to life; he was going to reject her, their relationship would be permanently damaged, and her heart was going to shatter. Yoongi simply stared at her with that sharp feline gaze, a muscle in his jaw working and his expression giving away nothing as two what he was thinking. 

“I don’t want to lie to you anymore, and it’s totally fine that you don’t feel the same way, but I need to tell you,” Y/N’s voice became shaky, heart feeling like it was going to explode, ready to careen off the edge of no return. “I love you, Yoongi.”

The world went still, not even the birds outside chirping, and Y/N wasn’t confident that she was breathing anymore. Without a word, Yoongi turned on his heel, plopped down on the bench and slid a hand over the weathered keys of the piano. Baffled and heartbroken, Y/N sat frozen on the couch, stiff as a board and head spinning. 

Before her vision could go black, Yoongi began to play. Eyes snapping open, she couldn’t help the gasp that ripped from her chest; Yoongi was playing the song he had composed, the one he previously wouldn’t perform for her even upon her countless requests to. Though his face was blank of emotion, his playing certainly wasn’t, and the song almost breathed air as his hands floated across the keys. It was one of the most beautiful songs she had ever heard, so much so that she wasn’t even aware that she was crying until she felt the hot tears tracking down her cheeks. 

It was over too soon, the final note ringing out solemnly, Yoongi standing from the bench and heading towards the door, his ears flat against his head again. He stopped, hand twitching over the doorknob when he heard Y/N sniffle pathetically, looking over his shoulder. Heart bursting into smithereens at the look of anguish on his face, Y/N wanted to rush over to him, but couldn’t bear looking at him any longer. 

“I wrote that the day after we met. The first thing I composed in years. I wrote it for you.”

With that, Yoongi left the room, Y/N feeling her tears run down her neck, listening to the sound of him closing the door to his bedroom and turning on the tap to his shower. 

“So Y/N, it wasn’t exactly a rejection,” Laura soothed through the phone, Y/N humming noncommittally. She was in her car in the driveway, several days later, Seokjin’s birthday, his birthday cake sitting on the passenger seat beside her. 

“I don’t know what the fuck it was. He’s been walking around the house like a fucking ghost for days now, I think I broke him,” Y/N ran a hand through her hair, not believing that she had to resort to taking phone calls in her car to avoid eavesdropping. “I set out to see if I could fix things, or tell him my feelings, but now everything is even more messed up. I don’t know what to do.”

“Give him time, honey. He shouldn’t be leaving you hanging like that, but maybe it’s a lot to process for him. Your hybrids have been through a lot, he probably wasn’t expecting you to confront him,” Laura theorized, making Y/N snort. She had just accepted that Yoongi had been weirded out and didn’t reciprocate her feelings, but she humored Laura anyway. 

“Yeah, I know. I’ll keep you updated, I guess,” Y/N replied airily, eyes landing on the pink buttercream frosting spelling out Seokjin’s name on his cake, a small smile spreading across her face despite everything. “I gotta run, Laura. Have to round everyone up for Seokjin’s brunch.”

“Keep me updated!” Laura exclaimed urgently, Y/N grunting in response, before hanging up and hauling herself outside. She moved Seokjin’s cake to the trunk where his gifts were, making room for him to sit next to her during the ride to the restaurant. 

Y/N: Time to go! Reservation is at noon <3

Hoseok 🦊: Jinnie looks so handsome on his birthday 🤧

Seokjinnie 🌸: -_-

Jimin 🦋: We’re coming!

Y/N: Can one of you please lock the door on the way out

Joonie 🐺: I got it.

Making sure the heat was cranked up in the cab for Seokjin, she watched the front door like a hawk, waiting for everyone to file out. They came out in pairs, first Jimin and Taehyung, then Hoseok and Seokjin. Last out was Jeongguk and Yoongi, followed by Namjoon diligently locking the door and even giving the handle a jiggle to ensure it was deadbolted. Feeling warm all over at the sight of them, all dressed up in their unique styles, Y/N grinned, even though her heart was still bleeding for Yoongi. She pushed that aside, for now, for Seokjin, determined to give him the best birthday ever. 

“It’s so cold! Fuckin’ Boston weather,” Hoseok whined, the first one to the car, sliding in the seat behind Y/N. “Would moving to Florida ever be an option?” 

“Hell no,” Y/N twisted her face up in disgust even thinking about swampy Florida summers. “We can visit someday, though. Go to Disney World or something.”

“Where are your gloves?” Seokjin climbed into the passenger seat, Namjoon begrudgingly giving up his designated spot for the birthday boy, pointedly narrowing his orange eyes at her bare hands on the steering wheel. 

“Oh, somewhere in the house. I don’t need them, we’re going from the car to the restaurant,” Y/N blushed when he took her hands in his, his thick lips puckering to blow warm air onto them. “Happy birthday, my Seokjinnie!”

“You’re old as fuck,” Jeongguk commented from the third row of seats, his hair slicked back with gel as Y/N glared at him in the rearview mirror. “30? Judas priest.”

“Have some respect for your elders, fuckface,” Hoseok defended Seokjin, a lazy smile on his face when Y/N turned around to back out of her spot in front of the house. 

“Please, stop swearing,” Jimin pinched the bridge of his nose delicately, making Y/N snort. 

She drove one-handed to the restaurant, one of them captured by Seokjin, who was doing the thing where he lightly traced his fingertips over her skin in endless patterns. He was purring, too, Y/N stealing glances of him every once in a while– Hoseok was right, he looked unbearably handsome. Shiny, wavy raven hair, a cozy plum-colored sweater, and his expression content and relaxed. 

When they arrived, Y/N had Namjoon and Taehyung help her bring in the cake and the gifts, never letting go of Seokjin’s hand once. She shouldn’t have noticed, but she did, that Yoongi was keeping a lot of space between them, sitting the furthest away from her at the table and silently reading the menu while everyone else chatted. If the other hybrids had noticed his odd behavior the past few days, they were very good at pretending they didn’t. 

Shaking her head, she put all of her attention on Seokjin, who still hadn’t released her hand. He wiggled in his seat happily, tail curling around her lower back, scooching his chair closer to Y/N. 

“What are you going to get?” Y/N leaned her cheek on Seokjin’s shoulder, reading his menu instead of her own. With a purr, Seokjin pointed out a few items, his teeth digging into his lower lip. “Ooh, that sounds yummy! Eggs benedict?”

They ended up ordering an obscene amount of food, Y/N passing on the mimosas so she could drive home uncompromised, but ordered a round for all of the hybrids. 

“So, how’s the book of the week so far?” Y/N asked Seokjin, who was taking a dainty sip of his mimosa. “A Christmas Carol, right?”

“Mm-hm. It’s a little early for Christmas stories in my opinion, though,” Seokjin cocked his head, a contemplative look on his face. “Have you been sleeping okay lately, Y/N?”

Seokjin was too kind to not point out the very obvious dark circles under her eyes, but she knew that was why he asked. Truthfully, she was lucky if she got three hours of sleep every night since she told Yoongi she loved him, but she couldn’t admit that to Seokjin. The last thing she wanted was to concern him on his birthday. 

“Yeah, I’ve just been having strange dreams that sometimes wake me up. I’m perfectly fine, though, honey,” Y/N attempted to soothe, Seokjin nodding and taking another swig of his mimosa. 

Thankfully, before he could pry, food arrived, and Y/N busied herself by stuffing her face so she didn’t have to talk. 

“This is the first time I’ve ever celebrated my birthday,” Seokjin admitted quietly, the food in front of him untouched as he seemingly soaked everything in. Chest squeezing, Y/N snaked an arm around his waist, pressing a kiss to his shoulder through his sweater. 

“Good thing you’ll have plenty more to celebrate each year, to make up for that,” she replied equally as soft, Seokjin’s eyes softening as he returned a kiss to her– his lips stamping affection on the crown of her head. 

Flushing, she caught Yoongi’s eyes across the table, that same blank look on his face from when he played the song for her days ago. Her song. Hurriedly looking back down at her food, she stuffed the emotion welling up inside her deep down. 

“Try this,” Seokjin interrupted her attempt to not wallow, a fork with a perfect bite of eggs benedict on it appearing in front of her face. 

Automatically, she opened her mouth like it was second nature; Seokjin often liked to feed her bites of his food like that, and she was never one to deny him. His lips twisted up into a smug smirk, using his free hand to cup her jaw like always, angling her face upwards so he could feed her the bite of his entree. She felt eyes on her from the whole table, but she couldn’t have cared less, locked in on the way Seokjin’s gaze was fixed on her mouth. 

“How is it?” Seokjin asked through his shit-eating grin, his touch vanishing but his tail still curled around her waist. 

“Mmm,” was all Y/N could articulate, swallowing slowly and unable to break free from his spell. 

“Spoiled,” Seokjin murmured, tutting. Heart falling to her ass, she gawked at his gorgeous side profile with utter disbelief, ears turning hot with humiliation and something else. 

“H-huh?” She squeaked, though the jaguar hybrid simply resumed eating, striking up a conversation with Hoseok a couple of seats down, still smirking. 

Reeling, Y/N managed to choke down the remainder of her meal, only snapping out of it when the waitresses came by with Seokjin’s cake, lit up with sparkler candles. Amazingly, Seokjin didn’t even flinch when the cake was placed in front of him, despite his usual aversion to things that were on fire or noisy, his cheeks rounding out as he read the top of his cake and blew out the candles. Hoseok sang a rather off-key version of “Happy Birthday” with the waitresses, and Y/N noticed that Taehyung had brought his camera with him, furiously taking pictures with flash of the entire event. 

“You got the lavender cake!” Seokjin exclaimed while Y/N was cutting a slice for him, pink frosting covering the pale purple sponge; a very Seokjin color scheme. 

“I did! You said you liked it a few months ago, I hope you still do,” Y/N pushed the plate in front of him, wondering if she should have a slice herself, considering how stuffed she was from all of the food Seokjin had just fed her. 

This time, Seokjin was the one blushing, mouth full of cake. Chuckling, she ruffled his hair, sliding plate after plate of cake down the table for each of the hybrids, astonished that they still had room in their tummies. 

“Okay, so what did you get Jinnie for his birthday? Did you snag him an audition on Masterchef?” Hoseok asked, frosting coating his lips. 

“Oh! Joonie, can you pass me those bags?” Y/N exclaimed, Namjoon getting up from his booth seat to deliver the three gifts at the head of the table, his damaged ear flickering when she called his name. 

Seokjin, who wasn’t quite as shy as he was when she first met him, accepted the first gift bag with pink ears despite all of his opening up. The whole table– apart from Yoongi, who excused himself to the bathroom minutes prior– watched Seokjin peer into the bag with rapt interest. 

The first gift was from her mother, a lovely vintage watch that Y/N had helped her pick out at a pawn shop recently. When she spotted it in the shop, it had Seokjin written all over it; elegant and classic, and went well with his polished wardrobe. Hoseok oohed and aahed, reaching across the table to strap it on Seokjin’s left wrist for him. Giggling, Y/N admired the way it looked on his slim wrist, leaning against his arm while he went for the other two gifts; several sweaters and shirts in various shades of pinks and neutrals, a pretty set of silver dangling earrings (Y/N noticed that he had two lobe piercings on his left ear, but didn’t have any earrings to put through them), and a set of brand-new Japanese knives. He loved every single gift, gushing over the knives in particular, but he had to slap Hoseok’s hand away when the fox hybrid attempted to put the earrings on Seokjin. 

Once the cake was eaten and plates were cleared away, Jeongguk and Namjoon both began to grow antsy, probably hoping to leave soon and get back to their routines. She handed her car keys to Taehyung beside her so he could pull the car around– he was the only one Y/N was confident that he knew how to drive, and Namjoon was known to speed– everyone following the Kodiak hybrid outside. Yoongi had long since returned from the bathroom, but once he saw that it was just Seokjin and Y/N waiting at the table to pay the bill, he too went out to the car. 

“Thank you, Y/N. Today was…” Seokjin trailed off, like he was at a loss for words. They were standing by the bar, waiting for his leftover cake to be boxed up, Seokjin straightening out Y/N’s coat and making sure it was clasped correctly. “Perfect.”

“My Seokjinnie,” Y/N cooed, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in chest. She felt him purring, his own arms coiling around her back, rubbing circles over her coat. “I have one more thing for you.”

Pulling away, she chuckled at the look of bewilderment lighting up his features, Y/N reaching into the pocket of her coat for an envelope, offering it to him with a wink. Carefully, Seokjin tore the envelope open, fishing out the two pieces of paper from within and turning them over. His eyes scanned the text, his pupils blowing out wide and mouth dropping open once he registered exactly what he was holding.

“A cooking class,” Seokjin breathed, cheeks turning bright pink. “At Eataly?”

“Yeah! I heard the classes there are awesome, and in that class you get to have wine pairings with whatever you cook, you learn about the regions in Italy where the dishes come from. You’ve been so into cooking lately, and I thought the class would be perfect for you, especially with the wine pairing aspect,” Y/N explained, Seokjin hanging on every word and reading the tickets over and over. “It’s in February. I got two tickets, so you can take whoever you like. Hoseok, Yoongi, Joonie, it’s your choice!”

Seokjin froze, a curious look in his eyes, tucking the tickets back into the envelope and reaching for Y/N’s hand again. 

“You don’t wanna come with me?” Seokjin squeezed her hand, a frown on his face for the first time that day. Blinking, Y/N made a noise of surprise. 

“Me? You want me to take the class with you?” Y/N asked stupidly, Seokjin furiously nodding and his ears perking up. 

“I don’t want to take it with anyone but you,” Seokjin confirmed resolutely, taking his cake box from a waitress ogling him without so much of a glance in her direction. Heart soaring upon hearing those words, Y/N couldn’t help but give him another tight hug. 

“Okay, I’ll go with you. Can’t wait,” Y/N agreed, mouth full of his felt coat. 

Seokjin just grinned brilliantly, leaving her embrace, tugging her towards the door, where her Land Cruiser was double-parked with the rest of the hybrids. 

“Let’s go home,” Seokjin held the door to the restaurant open for her, uttering the statement like it had great meaning to him. 

Even though she shouldn’t have, she let Taehyung drive home, Yoongi sitting beside him, while Y/N squeezed into the backseat between Namjoon and Seokjin. It was halfway back to the house when she realized Taehyung wasn’t using GPS; he knew where home was by memory, or perhaps by heart. 

“It’s just a piano lesson, just act natural, like nothing’s wrong,” Y/N glared at herself in her bathroom mirror, pinching her own cheeks to bring life back into her complexion. “Just act like you aren’t in love with the teacher.”

Groaning, Y/N switched off the bathroom light, feeling a touch ill. She had barely spoken more than a handful of words to Yoongi in over a week, nerves still too raw. Last week, she skipped her lesson, not even bringing it up to the leopard hybrid, and spent much of that Friday out in the stable with Jimin taking care of the animals. That week, however, she ironically decided to face the music and resume with the lessons, an attempt to grasp a sense of normalcy between her and Yoongi. 

Y/N paused before she left her bedroom, shooting her crumpled sheets a dirty look. Sleep still evaded her, and her dreams had been getting more and more vivid and taunting, the locked memory of her first meeting with Yoongi driving her insane even while unconscious. Growling, she left her room, taking a peek into Namjoon’s bedroom to find it empty, disappointment flooding through her. He must have been in his trailer, where he and Jeongguk had been hanging out recently like a pair of Ghostbusters.

She could hear a movie going on in the parlor, but she didn’t stop by to see what was on or who was watching, not wanting to drag her feet any longer. Y/N knew that Yoongi wasn’t there; he spent most of his time those days in the music room with the doors shut. Poor Taehyung couldn’t even use the record player all week. 

Crawling up the stairs, once she reached the room at the end of the hall, she knocked on the closed doors. Of course, he knew that it was her, but there was still a chance that he wouldn’t open up. As the door opened, her heart throbbed at the sight of him– similarly tired looking, just like her. Yoongi stepped aside, letting her into the room, before promptly shutting the both of them into the silent room. 

The room was a mess, sheet music strewn everywhere, a throw blanket tossed messily over the loveseat, several dirty mugs on the coffee table. She half-turned, too grief-stricken to face him fully, she gestured around the room. 

“Have you been sleeping in here?” Y/N managed, picking a crumpled piece of sheet music off of the ground, instantly recognizing the writing on the paper to be in Yoongi’s hand. Yoongi ran a hand over his face, his clothing all wrinkled and pen ink covering his fingers. “Um, I guess as long as it’s comfortable…”

“What do you want?” Yoongi asked softly, Y/N flinching at the question like she was burned with a fire poker. 

“I just wanted to ask… If we could have a lesson? If you still want to teach me? I understand if you don’t,” Y/N felt her throat grow sore from trying to keep down tears, feeling like a giant crybaby. 

Yoongi grunted, trudging over to the piano, pushing sheet music off of the bench and sitting down. 

“Come,” Yoongi patted the bench, avoiding her eyes, tail wrapping around his waist snugly. 

Y/N’s legs moved on their own accord, perching on the edge of the bench as far away from him as she could accomplish, not wanting to make him uncomfortable by touching him. Scanning the sheet music in front of her, already able to read it pretty well thanks to his vigorous teaching style, she heard the notes in her head as her eyes roamed over the notes. 

“Is this…?” Y/N timidly pointed to the paper, unable to look at him whatsoever. This was a terrible mistake. 

“It’s your song,” Yoongi gruffly admitted, his voice coming out strained. “I can teach you.”

Nodding, she was surprised she was able to keep the waterworks at bay, Yoongi launching into his lesson patiently. Y/N was leagues better and playing than she was months ago, so Yoongi hardly had to correct her or fix her hand placements, but the air in the room was suffocating her. Being so close to him, so close yet emotionally miles apart, had the queasy feeling in her gut growing by the second. 

She made it halfway through the song, but the more complicated section of the piece was starting to trip her up. Fumbling through the same measure four times in a row, she huffed in annoyance, considering throwing in the towel for the night. 

“No, try again. Like this,” Yoongi snapped her out of her self-criticism, gently rearranging her fingers on the keys to form the correct chord, the contact shocking her so much that she yelped, her vision going black immediately. 

“Give me your number,” the girl– Y/N– demanded, apparently trying to sound confident, but her alcohol-flushed cheeks were countering her desire to seem intimidating. 

Yoongi chuckled, for what felt like the first time in years, watching the girl stick out her arm and using her free hand to dig around in her purse for something. With a triumphant grin, she produced a pen from her bag, shoving it in Yoongi’s palm. 

“Give me your number, Yoongi,” Y/N repeated, waving her bare forearm in his face. 

“Silly girl. Why don’t I just put it in your contacts?” Yoongi teased, though he was secretly delighted that she wanted to keep in touch with him. He prayed that you’d be the one to remember. 

“My phone died,” Y/N pouted– oh, she didn’t know how irresistible she was. “Just write it on my arm, I’ll plug it in to my phone tomorrow, I swear.”

She didn’t know that promises, when it came to The Black Lodge, often disappeared into thin air. She didn’t know that there was a strong possibility that come morning, she’d forget she was even at a bar, that she met him. He shook his head, as if to clear the thoughts from it, reaching out to hold her wrist steady, uncapping the pen with his teeth. Yoongi could tell she was holding her breath, her heart rate picking up as he copied his cell phone number onto her smooth flesh. 

“What time is it? I have work in the morning…” Y/N looked regretful, like she couldn’t bear to leave the bar. It pulled at his heartstrings, embarrassingly enough. 

“Midnight,” Yoongi checked his watch before looking back at her face, trying to memorize every inch of it. “You should probably get going. I’ll call you a cab.”

Yoongi let Y/N cling to his arm, a little unstable on her heels, walking her to the back entrance of the bar. He felt the ache of having to say goodbye to the first person who made him feel like a real person in years, but there was nothing he could do– it’s not like he could lock her away in his apartment upstairs just so he could have someone to come home to. Breathing in deeply, he knew that he’d miss her scent as soon as she’d get in the cab and drive away. 

