#everything tastes better cooked in the woods (food tag)

[thefaceofhorror]

((Tag dump~!))

[reriart]

First, I love your fics they are amazing. ❤️

Second, could I please request a gale x tav fic where gale is trying to figure out how to cook for a tav with no sense of taste due to trama and doesn't eat much as a result.

Thank you for your hard work.

Hi! Thank you so much for your super kind words! I liked this request so much and I immediately decided to write something. Although mine was not a trauma related to the sense of taste, I have had eating problems in the past and it was very difficult for me to eat when I was younger. I hope this fanfic, set in Act I, is a chance for those who have problems with food, whatever its nature, to feel a little better! (Divider by @cafekitsune)

I'm here for you.

Tags: tav has food disorder, ageusia (no sense of taste), dissociation if you squint, Raphael cameo (very hidden, very nice), friendship with a hint of romance, random Astarion passing by, gn!Tav. English is not my native language.

Sum: Gale offers to help you solve a health problem that's troubling you, without much success. However, the magician doesn't lose heart. You can read it on AO3 too.

“You must eat something.”

Shadowheart's tone is harsh. She stares at you with the pewter plate in her hand, worn by time. The light from the bonfire bounces timidly off the now dull surface, while the sausages and boiled potatoes - now cold - more willingly reciprocate the warm aura of the flames.

She throws the plate at your feet. “There's no point in traveling together to find a way out of this damn tadpole if we're going to die because you let yourself starve and don't cover our asses.” 

You know she's right. That starving is not the solution, but how can you explain to someone who has always been able to enjoy food that everything you swallow tastes like nothing but paper? Much less to a half-elf who has the empathy capability of a nightstand?

The woman squares you off, only to turn on her heels and return to her tent, while Lae'zel, the surly githyanki, addresses you with a chk. “Vlaakith be my witness, but for once we agree. Eat, istik.”

As the strange green-skinned warrior leaves for her quarters as well, you find yourself staring into the flames until you lose all concept of time and reality. It is Gale's voice that brings you back down to earth - feet that, by the way, are covered with chunks of meat and potatoes. You shake off the boot.

“You're hiding something, aren't you?” comments Gale, sitting down next to you. Of the whole group, he is the least threatening to you so far. He has a book in his hand, which he casually flips through. “I have an intuition that it's not just my questionable cooking that's keeping your stomach empty.”

You widen your eyes and blush, flicking a bitter smile, turning your gaze to the crackling wood. “You are perceptive.”

“One of my many qualities. I'm also a very good pianist,” the magician jokes. “These hands can do many things, not just handle the Weave.” 

The man conjures a cat made of light, leaping and playing at your feet, before fading into nothingness. “Would you like to talk about it?” he asks, now a little more serious. 

You finally dignify yourself by looking into his eyes, but you regret it a few moments later. You are not very accustomed to sharing personal business; however, after a long sigh, you abandon your qualms.

“I can't taste,” you confess, looking at your hands. A dry patch of skin peeps out on your right index finger and you feel like tugging it off, but you don't. “It's ... because of a bad thing that happened.”

Gale closes the book and sets it down beside him, then rests a hand on your shoulder. “It must be terrible, I'm sorry. I-I dare not imagine,” he murmurs. He squeezes your arm affectionately. Then he stands up sharply and raises a finger. “I am one with the Weave, I will certainly find a way to make you feel the flavors again. By Mystra, magic can do anything.”

“I've already tried many times...”

“But you haven't tried asking me,” he replies, full of confidence. “'Be patient, my friend. I have a fellow who could help us. He lives in the capital.”

You shrug and reply with a monotone “thank you,” then go back to staring at your hands. Why can't people mind their own business? As if you haven't already tried every possible thing! You are just missing a demonic deal. Absorbed in this thought, you wince on the log where you are sitting as soon as you see something move in the shadows, followed by a squeak. Damn rats.

Gale runs a hand over his unshaven beard, lost in the depths of his mind (which, most likely, has all the appearance of a library), then kneels beside you and puts both hands on your shoulders, forcing you to turn toward him.

“I'll cook something for you tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow, puzzled. “But I can't taste it.”

“While we're waiting to get to Baldur's Gate, we might as well give it a shot, right?”

“We have few rations, no need to waste them.”

The wizard thinks about it. “It means I will make very small portions. These are trial and error, not inn servings.”

For a second, you swear you are lost in his eyes. Brown, with tiny hints of gold and green, they remind you of a cozy autumn forest. They are round, sweet -- concerned.

“Do you worry like this over everyone?” you ask, not realizing you actually said it out loud. Tiredness plays tricks, especially if you haven't eaten in a while. “Or is this another way of making me understand what Shadowheart told me earlier?