Leaning by the door, watching for the cab out of the window, Yoongi tried to appear nonchalant, but he was truthfully shaken. Y/N was talking about a concert that she wanted to go to with him the following week, an indie band he never heard of. If you remembered him the next day, there was a possibility he’d have actual plans with someone. Someone interested in getting to know him. 

“Hey Yoongi?” Y/N brought him out of his reverie, frowning as he spotted her cab waiting outside. 

“What’s that, silly girl?” 

“Can you kiss me?” She asked quietly, Yoongi positive that only a hybrid could hear her with how low she spoke. “Please?”

Stunned, Yoongi swallowed thickly, forgetting all about the cabbie waiting outside and honking furiously. She looked shy, and judging by her scent, she was anxious. Stepping closer, Yoongi’s body moved on its own, his hands slightly shaking as they reached to cup her delicate jaw. Y/N sucked in a breath, gaze dropping to his mouth, before her pretty eyes fluttered shut. Stooping, Yoongi shut his own eyes, his lips finding purchase on hers, her sweet sigh being swallowed up by him willingly. She gripped his wrists, still cradling her face, her teeth nipping lightly at his lower lip. Y/N pulled away all too soon, looking dazed, Yoongi equally as breathless. She reached up, flicking the angel wing earring dangling from his ear, giggling. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow, angel.” 

With that, she disappeared into the night, and the call never came.

“Y/N? Y/N, sweetheart, are you okay? What happened?” Yoongi, his voice somehow far away but definitely panicked, drew her out of whatever vision had taken over her body. She could feel herself being held, propped up against a heaving chest, a trembling hand cupping her cheek. “Y/N, please baby, open your eyes!”

Wheezing, Y/N could feel consciousness coming back to her piece by piece, the crack in Yoongi’s voice devastating her. Peeling her eyes open, she was met with Yoongi staring back at her, mortification and fear all over his face, ears pressed so flat to his skull she almost couldn’t see them. 

“What happened?” Y/N echoed Yoongi’s question back to him, her own voice scratchy. Yoongi, despite himself, pushed hair out of Y/N’s face, his whole body coiled with stress. 

“I don’t know. You passed out for a few seconds, but you s-sounded like you were having a terrible dream,” Yoongi’s voice cracked again, still holding her close to his chest. 

“I– it wasn’t terrible, it wasn’t a dream. I think,” Y/N spoke slowly, like her mouth was full of molasses. “I think it was a vision, like the ones my mom has.”

Y/N felt sapped of energy, entirely sagging into Yoongi’s embrace, forgetting all about how estranged they had been for weeks. When he put his hand over her’s, she got the vision. 

“What did you see, sweetheart?” Yoongi seemed to calm down a bit, though still held onto her like she was going to dissolve into smoke. 

“The bar, you and me. But from your perspective. Our kiss,” Y/N whispered, trying to replay the vision in her head over and over again, trying to remember how Yoongi’s lips felt on her. 

“You– you remembered?” Yoongi exclaimed, color flooding his cheeks. “Wait, what do you mean, from my perspective?”

“Like I was seeing it from your eyes,” Y/N explained tiredly, slumping further into his arms. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you the next day, angel.”

Yoongi went ramrod straight, a hiss coming from the back of his throat as he maneuvered Y/N upright by her upper arms so he could look into her eyes. 

“You need to stop apologizing to me,” Yoongi breathed, his eyebrows pulling together, pained. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Can’t do what?” Y/N’s voice broke, moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes. 

“How many times am I going to make you cry?” Yoongi used a thumb to brush away the tears under her eyes, his anguished expression becoming even more pronounced. 

“I-I get that you don’t like me like that, Yoongi, b-but–”

“Y/N, I love you. I think I fell in love with you a year ago,” Yoongi confessed desperately, his other hand coming up to cup the side of her face. “As cheesy as that is. I love you, and it’s killing me.”

The world stopped, her heart stopped, and everything around her ceased to exist except for Yoongi. Tears drying up as if by command, Y/N searched for any sign of deception on his face or hidden in his body language, but came up with nothing. 

“You love me, too?” Y/N whimpered, heart aching from something else now. 

Yoongi leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, his eyes falling shut as he exhaled shakily. She twisted her fists into the fabric of his tee shirt, craving his warmth, savoring how close he was. 

“So fucking much,” Yoongi confirmed, voice above a whisper. “I love you so fucking much, baby.”

“Yoongi…” Y/N breathed, heart about to beat out of her chest. “Love you…”

With a purr rounding out into a growl, Yoongi moved one of his hands to the small of Y/N’s waist, dragging her closer to him. Inches away, danger, but also tenderness, filled his hazel eyes. He was beautiful. 

“Kiss me,” Yoongi’s barely audible request sent fireworks off in her gut, his eyes shutting again as he nudged his nose against hers. “Please.”

How could she possibly deny him, her Yoongi, her love, when he asked her so sweetly?

Pulse racing, Y/N released her hold on his shirt, tucking a long strand of jet black hair behind his ear, humming when he shuddered, placing her hand on the side of his neck, his own pulse thrumming as fast as hers was. 

“Please, baby,” Yoongi repeated, the pet name making her stomach flip. Without any more hesitation, Y/N leaned up, perfectly slotting her lips against Yoongi’s, gentle, slow, and impossibly sweet. 

His lips, full and soft, were yielding against hers, letting her take the lead, his hands remaining still– one holding her face, the other on her waist. Locking lips for several moments, innocent and so full of love, Y/N drew away, winded and over the moon. Yoongi stayed close, eyes lidded and breathing labored, before he spoke again. 

“More. Kiss me more.”

Yoongi pulled her into his lap, his tail curling around her waist, one arm around her back and the other traveling down to the outside of her thigh. Y/N, growing shy, gave him a simple peck, face on fire. She never imagined that this was how her night was going to go, but she couldn’t even remember when they weren’t like this before. Not satisfied with the measly peck she planted on the corner of his mouth, Yoongi chased after her, gripping her jaw tightly and descending his lips on her once more, Y/N gasping in surprise. Yoongi took that opportunity to slide his tongue into her mouth, swallowing the startled moan she made hungrily, the tip of his tongue flicking against the roof of her mouth. 

Melting in his grip, Y/N kissed him back with renewed vigor, a hand moving to tangle in his silky hair, pleased that he took over the kiss, lungs screaming for air as Yoongi sucked on her lower lip with a purr. As if sensing that she needed to catch her breath, Yoongi released her lip with a pop, his mouth peppering kisses along her sensitive jaw voraciously, hand on her thigh rubbing up and down. Sighing blissfully, Y/N’s head tilted back when his lips trailed to her neck, mouth wet and kisses searing her flesh.

“Fuck, you smell so good,” Yoongi groaned into her neck, lightly sucking on a spot behind her ear that had her mewling. “Let me mark you…”

Words failing her, Y/N nodded desperately, eager to feel his teeth sink into her flesh. Chuckling darkly, Yoongi started muttering sweet nothings, dragging his tongue up the length of her throat. The hand on her thigh moved again, this time to grab a loose hold of the base of her neck, Y/N’s eyes rolling back into her skull with the weight of his palm in such a vulnerable spot. 

“Hold onto me, my love,” Yoongi murmured in her ear, Y/N obediently tightening her grip around Yoongi’s waist, whining at the sensation of his teeth tracing the vein fluttering with her erratic pulse making her see stars behind her eyelids. 

With one more open-mouthed kiss to her throat, Yoongi bit down, Y/N crying out his name, never feeling more alive than in that moment, in his arms, teeth in her neck. Tail protectively curling even tighter around her waist, Yoongi’s purrs were growing so loud, he sounded more predatory than ever. She didn’t know if it was the fact that he loved her, that he was kissing her, or the the side effects of scenting, but Y/N swore her soul ascended as he removed his teeth from the mark, a sensual swipe of his tongue sweeping over the wound to cauterize it. 

Growing entirely limp in his arms, Y/N barely had the energy to kiss him back when his lips returned to hers, whimpering at the tangy taste of her own blood on his tongue. And then, all at once, his lips were gone. 

“I don’t want to get carried away, sweetheart,” Yoongi’s voice was strained, planting a chaste kiss on her forehead with a hum.

“What if I do?” Y/N countered dopily, her head full of cotton and Yoongi. Yoongi barked out a hearty laugh, unable to help himself by pecking her lips once more, smoothing her hair into place. She probably looked like she got attacked.

“Not tonight, love,” Yoongi helped her stand, snickering at her whining protests. “Let’s take it slow, hmm? You need to get some rest, proper rest. So do I.”

“I guess you’re right,” Y/N admitted begrudgingly, though she wanted nothing more than Yoongi kissing her senseless all night, her body was sagging with exhaustion. “Your edginess has been keeping me up for nights on end.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” Yoongi apologized sincerely, his ears flattening against his skull again. Before he opened up the soundproofed door, he stopped, lifting her hand to his lips to brush a kiss over her knuckles. “I love you.”

Realizing, until they figured out how to tell the others, they’d have to keep their affections to themselves, Y/N pouted even further. Now that she had a taste of him, she was insatiable. 

“I love you, too, angel.”

Silently, Yoongi walked Y/N to her bedroom, stealing one last kiss after making sure the hallway was clear, Y/N floating on air as she sunk onto her bed, Yoongi shutting the door and leaving her to relive everything that happened mentally. 

On her nightstand, where she had left it, her phone chimed, making her flinch and swear. Blindly reaching for it, still a little hazy from the scenting and makeout session, she unlocked her phone, only to feel dread wash over her as she read the text that she received.

Hoseok 🦊: What the hell is going on with you and Yoongi? 

Taglist; @blancflms @grazysf @sbromp @jaxavance @sunderlight @ot7nem @mageprincess7 @wittyreader @drenix004 @mayla548 @skyys-universe @ddaeng-angmoh @trtlthts @exfolitae @kalala22 @xiusmarshmallow @bangtans-momma @zae007live @paigetj @singukieee @serendididy @lilacdreams-00 @dreamerwasfound @ninjacups @osakis-gf @itwillbealways-d @xthefuckerysquaredx @momowantscats @molshole @gooooomz @uarmyhore @lopprhe @oopscoop @xicanacorpse @i-like-anime13 @hemziii @demarie04 @im-sinking-in-mud @talkyoongitome @bangtxnbxunch @primrose2507 @kihyunniesmonbebe @lilmxchis @7evensin @00ihatesnaku @neverthefirstchoice @sometingreallycool @cathy-1997 @cerulean1riz

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[philsmeatylegss]

Can I talk about Cat King because no one else will???

I haven’t finished the show yet so this might be wrong or age like milk

I could talk about his role in the story for hours. Tbh I overly identify with Edwin because I’m gay with a lot of problems in the past and Edwin’s historical typical internalized homophobia already makes a history nerd like me giddy with glee. And Cat King easily can be written off as a gag character, which I do think is part of his purpose, but he also represents the aspect of this story regarding Edwin’s sexuality not solely being sexual, but also still being sexual. As in obviously Edwin sexually fantasizes about men, but there’s much more than just that. That implication, acknowledging the fact, feeling free to tell Charles and the others, acting on that, just day to day life. Edwin had gotten by for thirty years ignoring his sexuality until cat king came along. Edwin acknowledging his sexuality, acting on it, and discussing it (in his own way) is a large part of his character growth which is fully pushed on because of Cat King. I know he’s supposed to be the bad guy, but I genuinely believe he is an anti hero or something along those lines. I think at first it was to just tease Edwin, but it grew into something deeper.

Don’t even get me started on the cuff. It is SO symbolic I could almost cry. It’s a physical representation of how limiting and claustrophobic it is to be in the closet. Specially not being out of the closet to close loved ones. You couldn’t have a closer relationship than the relationship between Edwin and Charles, but it doesn’t seem that way before Edwin comes out. And that’s multiple reasons on both of their parts, but part of it is that complete shut down to that side of himself. People don’t realize how much sexuality plays into day to day life. And Cat King made Edwin realize how much he’s missed out on. And also that he can’t put off his problems forever. Slay relatable.

I think the addition of Crystal and Niko also makes Edwin realize that he needs to at least recognize his sexuality. I think they help him realize how much he is missing out on by not being himself in general, nevertheless outing his sexuality.

And all of this goes back to the cat king!!! It drives me insane no one talks about it!!! There’s also the aspect that, on the surface, cat king is just supposed to represent lust. The difference between his feelings for Monty or Charles is that there’s emotions there while cat king is purely lust and a giggle. But when you think about the story, that’s just not true. When media deals with a character’s sexuality not being straight, it’s usually over sexualized or not acknowledged as anything sexual. Cat king gives that balance to his feelings for Charles. Because being gay is partly explicit. As is being straight, bi, pan, whatever (other than asexuality). Saying you are ___ sexuality is implying that you are sexually aroused by whatever gender(s). And cat king is that reminder while Charles and Monty are the reminder that love and relationships are also part of it. Cat king adds balance that makes Edwin’s character feel way more authentic and actually gay.

I haven’t even gotten to cat king pushing for Edwin to admit why he solves cases. WHY DOES NO ONE TALK ABOUT IT?!?! I was gnawing at the bars of my enclosure during that scene. It is arguably one of the most important scenes of the entire show. And it’s entirely brought on my cat king. Every single time Edwin either decides or is forced to reveal something vulnerable about himself, it’s Cat King!!!! Edwin’s confession that it is about preparing a justification as to how he should be allowed into heaven even though he is gay is such an insanely important moment and I’m gnawing at my enclosure again!!!

I may be studying history, but I’ve always been an English kid at heart and symbolism about religion and childhood trauma brings me to my knees. And Cat King is scratching an itch I’ve had for years that I had no clue was there anD NO ONE IS TALKING ABOUT IT WHILE IT IS DRIVING ME BANANAS.

Anyway, that’s my case for talking about cat king. I just finished episode 4 and it’s gonna be really embarrassing when something happens the next few episodes that completely invalidates all of this

[obxone]

Marmoris (Chapter Two)

Edited-ish. ~1.7k words.

Master Page

The point of breaking is drawing closer and closer for you as Kiara grumbles about your pace at clearing out checks. You stare at the back of her head when she pushes through the door carrying several bowls of shrimp and grits to waiting customers. 

“Ignore her,” Pope says from across the bar. Your gaze flickers over to him, and he shrugs. “She has a vendetta against your family.”

“I’m gathering,” you mutter, swiping your customer's card and finishing the transaction. “Not sure why, though. We used to be best friends.”

Pope gnaws on his bottom lip, unable to answer your unspoken question. You shrug, snapping the black check presenter closed before making your way around the bar. The other two presenters are tucked under your arm. 

You liked Pope, he is kind and warm even if you are a kook. He does not throw it in your face quite like his friends. The strain between the kooks and the pogues had always been there, but in the past year it seemed to have reached a tipping point with Kiara joining the pogues and leaving Sarah and you both behind.

“It’s fine, it will all come to a head soon enough,” you mutter, and Pope quirks an eyebrow. He knew Kiara could have a temper, but your words make him realize you could too. 

“That’ll be fun,” he muses, and you crack a smile. 

“Don’t smile at him,” Kiara snips on her way past, her dark brown eyes glaring into yours. “He’s not your friend.”

“Whoa Kie.” Pope starts to try to ease the tension. 

You glare back at her over your shoulder. “Surprised he is yours, considering how much of a bitch you are being lately.”

“What was that?” She asks, turning to face you. Her voice rises in anger, arms crossed over her chest. 

“What is going on here?” Anna, Kiara’s mom, steps forward. Her eyebrows raised. 

“Nothing, Mrs. Carrera,” you say quickly and go to drop off the cards back to your customers. You return to see Kie backed up against the wall with her mom in front of her. Her hands are firmly on her hips as she glares at her daughter. 

“You need to be nice to her. We need help this summer. She is the best option for us. You were friends once, Baby. What happened?"

“Were,” Kie mutters. “Until I didn’t fit into the princess lifestyle anymore.”

“Is that what you think happened?” You ask arms crossed over your waist tightly. “Really, Kie? We were best friends.”

Anna frowns, stepping back to give Kiara room. “Not now, girls. We have customers to take care of.”

“Yes ma’am,” you nod and turn away from Kiara.

The tension is so thick you almost feel like it will choke you at any moment. Pope shifts on his stool, frowning at you. An apology reflected in his gaze. You shrug and continue with your tables. A gracious, sweet smile on your face as you cater to everyone’s needs. 

Once the restaurant is closed and every thing is broken down and cleaned for the next day, you emerge to see Kiara, John B, and Pope talking at a table. John B looks up as you shoulder your tote. 

“What is she doing here?” His attention snaps to the other two. 

“She works here now.”

He nods before turning back to you. “Daddy’s money not enough, Princess?”

You smirk, licking your lip. “That comment would sting a lot more if I cared what you think, Routledge.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Always the kook.”

“You started it,” you mutter, pulling your hair loose as Pope shoves John B’s shoulder. A warning look is on his face. 

“Why do you care, Pope?” Kiara snaps, and he frowns at her. His expression shifts to be sullen. 

“Because he is a kind person,” you quip and step out from behind the bar. “And he actually wants to talk instead of just acting like a bitch and not explaining why.”

Kiara lifts an eyebrow at your sharp words. “So, I’m a bitch?”

“No, but you are acting like one.” You fold your arms around your waist. “We were best friends, Kie. We told each other everything. You were there! And then you just turned your back on me, on us.”

She nods, lips rolling together in a tight line. “Of course, that is what you think happened?”

“Isn’t it?!” You raise your voice, heat flaming up your cheeks. “You were there when I buried the guy I love! You held my hand and let me cry myself to sleep how many times?”

Kasey’s face flashes through your mind. His screams for you as the dark, unforgiving water swallowed you whole echo in your head. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly, pushing away the remnants of your past. The ache that crept in at night, flares up and you press your fingers to your chest, rubbing the area in hopes to extinguish the pain buried underneath the surface.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Your eyes snap open, and you glare at her again. “Point proven, acting like a bitch.” You turn on your heel to leave, and the chair scraps as she stands quickly. 

“Why’d you do it?”

“Do what?” You turn, glaring at her. “What could I have possibly done to you?”

“You let me be boxed out. You pushed me away, and you let the rumors go.”

Your jaw drops, and she frowns, hands balling into tight fists. 

“I let them box you out?” You ask, and she gives a sharp jerk of her chin in response. “I pushed you away?!” You take a step closer. Both boys are staring at the table, the awkward tension filling the space. "I was grieving the loss of someone I love! I almost died, Kiara! Do you think I wanted to box you out? Do you think I wanted to be the pitiful, forever damaged princess locked in the tower?!”

She still glares at you, but you do not miss the way the corner of her eyes softens as tears pool in yours. Her dark eyes flicker to your temple, but your hair hides the damage.

“I lost more than just Kasey that day! I lost my freedom and my will to keep living. I don’t know what happened between you and Sarah, but I never pushed you away!”

She looks away as a tear rolls down your cheek. You reach up and wipe it away. 

“You were my best friend until you left me to rot in my cage.” You whisper, hand gripping the strap of your tote tightly. “You weren’t the only one to feel shut out. You never were.”

You leave without another glance, letting the door slam shut behind you as you head for your SUV. The hot North Carolina sun beams through the trees as the sky begins to deepen in hues to welcome the night. 

The day is going on longer than you have prepared yourself for. Your calves ache as you hustle to deliver the steaming plates of food to the waiting table on the deck before it can burn your arms and hands. 

“Here,” Kiara shuffles forward and gently takes the two on your forearm. “Why didn’t you use a tray?”

“None left, it’s a full house today,” you offer as you both deliver the food with bright smiles. The customers grin happily at the appetizing dishes. “Enjoy.”

You step away and head back inside. Kiara leading the way. 

“Can we talk?” She asks once you are behind the bar together.

Did she want to talk, or would it be another argument that could lead to you being potentially fired? The Carrera's would choose their daughter, and you were not exactly hard up for money, so you were the easier loss to take if they had to make a choice. You study her for a moment. 

“Fine.”

“We are taking fifteen!” She calls to her parents. You meet Mr. Carrera’s gaze to see if it is okay. 

“Go ahead.”

You remove your apron, take a quick sip of the ice water you have been drinking from all day, and follow Kiara outside to the parking lot. She sits on the curb, and you sit beside her.

The silence stretches out for a moment. Both of you tense and unmoving as the sounds of an OBX summer fill the space around you.

“About yesterday,” she mutters, picking up a decent sized gravel rock. 

“Forget it.”

She shakes her head, chunking the rock away. “No. You did not deserve my attitude.” You arch an eyebrow, surprise flooding you at her words. She shrugs. “We were best friends, and I let you down. You were grieving, and I took my hurt out on you.”

“Hurt?”

She frowns, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth for a moment. “Your sixteenth birthday party.” When you do not respond, she sighs. “You didn’t invite me.”

Realization dawns, and you frown, looking away as the disappointment sets in. “Kie…” You want to hug her as she lets the mask slip and shows how the amount of hurt the lack of invitation caused her. “I am so sorry. Sarah and Top planned it. I did not even know until the night of the party. Ward and Rose had me on lockdown after the accident. Ward went crazy, and Rose did not argue with him.”

She nods. “I know. I heard a few things.”

You frown, picking up a stray stick and jamming it against a crack in the concrete. “Rafe is the only reason I came to that party. He promised Ward that he would keep me safe and at home.” You look up again to meet her gaze. “I would have invited you had I known. But the party was ruined pretty early into the night anyways. The cops came and broke up the party. Ward was furious for days after.”

“I know,” she offers again, leaning back on her palms. “I was blamed for it.”

“I heard about that.”

“Sarah and you did not stop the rumor and that hurt.”

“I know.”

She stares at the tops of her shoes. “Why not?”

“Sarah said it was you, and I believed her.” You shrug. “I should have asked and made sure. You were our friend, and she should have known better.”

She nods, clearing her throat. “I did call them.”

“Kiara!” You gasp, head snapping so you are looking at her. Your eyes are wide as you take in her smirk. 

She shrugs. “You should have invited me.”

“So you called the cops?!” 

She laughs, and you playfully shove her. 

“You aren’t supposed to laugh!”

She laughs harder, and you lean into her side, laughter bubbling up from your lips. She sighs, arm circling around you in a tight squeeze. 

“Friends?”

“Friends,” you agree. “We should get back before your parents try to murder us.”

“Yeah,” she gets to her feet and reaches to pull you up. You walk back inside. Bright smiles on your faces, and her parents seem relieved that the friendship has become patched up. 

(Chapter Three)

[timeofjuly]

Hello! Ive recently started reading your work and its soooo good! Falling back into my undertale fixation since elementary lmaooo. I was wondering if you have any hcs based on the 3rd chapter when Quinn asked mc if they were in a relationship but what if they were 😳 like for a month now or just seeing someone. What would be the game changer or will she let it go? Im just rlly interested and loveee a jealous moment tbh 🤧 (quinn always number one in my heart though)

Thank you so much, I’m so happy that you’re enjoying! I also have randomly found myself back in the fandom after years, but it’s been really fun!

I can do you one better than headcanons – I love this idea and I love pining, jealous Quinn (I am also procrastinating finishing an assignment but shhhhh), so here’s a little ficlet 😊

truths that bleed through the universes

“What about you? Are you seeing anyone?” Quinn asks. She’s afraid to ask the question; a preexisting partner would be the ultimate complication.

At the question, your face brightens, a smile rising to your lips. It’s not the sad expression of before, all downcast eyes and a furrow between your brows. This smile is her favourite, one that she’d once seen daily, a smile that makes you seem as though you’re almost taken aback by your own delight. Quinn wants to make a home in the warm depths of it, burrow so deep into the happiness that you’ll both lose track of where she ends and you begin.

“Well,” you say, and that sunshine is in your voice, too, each word tinged with gold. “I was single for ages, but I actually met someone just over a month ago, and we’ve been seeing each other since.”

“Oh, nice!’ she says and god, she hopes she doesn’t sound as crushed as she feels. Her mind scrabbles for purchase against the jagged edges of the dismay that fossilises in her chest. “What’s their name?”

“Seraphine. Hang on, I’ll show you a picture,” you say, reaching into your tote bag. “You’d really like her. She lives in the apartment below mine. We met because Steven’s a fucking Houdini and managed to escape from my balcony down onto hers, it’s a really cute story. She reckons that Steven’s our cat-cupid. Oh, here you go-.”

Quinn accepts your phone. On the screen – it’s your fucking lock screen, shit -there’s a photo of you and a monster woman, grinning into the camera. It’s a selfie-style picture and the woman’s cheek, a vivid royal purple covered in fine, downy fluff, is pressed to yours, smooshing your smile into an adorable, fishy pout.

“Cute,” she says weakly. “A month, huh?’

“Yep. We’re taking it slow, but I’m not seeing anyone else, and I don’t think she is either. I’ve even deleted Tinder off of my phone.” The words are said with raised eyebrows and enough seriousness for her to realise that that’s apparently a big deal.

Something ugly sits on her tongue and she’s self-aware enough to name it jealousy. The irrationality and unfairness of it – she has no leg to stand on, since she’s in a relationship with eight other people – doesn’t make the feeling any less potent. It writhes in her, a living creature, filthy and starved and pacing the length of its cage, gnawing at the bars.

Does she make you feel as good as I can? Does she know you like I know you? There’s nobody who can love you like I can love you. I know you agree. You agree, right? I know you’ve been chasing my shadow for five years, just like I used to chase yours. We’re both a little wrong without the other.

Quinn takes a deep breath and fixes a smile to her face, cooing appropriately when you begin telling her the story of Steven’s jaunt to the downstairs balcony. This is a setback, yes, but all isn’t lost. She really does think that you’re at your happiest when you’re with her, and you’ve always agreed. Reminding you of that might be tricky, but it won’t be impossible, and once you remember? This girlfriend will just be another notch in your bedpost. Countless people have made their mark on your past, a blur of friends and enemies and lovers, and she’s fine with that, because all of that lived experience is what makes you you.

But your present? Your future? That’s all hers, just like hers is yours, if you want it. She’ll give it time, show you how good it feels to with her datemates and remind you how well you fit with her, and let you make up your own mind. Let you choose.

If there’s one thing that all of the dimension fuckery she’s been exposed to has taught her, it’s that some things are universal truths. Every Sans has a Papyrus. The humans trapped monsters Underground. The sky is blue. The grass is green. These are principles that permeate everything, bleeding through whatever separates each universe.

This is another one of those truths. There is no universe where Quinn Lawson isn’t in love with her version of you, or a universe where you aren’t in love with your Quinn Lawson. You always choose each other, in the end.

Quinn’s already made her choice. She just has to wait for you to make yours.

[vicvinegarandhughhoney]

for bingo -

Intubation or eating disorder for Dennis

Please please with a cherry on top 🙏

running home, running home, running home- prompt: eating disorder

Post S12. Dennis comes back from North Dakota perfectly fine.

TW ED!!!!

Read here or below the cut

North Dakota was supposed to be a fresh start. It was supposed to give him a chance to make things right, to do things differently this time. To free himself of the baggage of the past and live for a future in which he is a father- one worthy of the title. 

It was supposed to be a fresh start, so why the fuck did he stop eating there?

Things started slowly, of course, the way they always do. He aeroplane-d the spoon into Brian Jr’s mouth and simply forgot that a flight was supposed to touch down in his at some point as well. At restaurants, he ordered sides. Claimed he’d already eaten to keep the concerned looks from Mandy at bay. 

“Are you sure you're not hungry?” she’d ask him, brow furrowed with concern. He ought to have spoken to her about it- she would have understood. 

Instead, he forced a smile and nodded. Lied through his goddamn teeth. 

“I’m full. Don’t worry about me.”

The most pathetic part was that it made him look as though he was selfless, prioritising the nourishment of his child and co-parent while neglecting his own needs, when the truth of the matter was far more ego-centric. He didn't want to eat because he had to be perfect, and to be perfect? To be perfect, he had to be thin. Perhaps he could trick himself into believing that he wanted to be perfect so he could better raise Brian Jr. Hell, maybe there's even some truth in that. 

But only a little. 

By the time he gets on the plane back to Philly, having been gone for a year, everything about him feels wrong. There's a gnawing dread in the pit of his stomach that he initially attributes to missing his kid, but doesn't fade even as he talks to the gang, an interaction that’s genuinely relieving. Nor does it fade when he heads back with Mac to their apartment, settling into his own bed while Mac sprawls out on the couch, snoring like a foghorn. 

He stares up at the ceiling, blinking past the colours flitting into his field of view. The dread widens. Turns into a total uneasiness. 

“Here, take some snacks with you for the flight! You need the energy. I haven't seen you eat in days!”

“Alright… thanks. I’ll call you when I land, yeah?”

He’d thrown the granola bars she gave him into a trash can in the airport. Food was unnecessary. Food was the enemy to perfection. To worthiness. 

The next morning he wakes up with his head swimming, barely even aware he fell asleep in the first place. His lips are chapped and his eyelids feel heavy, like he could drift back off and stay there for weeks. 

As he shuffles out into the kitchen, Mac greets him. There's no way Dennis can ignore the way his roommate has changed in the time he's been gone. Mac’s buff now. 

He looks good- great, even- but that little voice in Dennis’ head sneers every time he looks at him. 

God, he's so big, it's gross. He may as well have stuffed himself full of chimichangas again. 

“Hey, Dennis! You want eggs? I made a bunch of ‘em and there's no way I'm eating them all.” Mac asks between shovelling forkfuls of scrambled eggs into his mouth. 

Dennis swallows queasily. “Uh, no. I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.”

A few years ago, Mac would have volunteered to peel an apple for him. Dennis would have eaten it. It’s the only reason he would have eaten anything at all that day. 

The thought makes him feel even more nauseous, so he pushes it aside immediately. 

“I’m… I’m gonna head to the bar early.”

“Oh, okay. See you there, man.”

Dennis slips into the back office, locks the door, and collapses into the chair there. Even the short walk from the bus stop (stupid assholes blew up his goddamn car) to Paddy’s has left him exhausted. His heart flutters worryingly in his chest. 

With nobody else to keep him awake, and no further reserves of energy to sustain him, he curls up as tightly as he can (God, he’s fucking cold) and falls into an uneasy slumber. 

**

3 weeks post-return, and the ground beneath Dennis’ feet feels unsteady. Literally. He keeps tripping over nothing, arms lurching out for purchase on the nearest object- usually Mac, sometimes Dee or Charlie. They laugh it off, and so does he, but he sees the way Dee’s eyes meet his knowingly. She’s been there before too. 

Mac’s mentioned a few times that Dennis looks thin, and each time it makes him puff out his chest with pride (even if Mac’s concerned look doesn't exactly scream compliment). At least now he doesn't seem bothered with attempting to solve that particular ‘issue’. He’s been a little more aloof since Dennis got back, and almost frightened of the man that he shares an apartment with. When Dennis walks into the living room while Mac is on the couch, the latter jumps like he's seen a ghost. It's probably because he's not used to the company now, and Dennis doesn't even try to make himself more of a presence. 

Instead, he’ll keep shrinking, getting smaller and smaller and thinner and thinner until he's barely visible at all. 

It’ll be like he never even came back from North Dakota in the first place. 

**

A month passes by, and for the rest of the gang, things seem to be getting back to normal. They start cooking up schemes again, schemes which Dennis only half listens to because they're hardly audible over the rush of blood in his head. He stood up too quickly. He's been doing that a lot recently. 

At one point, they end up at a Dave and Buster’s, something which pulls up uncomfortable memories of a time where he was younger and lobster meals weren't purged immediately afterwards. Charlie, Mac, and Frank gorge themselves on steaks while they talk about some plot or other. Dee gets a salad. 

Frank orders Dennis a steak too, but he only manages a few bites before pushing it away. His stomach feels unsettled. 

Dee catches him walking out of the bathroom afterwards, shaky and pale and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Her brows furrow in that way they've grown accustomed to doing lately, and that penetrative look almost makes him regret what he's just done. 

“You don't look well, Den.” She tells him softly. 

He pushes past the lump in his throat and the urge to sink into her waiting arms, instead curling his lip with distaste. 

“You’re one to talk. Leave me the fuck alone.”

She steps back, hurt, then stands a little taller. 

“Get some help. You clearly need it.”

Before he can force his sluggish brain to think of a retort, she’s walking back to the group and leaving him alone outside the bathroom, leaning against the wall for support. 

**

Rome wasn't built in a day, but it sure did burn in one. 

The shooting pains that begin in his back feel like the knives that brought Caesar’s death. His hands start to shake when he's trying to pour shots. He frequently trails off mid-conversation because everything in his brain is focused on survival, only the most basic life-preserving faculties retained. 

On his way back from the bar one day, he knows the fall of his own empire is imminent. Deep breaths no longer keep the spots in his vision at bay, and the gnawing feeling- that dread, yawning in the pit of his stomach- has turned into a constant screaming within. The urge to eat long since departed, but the nausea that replaced it grows to a fever pitch. 

“Hey, you okay?” Mac asks as they traverse the stairs to the apartment. Dennis realises belatedly that he's wheezing, the exact same god awful sound that issued from Mac’s lips when he was fat as shit. 

Is this his fate? To work himself to the bone for perfection and still be doomed to the same existence as a greed-ridden slob?

“M’ fine.” He answers through gritted teeth. Hauls himself up the final few stairs and through the door. 

“Are you sure? Because you kind of sound like you're dying, dude.”

For a moment, a sob threatens to bubble up from the depths of Dennis’ being. 

YES! Something deep inside screams. God, please help me, Mac, please for the love of God you have to fucking help me, I’m- something’s wrong, Mac, something's desperately wrong with me and I need you to-

“L-leave me alone.” He growls, breath whistling. His feet still carry him blindly towards the kitchen counter, somewhere he can lean against and regain some strength. 

Mac sighs. “Yeah… yeah, alright, fine.”

No. No. This isn't how it's supposed to go, Mac, you’re supposed to help me, why aren't you helping me, Mac?

Dennis takes another few steps forward, heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. 

Hummingbirds. He used to do those a lot, keeping himself in motion constantly. Perhaps now he's fully transcended past the need for hummingbirds- he’s becoming one himself. Everything within him is fluttering. 

His heart. 

His nerve. 

His… his eyelids…

He’s…. ohhhh, shiiittt…

“Dennis? Den?!”

His vision fades completely, and his knees buckle, but in the fuzzy darkness that consumes him, he still hears the muffled sounds of quick footsteps on wood, feels the comforting warmth of arms wrapping around his torso before he hits the ground. 

“Shit, shit, you’re okay, Den. I got you, man. You’re alright.”

For the first time in months, he hears himself sob, breathless and exhausted and guttural. Almost animalistic in its desperation to be heard, and yet so weak it probably comes out as no more than a choked whine. 

“Shhh, you’re alright… you’re alright… God, Den, you’re so fucking tiny.” Mac's words are wobbly, spoken through tears as his hand smoothes the hair back from Dennis’ forehead, stroking with all the gentleness that used to exist between them before the rot set in and everything changed. Decayed. I’m here now, though. I’m here now, I promise. I’ll peel you an apple, okay?”

His voice is nigh-on hysterical. 

“I’ll- I’ll peel you an apple, and everything will be okay, right, Den? Everything- everything will be okay.”

Dennis feels himself being lifted upwards, pulled limply into Mac’s arms. His eyes flutter open and the darkness dissipates for just a moment. The sun peeks out from behind the clouds. 

“I’ll peel you an apple, Den. I’ll peel you an apple and it’ll all be okay.”

[one-way-dream]

A Lack of Essence (One-Shot)

Rating: General

Words: 3100+

Media: Danganronpa, Danganronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc

Pairing: Aoi Asahina/Sakura Ogami, Minor Hajime Hinata/Nagito Komaeda (Mentioned)

Tags: Post-canon, Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Pining, Feelings Realization

Warnings: Descriptions of an anxiety attack.

Chapter: 1/1

Link to the original work

AO3 Summary/Excerpt:

Undoubtedly, it’s one of the best, no— maybe the best she’s ever had in her life. It’s a perfect technique, it’s a perfect balance, it’s… it’s…

…But it’s not the same.

--

Aoi tries to make donuts like the ones she made in the past, but she feels like there's something missing.

Author's Notes:

i love sakuraoi and i've never written them before so here's a little brain dump before i forget that i ever wrote it and it rots in my computer forever fdjshfksdfsdf asahina aoi my oomfie ❤ as always, this is not beta-read

thank you for reading and i hope you enjoy!

Aoi doesn’t like the taste of the doughnuts being made nowadays.

Sure, the ingredients were much fresher, – at least compared to whatever Junko had arranged for them during their days trapped in the school – but something about the taste was… inadequate.

Whatever it was, it frustrated Aoi to no end.

With every passing year it felt like something was slipping away. That ‘something’ twisted deep in her chest, gnawing away and taking parts and pieces of her until she gave in to tears. Until she felt hollowed out from breaking down time and time again, however far and in between it may happen.

Despite the kind words Makoto shed time and time again, she never really considered herself a strong person. Sometimes Aoi wondered what she would think of her moments of weakness, years after their escape, years after her sacrifice.

A heaviness weighed on her shoulders, bringing her back to the present, where she absentmindedly leaned over a shallow pot of oil gone lukewarm – which subsequently meant that the test batch of doughnuts she’d set to the side had definitely gone cold while she was lost in thought. She blinks, clicking her tongue in irritation as she stares down the pastries, wondering how she was careless enough to even forget setting a timer on her phone.

Well… better off a little cold than burned to a lump of coal.

Aoi takes the plate off the edge of her kitchenette counter and sets it on the breakfast bar. She pulls the curtains apart to let the evening light fill the shadows of her small but tidy studio apartment. A sleepy marmalade sun has yet to rest behind the silhouette of the rebuilt city. Somehow the light begins to fill the shadows in her mind too; not completely, but just enough to pinch her cheeks and huff out a determined breath.

“This is it,” she whispers to herself, furrowing her eyebrows in concentration. “This has to be the one.”

Nimble band-aid covered fingers dart across her phone screen before she even considers taking a bite, sending a text message to Makoto, hoping that he wouldn’t mind Aoi sending her seventh consecutive message of the day.

>[7:08 PM] Heyhey, Naegi! I’m about to try out the new recipe you got from Hanamura-san! Wish me luck. :)

A quick tap on the paperclip icon and then a few more before the image is delivered to him. She smiles down at her phone a little at the picturesque scene of her evening snack neatly plated on her favourite porcelain, the paper towel beneath it splotched with oil and stray bits of cinnamon sugar shimmering in the sunlight. Everything looked perfect.

The arrangement feels awfully nostalgic; memories overtake her of large but gentle hands working side by side with her, the other insisting that ‘food tasted better when presented with care’. It’s nostalgic to the point where familiar feelings begin to rouse in her heart at the memory – but she pushes it down. The grip on her phone gets tighter until her hand starts to tremble. 

Not yet.

Not now.

Aoi quickly sets the phone down and swallows thickly, though she finds her mouth drier than usual despite what was supposedly a perfect rendition of her favourite food lying before her. Even during the killing game, her appetite had never dwindled at the sight of doughnuts. She smiled brightly for herself as encouragement, as if practising in front of a mirror like the many times she’d done on her worst days before stepping out for work.

Why… did she feel this nervous? And why did she feel so afraid of disappointment?

Finally, she reaches out and picks up a doughnut by the edges, where the caramel-esque sugar just barely grazed her fingertips. Surprisingly it’s still a little warm, and truthfully, it's unbelievable that it’s this soft even after cooling down. 

The numb buzzing still clings to Aoi’s mind, and while it usually wouldn’t be an appetite killer, today nothing really feels right. But as soon as the sweet and spicy aroma reaches her nose, her mouth waters instinctively, eager to partake in old indulgences. With a bit of optimism, she leans forward and takes a small and hesitant bite, careful not to let her thoughts sour the experience.

Even though her mind wasn’t quite swayed by the thought of doughnuts, her tastebuds immediately gave into the familiarity. The first thing that she notices is that it’s just as soft and light as it feels, almost unbelievably so, as it melts in her mouth in an array of flavour ranging from a delicate mellow sweetness to a hint of mild spice. The taste coats her tongue without being overwhelming somehow – without a doubt, the recipe is a decadent masterpiece. Simply pure art.  