Gale's face is crossed by a smile, vaguely gloomy. “Don't misunderstand me. It is important that you eat, both for the mission and because I would hate to lose a new friendship. However, I am not doing this with second thoughts, if that is what you mean. I will not shove a funnel down your throat.” 

With that said, the man stands up. “To work!”

To...work? 

“...Gale?” 

“Yes?” He replies, once again wearing his crumpled, stained apron-an outfit so different from his long, elegant wizard's robe. He has a smile on his face and seems full of energy. 

“What are you doing?” you ask, getting up and following him suspiciously. “You're not cooking again, are you?”

“And that's exactly what I'm doing.” He smiles, waving a zucchini in front of your nose. Then he pulls a tomato and a potato out of his backpack. 

“Don't waste food for me, please,” you beg, placing yourself in front of him. “It is useful to you and to others.” “Unless you come from some plane where food is not needed -- and I really don't think there is any, otherwise I would know -- yes, you need food,” he replies, quickly cutting the vegetable into small chunks. 

“...touché.”

You watch him with crossed arms, jumping here and there like a ferret who hasn't slept in three weeks. “Have you always been into cooking?” 

“I-I've had some rough times. Learning to cook has kept me busy. The Weave then can lead to interesting results.” He smiles and winks at you as he pours the vegetables into a pot and begins to stir it all by twirling his finger suspended above it. Another of his magic tricks. You blush and thank goodness it's nighttime. 

“And here it is. Come closer, don't be shy,” Gale prompts you, waving. “It's not poisoned; you might expect that from our fellow Shadowheart, perhaps. The sharites act in mysterious and, often, poisonous ways.”

You can't help but hold back a laugh. You sit down next to him, looking at what would appear to be a custard. “What is it?”

“A simple vegetable soup. But I made it for you.” He takes the ladle, filling it and bringing it closer to you. “Try it.”

You look at the man disgruntledly: you already know how it will turn out and you are sorry he committed to you. You swallow a little, but feel absolutely nothing but a bit of warm slime, the bites size of the vegetable pieces in your mouth. If it weren't for the fact that your taste buds have no life, you would say it's disgusting. You set the spoon down in the pot and sigh, making to get up, but Gale stops you with a hand on your leg, inviting you to remain seated. “Wait.”

He takes another spoon, and pours something on it, a powder perhaps. You notice a container close to the tools, but in the dark you can't identify its content. “Try it now.”

You want to roll your eyes, but you hold back. You taste, but again you feel nothing but the aforementioned textures in your mouth, as well as something powdery. “What did you put in it?”

“Powdered rabbit feces. The best in Neverwinter.”

You widen your eyes and spit out the contents, hitting your chest with your fist. “That's so gross! It's disgusting!”

Gale smiles. “How can a person with no sense of taste say something is disgusting?”

You try to wipe your tongue with your shirt sleeve. “Rabbit poop would disgust anyone!”

The wizard chuckles to himself. “Relax, it was just bread crumbs. However, it pains me to warn you that, for rabbits, their own droppings are quite delicious. They eat them straight from the...”

“Gale, for the love of the gods, 'shut up!” you implore him, throwing the ladle at him and...laughing. 

You're laughing. About food. 

It's not like you, but you're doing it. You are laughing your head off, as Gale conjures up a magic bunny that is about to....

“Gods, this is revolting, have mercy!” 

“I will stop only if you eat another spoon of soup, otherwise I can conjure up far more terrible scenes...”

You laugh, covering your mouth to try to muffle the noise and not wake your companions. Just as your gaze crosses Gale's, who reciprocates with a smile, a bush of white hair peeps out between the two of you. 

Astarion shows his canines, disgusted. “Gods, that's gross. I'm glad I don't have to eat the stuff you cook, Gale.” 

“And here is our pale companion. Did the hunt went well, Astarion?” Gale takes another spoonful and makes to offer it to the elf.

“Egregiously, I thank you. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to, you know, go anywhere but here. Keep that filth away from my nose, it smells awful,” she pushes him away, gesturing with his hand. 

“All right, all right. But Astarion, you really happen to be here,” Gale reflects aloud. “Tell us, do you only and exclusively savor the taste of blood?” 

You stiffen. You don't want to reveal your problem, you're ashamed of it, least of all to Astarion who seems like someone who can use even a pair of underwear as a weapon, let alone a weakness of yours. You look at Gale and dig your nails into your legs, trying to keep your tachycardia in check.

“That's not right. You see, blood is, as you can well imagine, my main resource. The second is most certainly wine,” he begins to explain, interrupting himself for a somewhat forced laugh, then gives a cough. “I can eat human food, but it tastes like excrements. And I have to throw it up afterwards.”

“I thank you, Astarion. You know, we had this doubt and we were curious.” Gale lies, on purpose, to avoid uncomfortable questions from the vampire. “I wish you a good night.”

“To you.” And with that, he gets up and walks off into the woods again, whistling. 

“Why did you ask him?!” you whisper, hitting him with a spoon on the forehead. “He might have been suspicious.” 

“Ouch! Well, I was curious. If he had answered that it was bland, I would have asked him if he ever perceived human food differently, but he didn't. We gained in cultural baggage, on the other hand.”

But you care little about cultural baggage. You watch the soup on the stove, the lazy bursting bubbles caused by the fire that is beginning to fall asleep. 

“I wish I could taste what you cook, Gale. I'm sure it wouldn't taste like shit,” you murmur, as you play with a pebble on the floor. “I'm sorry.”

He ruffles your hair. “I'm sure we'll find a way. From now on you will try every food we get. And if we don't come up with anything, I'm sure we'll find someone in Baldur's Gate who can help you. There is hope, as our cerebral roommates teach us well.” 

You bite your lip. “Thank you, Gale.”

He smiles. “That's what I'm here for.”

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

@faytelumos tagged me to find the words sense, call, laugh, trip/stumble and red!

Sense

"Even worse. The plot is not just boring, but it makes no sense. To sum up: Guy complains about how much his life sucks while doing nothing at all about it. And the teacher isn't even going to see it because we get a new one next year anyway, but here we are." He rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Nour mocking a story he has to do a book report on.

Call

Nour went out to get something and came back with a tray of food, setting it down on the bedside table. "Breakfast in bed, just the way you like it, princess."

I flipped him a rude gesture. "Call me that again, I dare you."

Nour annoying the crap out of his friend as usual.

Laugh

He'd laugh because once upon a time, he didn't smell of blood and tobacco and an overpowering fragrance, instead he smelt of something charming and boyish, a soft perfume he'd gotten as a gift, a mix of pine and some exotic wood he didn't remember the name of. He loved mushroom soup, the only thing his father cooked better than his mother had. He snuck comic books to keep him sane through boring classes. He wrote sappy poetry to girls he liked on their birthday cards, always in a red fountain pen and a neat cursive his mother had insisted he learn. He played guitar, wanted to be a rock star or a basketball player, but he liked math too much.

Jason, an oc of mine, reminiscing what he used to be like before becoming a contract killer

Trip

She gave me an airy laugh. "Of course it was. I made it so that you would trip and injure your hands specifically, making you helpless. Someone else would have to do it for you. Everything was a setup, good on you for figuring it out, genius. Only, it's too late."

A villainess that had previously seduced Karim reveals her true nature

Red

Blood was seeping from a gash in my side, hot and thick, and so frustratingly slow, like an ugly red snake. It hurt to breathe, courtesy of my broken ribs. My mouth tasted like copper and the dry skin on my lips that I'd chewed on out of frustration. I bit my lip again, drawing blood.

Karim almost dies

I'm tagging: @feline17ff @sunnynwanda @mirohtron @those-damn-snippets @deckofaces @hufflepuffwritingstuff2 @onlywhump

The words are: smirk, touch, hair, lost and impossible.

Find the Word

I was tagged by @kaatiba for find the word!  My words are shine, ring, try, calm, and hear.

—

Shine

I mostly closed the door. It squeaked slightly, just enough to hear it but not so sharply as to be unpleasant. A sliver of the cool, faintly colored light from the library shone in and faded before it reached the covered book shelves. I wandered to the desk, then sat on my haunches to remove my satchel, careful not to catch the crook of my horns.

Keep reading

[thenextchapter22]

Mail Order... Kitten Girl

Part 8: Aw Rats

Description: Satan accidentally orders a special type of ‘cat’ online after having a few too many drinks…

Tags: Pet Play, Cat Hybrids, Fluff, Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Tail Fucking

Pairing(s): Reader/Everyone (but Luke)

Link to my AO3: Click Here

In this chapter: Kitten and Barbatos spend time together!

Part One  Part Two  Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six Part Seven

Authors Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY BARBATOS!! This one is for you :))

+++++ MINORS DNI +++++

It was an early morning on a weekday. You woke up slowly, snuggling into the demon body beside you in bed. Sleeping in Belphie’s room was always your top favorite spots to get a great nights sleep. Surrounded in his bed with all his blankets and pillows he stacked up plus his warm arms around you, that was the best.

You were shaken out of the slumber by Beel shaking his twin’s arm, saying, “Belphie, Kitten, get up and eat.”

Belphie groaned, squeezing your body to him, nuzzling the back of your neck with his heated breath caressing you. “Mmmm... ‘s early, Beel. Later...”  

The temptation to stay was strong, but your stomach gurgled and you decided to get up.  