Aoi reigns herself in and manages to wolf down the last quarter of it without inhaling any topping sugar by accident. Eventually, as she chews, she comes down from the high and her mind wanders again. If she were her younger self, the one before the killing game, she could have died peacefully knowing that this was the best that she’d ever get.

Undoubtedly, it’s one of the best, no— maybe the best she’s ever had in her life. It’s a perfect technique, it’s a perfect balance, it’s… it’s…

…But it’s not the same.

Aoi’s own voice echoes the words she didn’t want to admit in the back of her head, so strongly that it makes her flinch.

It pulls her out of the delight by drowning it in the frustration she’d feared time and time again. It’s disappointment that finally settles in her mind despite everything; as sticky, heavy, and gross as the bitter kuromitsu her mother was so fond of. As she swallows down the last bit of the pastry clean from the side of her cheek, she finds that there is a flaw to it after all: there’s a stale aftertaste.

For something so seemingly perfect, even this had its flaws. It lacked something. Or maybe there was too much of something? 

But… just what was it? Aoi’s brows scrunched together as she mulled it over, wiping the grease and crumbs off her fingertips onto the clean parts of the paper towel. No distinct taste from a lack of ingredients? No, probably not, given that it called for cinnamon and the barest hint of clove and spices she’d never even heard of. Maybe there wasn’t enough sugar? Oh, but the cinnamon sugar dusting should’ve covered that base as well.

It just… wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough. It’d never be enough.

She just had to accept the facts – nothing she will ever make from here on out could ever be the same as the ones she and Sakura made together.

But the question was: could she live with that?

Aoi sighs deep and forlorn, leaning back against the barstool as her gaze veers out the window overlooking the growing shadow of the cityscape, eventually trailing back to the remaining three doughnuts.

Old feelings come back with a vengeance at the sight, thrashing in her chest like a small bird trapped in a cage. She clenches her knuckles white and then relents, at long last – she doesn’t want to fight the feeling anymore today. At least for today, even if she knows the cost is that it won’t end well.

She takes a deep breath and smiles, genuinely this time, wondering how Sakura would look like bathed in the light of sundown like she is now, sharing a meal together like they used to every day. She never saw her in the sunlight before - and even if she did during their school years, she wouldn't know anymore. She would never get to know.

And that’s all it takes for the seams of her composure to be suddenly torn to shreds; for that weird mixture between swelling affection that made her heart soar only to be shot down by unbearable, crushing grief. It held her at a deadlock, stasis, as sobs wracked her body. It was so unlike her, ‘sooo unlike’ the world-renowned star athlete and Ultimate Swimmer Aoi Asahina, as she’d chastise herself after a thorough cry.

Aoi had always considered herself lucky that her good days and neutral days far outweighed the bad compared to the others, but it was never like she was ever immune to despair in the first place, not even after all that her friends had done for her. Especially not after all that her friends had done for her. The guilt is a snaking hairline fracture in her favourite and otherwise perfect ceramic mug - the one that reminds her of home and of family and loved ones. 

The guilt is something she finds hard to douse; it’s a constant reminder against calloused palms and one might even say that, despite her go-getter personality, the fissure is reminiscent of her own being. It’s seemingly harmless, and it won’t shatter to pieces, but it’s there. 

Thinking hard on things was never her forte, and neither was sweating the small stuff. Even so, bitterness claws at her throat, constricts her breathing to nothing more than a desperate rhythm.

It was really unlike her.

The muted sound of a ticking wall clock is all that resounds in the living room, in between shaky breaths, in between the unsteady pulses of her heartbeat. Vaguely, she's aware of the pace of it, of how the ticking tries to punctuate all the other sounds, except–

Everything is off. Her heartrate speeds up and it's thrown off even more. it's all lost to a moment's hesitation, and suddenly she's wrenched back into the depths of a swimming pool. Her coach spits out demands; that she needs to pick up the pace. It's off rhythm. It's grating. That she's off rhythm. She's grating. It's all wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong. 

Until she catches the single beat where all three align at once. They blend together into a single startling click, folding into one like flour and sugar and yeast. Her head feels heavy, but clear for a moment; just enough to stop thinking. 

A pillow stays close to her chest as she calms down, as she buries her face just enough to muffle the sound. Just enough so that she couldn’t hear her own voice – her own weakness that she so despised. How could she not when the person she cared for was the very definition of the strength she always strove for?

The thing is, Sakura Ogami was never just physically strong.

Sure enough, the others had seen both her physical strength and her strength of character back in those days but… Aoi had seen it all. Sakura is Eden; she’s all the nurturing resilience of sanctum and all the grace of it too, right down to dew-soaked grass blades and tree roots buried in rich soil. 

Aoi had seen it with her own eyes; what it means to be in paradise. It was when she lay side by side with her, peeking a single eye open every now and then to see if the other was awake – if she was okay. She’d be met with a small smile, but her gaze always wavered, as if it was the smallest tell that she, too, might’ve been a little afraid. But instead of a confession, what she’d get in return was a promise that the first person she would turn to if she was ever in trouble would be Aoi – no one else but her. It made her heart soar, so much that she was afraid she’d never be able to sleep again from the way her pulse hammered against her chest. 

But still, she’d force her eyes shut, hoping, praying for it to be one of the nights where her run-of-the-mill luck favoured her. But eventually she realized that she never had to wish so hard to begin with, because each passing night it got easier; Sakura would stroke a gentle, warm hand down the side of her head whenever she figured Aoi was asleep anyway. She’d hum a gentle melody to her anyway, and each time, she fell a little more. Each time, she woke up a little braver and stronger, just like Sakura – like she was lending Aoi her strength. 

She wonders if Sakura ever figured her out. 

She wonders if she ever had herself figured out back then. 

But she doubts it, she’s never been the perceptive type. If she was then she would’ve known to help Sakura sooner. If she’d known then she could’ve saved her from her fate. Aoi knew well enough that ‘what-ifs’ and dwelling on the past never helped matters, but sometimes it felt easier to let it catch up, let it trip you by the ankles – even if only for a reality check. It’s her only companion within the lonely confines of her house, no matter how well she decorated, no matter how homely she made it; nothing would fill the space quite the same. 

The sound of a notification jolts her out of her thoughts, quickly picking up her phone to catch Makoto’s name in the preview. She unlocks the phone, holding her breath as she looks over the three messages.

>[7:39 PM] It looks great, Asahina-san! :) I’ll let Hanamura-kun know the next time I see him. I know you're busy but, if you get the time, maybe we could make some together for everyone?

>[7:40 PM] Sorry, I can’t talk a lot because I’m still working, but Hinata-kun came by and wanted me to pass along that he’d like all of us over for dinner this Saturday.

>[7:40 PM] Is that alright with you?

Her breath escapes through her teeth as she starts to chew on the skin of her bottom lip, clicking the phone off once more. She’d turned off ‘read’ notifications a few months ago when the pressure to respond immediately got too much; stewing in her own thoughts might not have been healthy, but neither were donuts – she could afford to cut loose a little sometimes. 

Now the trouble was those last two messages. 

Aoi loved her friends, she really did. She was always the first to celebrate them, and always the first to push them forward in the right direction if Makoto didn’t beat her to it first. But unfortunately, she was still every bit as human as she was an airheaded cheerleader.

She still distinctly remembers how she would always smile, shove down the sharp and ugly jealousy she felt when Hajime’s gold engagement band glistened under fluorescent lights before the guilt smothered her in its place.

Aoi once nodded along enthusiastically when Hajime fondly spoke of how he loved the fact that Nagito’s ring matched the silver of his eyes – and she wondered faintly, with her chin resting on her hand, whether he knew that she could relate wholeheartedly.

Nothing in the world could compare to the thought of Sakura wearing a wedding ring as silver and bright as her eyes, except maybe seeing her in a kimono that would undoubtedly look elegant on her. The feeling rocked unsteadily inside her chest, making her fond and unbearably lonely all at once.

The plate of doughnuts lay in front of her on the coffee table by the vase of fresh flowers Komaru and Touko had dropped off in the morning. And with the sun dipping into the horizon, she knew that her food would only get colder, and the room would only grow darker.

Frowning, Aoi reached into the drawer of the table, pulling out a box of matches and striking one against the strip as it flared to life. Her cherry blossom scented candles would do; they would keep her company, keep her surroundings bright, keep her warm despite how little wax was left. Something about that last part made her feel sour.

She leaned forward, tearing off a piece of a doughnut and ignoring the stickiness and grease that clings to her skin in favour of living in the moment. Maybe a little indulgence would be just fine, even if it wasn’t the same. 

So maybe Aoi wasn’t the only one to see Sakura in her moments of vulnerability.

And it's a selfish feeling, the hope she felt when Aoi caught a flash of guilt in Sakura’s eyes when she spoke of her boyfriend on the outside, when she caught her staring at her more and more with each passing morning. She wanted it to mean something.

She wanted the gradual transition from ‘my dear Asahina’ to ‘my dearest’ to mean something.

The silence in the room was heavy, but strangely enough, not in an oppressive way. 

What was stopping her from remembering her words? What was stopping her from letting Sakura’s life, her sacrifice, mean more than a push forward towards hope? 

After all, from the casual touches while they made donuts for the first time to her final heartfelt words, wasn’t it all an act of love from start to finish? 

Aoi blinks the mistiness in her eyes away, swallows thickly and leans back on the old couch, tracing the threadbare edges of it with her left hand; a well-loved part of her home that cradles her aching heart after a tiresome day. The remote rests easily in her hand, TV flickering to life with a single button, as the face of her high school swimming idol grins brightly at the camera. It's like she can feel the droplets running down her face, remembering how free she felt doing what she loved. She finally picks up her phone with a small smile, bordering on bittersweet, wondering if there was ever a missing ingredient to begin with. 

> [8:34 PM] Tell him that we're on for that group dinner date. 

Her fingers pause, hovering over the next few keys. With a sharp exhale, she settles on her words. 

> [8:35 PM] And yeah, let's finally make those doughnuts together for everyone. It'll be fun! <3 

Aoi lets out another determined huff, trying not to let her wobbly yet courageous smile fade. She’d just have to find a way to make her own secret ingredient. 

-x-

That night, Aoi dreamed.

She dreamed of doughnuts and picnics under a cherry blossom tree in full bloom and a world made for two people.

She dreamed of her beloved wearing the summer dresses Aoi always thought she’d look like a goddess in, even though she was always more than enough in her ripped sailor outfit.

She dreamed of a fond smile and husky voice humming, their bodies close enough that she could feel the rumble of her voice in her chest; large, protective, and warm hands enveloping her own, and the steady rhythm of silver bands clicking against each other as they walked hand in hand.

For once, Aoi dreams and ignores the dull ache in her chest in place of something far stronger, far more wonderful.

Love, and love alone, until the end of her days.

[marryingamaiden]

Finding Normalcy: a Joel Miller Fanfiction

Part One

Tags: Joel miller x reader / joel miller fluff / literally just two conversations / SLOWWWW burn / papi pedro pascal

Word count: ~12k

this gif is so funny

You had known Tommy and Maria for a long time, ever since you settled in Jackson a few years after the breakout. Slowly you came back to some sort of normalcy despite the lost lives that darkened your mind once the sun went down. Every morning you made coffee in the kitchen of your small house; every morning being grateful that you finally had hot water. Every day grateful that Tommy had been kind enough to lead you here, and that Maria had given you a house to make your own.

To repay for the couple’s kindness you kept your home beautiful, always making sure the garden was growing something for the community even if that meant your living room was covered in foliage during the cold winter months. You still kept to yourself; being one of the quietest members in the community. You didn’t frequent the bar or attend many of the events planned, but you gave back through your tending of the earth. You didn’t like talking to people much, and most definitely did not want people to notice you.

Until you saw him ride in on that stupid horse.

He was burly and built, with weathered lines in his face that said more than he ever would. And you wanted to know him.

So you tried to forget about him, this world was no place to make connections. Despite your efforts, he kept appearing in the routine of your daily life. Your eyes accidentally caught his when you ran to grab flour. You heard his southern accent from across the block when he walked past your house. You successfully ignored him until Maria dragged you to a housewarming party for Tommy’s brother.

I guess it gave you a good reason to shower- which you’ve been putting off.

Anxiety filled you as you walked up the steps to Joel’s- whose name you had just learned a half hour ago. Social situations always made you anxious, your hands would fidget and pull at your clothes and the inside of your mouth would be raw from you gnawing at it. All of this anxiety has grown exponentially since the outbreak of this pandemic.

The sun had set and the light was soft and warm inside the house. The walls were still blank and and still carried the smell of vacancy- Mr. Miller hadn’t been here long enough to make a home yet.

The smell of food and alcohol filled your nose as your ears were drummed with conversations. You find Maria as your safe haven in the warm kitchen, steaming plates of food there to fill your mouth so you don’t have to speak.

“I can’t believe I finally dragged you out of that house, I thought you had died in there.” She says with a slight smile on her face, though behind it is a true motherly warning despite you being more than thirty.

“Well I do feel like I owe you, so I figured I might as well show my face.”

She smiles without looking at you and nods her head in the direction of the living room.

“Go introduce yourself to Joel. You’re both recluses so I’m sure it’ll be a riveting conversation.”

You purse your lips at that and mumble a fine before stepping across the threshold of the kitchen. You hated this. Joel stood next to the fireplace with his arm up on the mantle, the muscles in his arm rigid under his skin. He was in the middle of a conversation that he most definitely didn’t want to be a part of. His eyes met yours again because you were- in fact- staring, which made you drop your gaze back to Maria through the walkway. She just looked at you with that disappointed stare and you continued trudging like a child forced to say hello to your estranged family members.

You walked to his right, away from the rest of the people and looked up at him and he met your eyeline. Your heart was beating hard from the anxiety of an impending conversation of pleasantries. You hate pleasantries. A few seconds of an awkward shuffle of you both adjusting your clothes and coughing passes.

“Hello.” He says it more as a question than a greeting.

“Hi.” You finally make eye contact with him as you tell him your name.

“You know Maria?”

“Yeah, she brought me here a long time ago.” You looked down at your shoes.

He responds with a huff.

“So Tommy’s your brother?”

“Mhm.”

Silence.

“You have that big garden right?” He crosses his arms.

“Yeah… If you want anything, you know. Potatoes… lettuce… ” You trailed off wanting to name more vegetables but you figured you shouldn’t.

He harrumphed. You saw a tinge of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks.”

“Well, it was nice to meet you. Drop by if you need anything.”

He looked up at you with those big brown eyes.

“I will.”

And with that you turned away and immediately downed a shot of scotch to calm your heart.

_______________________________________

A few days later you were tending your garden when you heard footsteps behind you.

You whipped around to see Joel standing with his brow creased. You thanked the heavens that you would be able to talk to him without the pressure of a party.

“Hey, how are you?” You stand up and your knees pop. God, you're out of shape now.

“Fine. I was wondering if you have something.”

“What are you looking for?”

“Strawberries.”

“You makin’ jam, cowboy?” He looked at you sternly.

“No.”

Asshole. “I have some inside, follow me.”

You hoped he wouldn’t be this blunt forever. His footsteps fell heavy behind you as he followed you into your kitchen.

You pulled out the fresh strawberries from your cupboard and began putting them in a box for him to take home. Joel paces around your kitchen, looking at the flowers and pictures you’ve put up on your walls. His eyes land on a painting in the center of the wall.

“I like this.” He gestured to the painting.

“Really? Thank you, I’m rusty after so many years of not being able to paint.”

“You painted this?” He turns to look at you and it seems as though that permanent crease in his brow has softened.

“I did, I painted a lot before the world fell apart. Went to school for it.”

“You’re good.” He turns back to the painting while a smile takes up your entire face.

You finish closing up the box and hand it over to him.

“Here you are, cowboy.”

“Thank you.” He seems less offended by your unwelcome nickname. “What do I owe you?”

“Oh no, there’s no need. It’s free of charge.” You smile at him and he looks at you seriously.

“So you can hold it over me later? Nuh uh.”

“No, no, really. I mean it.”

“I’ll find a way to pay you back.”

You really didn’t need him to pay you back, but you liked the idea of having him around more often. Despite his bluntness and ability to make you incredibly nervous, he made you smile.

As he begins to walk away you blurt out “My door hinges are rusting. I need new ones.”

He looks back at you with an enthusiastic nod.

“I can do that.” You smile as he walks away, hoping you see him again soon.

———————————————————-

[heath-morgan]

@dancingstxr

the palazzo; glamorous playground for the rich and reckless. it was packed with the elite, all draped in elaborate costumes, their laughter and conversation blending with the deep bass that pulsed through the room.

then he saw her. halina.

she was dressed as a black swan, gliding through the crowd like she’d always belonged in the center of every room. the dark feathers of her costume framed her body, their sleek sheen catching the club’s shifting lights as she moved effortlessly, a creature both beautiful and dangerous. she was stunning. heath’s breath hitched in his chest. it had been almost a year since they’d split, and not a day had gone by that the sting of it didn’t gnaw at him, the wound still open, still bleeding in some corner of his heart. he’d worked hard to bury the memories, to shut off the part of him that still ached when he thought of her, but seeing her now, it was like those walls he’d built around his feelings crumbled in an instant.

everything came rushing back - it all hit him like a punch to the gut, and he stood there, frozen for a moment, unable to tear his eyes away. heath’s first instinct was to leave. just turn around, walk out of the club, and not look back. he thought of the door, the quickest exit, and how easy it would be to avoid the inevitable conversation, the pain that seeing her would stir up. his heart hammered in his chest as he considered it, as he weighed the comfort of escape against the pull of confronting the past. the memories flooded in faster than he could push them down. he set his glass down on the bar, every muscle in his body tensing with the fight between what he wanted and what he needed.

her eyes locked onto his, even from across the room, and in that moment, there was no turning back. no escape. her gaze, piercing and familiar, held him in place, and suddenly the option of walking away vanished. she had seen him, and there was no way out of this. there was nothing left to do but face it. heath took a deep breath, his pulse quickening, and started moving toward her. each step felt heavier than the last. he knew this was the worst decision he could make tonight, but he had no choice now.