Wiggling in Belphie’s strong hold until you faced him instead of the wall, he opened one eye just enough to stare at you questionably. “Cuddle me later?” you said through a yawn.  

Your youngest demon Master sighed, but gave you one final squeeze around your waist, lingering just above your bottom with his fingers, and kissed you gently. “Fine... Go on,” he said, and opened his arms to free you.  

Beel helped you climb over him. As soon as you were out of the bed, Belphie went right back to sleep.  

With a smiling sigh, Beel shook his head. “C’mon, Kitten. I’ve made one of your favorites for breakfast so let’s get you dressed.”  

You picked at the thin silk short set you had worn to bed. Sleeping with any of them, you liked to wear little to almost nothing. Firstly, because a lot of them ran hot, and secondly so that you could feel their bodies closer to you. That extra touch made your body feel good.

You sat on Beel’s bed, waiting for him to pick out an outfit for you. Almost all of your Master’s liked to dress you. And because you usually stayed in one of their rooms, sometimes a different demon each night so it was fair—they liked to fight a lot about that—they had clothes ready for the next day.

The redheaded demon chose a soft pair of leggings and a short-sleeved scoop neck shirt, also soft,  probably fleece . You smiled at the plain underwear he helped you slip on.  Asmo , Lucifer, and Satan all liked to give you lace undies and bras, but the others preferred comfort for you. Either way you  didn’t  mind, they were your owners after all and you liked them dressing you up. The fun of it was seeing the  different styles.  

After you were clothed, Beel took your hand and smiled. “Let’s go eat.”

You smiled right back and nodded, “Mmhm! ‘m hungry, Master.”

“Me too. I haven't eaten in minutes.”

Giggling, the both of you left Belphie to the room and went to eat.

Breakfast for you was perfect. Waffles soaked in syrup, piled high with berries and whipped cream. Sausages and eggs, too.  The table was full, aside from Belphie. Your Masters all ate their weird demon foods. The day was looking to be a great one!

Once your belly was full, that was when your morning turned from sweet to just plain sour.

The worst news was given to you, and in anger you lashed out.

Which was why now, you sat dejectedly on the couch, arms crossed and tail swishing across your lap, the tip fuzzed out. You poked at your collar that was almost forced on you, a black leather collar that wasn’t uncomfortable but not your favorite, thick and ugly. A long leash was attached to it, and on the other end was Lucifer holding it. Usually you liked the leash, but not when it was a punishment.

Everyone was in the common room now, even Belphie who had gotten up after hearing the news. They either stood around you or sat on the furniture, but they all were looking at you with small smiles or smirks.

You were  not  amused. If you were an actual cat, your fur would be stuck up like the tip of your tail was.

The bad news that caused this problem... your Masters were leaving for the whole day to a RAD Student Council member only meeting that Lord Diavolo was holding.  

You hated being alone. But because Barbatos was staying behind to make a feast for when they came back, he had volunteered to watch you.  

When Lucifer went on and explained he was going to take you to Lord Diavolo’s castle for the hand  off of  yourself to the demon butler, you obviously did not want to go or for them to go and as such you had clawed at him, and thus the leash.  

You didn’t draw blood, Lucifer was too fast for that, but the reaction was enough to be punished.

Huffing in your seat, you refused to not look angry. They were leaving you... again!

Lucifer sighed, and patted the top of your head a few times. “Bad kitty’s get punished, my dear,” he said matter of fact.

Your nose twitched. “I know...”

“You promise to behave for Barbatos?” Satan asked.

You nodded. “Yes, Master...”

“Don’t look so upset, it will only be for a few hours...”

“Why can’t I just be at home alone?” you asked, glancing at them all with wide eyes.

Asmo cooed. “Last time Simeon took too long, kitty cat, and you were upset with us. We’re just looking after you.”

You pouted.

Beel smiled. “Barbatos is excited to see you. And he said he wants you to taste test some of his bakes today. I’m jealous.” He drooled.

Your ears perked up. “R-really?” You licked your lips. Barbatos was the best baker you knew. His cakes and pies and basically everything he made was yummy.

“Kitten looks happy now!” Mammon said with a grin.

Satan agreed, “She looks like the cat who got the cream.”

Asmo giggled. “She probably will, too, and I mean to say Barbatos’~”

The others groaned or chuckled. You didn’t know what that meant, but you did love cream.

“We’re having a big feast later at Lord Diavolo’s castle, so be sure not to eat too much,” Lucifer said, and then announced it was time to go.

You stood as Lucifer started for the front door, the leash taught. Your Masters all said their respective goodbyes and ‘I love you’s’ and it made you very happy inside. You would miss them so much.  

Maybe it was better to not be alone, so you wouldn’t be so sad and think about them until they came home.

Turning on your heel before the front door, you smiled. “I love you, too, my Masters.” And you meant that, truly.