"just gimme five minutes, yeah? that’s all i’m askin’" he started "ain’t here to cause a fuss, just thought i'd come say hey. ain’t no way i can pretend ya ain’t standin’ there, right? no point in dodgin' it"

[world0fmadness]

POKER CHIPS AND CARS THAT GO VROOM

fernando alonso x pro poker player! wife! reader

faceclaim: assorted but mainly jennifer tilly

୨୧ woah woah woah what do we have here? my first fanfic / smau EVER? holy moly… yeah i’m terrified of posting this, it’s pretty bad and short but whatever… i don’t actually have any social media aside from tumblr and reddit because i’m a social hermit so if any of the driver username’s are wrong i’m sorry <3 i don’t know if this’ll be a one time thing or not, we’ll just have to see, i’m not super confident in it so y’know

reading music recommendations: poker face by lady gaga - money honey by lady gaga

ynlnspokerchip: 17 years ago these pictures of yn and fernando dropped, the world changed, they altered the air…

nandoynforever: they were my bi awakening, i think 😩

> steponmeyn: literally, i remember having the second pic in my locker as a teen, i was not fooling anyone lmao

oldf1lover: gnawing on the bars of my cage 😵‍💫

ynalonsoln ✔️: wow! what a throwback… i feel very old now, i loved that coat! my husband was looking very handsome too, though i prefer how he looks now - yn ln ❤️

> oldf1lover: she’s so real, she loves her man even more as an older man

obsessedwithf1: you’re so wrong for posting these when i was trying to beat my obsession with them…

> ynlnspokerchip: girl… let’s be honest, no one will ever beat it, once you’ve got it, you’ve got it for life

loveuyn: i just need to know how a m*n that drives in circles managed to marry MY wife 💔

nandoynforever: watching poker for poker? nu uh! watching poker for yn ln? yu uh! that’s my wife right there

obsessedwithf1: the delusion is strong here, let’s not act like any sane person in the world wouldn’t jump at the chance to get into bed with both of them 😭

> ilovef1: so real… they’re both a decade older than me but one night is all i ask for… yn, fernando if you see this just give me one night

> ynalonsoln ✔️: i see you my love… but unfortunately those days are behind us, lots of love - yn ln ❤️

> watchpokerforyn: yn signing off her social media posts and comments like a letter will never not be funny to me

> nandolover: that’s all you’re taking from that response? girlie just insinuated they used to be a wild couple… jesus christ i love them

❤️ liked by ynalonsoln

ynalonsoln ✔️: i can assure you he does much more than drive in circles! his gorgeous looks (and other talents) definitely don’t hurt either - yn ln ❤️

> fernandoalonso ✔️: thank you for defending my honour my love, i will thank you more when i get home 😉

> ilovef1: oh my god, someone come get the parents, they’re being horny on main AGAIN…

> lancestroll ✔️: you think this is bad? you haven’t seen how they act in the paddock… we need to spray them with water 😭

vogue: poker icon yn alonso ln talks having a f1 driver as a husband, how she began playing poker and lots more in this issue of vogue ♣️

ilovef1: she looks SO good omg…

ynalonsoln ✔️: thank you for having me! it was an honour and a lot of fun talking with you and i hope everyone enjoys reading - yn ln ❤️

fernandoalonso ✔️: my beautiful wife ❤️ i’m so proud of how far you’ve come, i could never get tired of admiring your beauty, inside and out

> ynalonsoln ✔️: love you so much nando ❤️

> lancestroll ✔️: grid parents being lovey dovey on social media again…

> fernandoalonso ✔️: best get used to it kid, i’ll never stop being loud about my love for her

> nandolover: when will it be MY turn?

watchpokerforyn: mommy? sorry! mommy? sorry!

lewishamilton ✔️: looking good yn! great interview ❤️

> ynalonsoln ✔️: thank you lew ❤️

fernandoalonso: happy birthday to my beautiful, talented, gorgeous, incredible, one of a kind wife ❤️ i can get as many podiums possible but nothing will ever come close to how i feel when i’m with you. these past years i’ve spent with you have been the best years of my life and i look forward to the years to come, you only get more beautiful to me as the days go by! ps. sorry for burning your toast

ynalonsoln ✔️: oh my love… your words are beautiful! i think i somehow just fell even more in love with you ❤️ breakfast was incredible, even the toast, now come back to bed so that i can show you my appreciation

> lancestroll ✔️: there are CHILDREN (me) on this app… happy birthday yn, see you soon

> ynalonsoln ✔️: not my problem! but thank you lots lance, can’t wait to see you - yn ln ❤️

watchpokerforyn: the breakfast in bed picture… oh my god… she looks so fuckin GOOD 😩

lewishamilton ✔️: happy birthday yn! looking beautiful as always

❤️ liked by ynalonsoln and fernandoalonso

loveyouyn: happy birthday to OUR wife 😔

sebastianvettel ✔️: happy birthday yn! have a good one, come visit soon - sebastian

> ynalonsoln ✔️: thank you seb! i’ll come visit you and the girls soon - yn ln ❤️

nandolover: happy birthday motherrr

[ryu-skies]

past

Ren asks about Zane one night. (1.5k)

“So… Zane was your ex,” Ren starts and C noticeably tenses, not too happy about the mention of his ex-boyfriend. Ren waits for C to respond and shut him down or allow the topic to continue. C sets the crust of his pizza onto his plate, brushing idly at his napkin.

“Um… yeah. How do you know his name?” C glances at Ren for a moment before his eyes flick away.

“You said it that day when you got really drunk.” Ren starts to regret his choice of mentioning Zane when he realizes how uncomfortable C is. “I was just wondering about him, but we don’t have to talk about it. I don’t want to make you relive anything you’re trying to move past.”

C nods, thinking silently about how he wants to go forward. Ren is trustworthy and he’s the one who wants to know, so surely it wouldn’t do any harm sharing a bit of information. C leans back against the edge of the couch, looking at Ren again. “It’s okay. It’s probably better to talk about him so I can finally move on. What did you want to know?”

“The basics, I guess. His age, job. How did you meet?” Ren also sits back, getting comfortable next to C and turning his attention towards his friend. C gnaws at his lip but doesn’t stop the conversation.

“Don’t judge me, okay,” he prefaces, giving Ren a look.

Ren blinks, shaking his head. “I would never.”

“We met at a bar, he bought me a drink… Nothing too crazy.” It’s a lie, but Ren didn’t need to know about the arrangement or the money. Not now. “He was a CEO of some big name company… and he was 42.”

Ren’s jaw drops at the reveal of Zane’s age—C dated someone 17 years older than him?

“Ren,” C glares and Ren shuts his mouth, apologizing. “I told you not to judge. I got charmed by some stupid older rich guy, it’s really not that shocking.”

“Was he hot?” Ren blurts out. There’s no way C would date and sleep with someone less attractive than him. Ren chooses to believe he set the standard pretty high back in college.

“I mean he wasn’t ugly… so yes? Why is that even relevant? You saw the pictures, make your own conclusion.” C’s cheeks turn pink and Ren feels himself blush as well, feeling caught.

“Sorry, sorry. Did you… develop the drinking habit because of him?”

It’s a sudden shift to a more loaded question and C exhales, looking away. “Kind of. I, um… I would go out to clubs and get drunk as an escape. I don’t know what I was thinking, but at the time it was better than being at home with Zane.”

Ren is quiet for a moment too long and C glances back at him, stuttering.

“B-But I don’t do that anymore! I’m not—that’s not me. You know that’s not who I am.”

Ren reaches out to pat C’s knee, squeezing lightly. “I’m not judging you, C… But if you did that often enough for it to become a habit it must’ve been pretty bad with him, huh?”

C grits his teeth, thinking back to all the times he’d argue with Zane and all the terrible ways each one ended in. Ren is smart and too observant, but C tries to cover it up anyway. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“C, did he—”

“I said it wasn’t that bad.” C cuts Ren off, a hard boundary drawn. Ren retracts his hand.

“Got it.”

They sit in a bit of an awkward silence, both unsure of where to go from there. C made it clear he didn’t want Ren to push so he didn’t, ready to back off completely.

“Um, we lived together.” C continues, shifting the conversation about Zane into a less touchy territory. “I’ve never lived with someone before that.”

“Yeah? I mean, I’ve only lived with Dae and I’m sure that’s completely different than living with someone you’re dating.” C laughs and Ren relaxes a little, glad the tension has calmed down. “What was your place like?”

“It was his. A big penthouse on the highest floor of the building. Something I’d never be able to afford even if you and I put our life savings together.”

Ren gives the thought of a shared bank account with C two seconds to linger in his mind—it’s nice to imagine, but he doesn’t let his mind wander.

“It was actually a really nice place if I separate it from all the memories of Zane. There were these giant windows and you could see the city perfectly at night, all the lights and everything. And there was a huge tub, the temperature controlling kind that only rich people can afford.”

“Really? I don’t know, I feel like you could buy one of those after saving for 5 years, maybe.”

C smiles again, that pretty carefree smile Ren chases, but it melts into something more bittersweet too soon. “The place never felt like home, though. Even if the two of us were both there it always felt kind of cold and empty… He told me I didn’t have to renew my lease here but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. I felt like I needed to keep my apartment as a backup just in case, and thank god I did. I was kind of hesitant to move in in the first place, actually.”

“You didn’t feel that excitement?”

“I did for a moment but I was more nervous than anything. It wasn’t like…” C peeks at Ren, hesitant. “Stop me if this gets weird.”

“Okay.”

“You know that week we spent together in college? The first week of winter break before you flew home where you stayed at my apartment. We were together everyday for the first time, falling asleep and waking up together…”

Ren’s heart races at the memory, a time that was so long ago but still felt so recent. He remembers those feelings at their full intensity, the excitement, the happiness, the taste of a life together. He knows exactly what C is going to say next.

“It wasn’t like how it felt with you.” C meets Ren’s eyes and turns his head away quickly, the tips of his ears red. “S-Stop staring at me like that! I’m not hitting on you, I swear! It’s just that you—”

“—That I know the feeling.” Ren smiles fondly, also turning his head away from C. He presses a hand against his cheek, feeling the heat on his face. All from a simple memory. “I get it, C.”

Ren looks back at C and finds him looking worried.

“You know, I think it’s okay if we talk about us too. We dated, we were in love. We have history and we should be okay with talking about it. I don’t feel awkward bringing up our past and you shouldn’t either.”

C visibly relaxes at that. “I guess you have a point… It’d be weird if we never talked about it or were too scared to do so… It’s not like we have feelings for each other now, anyway.”

Ren knows C is right but it still hits him like a knife, right where he keeps the lingering feelings for C that have never once left him. He nods instead. “Yeah. It’s a part of us and our friendship.”

His response is worth the smile from C he’s rewarded with, but once again it’s gone too soon.

“I’m really sorry, by the way. I never properly apologized for breaking things off with you so suddenly. I was young and stupid, but it upsets me to think about the hurt I caused you. I should’ve talked to you after and given you some closure. You were so good to me back then and I was so selfish.”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Ren nudges C’s shoulder with his knuckles. “Clearly I survived and forgave you, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. There’s no point in feeling bad about something in the past.”

“But—”

“It’s okay, C. Really.” This time Ren draws the line and C accepts it, arguing no further.

“…Thanks, Ren. I’m happy you’re here.”

Ren hums, looking away from C. There’s a question on the tip of his tongue, but he’s not sure he wants to know the answer—it slips out anyway.

“Did you love him?”

“H-Huh?” C asks with a stutter but Ren doesn’t repeat himself, knowing he heard clearly. He waits and C stares down into his lap, voice soft when he finally speaks. “…Yes.”

Ah.

Ren doesn’t know why it hurts. It all logically makes sense, C loving a man he dated for over a year, a man he lived with and spent time with and slept with, but it hurts anyway. Maybe because it took C so long to return the sentiment in college when they were together, or maybe because C still looks back and says he loved a man who clearly wasn’t good for him. Either way it hurts, but C doesn’t need to know.

“That’s nice,” Ren says instead, turning to C with a small smile. “I'm sorry it didn’t work out.”

C shrugs, head leaning back against the couch.”It was for the better.”

[veilxstars]

“Hey, no need to apologize, Leo. I get it. Meeting your favorite author can feel like a big deal. Hell, I’m just trying to figure out what I’m doing in a place like this after all these years. It’s a little surreal, to say the least.” He chuckled dryly, the sound almost lost in the background noise of the bar.

“Trust me, I’ve had my share of starstruck moments too, but usually, it’s me standing there, wrestling with the demons of my past, trying to get them to leave me the hell alone. Self-doubt? It’s practically my shadow.” Puck leaned back, the weight of his words heavy. “It’s funny how the mind works; you can publish nineteen novels, yet still feel like you’re scrambling for validation.”

When Leo mentioned his preference for psychological horror, Puck nodded. “Yeah, the good stuff gets under your skin better than any hit. The stories that make you question everything, those are the ones that linger long after you close the book. The Ragged Man, you say? Solid choice. That one’s got a way of gnawing at you, doesn't it?” He offered a wry smile. “I guess I’ve done my job well if it sticks with you like that.”

He paused, contemplating Leo’s enthusiasm. “Poetry, huh? We all have our phases, and it takes guts to put yourself out there. If you ever feel like digging it up again, I’d be happy to give you some brutal feedback—just like my family used to do. Joking - my family probably doesn't know that I'm published, and if they do - they don't care.”

Puck glanced around the bar, taking in the familiar ambiance mixed with the scent of old wood and spilled drinks. “But honestly, if you want to stick around, I won’t bite. Probably. Sometimes, it’s nice to share a drink and just… breathe. This town can feel like a weight on my chest, and I could use the distraction.” He gestured to the empty seat beside him. “Join me when you get off the clock - I'll still be here."

Even as he started talking to the man, Leo knew he shouldn't have approached him, at least not like this. He should have gone over to Puck - Puck motherfucking Thorne, his favorite author - and just acted like he would with any other customer, asking him if he wanted a drink and then leaving it at that. But of course that wasn't what he had done, and now Leo was silently cursing himself for being so starstruck. Real smooth, Leo, he thought with a sigh. This wasn't like him at all, but he had momentarily lost his cool, and now he was just trying to regain some semblance of it. "Ah hell, sorry, I shouldn't have bothered you," Leo remarked, running his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. "I guess it's not every day you meet your favorite author, especially in a sleepy little town like Cardinal Hill, so I sort of forgot myself for a second. I shouldn't have bothered you while you were writing." Of course that was what he was doing - what had Leo thought when he saw the notebook? He knew if he was working on something that he would have hated to be disturbed, yet he had done the exact same thing to Puck.

Luckily the author didn't seem totally put off by Leo's excitement, but Leo had regained some of his self-control now; hopefully he would come across as composed in his admiration. He wasn't used to being thrown off like this, that was for sure. "I get that," Leo replied as he poured Puck his drink. "Sometimes we're our own worst critics, and also...it would be unreasonable to assume everything a published author writes is actually worth, you know, publishing. That's just part of the process I'd imagine." While Leo wasn't a writer himself, there had been a period in his life when he'd tried his hand at poetry. He'd been a hormonal teenager once, and he had thought that a romantic poem would be the way to his various crushes' hearts. That hadn't been the case for Riley in Atlanta or Katherine in London or Luke in Auckland though, to name a few, though maybe Leo's poetry had just sucked. "But clearly at least some of what you write is the opposite of trash," Leo proceeded. "So that's something, right?"

When he heard Puck's question, Leo paused, considering it carefully. "Wow, this is harder than I thought," he replied, a bit at a loss. How could he choose? "It really depends on my mood though when it comes to the type I like, though I think I favor more the psychological side of horror. Those ones keep me up at night more than the gory types of stories for some reason. I guess they just feel more...I don't know, they feel real or something." Pausing for a moment, Leo laughed, saying, "Believe it or not, I'm a little more eloquent than this normally." More seriously, he went on, "But I think my favorite is actually The Ragged Man. That's the one I re-read the most."

For a few moments, Leo just looked at Puck, still in awe that they were talking right now. But then he said, "I'll let you get back to it. Really, I shouldn't have bothered you. I'm not going to be some annoying fan though, so like I said, just let me know if I can help you with anything."

[ficsnroses]

—𝑵𝒆𝒘 𝒀𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝑲𝒊𝒔𝒔. 𝑱𝒐𝒉𝒏 𝑾𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓.

summary: there is a handsome man at the new years eve party, and you’re just tipsy enough to ask him to be your midnight kiss. little did you know, that this mysterious stranger would someday become the very breath in your lungs.

warnings: brief consensual sex. pregnancy mention. alcohol. lotta fluff! x f! reader. 5.4k words.

notes: this is the last holiday themed fic, and most certainly one of my faves. this story takes place over the span of like five years ugh they’re so cute I love them skjksdlsl!!

a/n: hi! im sorry I’m posting this so incredibly late, I kinda just took a much needed breather this past week. I really hope you enjoy this, I really do adore this fic. I’m still a little insecure that my writing and descriptions maybe weren’t to the level that they normally are in this, so please do leave comments and feedback if you give a read. it is very much needed, and helps encourage me to write more for you. enjoy!

Five…four…

Good things must be willing to be found.

Comfort, is not without gratitude of where it all began.

They were the first things you taught him. And the same things he teaches you each and every day.

Three…two…

You’d often heard of the one growing up. How he’d find you, whisk you away to a world of your own. One where there is only you, and him. It’s a strange thing, to think that someone who means so much had once been merely a stranger.

One.

That the one, was always meant to be.

There was a heavy lightness in your chest.

And, the brew of a headache that would gnaw tomorrow morning subtly carving to your temple. There is a sweetness in your mouth, the tang of liquor had become familiar over the course of the evening. There is a weightlessness that blooms in your chest, and the life of a New Years Eve party pulses through you in each breathy jolt.

It’s a savoury, heartwarming sound. The sound of happiness, the laugher of dear friends and notable strangers.

Strangers….

It’s a funny thing, the term strangers.

You think of it often.

Perhaps strangers are merely stories waiting to happen. Tales waiting to be told and people waiting to become a reason for a heart to warm.

Perhaps from the very beginning, from the start of it all. Some people are simply meant to be, and some stories are simply meant to become.

There is no escape.

You are burning for a long time. Whether it was the searing warmth in your chest, or the sight of a beautiful stranger sat across the open space. Wondering, longing, staring with your eyes struck across a well lit room.

No escape, no escape, no escape…

Those warm brown eyes are far too captivating. And in them, you see decades of something that simply draws you in. As if some part of you had seen him and simply realized that it was against his skin you wished to be.

As if maybe, from the start of it all. From the beginning, written into the stars and printed into the cosmos. As if the very atoms that make up him had been near the ones that make home in you.

Some stories were always meant to be.

Some people are simply so beautiful, it takes a mere mortals breath away.

You are burning, and there is no relief. Not for a long time.

Until him.

“Gosh, he’s hot as fuck.” You bit your lip slightly to the sound of your friend’s voice, eyes focused and piercing the way of the mysterious man with long brown hair that curtains the sides of his face dreamily. Her dialogue is low and smooth, no doubt one designed to bring comfort and swell that subtle ounce of courage you needed. “Every girl here has been eyeing him all night.”

Your curved shoulders relax marginally, and you feel the hot breath of another friend loud over the music, grazed upon the shell of your ear. You had been huddled with a group of girlfriends, all eagerly ogling the tall, dark and handsome man sitting at the open bar.

You wonder if he knows he is being watched. If he was sure of the way so many women tonight had simply ruined at the sight of him.

His small brown eyes are a familiar shade; one reminiscent of his rich locks.

The silk of your hair brushes lovingly across your cheeks, and you bite your lip when his eyes briefly find yours across the well lit room, only to look away not long thereafter.

The tempo of the loud stereo song changes, and you feel your best friend tug you closer, voice dwelling in your ear. “I dare you to kiss him.”

You don’t respond.

Only your searing chuckle and fervent sip of your drink, do.

“Come on, Y/N! Everyone’s gotta kiss someone at midnight.” You hear the buzz of several girlfriend’s voices around you in unison, all bashful and encouraging in their endeavour. There is a throbbing red that almost blooms to your cheeks, and you groan when a friend nudges you, crystal ice of her drink cold against your arm. “The worst that happens is that he says no.”

There is a biting, cold remark to your words and you roll your eyes when one of them holds a shot of liquor to your face. “Yeah, and I completely embarrass myself in front of him.”

“Or, he says yes, and you go home with him tonight.” Another winks.

You hear one of them exclaim cheers, and the clink of shot glasses almost sounds soothing amid the bouncing measure of music. It burns like a flame when it washes down your throat; the sweltering pour and you feel another intense wave of lightness buzz through you as the tonic begins to take effect.

The surge of poise that awakens inside you is borderline frightening. You hear their voice pulse through you still, blended giggles and erupting laughs. ‘Do it, do it, do it!’ they all cheer.

It comes like a lightening bolt.

Boom. Boom.

“Fuck it.” You mutter under your own breath, eyes focused and intent on the mysterious man with the rich brown hair and café du lait eyes.

You didn’t realize how stridently your feet seemed to carry you his way.

There is no escape. His lips are a temple.

And you, wish to cease it.

It didn’t begin with shy grazes of each other’s hand, or nervous introductions.

It began with quite the opposite, actually.

It began with cheap liquor, and the taste of Red on your lips. Your pencil heels click along the marble below, and you allow a breathy inhale to the sight of his toned figure. Muscles bulge underneath the seams of his casually thin cardigan; his frame proved peak physical shape. Muted lights reflect on the crystal of his glass, a curious drink swilling inside. Something amber, almost auburn.

Whiskey, perhaps?

Bourbon, maybe.

Titan shoulders and rippling biceps. They bulge when he lifts his arm to take a sip, and something about the way his lengthy hair seems to brush delicately along his nape causes an ache inside you.

He has no right to look this devourable at a party. You’re unsure how to describe the sensation that pulses through your body in slow, sizzling waves. A simple look at him seems to make your heart stutter in your chest.

You can’t do this.

The purge of your thoughts stops you, and you halt uneasily in the wake of your trail.

What if he’s taken?

Surely a man as unfairly handsome as he has been with his fair share of women.

Oh to crumble under his touch…

Trail your fingers along the sensitive curve of his bearded jaw….

   his hair falling into place like dominos when you pull him close…

Stop.

Snap out of it, you whisper to no one but yourself.

It is better to have tried, than wallow in ‘what if’.

It is better to have failed, than let the moment slip.

   It is better to have loved, than to not at all.

Neon lights dance across his features, washing over the quiet look of jaded written across his face. He seems older, exquisitely older. A man with experience, splendour. Perhaps a decade, maybe two your senior.

He doesn’t seem to look a day over forty, you think.

He leans against the bar counter, nonchalant in his demeanour, respectful of the scene.

He isn’t scanning every lady here with the pry of his eyes, never one to intrude. A respectful man indeed, preferring darker shadows than to pulse through the evening, fire blazing in his veins like almost every other man here.

You’ve heard the term ‘charming’ before.

But you think, it was him that gave it meaning. Something about the relaxed, yet confident set of his shoulders, the lean of his inviting torso, the accentuated curve of the sharpness of his jaw.

Its tough to focus when all you can seem to hear is the sound of your own heart hammering in your chest to the beat of the music’s loud blare.

A glance to the clock, and you feel a rushing urge wash over you.

11:59pm.

You must act quick.

It is electrifying, encouraging and strident; the blare of the music that ignites inside you. It’s exhilarating, and the lightness in your chest paired with the gentle buzz of wine on your tongue allows you to cut across the distance easily.

Its not long before you’re in his space, and the perk of his eyes when he sees you causes a rose to bloom delicately to your cheeks, despite your greatest attempts to smother it. He smiles at you, a warm, inviting smile.

And suddenly, you want to give him your entire heart, and every thought within it.

His eyes find yours, yours drink him in.

…11:59:10…

“Hi, I’m Y/n.”

Your eyes flicker over his features, and you admire the way he sits straighter in his seat, eyes drawn to yours as he regards you.

A pause.

Then, the pierce of his gaze into yours.

His eyes seem to find you, and only you in the midst of a well lit room, pulsing with so much noise. You hear him speak a greeting to you casually, brow arching lightly with a smile.

Its reviving. Finding something that seems to drown out all the clamor around you. Filling your eyes with something, someone who seems to make every other thought fade away into the far distance. “This might sound completely silly, I understand if you decline.” You admit reluctantly, thinking back to how perhaps this was the worst decision you’d ever made when you realize how triumphantly real he looks, how alive he seems from this close.

…11:59:20…

His expression was blank, yet still holding a gentle smile, and that unnerving glimmer of interest that he allows so easily.

Back there with your friends, he almost seemed like a mere mural your mind had selfishly conjured up, and suddenly, you feel a growing beat in your chest that promises your heart would die a little if he says no.

Back there, there was you. Simply you, and your little huddle of hype ladies. Here, there is only him. Just you and him, a mere foot of distance separating you, and a thousand questions you could ask each other.

A million words to say.

His attention is fully, undividedly focused on you, and you admire the way he waits for you to continue, eyes only yours in this moment and his attention written in your name. “Everyone here is finding someone to kiss at midnight…” you began pleasantly, fingers curling tighter around the glass of Cabernet in your grip. Your head tilts nervously to one side, and you allow your gaze to flicker to his hands rested to his lap for a brief moment, before connecting to his warmer, mysterious ones once again. “I was wondering if you found someone yet?” was the inquisitiveness of your tone, gentle in its reach, and you pray he can’t hear the nervousness that gnaws to it.

It slips through his ears like silk, nonetheless. Smooth, full of something that seems to warm him to the soul, although he can’t quite put his finger on it. But he knows, he wished for you to keep allowing gentle sounds and quiet whispers off your lips for his ears to indulge in, so he could analyze them further.

Understand what it was about your voice that suddenly pulled such easy going warmth out of him.

…11:59:30…

Warm brown eyes, richly brown hair. Brown, is most certainly his colour, you conclude. Something lingers behind those warm brown depths, something kind, something searching. After about a second or two, his expression breaks and joints in his neck easily move, his head tilting back.

He reads deep into your words, and his large fingertips reach out for his short glassed drink on the counter, though he halts to take a sip. He only draws it closer, observing you with a curious, yet delighted stare.

You watch as he rubs the callous of his large palms over the ridged fabric of his jeans on his thighs, coyly, yet oh so assuredly all at once. “Uhhh,” was the richness of his tone, eyes diverting below, not necessarily to the marble floor, but to the distance dwells between you. “No, I haven’t.” He allows, thin taut lips curling upwards, a sparkle in his eyes. “I wasn’t looking, actually. But we could…” Was the mysterious man’s gentle chuckle, and he didn’t have to finish his sentence for your heart to skip a beat, or two.

His voice is rich. Pleasantly rich, deep with a subtle gravel, and you feel yourself unravelling underneath it when it melts against the shell of your ear.

…11:59:40…

He is even more beautiful from this close. The very top of his collarbone is exposed, showcasing the sharp curve of it intimately. He seems to regard you thoughtfully, eyes road mapping over your features, too. Not pryingly, not hungrily. Simply breathing you in, reading you as if you had suddenly became his favourite novel. One that was familiar, yet allows you to find something new in it through each read.

You notice a spray of faint, delicate freckles just along the path of his nose and under the sensitive skin of his eyes, too. So faint, they’d never have been noticed had you not been so breathtakingly close to him.

There is a stillness between you, and your stomach churns to the thought of what could happened in a mere twenty seconds.

He actually said yes?

You hope he doesn’t notice the jolt of joy inside you as he watches, rising off his seat from the high bar stool. Its lax, when his hands dip into the seams of his jean pockets as he stands close to you; the type of close that sends a warmth shooting down your spine and the feeling of euphoria simmering in your veins.

He seems quieter, not a man of many words.

Older, wiser. Not one for the crowds. You see it in his eyes, the decades of give. Perhaps, he was a friend of the host’s husband; a colleague, a familiar comrade. Forced to come out by his pal, someone who certainly preferred to stay home and out of the buzz.

He is reserved, yet achingly present. From this close, he seems almost larger than life; quiet, but a gentleman nonetheless.

You hear the countdown begin.

Ten,

Nine,

Eight…

You feel him shift beside you, holding his drink to yours with a kind smile daubed to his face. “Cheers.”

Clink.

The tang of red against your tongue is far too familiar.

Seven,

Six,

Five,

Four…

Your gaze connects with his as you both watch the crowd buzzing around you, a loud countdown now beating through the air in unison of joyful voices. His eyes meet yours, and both your bodies inch closer together, finding your lips spoken in sync as you countdown together.

Three,

His hands curl around your waist, slipping to the small dip of your back.

Two,

Yours, nestle around his neck, your tippy toes working to close the distance between you and him.

One…

He’s big, warm, and beautiful against your body, and you feel your heart skip a beat and your breath hitch momentarily when his gaze meets your sincerely. It is fixed, on the verge of spilling over as you both instinctually pull each other closer, and you almost dissolve under his touch when his fingertips skim respectfully along your spine.

The crowd cheers, and you both do, too. In unison, a humble hello to the brand new year. And a hello, to each other, too.

Your lips part, and your eyes close.

And suddenly, the world comes crumbling down. There is no place you’d rather wish to be.

Fireworks are one thing. But this—this feeling? This felt as if his lips had set your entire heart on fire. It’s the type of kiss you feel through your entire body as soon as your lips touch, the type that revives you, cuts through your every nerve ending like a drug that could surely cause the world to ruin.

There seems to be no place he ends, and you begin.

Your heart beats to the sound of music around you.

It also beats to the feeling of his fingertips gently brushing your skin.

It’s a slower kiss, a softer, calmer one. One that seems to simply melt between you two, slow and searching in its endeavour. His lips are thinner than yours, but oh so soft. It causes a shiver to erupt down your spine and your hands to trail into the silk of his tresses, and you admire the way this warm stranger seems to tilt his head gently, slowly, achingly slowly—just enough to miss your noses from bumping. One of his hands trails to the swell of your hip, as the other stays delicate on your back and you sigh, feeling the hot sear of his breath on your skin. He takes your bottom lip by surprise, and in his movement you feel decades of experience. The smell of his cologne is hypnotic beyond reason, and the mere thought of him against you washes over, nearly silencing every other thought.

You continue to kiss far after the ball drop. You seem to simply kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

Its soft, slow and indulgent. When you both pull apart at last; your own inhale breathless, his Adam’s apple firm when he swallows lithely. Your wry grin widens, and you almost dissolve under his thoughtful gaze when you pull apart; his hands still holding you close, dark gaze still intently drawn on the sight of your exposed bottom lip.

Your blood roars in your ears in the aftermath. Its not long before he has let you go, and you straighten your stance with a smiling smear his way.

You stand face to face for a moment—with him simply gazing into you and you back. His expression seems to be both guarded, yet open all at once and you realize that your body has become merely a coiled, taut mass of muscles and limbs.

His gaze is driven by something more than just lust. Something warm, something familiar…

Its almost unnerving how intense and thoughtful his eyes regard into you. As if from the very beginning of it all….

We are all matter. Simply atoms, protons and electrons. Here from the beginning of time. from the start of it all. Something inside you roars; something inside you is electrifying all in the same.

Perhaps his soul and yours, are very old friends.

The shadowy stranger lifts his hand, expensive watch polished in the dim light when he reaches out for your smaller hand to shake.

The words pour into your ears like honey.

“Hi,” he hums, pleased and transfixed while the orbs of his eyes roam the slopes and dips of your smooth face. “I’m Jonathan.”

Jonathan.

Be still your beating heart.

You grin brightly, easily amused by the sheer beauty of his name. It suits him, the earnest, buttery form of identification. “I go by John. John Wick.”

You allow a soft giggle, eyes shimmering and a beautiful glisten to your exposed skin under the dim light he has come to admire. His hand feels larger, firmer in yours. “Wick…like a candle wick?” He laughs at your return; a low, throaty sound that comes from somewhere deep in his chest. A genuine sound of amusement and it simply sinks into your bones like the very rays of sunshine itself.

“Like a candle wick.” John replies gently, a small smile twisting the corners of his mouth as a warm shine washes over his features. His answering grin is crooked, and it seems to make him appear younger, handsomer, if even possible.

You talk for a while.

You seem to talk for hours.

He walks you home that night. With, your phone number in his hand, and the electrifying feeling of a soft kiss you’d left stippled to his perfectly groomed cheek under warm streetlights, amid the January snow.

It’s a funny thing, how everyone begins a mere stranger.

He blew into your life like the first fall of fresh snow on a cold December night. One that revives you and reminds you of all things good, all things beautiful.

Patient eyes and silent strength.

That was the first time John Wick took your breath away.

But certainly, not the last.

You find yourself sat across him in your favourite coffee shop the next morning.

The sun filters in through crystal windows, and you admire the new hues of warm you see in his rich hair—how they bring out the colour in his gorgeous eyes. He sips your favourite dark roast, and nervously tucks a stray hair that fell to your eyes behind your ear.

It’s a cold January morning, but this tall, dark stranger. He seems to warm every inch of space into the very marrow of you.

You join him in the park the next day, one he claims is his favourite. He holds your hand warmly as you stroll, and you clutch his bicep as you admire blue New York sky together.

An intimate dinner at a fancy restaurant a week later, he’d brought you fresh roses and listened to your sweet voice all evening. Every small sound, every syllable that left your lips he’d savoured. Held it inside his lungs as if a breath, refusing to let it go until another would find him. His hand delicately holds yours across the table, gently brushing a soothe to your palm with the callous of his thumb. His smile is one that could bring even the sun to its knees.

Yeah, you think to yourself. You’ll keep him around.

Your cable knit cardigan drapes over his sofa a month later, as you two make dinner together in his white marble kitchen, his preferred Red on your lips. His favourite music plays on the kitchen stereo, and he leaves soft kisses wherever he pleases every now and then as you teach him how to make fresh pesto. Some to your shoulder, a few to the curve of your cheek.

You might have stolen a few, too.

You’ve come to adore the ones on his lips.

In his bed another month later—

His arms encapsulated around you like irons as he holds your nude body close on his bare chest, skin sticking delicately with shared heat, and a breathless whisper on your tongue. Your silky cheek is soft, resting just below the planes of collarbone and neck, and he leaves a delicate peck to the crown of your head as your breath syncs together, and your easy heartbeats do, too. He’s made you his tonight, and you’ve simply lost yourself as you come down from your highs, the feeling of his fingertips ghosting over the skin of your naked back soothing you.

He held your hips firm, tightening with every jolt, every aching thrust into you as he’d made you his. Half lidded eyes and pink lips, breaths slow and mingling as they moaned each other’s names as if reciting a prayer. Each curve, each dip of your bare skin had been on display for him and he’d made love to each part of it; watched the way your modesty bounced for him, watched the way you’d begged him to feel deeper into you. You’d held onto his shoulders, stared into those warm brown eyes that you don’t remember when had begun to mean so much to you.  He is big, warm, and beautiful inside you, and under his touch you are born anew.

He’d cupped your face tenderly as his hips rolled in and out of you.

You’d touched his skin softly, held onto him as your eyes slipped shut.

Over and over, you’d both seen the world outside go blank.

Forgot every place that hurt, every grim.

Simply forgot the taste of your own names. There was only you in that moment. Only you, and him. Only ever you and him.

You’ve had sex before being with John. But this? It feels—

It simply feels.

As if, the entire universe in all its wicked, rotten, horrific beauty had been packed into this sole moment. As if nothing else was worthwhile, nothing but him. You’ve had sex before,

But it was John, who’d shown you the meaning of making love.

“I think I’m falling in love with you, Wick.” Was your quiet whispered confession, melted against his skin as you trace the supple outline of his jaw and bottom lip. He only chuckles, and draws your body closer, love in each grip.

“I know I’ve fallen in love with you, peach.”

You knew it from the first moment you laid eyes on him all those years ago, at that damn New Years Eve party.

He’s different. He is unusual; almost too good for this world and this realm of reality.

He is a miracle. A man far too good, far too loving, iron in his veins but soft, running water in his heart.

You find yourself by the water on a chilly January evening three years later, under fairy lights lit above the pier. You and John have come to adore this spot—you come here often when he is away and you miss him.

This is a spot that remembers you, and will for decades, centuries to come.

This beautiful little spot has seen your love. It has seen every stolen kiss as you look out at the water together, every careful caress of each other’s cheek, every embrace that seeps warmth from each other.

This spot will feel your love forever.

Because your love, is simply that strong.

The city skyline bleeds a million little stars, midnight sky delicate when it filters across your features.

John loves that, the way soft, gleaming light kisses your cheeks, and he finds himself unable to draw his hands from you all evening.

You love that about him, too. The way you feel his unwillingness to part from you every single day you spend together with him, in this perfect little paradise you’ve carved out for yourselves. The calming purr of crisp winter waves crash along the seawall, and you sigh softly to the sight of running water. John’s lips part, and the gentleness of his flickering gaze is unfairly beautiful when he takes soft hold of your hand, bringing it to his lips for a kiss.

He gets down on one knee that night.

One knee, and the promise of a lifetime, forever written in your name. In sickness and in health. Till death do apart.

“Never leave me.” He’d whispered against your pink stained lips, his forehead pressed to yours, and the lightness of his thumb swiping across the delicate curve of your cheek.

“Never.” Was your soft promise, eyes filled with kind tears as you brace the sides of his face—and, the weight of a beautiful diamond ring on your finger.

He kisses those tears away. Normally, John hates the idea of you crying. These tears, however, he was much okay with. Tears of nothing but unconditional joy.

Pure happiness. Exactly what you deserved.

And he did, too.

You married him in the Autumn of the following year.

Declared him all yours, until the end of time.

There isn’t much to fear when the man they call the Reaper himself kisses you so softly, loves you so tenderly, and holds you close so dearly.

John Wick still takes your breath away.

John Wick— your husband, and the only man you wish to share each and every kiss with until the end of your time.

Five…four…three…two…

one.

His lips are achingly familiar on yours.

Those same fireworks from all those years ago. The type of kiss you feel through your entire body, the type that revives you. Your lover still sets your heart on fire.

There is no place that he ends, and you begin.

And there never will be. Your heart beats to the feeling of him against you.

John has his arms carefully wrapped around your waist as he draws you close, and yours have taken due place around the curve of his neck, fingers tangled in his silky midnight locks and you tug gently. The cold weight of his wedding ring presses into your skin as he continues to kiss you, even after the ball drop, just like he did all those years ago. Tenderly, he sways you side to side as you cling to each other, brimmed with easy going joy you both still pull out of one another.

It soothes you bone deep, his rich baritone when it simmers, vibrating through the shell of your ear as you hold him, pressed to his chest. “Happy New Year, Mrs. Wick.”

The comfort of his unyielding embrace is where you feel safest. Most comforted, most triumphantly alive.

Leaning your head back gently, you allow the soft pad of your thumb to trail lower, brushing the sensitive skin under his eye as you admire him, the feel of his fingers soothing the slope of your back making you melt for him. “Happy New Year, baby.” Was your whisper, hand rested over your lover’s heart and a smile that would never break if he was near. “I love you.”

He only leans down, pressing your foreheads together tenderly, a smile bloomed to his perfectly aligned features. “Forever my New Years kiss.” John whispers cheekily, noses brushing together and a gentle chuckle brews up from the pit of his chest when you giggle, cupping his jaw as you offer a soft kiss to his bearded cheek.

“You know,” was the heartfelt muse of your lips, index finger playfully tapping the broad of his chest. Your lips twitch with a knowing, spirited smirk. “You are still that smoking hot stranger every single girl at the party wanted to get with.”

The man before you smiles, deep rumble of his baritone washing over you and making you grin all the more. “And you, are still that gorgeous, brave, wonderful, independent, beautiful woman that I couldn’t stop looking at all night.” John prompts easily, truthfully, with a brush of his thumb to the apple of your cheek. “What you taught me changed my life, sweetheart. You changed my life.” He whispers, sincerely as he gazes soul deep into your eyes.

Good things must be willing to be found.

“You became my life.”

You suppress a grin, licking your lips as you admire the powerful dips and slopes of his shoulders. Your hand still rests over his chest, just above his heart and you pull him closer, already excited to fall asleep next to him tonight where you can hold him close in the wake of a new year’s dawn. Your voice is soft, a mere whisper that solely grazed your lover’s ear. “Think we’re gonna have a good year?” you ask, fingers lazily coaxing his skin.

“Our best one yet.” John whispers lowly, hands resting to the feminine swell of your hips, and he leans down gently to place the softest kiss to your newly pregnant, growing belly.

You’d only found out you were expecting a few weeks ago. A couple of weeks ago, and John had realized that he had finally found everything he’d ever wished for. Every missed chance he grieved, every lonesome night spent alone had all been worth it.

He’d do it a million times over if it always meant he’d find you.

You feel your heart skip a beat and your breath hitch when you hear John, still leaning, face in level with your belly as he quietly whispers. “Mommy and Daddy can’t wait to meet you this year, squish.”

Pregnancy would be a journey, but you can’t wait. Not when your husband is the human embodiment of perfection himself. Not when he holds you, and his baby closer to his heart than the very breath in his own lungs.

Even if they weren’t even here yet.

Five years ago you found a home. You found it within a man with rich brown hair and warm cocoa eyes. And, a heart that ached for the type of love you’d always dreamed of.

Your lips almost seem to ache from smiling so much. What a beautiful thing—your husband makes you smile so much, that it almost hurts. With your fingers laxly massaging a soothe to his scalp, you wonder aloud, eyes meeting John’s as he comes back up, towering over you once amore. “Think we’ll tell our little bug that story? From that New Years Eve when we first met?”

Joy dances over his features, and he draws you closer, arms back around your waist. “Absolutely.” Was his endearing return, and you inhale his achingly familiar scent lovingly, fingers tightening along the nape of his neck. He winks, voice laced with tease. “With…a few details cut out of course.”

Good things must be willing to be found.

And John Wick, will thank the sky every single day.

Thank the universe, that you found him.