They all cooed, or grinned, and you waved goodbye.  

It was only for the day, right?

_+_

The walk to Lord Diavolo’s wasn't too long. Barbatos let you inside the main entrance where you waited to be handed off like a true pet.

“Welcome, Lucifer, Kitten. We are going to have a good time together today, hm?” the demon butler smiled at you kindly.

You peeked at him from behind Lucifer and nodded once. Still, something inside of you was a little peeved.

“I trust you will be good?” Lucifer asked you, a stern look in his red eyes.

“Yes, Master, I'll be good,” you said.

Lucifer handed the leash to Barbatos, who took it without a single question. You wondered if Lucifer told him what happened and why you had the leash at all.

“She will be well looked after, Lucifer.”

Lucifer nodded. He gave you a single kiss on your forehead. “Behave, Kitten,” he said, and then he was gone out the door. You watched as he transformed into his demon form and flew off, majestic and sexy. You did love his wings; they were so soft.

“Kitten? Let’s go.” Barbatos smiled at you again, and gestured with his hand for you to go ahead and step further in the Castle.

You frowned, but did, and you found yourself in the kitchen after a little bit of walking.  

The room was a far cry from the House of Lamentation’s kitchen. First it was much larger, higher ceilings, and had several ovens and even more cooking equipment. There were tons of cabinets and a large black table off to the side. The floors were nicer on your shoes, less chance of tripping on wood floors than badly lain cement blocks.

While you glanced around, you felt a tug on your leash and a click, and Barbatos was hanging your leash on a hook on the wall before you knew what happened.

“Wha-?”

“It will be easier for the both of us. I won’t say anything if you won’t?”

You giggled. The collar was still on, but that was fine by you. “Okay!”

“Perfect. Over this way please.” He led you to a counter, and there was a ton of ingredients out. They smelled sweet, salty, bitter. Some of them looked good, others odd colored or shaped, but still had a good aroma. “Today you can help me prepare the meal for their return.”

Your ears fell. “I can’t cook...”

"That's not a problem. You have two hands, and so you can mix. And taste test for me as well.”

Now  that  you could do with great pleasure. “Yes, I want to help!”

He chuckled. “I assumed so. We are only preparing desserts now; I will finish the rest of the meal later so it's fresh. Let’s begin, shall we?”

Baking with Barbatos was fun. You got to eat so many tasty things. He let you lick the spoon with the frosting, and gave you little chocolate chips. Mixing dry ingredients for him was harder than it looked and you got some flour on yourself, but that was why you had the apron on.  

Although, it was strange that he already had the perfect one for you. It certainly was not for one of the demon brothers or Diavolo (right?).

After cooking for a long time, eating and mixing and opening and closing the ovens, setting all the pretty treats under domes on counters or in the fridge, you were totally exhausted. All the hard work and eating had really wore you out.  

You yawned a few times, and rubbed at your eyes.

“Is it time for a cat nap?” he teased.

“Barb, I’m tired.” You yawned again.

He softly laughed. “All right. Come with me, Kitten.” He put the palm of his hand on your lower back to lead you out of the kitchen. You were taken around a few doors and small hallways to a wide window with a bed seat cushion, and it faced a garden full of flowers and wildlife.

“So pretty...” you were in awe.

“I thought you might like the view. Rest for a while and I will wake you up once you’ve gotten the proper sleep.”

You curled up on the warm bedding and purred. The sun was shining in the spot, and you could fit yourself perfectly in a ball. “Thank you~”

Barbatos smiled down at you, and pet your head, his hand lingering on your neck to squeeze once. It gave you the shivers. “You’re very welcome, Kitten. Sweet dreams.”

You fell asleep watching the birds flutter around and chirp.  

When you woke up it was still sunny, but not directly on you. And you watched the garden for a while, and then you saw it.

A rat, scurrying across the field.

You made a sound and bared your teeth at it.

The window had a latch, and you undid it and crawled out to step into the garden. You were quiet, stealthy, your prey was right there. You caught it in your claws and squeezed until it was dead.

This was the perfect present to say thank you!

Barbatos had not come for you yet, so you set the dead rat on the floor of the room, waiting for Barbatos to come fetch you.  

And when he came inside, he froze up, and stared at your gift. “Kitten.”

“Barb~ I got you a gift, it’s right there.” Your tail flickered in happiness, and you grinned a fanged smile at him, proud and excited.

He tensed as he walked around it, but did not pick it up. “Did you touch that thing?” he asked instead.

“Yes, with my claws. I killed it for you!”

“I see...” He held out his arms, and frowned. “Let’s go wash your hands,” he said.

You pouted. “Are you not going to take my present?”

Barbatos’ brows furrowed. “Kitten, I appreciate the gift, however...”