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[oh-for-fic-sake-library]

Thicker Than Water Chapter Two

Masterlist

Summary: Sherlock has to not only come to terms with meeting you, but has to let his coven know what you are. And what you will become.

Warnings: Vampire au, mates, mentions of blood, scary strange dark atmosphere, slight mentions of torture, slight mentions of bodily harm.

A/N: here is chapter two! Woohoo I’m on fire~ another short one though. But meh im slowly powering through this one, next one will be fun! Enjoy!

Word count: 3300+

After Pandora had left he'd all but tore threw the fridge devouring all the blood he could find. He had lost his control his thirst peaking as if he were a new fledgling all over again. And he was ashamed to say he'd fed like a rabid beast. Piercing  the blood bags violently, savagely ripping and gnawing the plastic as the blood flowed.

So much so he had to retreat to one pf the upper bathrooms to wash up and dump his blood soaked clothing in the fireplace. He didn’t dare put it in the laundry and let you see the remains of such brutal rabid behaviour.

If the others noticed they didn’t  say a word. Each tip toeing around him knowing something had happened for them to arise to a blood bath in the kitchen, bloodied clothes burning and their coven leader cleaning up in the shower. They were concerned he could feel it, his boys. Sons and grandsons all bitten and turned from his blood seeping through their veins.

Sherlock walked into the main room of the house, striding past the others who all watched him subtle gazes and took a seat at the huge dining table. His coven drifted towards him some takin seats at the table others hovering as if waiting for orders. They were concerned, it wasn’t  like him to loose his cool and binge.

But Sherlock couldn’t  spare them a second glance at the moment. His mind buzzing thought of what to do now? How he could woo you and coax you into his home permanently.  Was it safe for you to return? If not how could he claim you? How could he convince you to bond with him? Without your job you had no reason to encounter him!

"What was it with you and that girl? Did she do this to you?" Leon broke the tense silence. He always was the impatient one. Sherlock glanced to Leon who was perched on his usual seat at the breakfast bar. His hands scrolling through reviews of the latest book he'd wrote. The man was far to full of himself and had not only wrote his own interview with a vampire style biography, but was also dabbling in writing supernatural porn or 'erotica' as he chose to call it.

"Girl? Sherlock had a girl over?" Clark asked next a soft grin on his face. He tipped his head like a puppy a light glinting in his eyes. Excitement radiating off of him like heat off the sun. Sherlock heaved a big sigh and leant over the table snatching the mug of warmed blood from in front of august and sipped. Simply thinking of Pandora made his throat dry and itch. He would never be quenched until he fed from her.

It was a bittersweet moment.  The moment you found your true heart, the promise of forever, love and happiness. The prospect of living a whole life in the sun once more and having your thirst quenched. But the such gifts had a price, blood. He would need to feed from her. But he didn’t  know if he would be able to stop. Should he not pull away and kill her? His chest tightened like tar and stones filling his lungs and bruising his heart. No. He couldn’t  even think that. He must find a way to endure.

"No the cute little cleaner~" Leon added putting his tablet down and swivelling his stool to face the table with a grin, wriggling his brows definitely not reading the room. Or maybe he was and wanted to cheer his maker up? Sherlock sighed taking another long drink from the mug stalling. Three thousand years have past and yet here he was unprepared for this conversation. He felt like an anxious child.

"I heard you talking “Leon finished with a nervous look shrugging as his voice got quieter. He was worried he had overstepped. Sherlock finally place the mug down and wiped the corner of his mouth with his thumb. Catching the drop that tried to stain his jaw.

"She roused me from my slumber" he finally spoke, trying to think of how he was going to announce his news to the others without them all becoming over protective nanny's. God they will all want to lock here away here like a doll, protect her and keep her out of harms way in the only way they know how. To smother.

"Was she loud? I'll tell her to quiet down next time-" August began with a less than impressed look. His eyes gave away his intent, he would scare her. The realisation rose with a snarl in his throat, he released the sound with a roar fangs bared and eyes pinpricking. The pupils become slits contracting so tightly in anger that they weren’t even slits, more a tiny dot in a sea of dangerous red.

"You will do no such thing. None in this coven are to frighten or chide her. She is under my protection any untoward acts directed at her will answer to me" his voice carried through the room with a dark hiss, a promise of retribution that none had heard before. The rooms temperature seemed to drop everyone held their breath as if he had sucked all the air out of the space.

He hissed and looked away unable to look his child in the eye. He never wished to frighten his own, august was trembling. Sherlock slumped into his seat, letting his face soften and shoulders relax trying to show his boys that he wasn’t  a threat. He wouldn’t attack. He'd never attack his own.

"Sherlock?" The eldars heart clenched at the fright filled voice of his youngest.  Clark looked like he was about to cry, he was frightened beyond anything he’d seen before. Even turning the young man hadn’t made him smell so scared.

Sherlock moved slowly leaning forward placing a hand on his sons shoulder patting him reassuringly drawing a slight smile from him. 

"Pandora has... Enchanted me boys. Her scent roused me from my sleep an hour earlier. As soon as she entered the nest I was up" Sherlock began slowly, gently explaining exactly what happened wanting to ease the boys in to the reality that he'd found their den mother. That his heart walked the earth.

"Her blood? It does smell sweeter then others. An untainted human line, like the humans of the old world" Walter asked confused leaning forward pressing his weight on to the back of a dining chair. He was frowning not following what his maker meant.

Sherlock couldn’t  blame him, Walter always needed facts. He needed the whole picture before stating an opinion. Very meticulous. Sherlock flicked his gaze to the former detective.

"I thought it was my thirst but no. I followed her scent, watched her for almost two hours and not once did I wish to bite. I had no urge to feed from her. I? I needed to just be there with her." He mused almost to himself, but the others hung on every word as if he were preaching gospel. He shuffled in his seat and grinned casting his eyes to the sofa that still held his hearts lust sweetened scent. The tangy sweet spiced scent. Rich and thick. Perfect.

"So I spoke to her. Her fear upset me. She almost cowered but soon found I was no threat. We were both curious of one another. She gave me peace, calm and quiet" he added trying to put words to the feelings his Pandora had ignited.  But words failed him, it was indescribable.  A belonging and serene calm laced with arousal and excitement. He felt like a teenager who’s seen his first pair of breasts. A tingling exhilaration of what’s to come.

As he tried to find the best way to describe his experience he noted the others were sharing looks and whispering, light muttering and mouthed words each asking what the fuck was going on. So Sherlock decided to put them out of their misery.

"She’s my heart" the chatter stopped. The room fell silent with the eldars words. No one moved, or uttered a word. The atmosphere became serious, sy even took his boot clad feet off the table and sat upright in his chair.

"Gods! Really?" Sys voice thundered, booming across the open space with glee. His face lit up in disbelief and excitement.  Sy had been his first child and understood Sherlock’s longing more then most. He to wished to find his own heart and receive their bloods blessing.

"Yes. But I am unsure how to approach the topic. We have spoken a little, she warmed to me but nothing had transpired. She is very clueless, despite working for vampires she doesn’t follow publications about us" Sherlock said to sy trying not to let himself fall to the warm giddy feeling in his chest. He felt like a butterfly trapped in a glass jar. Frantic and craving freedom, freedom to love and laugh and enjoy his ever life. But still contained and stuck trapped inside his own beastly desire, that could shatter at a moments notice and cause all kinds of havoc for him, his coven and his innocent little heart.

"She doesn’t? How can you tell" august asked slowly, finding it strange the human hadn’t researched exactly what and who she worked for. Surely she would want so know if her employers were high standing rich vampires? Shed want to know so she could swindle them. She was a poor cleaner who’d been forced to take any job she could get and just so happened to land a cleaning job in a vampire nest.

Sherlock watched the thoughts crossing his sons face and drew a deep breath blinking at him. Sy was not one to beat around the bush so to speak. He was blunt and very cut throat. Everything was a mission, a goal.

"She does not know who I am. Or what I rule" Sherlock reiterated and cast a quick sharp look around the room pinning all five of his blood line to there spots.

"And she will not know until I am ready to divulge such information. To her I am an old the coven leader, nothing more" he warned letting his tone of voice do most of the talking. Thick a low, an order.

"But you a king of old! One of the very first! Surely she'd throw herself at your feet if you told her of your title;" Sy replied with a hint of anger, the vampire was offended. How dare this little mortal not know who Sherlock was?! He was one of the first; an original of his kind a king!

"Syvaeirsón" the latter paled it was never a good thing when his creator slipped into the old tongue. The nord blood in his veils may run cold, but a single growl of the name in his mother tongue made him falter.

To look at Sherlock you’d think he were nothing of true power. But looks were deceiving, sy had been raiding with his shield brothers on foreign soil when Sherlock had found their camp. Sy had been observant enough to notice the vampire avoid any silver hued metal and had taken a chance thrust his silver band at the vampire. Trying to blind him. That one act of futile, yet thoughtful stupidity earned him the bite. Not that Sy held anything against his maker now, he'd realised a gift when he received one.

"Forgive me" sy breathed the words out praying he hand angered his father. Sherlock smiled and tipped his head to his oldest.

"I do son always. But I mean what I say, she is not to know" he spoke calmly not wanting to make his son feel guilty or reprimanded. Sherlock never liked being the stern father but sometimes he had to be. It doesn’t mean he enjoyed it, it was his duty to lead and raise these vampires to protect and defend them. Sometimes he had to put his foot down.

"So are you unsure about her?" Walter asked trying to pull his creator back onto the topic of his new found heart and what to do with her.

"No. She is my heart. Of that I am most certain. But I do not wish to be barbaric and take her as a brute. Id much rather she fall into my embrace willingly, I want her to step into the night of her own will" Sherlock hummed imagining  what life could be should he succeed in claiming his heart, his perfect human companion.  It would be bliss, not just to walk in the sun, or have his thirst contained but to have his other half beside him every step of the way. To hold and love unconditionally with no strings attached,  no motives or underhanded tactics or expectations. 

"So the blood?" Clark asked flicking his gaze to the kitchen that still reeked of blood and sanitizer. The two mixing into a metallic alcohol stench that would linger for days.

Had Sherlock been human his cheeks would have grown pink. He was embarrassed by the display, he shouldn’t ever lose himself like that but? He couldn’t help it, the thirst was worst than he'd ever known. He was lucky the fridge had been restocked days before he fears he'd have tried to hunt in the day light and met his own end in a frantic panic.

"Was an accident, I was unprepared for such a rabid hunger. I’m glad I sent her home early. I will feed everyday now whether I need it or not." He spoke quietly, sheepish yet reeling. He felt full and sated for the moment but even he knew this would only get worse until he claimed Pandora.

"She should remain here. She should be here, all the time. We should keep her you never know what could happen, should she die now you’ve found her it could?" August began trying to find a way to protect his maker and coven. Sherlock couldn’t  blame him, the boy wants to defend them from anything and everything that could bring harm on them. Sherlock doesn’t doubt that if august had his way you’d be holed up in the lower chambers until turned. And possibly just after as well, but that would be a sure fire way to make you hate them and he didn’t  want that.

"I’m well aware. But as I said I am being cautious she is young and flighty. I don’t want to risk her running, Id only hunt and frighten her." Sherlock rose as he spoke making sure to push his love and gratitude through his bond to the coven. He smiled as they all visibly relaxed feeling the paternal love wash through them. It always settled them when things got serious, no mater how old or powerful they were, they were al, his children and needed reassuring. 

"But I want you all to watch for her. Should a single hair on her head be harmed by any supernatural in my territory end them. Am I clear?" He added turning to each of his sons levelling them each with a look.

To his relief they all nodded agreeing to his request. He was sure some would argue but none of them did. And for that he was truly thankful. It would seem none of his brood were jealous of the prospect of another joining their nest.

"Of course none of us would risk you your heart. With that being said I will go and? Research our little nest mother. Find out her address and places she frequently haunts" august said with a grin and nodded for Walter and Leon to follow him into the deep bowels of the house to a well equipped office.

Over the months you found each time you arrived to do your shift Sherlock was always present. He would talk, sometimes make you take breaks when you seemed flush. He'd even gone out an purchased some tea and filled the cupboard with food for you. You found him to be very doting, he liked to watch over you, not in a scary boss way. But he'd keep an eye on you.

As soon as Sherlock began interacting with you, the others did as well. Each coming to see you, being polite and gentle. But it would seem that none were to get too close. Sherlock would not allow it. Not that anything happened as such. You noticed if the others were around they were not to be alone with you, if they were Sherlock quickly called them away or entered the room. It was like he was guarding you?

But that wasn’t  to say Sherlock didn’t  let you build small friendships. They all seemed to be eager to make friends and help you out. It was like a popularity contest. You had Leon offering you free copies of his books which you reluctantly accepted with a bright red face when he wants to talk about the blood play scenes in his books. Syverson was always at the ready to carry things deemed two heavy for you. Walter and august were quiet but lingered and handed you coffees or juice when you were thirsty or to hot. Clark was sweet always asking questions and striking up conversations... well until Sherlock come and interrupted hogging all of your attention.

In between the strange little friend contest you’d somehow managed to develop a routine. Come in and pop the new kettle on making yourself a tea in the little travel mug that had been left beside it as a gift. And then you’d go from top to bottom. Strip the beds, dust, polish, sweep and then clean all mirrors before cleaning the bathrooms  and mopping the floors. By the time you’d finished the first floor Sherlock would seek you out to greet you. And then you’d continue down the houses remaining floors. And Sherlock would insist on you taking a break before doing the laundry and remaking the beds with fresh linen.

You winced. Today was not going to be easy, you decided to do the harder jobs first. The wound on your side screaming at you. The great revelation was an excuse for the uglier side of humanity.  The Anti Fang movement. Vampire haters had been loud and proud of their racist bullshit. But things escalated quickly, there were attacks. Not on vampires so much, but those humans who sympathise with them. Or work for them.

It was just your luck to have your fuck buddy room mate be one of these pricks and to find out about your cleaning job. So he and his 'friends' had been abusing you. First it was insults, then pushing shoving, hitting all the while threatening you to leave your job. The coven had asked about the bruises, limps and sprains.  Luckily you could put it down to human clumsiness.

But it had only taken a few weeks before your roommate  seemed to lose the plot and had out right attacked you drunk. They had branded you. Carved 'fanger cunt' on your side. In a savage attack. You’d screamed, cried begged but to no avail. And going to the police wasn’t  an option. As soon as you said 'vampire' they didn’t  want to know, vampires dealt with there own after one had perished in police custody.  It was political now. You just hoped to god that none of the coven noticed. Especially not Sherlock. You’d have to be careful around them, which was easier said then done.

[critical-thinking-is-mandatory]

Chats and Bags

Marinette and Adrien have been happily married since they left school and she finally feels ready to tell him the truth. She’s Ladybug and Guardian of the Paris Miraculouses. Unfortunately, maybe the cat should have stayed in the bag.

Marinette slumped back against the closed door with a tired, but satisfied groan. She toed off her heels and wriggled sore, sweaty, stockinged toes.

“Honey!” Marinette called into the apartment. The lights were on, casting her home with warm, soft light, and the tv hummed quietly from the loungeroom. She hung her coat on the hook by the door and stretched, padding into the kitchen. “Adrien, I’m home.”

“Princess!” Adrien hopped down from his perch on one of the kitchen’s bar stools and came bounding towards her, smiling brightly. He scooped her up into a hug and span them both around, giggling like a little girl. “How was work?” Adrien set her down with a kiss on the tip of her nose.

“Good, we finally got all the kinks worked out for the Winter bridal line but that’s not important right now. I’ve got something really important to talk to you about.” Marinette smiled and took Adrien’s hands in hers. “How about we talk over dinner?”

Adrien winced. “Oh. I already ate.” Ah. Marinette spied the emptied takeout containers sitting abandoned on the kitchen bench. One person’s serve. Adrien caught her and flashed a blinding smile. With the sparkle in his eye and Adrien’s perfect smile, Marinette couldn’t find it in herself to be annoyed despite the hunger gnawing at her belly. He bounced on his toes. “I can listen while you eat.” Marinette shook her head and smiled, ignoring the tightness of hunger in her belly.

“That’s okay, it can wait.” Marinette took a deep, steadying breath. “Just- just sit down, I need to go get something.” Adrien perched on a barstool, still smiling brightly. Marinette padded away down the hall to her workroom. Tikki floated out of her blazer pocket and smiled encouragingly when she was at eye-level.

“You can do this Marinette!” Tikki chirped. She flitted about, practically dancing in the air. “It’s Adrien! You two have been in love for years, telling him you’re Ladybug will just make your relationship stronger.”

Marinette steeled herself, confidence boosted. “You’re right Tikki. I can do this. I’m Marinette!” Marinette powered into her workroom and burrowed down to the bottom of her scrap fabric chest. She pulled out the wooden box at the bottom and Tikki phased into the lock and the box popped open on well-oiled springs. Inside, cushioned by stained scrap cloth, was the Miracle Box. It had changed as Marinette grew older and wiser in her role as Guardian, turning from the giant spotted egg, into a baby pink briefcase style sewing kit.

Marinette took one more deep breath to steady the shaking of her hands before reaching in, drawing out the case and standing in one movement.

“Okay.” She smiled nervously at Tikki. “Let’s do this.” Tikki gave Marinette one more bright smile before hiding away in Marinette’s blazer again. Tikki’s weight in a hidden inner pocket, nestled close against Marinette’s side, was soothing and familiar enough to spur Marinette on once more.

Marinette left the workroom behind her and with each step down the hall, towards Adrien, her dear, sweet, perfect Adrien, the box in her hands grew lighter. With every step Marinette took she got closer to finally, finally being able to share her burden. Closer to never having to keep another secret between them ever again. Marinette had everything else she’d ever wanted, and the only thing standing between Marinette and Adrien’s future (with three kids and a hamster) was one teensy, tiny, itty bitty little conversation.

“Phew!” Marinette said to break the quiet, too loud, and she winced when Adrien startled.

Adrien looked between Marinette and the case curiously, perfect golden brows furrowed in a mix of obvious confusion and curiosity. “Your sewing kit?” Marinette perched on a stool opposite Adrien, taking her time to straighten the kit on the island between them. She forced herself to meet Adrien’s eyes, suddenly trembling with nerves.

“Not just a sewing kit,” Marinette murmured. Just do it. Like ripping a band-aid off. She opened her blazer and Tikki floated out, giving Adrien a cheery little wave. “It’s the Miracle Box. I’m Ladybug, Adrien.” Tikki giggled and settled on Marinette’s shoulder.

For his part, Adrien seemed unphased. He smiled brightly with that little twinkle in his eye Marinette had always adored.

“Adrien?” Marinette gently pressed. She didn’t want to press him for a response but his silence was making her heart tremble. Adrien’s smile grew to a thousand-Watt beam and he seemed almost to vibrate in his seat.

“I’m so glad you finally told me,” Adrien chirped. He reached out and brought Marinette’s hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles and then another to her sparkling wedding ring. “Now we don’t need to keep secrets between us!” He pressed another kiss to her knuckles before grinning dashingly. “Plagg.”

“Plagg?” Marinette whispered. She felt cold and hot all at once. “So you’re-“

“Chat Noir, yes.” Adrien grinned in that smug, ‘cat that got the canary’ way Marinette had come to expect only from her partner. Seeing it on Adrien’s face made her stomach flip and decidedly not in the butterflies and curling toes and shivers down her spine way. “I’m so glad you finally told me M’Lady, it’s been agony not being able to call you My Lady every day.” Marinette’s blood froze.

“What did you say?” She whispered. Ice crept through her veins and closed her throat.

“I’ve wanted to call you My Lady for years, and now I finally can!” Adrien pressed yet another kiss to Marinette’s knuckles before ploughing on. “Well I’ve known for years M’Lady!” Adrien – Chat – Adrichat? practically purred. “Ever since I saw you leaving my room after gifting me my favourite beret.” He sighed dreamily, apparently totally ignorant of the ice in Marinette’s blood slowly creeping from her blood into her expression. “It was Fate, M’Lady, and look at us! Together forever because you finally saw that we were made for each other.”