Now you understood, and your eyes watered. “Y-you hate it, don’t you?”

“Not at all, kitty, not at all. I just want to take care of you first.” He grabbed you under your arms and you were taken back to the kitchen, legs wrapped around his waist. You felt like a toddler but the warmth of his body was nice. “You need to clean up before you touch anything else.”

He directed you to stand before the sink and place your hands inside. The water was hot on your hands and you cried out. He apologized, and quickly turned it down, and then poured soap on your hands, helping wash them, getting between your fingers and under your claws.

“Rats carry diseases, and Devildom rats even more. I want you to be more careful.”

You nodded. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

Barbatos gave you a soft smile. “It’s fine. There now, let’s dry them and then we can get back to baking together.”

You dried your hands and frowned down at the tiles. “I just wanted to thank you...”

He cupped your cheek and had you look at him. “I know, but you don’t need to thank me with that,” he said, not unkindly.

Oh, so that’s what he was getting at. Well, your Master’s did not say you couldn’t please Barbatos, and he did take care of you. This was the only other way you knew how to say you were grateful for him feeding you delicious snacks and letting you sleep in the cozy sun spot.

“I can thank you like this,” you said, and knelt down on the floor right in front of him, your face at his crotch.

There was one quick inhaled from the demon butler. His gloved finger lifted your head up for him to stare down at you with his pretty green eyes. There was a slight hue on his cheeks. “You don’t have to thank me at all.”

You licked your lips. “I want to. Please? Can I see your cock and suck it?”

He began thumbing your bottom lip. “If that’s what you want, I wouldn’t say no.” Then he made a concerned face. “Do you want something for your knees?”

You nodded, glad Barbatos was such a kind demon. “Please...” and he somehow had a throw pillow in his hands, and you lifted one knee at a time to get situated. “Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Quickly you helped him out of his pants, slipping them to the floor. As you did his hand caressed the top of your head, and you felt his dark gaze on you, watching every move you made. As his pants dropped to the floor, he stepped out of them, kicking them away. The mess was so unlike the butler from what you had seen.

Now he was just in his underwear, a silk dark green pair that outlined his cock and balls. You nuzzled his clothed dick. “Smells good, Barby.”  

“Mmm, you like the smell of cock, Kitten?”

You nodded. “Yesss-”  

His hand went to your hair at the back of your head to lightly tug. The pain mixed with his scent urged you on, and you had his boxers pulled down, and he was quicker in stepping out of those. His cock out inches from your mouth, half hard. Before you sucked it, you grabbed it to stroke it to life. You licked the tip once, he gasped. Then you swallowed him down and peeked up at him with a certain look, unmoving. Waiting for him to do something.

He got the idea and smiled. “Do you want me to use your mouth?”  

You hummed, hopeful he understood it meant yes. And he understood because he began using your mouth. Filling it with his slicked head, hitting your tongue and roof of your mouth. Your lips were swelling up, and you suckled and slurped at his cock.

Clawed hands went to his waist, holding him steady as his fingers clutched your hair to do the same. The pain and scent surrounding you had your pussy wetting up, soaking your undies. But this was for him, about Barbatos’ pleasure. And a Kitten could please their Master, or their Master’s friends, and you would do a good job of it, too.

Breathing through your nose, you kept a firm hold on his hips, and your tail helped by wrapping around his thigh once to squeeze. His legs were bare, strong looking. You looked up at him, and met his dark eyes, flecks of black creeping in to those slate green iris’. It was sexy and you moaned.

“Ahh, Kitten,” he moaned. His hand not at your hair went to touch your tail, wrapped around a part of it and stroked like you had done to his dick. “Such a soft tail."

You moaned louder, vibrating around his cock, tonguing the underside with your flattened muscle, flexing. He tasted tangy and filled your mouth perfectly, and a little precum trickled onto your taste buds.

The demon butler tensed and grunted out a warning before he came in your mouth, and only then did you let him go. You held his spent cum in your mouth on your tongue, and showed it to him before swallowing. It was bitter, but you had worse.

“Such a naughty thing,” he commented, and pet your hair from your cheeks.  

He smiled, and in his eyes was something new you hadn’t seen. He put his clothes back to right, and before you could react, he had you in his arms and then deposited you on the long kitchen table. The throw pillow was shoved under your body to lift you up at your lower half, and it helped keep your tail from being squished. But you were confused.

“Barb-”

“Hush now.” He stood at your feet, a demonic grin truly. “I shall return the favor,” he whispered. Barbatos’ appearance shifted, and he was in his demon form, his twin-tipped tails flickering behind him, his bat-like horns gleaming in the kitchen light.