That phrase was painfully, heartbreakingly familiar. “Adrien, I don’t understand. Are- what are you saying? Did you only marry me…because you knew I was Ladybug?” Marinette’s eyes burned with potential tears. “I thought you loved me.”

Adrien finally seemed to realise things weren’t completely fine and dandy because his expression fell into that kicked puppy look he was so good at. “Of course I love you Bugaboo! You’re the Ladybug to my Chat Noir, the yin to my yang, the creation to my destruction.” Marinette snatched her hand out of Adrien’s grasp and his expression crumpled like tissue paper.

Marinette stood, her stool scraping and Tikki dislodged from her shoulder. “My name is Marinette.” Her breath hitched and she snatched up the Miracle Box, clutching it to her chest. “You know I hate it when you call me Bugaboo. You know that.” She stumbled back when Adrien stood, still smiling that cat grin.

“There’s no need to play coy anymore, Princess,” Adrien purred. “We’ve been married since we were eighteen.” His stare grew hot, eyes darkening and he circled round the island. Marinette shifted towards the doorway. “You and I know each other intimately.” Adrien pressed closer still. “What are you so upset for? We’re happy together, aren’t we?”

“You lied to me!” Marinette shouted. Her outburst seemed to shock Adrien almost as much as it shocked Marinette herself. “Did you really only love me because you knew I was Ladybug? Would you have even considered dating me, marrying me, if you thought I was just plain old Marinette?”

“Well what was I supposed to do? You wouldn’t let me in as Chat, so when I knew for sure who you were behind the mask how was I supposed to resist?” Adrien demanded and if Marinette had any doubts he was Chat Noir they were thoroughly, utterly trashed on the floor. No one else could be so entitled, so, so pig-headed! That was the last straw. Marinette steeled herself.

“I’m going.” Adrien startled. “I…I need some – some time to myself. Don’t call me. I’ll-“ Marinette’s breath hitched and she forced herself to continue past the lump in her throat- “I’ll call you.” Marinette fled, barely remembering her coat and shoes as she bolted out the door.

“M’Lady!” Adrien called. “Princess!” His voiced cracked, clearly nearly in tears. Adrien’s heartbroken shouting cut off with the closing of the elevator doors. Marinette let out a sob, finally breaking in the relative comfort and safety of the elevator.

Tikki fluttered up to pat Marinette’s cheek sympathetically. “Oh Marinette. It’ll all be okay.” Marinette swiped roughly at her eyes, drawing away the tears that were starting to fall. Tikki gave her a soft, sad-eyed look. “You should call your parents, Marinette.”

“But it’s so late and they need to be awake early tomorrow to open the bakery and if I keep them up too late-“

“Marinette,” Tikki interrupted firmly. “Your parents love you, call them.” Marinette gave in, pulling out her phone just as the elevator doors opened. Tikki hid away in Marinette’s blazer. Marinette dialled her parents’ number, slipping her coat on one arm and her shoes back on as she listened to the dial tone.

“What if they don’t pick up?” Marinette worried. She didn’t have to.

“Marinette, honey?” Her maman answered. “Is everything okay, sweetie? You’re calling quite late.” Marinette sniffled.

“Maman can I- can I come stay tonight?” The doorman gave Marinette a nervous look as she passed and she realised she probably looked awful, with her tear-streaked makeup and her coat only half on. The thought only served to make Marinette feel worse and she gave a small wail that echoed in the empty street. A stray cat hissed and skittered out of her path.

“Oh sweetie, sh sh. Of course you’re welcome, Marinette. Do you want me to come pick you up?” Marinette wiped her nose on the back of her hand.

“No, that’s- that’s okay Maman.” Marinette sniffled again, listening to the click of her heels on the sidewalk as she collected herself. “I’ll be there soon,” Marinette assured her maman. She forced a wobbly smile even though Maman wouldn’t be able to see it. “I promise.” Marinette hung up and turned her face to the sky. The moon was washed out by the streetlights, and any light that may have made it past was smothered by city smog. Altogether a fittingly depressing picture.

In all of Marinette’s fussing, her planning, making contingency plans for her contingency plans, never had Marinette considered that Adrien already knew. Knew and never told her and and and- Marinette paused in the middle of the path and shrieked, stomping her feet and barely resisting the temptation to sit down in the grime of the sidewalk and cry like a little kid. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.

[refurbishedgray]

Point of Contact

Reader x Tech. Maybe we get feisty and it’s reader x Crosshair, too. In this house, we like both.

Multi-part fic; probably NSFW; f!reader (she/her pronouns)

**Updates: I’ll tag you if you holler

Summary:

“No good ever comes to the Republic from Banking Clan business,” Hunter tells them, “Let’s get this done and get home, boys.”

Arriving on Scipio with the unhelpful directive of, “be discreet, but do whatever it takes,” the Bad Batch find themselves at the mercy of a stony representative whose allegiances lie with the best deal.

Or, the one where Tech and Crosshair think the reader is as intense as she is pretty.

**************************************

Part One

The office is too empty, too bright. The merciless glare of Scipio’s sun cuts across the room, gleaming unpleasantly from the gilded corners of all the fine furniture and glass. A corner office, inherited from an out-maneuvered relic of the past. 

All light and no warmth, you think, not for the first time. Never any warmth. In your early years with the Banking Clan, being stationed here had felt suspiciously like a punishment you hadn’t deserved, a proving ground when you had already proven so much. These days, however, you’ve come to understand that the frigid peaks standing vigil beyond your window are a reminder of how far you have climbed.

Now, as you shift in your chair, the expensive Corellian leather barely squeaking beneath you, you squint past the harsh light filtering in from the floor to ceiling window at your back. It’s all pristine snow on those peaks. Icy. Easy to slip if the cold didn’t kill you first.

Yes, you had climbed and clawed your way up these proverbial mountains. And like the man who last haunted this office, it has left you with so very far to fall.

The early days had been simpler. Smile. Look pretty. Never forget what can be saved for later. You hadn’t forgotten. Beyond the pale blue sky, twinkling out of sight, are worlds fraught with battles, littered with unsuccessful or unlucky tacticians from two sides of a conflict that won’t ever be ended, not truly. You have always preferred to keep your strategizing corporate. Clean. 

A frown drags at the corners of your mouth at the uncharacteristic foray into reminiscence of the…

The…

A phrase comes to mind and you allow yourself a small, private smile against the sunlight. The bad old days. 

Since then, things have always been kept tidy.

Until now. 

An unwanted spur of concern digs in behind your chest as your gaze turns from the window to sweep over the room. To your dismay, you realize why, and realize too clearly that the concern is not solely for yourself. 

He should be here.

Things were less empty when he was around, a relic in his own right and your pride and joy and confidant. How proud you had been when you had been informed that you would require a bodyguard. “A mark of success if there ever was one,” you had told the few family members you kept in contact with, of which there were very few, upon being informed of the recommendation after your previous promotion. “Aren’t you proud?” you had wanted to ask. But you had not asked. Better not to make the query when the answer was always so heavy and obvious. 

He had become your one and only friend. But he, too, is absent now, and upon permitting the observation, your office seems at once less empty and instead, guttingly, horribly hollow. Two rotations it’s been. Two rotations to give into the inconvenience of noticing.  

No, no, you think. You had noticed. Admitting it, that is the phrase that would be more accurate, but if it makes you feel less or more weak, you find you cannot decipher the bitterness creeping up your tongue.

Rising from your seat, you at once miss the meager warmth provided by the leather as the cool office air licks at you. Once upon a time, you had comforted yourself with the promise that one day, you would get used to the cold here. It was one of the few lies you allotted yourself over the years. Crossing the office, the marble floors as white and frosted as the mountain peaks outside resounding crisply beneath your heels, you make your way to the small bar trolley tucked away in one corner. Your last guest, a senator with strong -- unsubtly strong -- ties to the Clan, had complimented your selection of fine whiskeys and other alcohols. You had not admitted then that you did not keep the bar stocked for the guests who were few and far between, but rather for yourself, to chase away the damnable chill in this place. 

Your hand stills between decanters, your mind hesitating at the threatening burn that awaits your selection.

A bad habit.

You can imagine that peculiar modulated voice now. “Madam, the faces you make.”

Instead, you shun the alcohol and the ice that never thaws, yet still gets replaced each morning, now resting in a round chest, as gilded as everything else in this room, and reach for the Felucian pear juice. Duller, perhaps, but you don’t need anymore guilt on your conscience. 

A sip, then two, settles a gnawing in your stomach you only notice once it passes. 

Intolerable, you muse, downing what remains in the glass. The beverage is sweet, almost as sweet as the air outside is cold. Too quiet. Where are -

A rush of air and sliding metal breaks the silence. Glass in hand, your eyes narrow over the rim at the assistant who scuttles in. This one has been particularly insipid since her arrival. The daughter of someone marginally important, she is small and hunched shouldered -- she hasn’t learned, not like you did, and a part of you suspects she never will. 

She stops just short of where the tile begins and as she does, your eyes track down her uniform to a pair of shoes that have never been polished. Stars help her. 

In a quavering voice, she asks, “Madam?”

You raise a brow. 

“We’ve received word. The transport with the troopers has requested permission to land. They’re on their way.”

You set the glass aside, gingerly, its bottom barely clacking against the tray atop the cart. Republic troopers. A battering ram when a scalpel is needed. 

“Ah, the Senate’s grand favor,” you murmur. 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

So many years spent with watchful eyes on you has made you good at hiding your frustrations. You swallow a sigh before it ever rises and allow yourself a brief moment to thumb the crystalline edge of the glass. The senator had warned you. 

Your voice is quiet as you instruct the girl, “Get out.”

She scurries gracelessly back through the door. It is an improvement; the last time she had squeaked pitifully before leaving. Perhaps you should have enjoyed the alcohol while you could. If this goes badly, all these nice things, all this luxury will be reassigned, a new name on the door. Such is the way of things -- you know the warnings well.  

Until forty-eight hours ago, they had been going so smoothly. An unfamiliar voice at the back of your mind whispers at you. Had you gotten complacent? You never get complacent. You had been warned for star’s sake. Senator Clovis had been all too clear that vaults here on Scipio were being targeted. You had taken that to mean the transports would be targeted as well. Credits were valuable, gold was valuable, as were artifacts and treasures. The Clan stored it all.  

But most valuable of all were and would always be secrets.

And secrets...you were very good at secrets. Finding them. Keeping them. Exposing them. 

The hand on the glass tightens and through touch or through sound, you sense that just a little more pressure will splinter it. Gently, you lift your fingers. 

You’ve got enough messes to clean up already.

.

…………….

.

Two of his brothers look unhappy. Hunter suspects he, too, looks unhappy. Only Crosshair remains unaffected, toothpick lolling from one corner of the man’s thin mouth to the other as he watches the sky shift from icy atmo to the very tips of craggy mountains. 

“Looks cold,” rumbles Wrecker from his seat, thick legs kicking out miserably. “Nobody said it was gonna be cold.”

From the pilot’s chair, Tech glances at Hunter, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. Now that Hunter can see him full-on, rather than that goggle-obscured side-profile of his, he realizes that he’d been right. Even Tech is unhappy with the assigned locale. Still, the man sniffs and turns back to navigating the gunship.

“It is Scipio,” says Tech. 

“What’s that got to do with anything? Just sayin’, a little warning might’ve been nice.”

Crosshair shifts, the movement almost imperceptible, just enough that Hunter knows the sniper is asking for his attention. “I believe Hunter was preoccupied with warning us about the...what was it you called them, Hunter? Denizens?” 

“The word does have an apt connotation for the Banking Clan,” Tech mutters. He gives Hunter another look, this one says that he’s no more excited about the prospect than Hunter has been. 

Their mission brief had been a strange one. It wasn’t their usual brand of run-and-gun from the sound of things, but it was important to all the right people, and they needed guaranteed success. “Go to Scipio, meet the point of contact, establish the responsible party, recover the stolen data.” It was more or less all they had been told. 

Hunter knows his frown is getting deeper, sinking into the lines on his face -- he can feel it pulling at his bandana, and he raises a hand to scrub it away.

“Who is this contact anyway?” asks Crosshair. “You never said.”

“Because I wasn’t told a name. We’re to meet with the, and I quote, ‘Principal Trades Specialist for the InterGalactic Banking Clan.’”

“Trades specialist?” Crosshair plucks his toothpick from between his teeth and for a moment, it takes Hunter longer than he would like to decipher the look on the man’s face. He doesn’t look unhappy...he looks intrigued. Crosshair replaces the toothpick, then says, “Sounds like a fancy way of saying ‘corporate spy.’”

“Head corporate spy,” Tech says, “If he’s - “

“She, from what I’m told,” corrects Hunter. His frown has yet to go anywhere, so he lets it stay, his hand falling to his lap.

Tech nods. “If she is based here on Scipio, we’re dealing with someone who needs to be watched closely. Some important players are based on this planet.”

Crosshair folds his arms. “Did the spy part give it away, Tech?”

“The Banking Clan part, actually,” Tech replies dryly, “We’ve dealt with spies before. The IGBC is something different. It is...new territory.”

“We’ve also dealt with new territory before.” At this, Hunter hears them all shift, their quick heartbeats settling into a familiar, all’s-well rhythm. His, too, follows. Just in time, it would seem, for the comms to squawk at them as the Marauder banks left and begins its final descent to the landing pad. He stands from the co-pilots seat, the faint tilt of the floor beneath him a familiar calm before the inevitable storm. He looks to Wrecker, who shakes his head, and then offers a grin. 

“Might be fun. Never clobbered bad guys with snowballs before.”

There’s a snort from Tech and despite himself, Hunter smiles. 

.

**************************************

.

Ten minutes later, they are suited up and disembarking into a cloud of snow flurries and ice crystals. The Banking Clan’s guards are as heavily armored as some of the Separatist patrols Hunter’s encountered. He scowls beneath his helmet. This should be a job for Jedi -- if the Jedi weren’t all dispatched to the war front.   

Soldiers...they don’t deal with these sorts of people. Not well and not effectively. Too much bad blood between the Republic and profiteers like these.

He motions at his brothers to close ranks, their familiar presences a comforting reminder that this isn’t anything new, not really. It’s a mission like any other. 

As the frosted cloud clears ahead of them, the guards, in their gilt armor and insulated cloaks, make way, too much way, Hunter thinks, for the clearance to be for a group of Republic troopers.

Then he sees her.

Half camouflaged by the swirling winds and clad in half a dozen shades of gray and silver, her shoulders draped in white fur, she stands waiting for them, her hands clasped serenely in front of her. She could be a diplomat, a Jedi even, if not for the gleam in her eye. It’s a cold thing, sharper and as frostbitten as this frozen world itself. 

He’s not the only one to have noticed. Beside him, Hunter hears Crosshair draw in an appreciative breath so quiet no one without incredible senses would notice it. In his periphery, he catches an almost imperceptible twitch of Tech’s helmet as his brother spares him a questioning glance. 

When the woman speaks, her voice is crisp, professional. “Clone Force 99, welcome.” She does not smile, but her eyes track to each of them, lingering too long, as though somehow looking past the armor to the men beneath. She introduces herself with a name that sounds too soft for the title she wears. Then, she gives them a crystalline smile. “But you may call me Trader, if you please.”

“Trader?” It is Wrecker who asks the question, finally distracted from the snow and ice. “Sounds like…”

Another smile, this one not quite as cool as the first. Amused, Hunter thinks, though how benign that amusement is, he can’t tell, and it makes his skin itch beneath his blacks. “Like traitor?” she hums. “I suppose it does, doesn’t it?” 

She steps aside and gestures at them to follow. “With me, gentlemen. First, we’ve a meeting. Afterwards, we will take a tram to the vaults, then from there, speeders to the site of the incident.”

“‘Incident’ is an awful clean way to say ‘bloody heist,’” says Hunter as he moves to follow. Her gaze slides to him, her stride never slowing. Shoulder to shoulder with the woman, he has the uncomfortable instinct to slow his steps, to lag behind, as though if he isn’t careful, a blade might slide between his ribs on a blink. He pushes aside the urge, then asks, “How many people were lost?”

“Enough,” she replies. “One could even say too many.”

“But not you?”

“Must someone say something for you to believe they think it?”

Behind him, Crosshair snorts, but does not comment. Hunter lets the statement slide, though the itch he’d felt earlier is heating to a burn now. Together, she leads them through a set of gleaming durasteel doors into a foyer as stark as it is grand. 

“Proceed through those doors.” She crooks a finger to their left. “Senator Amidala has requested a meeting in...eighteen minutes. I will join you shortly.”

Wrecker whistles, the sound too sharp to come from beneath his helmet, and Hunter glances back to see that the man has removed it, his one good eye roving the pristine interior. With a sigh, Hunter follows suit. It’s not exactly warm here, but out from the planet’s whipping winds, it’s close enough that even he can fool his sensitive skin into enjoying it. Soon, they are all unmasked. The woman - Trader - lingers long enough to observe them.

Her expression is...unreadable. There is no twinkle of bemusement in her eyes, not the first twitch of surprise. Normally, when the helmets come off, it gets at least some sort of reaction, gives him some kind of measure. 

Now, the only read Hunter gets is the fact that he can’t get a read on her -- and that, he doesn’t like. There’s no trusting people who have become so numb. 

Her gaze slips between Crosshair and Tech, where it lingers on the latter for seconds longer than it had the rest of them. Something in her frigid eyes warms, the ice of her expression cracking just enough that she might be pleased by what she sees. And Tech...for all his usual detachment, has no datapad to bury his nose in now, and he notices. 

Hunter thinks the woman lets him notice. 

His brother stands a little straighter, eyes flicking nervously to Hunter behind his goggles. Stumped, for lack of a better word. For once, flat out puzzled. 

Then, without a word, Trader looks back to Hunter and inclines her head. “Stay warm, gentlemen. I will see you soon.”

She is gone behind a pair of adjacent doors without another word. 

No sooner do they watch the durasteel whisper shut, than does Wrecker drive his arm into Tech’s side with a chuckle. Tech winces with a hiss and waves the man away. 

“Heh, she likes you.”

“I hoped it was my imagination.” Crosshair’s lip curls, his eyes narrowing until he looks away, and Hunter wonders if they’ve been reflected back at him through the shine of Tech’s goggles.

Tech runs a hand over the back of his head. “What do you think, Hunter?”

“I think she’s Banking Clan, through and through. We’re not among friends here.”

“If we let her alone with Tech, things might get friendlier -”

“Wrecker.” 

Hunter scowls. Another voice has echoed his own and he looks to see Crosshair, arms folded, rocking back on a foot to glare at the wampa-sized man. 

Tech clears his throat. “Perhaps we should wait in the briefing room?”

His heart rate, harder to hear away from the tight confines of the Marauder, sounds schoolboy quick and Hunter wishes, not for the first time, that his brother was more inclined to find company in their off-duty hours than he was. Pretty faces were fine - Hunter himself was inclined to enjoy them - but something about the mask this one wore was dangerous.

Wrecker’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. “Did she say Senator Amidala was waiting?”

“She did. The commander warned us the Senate was at play here.”

“That’s not our usual playground though, is it?” Crosshair is still scowling, his arms folded more tightly now than they had been. All that characteristic suspicion exacerbated by annoyance that has set in and won’t leave him. It makes his eyes hard, his narrow features sharpened and cold beneath the glare of sunlight on durasteel. 

Hunter shakes his head. “It’s not, but I feel better knowing Amidala’s behind us on this.”

“That makes one of us,” says Crosshair.

“Two,” Tech interrupts, his voice crisp; back to himself, Hunter realizes, his relief warm down to his fingertips, until he isn’t sure why he’d been worried in the first place.

“Three! I like Amidala.” 

“We know, Wrecker.” Tech’s smile is gentle, even as he rolls his eyes. “The poster by your bed speaks for itself.” 

Hunter’s gaze slides to his remaining brother, the smile that had spread turning crooked, then fading. “Crosshair?” 

It’s always been an unsettling characteristic of Crosshair’s that his eyes, as brown as all of theirs, manage to be so very cold when the mood hits him. The look in them is not unlike what he had witnessed in the woman. 

The observation tightens Hunter’s throat and he swallows it, turning away, and hopes not to notice it again.