His hands torn down your pants to your ankles, and you let him, him taking off your shoes next to leave you in socks and your top. Then you were spread open, panties glistening, socked feet flat on the table. He had you bend your legs so he could grasp your knees to keep you like that, but your pants hugged at your ankles like restraints.

Those eyes of his were basically neon green they were glowing, and he stared at your clothed core, and you tightened in response. Could he see the flex of your pussy?  

“You got wet from sucking me, hm... How delightful.” His finger went to your waist, tugging under the band, and it snapped apart. He tore your underwear from you and exposed your vagina to the air, the coolness hitting your burning heat, wetness growing.

“Ahh, B-barb-"

His tails were hovering your vagina, twitching, and you leaned your head down to watch. You couldn’t see much past your belly as he lifted you up, but you knew what his intentions were.

You begged for it, “please, inside...”

He did not hesitate. His tail slowly went inside your pussy, thick, slimy, softly scaled. It was bigger than you figured, and you tightened down and wiggled your hips.

He tore his glove off with his teeth, and his bare finger circled your clit, the sparks of pleasure helping the stretch. “It’s okay, you can take it. Be a good kitty.”

You clenched down on him again and he winced for a second, but then his tail slithered deeper and flicked at the tip to hit that spot inside and you saw stars, clutching the table at each end with clawed hands.

“You’re damaging the wood,” he said with a bit of humor, but did nothing to stop you. His finger circled your clit faster and harder, and you were close but still felt like it wasn’t enough.

That was when his second tail spread your cheeks apart to press to your anus, slimy from the wetness leaking from your pussy. You were not ready for that, not now.

You cried, “nnngg, not there, please.” Your own tail swooshed in the air, a nervous twitch, and a warning that you did not like that.

Barbatos kissed your inner thigh, holding your knee wider with one hand as his tail fucked you, sloppy sounds echoing in the room along with your heavy panting. “I know, beautiful thing, I won’t.” He left the tail tip there, slipping over your hole to join the other at your pussy, pressing against its twin. “You can take two, can you not?”

You tensed and sobbed. “P-please,” you desperately wanted to be torn open.

He grinned, sharp teeth, and shoved his second tail in along with the other. You arched your back and tossed your head to the side and sobbed, burning and intense pleasure/pain encompassing you. “Ahhhgg~”

The pace he set was fast and rough, the double tails slipping in and out and scrapping at the best parts of you, no time to adjust. “You’re so sweet, yet so naughty. I want to feel your pussy on my cock someday.”

“Uhh, yes, yes, want that-”

“Hm, I know you do.”

He was so himself like this. Barbatos was commanding and sure in his movements, and it was perfection. His head went between your legs and his mouth found your clit and licked and kissed wet and sloppily. You wished you could watch as he did, but your position only let you see his head bobbing, and his tail motioning in and out between your thighs.

He kept his mouth on your clit, swishing his tongue back and forth. “Purr for me, kitty,” he pulled back to say, and then with insane speed he fucked you with his serpent tails and licked you, like a vibrator toy for your clit.

The heat was reaching your belly in a boiling point now. Your body was hot, tense, and your toes curled, and then with an arched back, your belly tightened up and you were finished. “Cumming, Barb, cummiinnnnggg~” you exclaimed, spurting all over.  

It lasted a few moments, but felt like longer. You kept your eyes shut and felt the excess amount of your own juices dripping out. The sparks went with the beat of your heart as you calmed down, almost like an exposed wire feeling every single thing. Your shirt was sweaty. Your throat sore, from both screaming your pleasure and holding some back. There was a little bit of tears drying on your cheeks.

When you did open your eyes, Barbatos was hovering over your head, smiling that gentle smile, this time it reached his kind eyes. “So pretty for me,” Barbatos murmured, kissing your cheek. “I need to clean you up now.”

You hummed, shutting your eyes as fireworks popped up in your vision. “Mmm, clean up,” you copied.

He chuckled, and lifted you up in his arms, and you whined but allowed it. “Come on kitty, you can have another nap after.”

You sighed. “Love naps.”

“I gathered that. You may be a second Belphegor and we just don’t know it.”

You giggled. “Mmmm.” What a silly thing to say.

_+_

“She looks exhausted,” Lucifer commented. He had a slight smirk in his eyes and on his lips, but not enough for the average person to see.

Barbatos shared a similar look. “Oh yes, we had an eventful evening, didn’t we?” You flushed red, ignoring the question, and he went on, holding out a few containers. “Here. To take home with you. The feast will begin in a few hours, but I know Beel will like to have some extras.” Barbatos handed you the boxes. “Thank you for all your help today, Kitten. Anytime you want to stop by, feel free.” The green of his eyes shone, mischievous.

You held in the whine, because you  did  want to visit again. But the teasing was too much and you were exhausted mentally and physically. You didn’t even want to be standing right then.

You looked at Lucifer and asked, “Master, can we go home now?”

“Yes, we can.” He took the leash from Barbatos and you both left Lord Diavolo’s castle for the House of Lamentation.

And if Lucifer noticed the limp in your walk, he said nothing on it.  

Thankfully you were not in trouble. Your Masters, it seemed, did not care if you shared yourself. But you had to wonder the limitations of that... you’d ask another time.

So, you went home to rest before the feast, but in the end you did not go. You actually stayed behind with Levi who had plans to be online that night (Diavolo played video games, you heard, so he excused the Envy demon).

Snuggled up with him on the beanbag you lazily watched him play, occasionally getting soft pets between battles. It was boring to just watch, but you had enough excitement. This was a perfect way to end a sweet day.

[hyenahunt]

Beast Survival - 8 [END]

Writer: Nishioka Maiko

Season: Summer

Proofreading: royalquintet (JP & ENG)

Hiyori: After all, Jun-kun, you had the ambition to haul yourself up from that bottom rung, the spirit to stand up against those above you, and the determination to cling onto that opportunity.

[Location: Starmony Hall Courtyard]

Leo: Munch, munch, chew—

Aira: Nom, nom — this is the best ♪ It's delicious~! I never knew food could taste sooo good~ ♪

Tatsumi: I wouldn't have thought you'd be able to fish up a sea bream of all things, Jun-san. Impressive work.

Jun: Oh no, it was all luck, honestly. Right back at you, Kazehaya-senpai — thanks so much for handling all the food prep right away.

By stacking up some rocks together, you managed to make us all a simple stove ♪ [1]

Tatsumi: I read about it in a book once, some time ago. Who would have thought it'd come in handy as an idol?

And all that aside, you really went above and beyond in trying out a real-life survival game for the sake of getting into your role.

Jun: Nahhh, at first I just got swept up in the whole thing, really.

But if I'm gonna take up this stageplay role as a professional, I can't give 'em some half-assed work, so I decided to take this chance to really get into character.

Tatsumi: Hmm. Jun-san, you're truly diligent.

Jun: Mmm. Rather than diligence... you could say it's something like pride, maybe.

This is gonna be my first time performing in a stageplay, but that makes no difference to the audience.

Whether it's a big name or a newbie up there performing the lead role, guests still pay the same amount to come and see 'em...

So I believe it's only right that an actor shouldn't betray their level of experience to the audience.

Well, even if I say all that, my lack of experience is gonna jump out in some way.

It'll take time to build up experience, no matter what. There's no way I could rack it all up in a day, right?

But when it comes to learning my role, there's at least something I can do. That's what I figured, anyway.

If it really was something I couldn't do anything about, I would've resigned myself to it, but I don't wanna say something's impossible without even trying it first.

That's the pride I have as a pro in the making, after all.

Tatsumi: Heheh. That sort of attitude is most befitting of an actual professional, and to continue holding onto it is truly a challenge.

So, how did it go? Have you gotten a better grasp on your role?

Jun: Mm, well... Thanks to this experience, I've gained a newfound appreciation for things I normally have around me and my own abilities.

I feel like I now understand what it's like to be in a situation where I've no choice but to do everything with my own two hands, but I don't think I can really say I've completely gotten a grip on my role yet...

Since I'm no prince, much less one who's gotten exiled from his kingdom, I can't quite wrap my head around the sheer weight of responsibilities someone like that's gotta deal with.

Though my old man's a former idol, I grew up in a pretty average household, after all.

Tatsumi: ...Hmm. Jun-san, aren't you overthinking this a little?

Jun: Am I?

Tatsumi: Yes. You took such an impossible mission upon yourself, faced it squarely, and even accomplished it without ever throwing in the towel.

That kind of tenacious spirit and resolve would stay with you no matter what shape or form you take, don't you think?

Jun: ...!

Leo: Hey now~! You two over there! Quit floating off into your own little world and get over here~!

I've just had a flood of inspiration burst forth! Let's sing a survival song with everyone!

Aira: That's riiight! The veggie foil packs are gonna get all burnt, y'knooow!

Tatsumi: Ahh, so they are. I'll be right with you.

Jun: (I get it now... I'd thought I didn't know anything about the animal kingdom, but I was only judging things by my own standards.)

(Though I didn't realise it at first, all the things I felt today could be the very same things animals living out there in the wild experience, huh.)

Leo: Heeey! Namiii~! Hurry up and get over here, toooo~!

Aira: What he saaaid! Sazanami-senpaiii~!

Jun: (Maybe the Hyena Prince would feel all these things, too.)

(What a rag-tag, fun, and reliable group. If this band of merry men is the one I'm gonna be taking back my kingdom with, then well, I guess things aren't so bad after all ♪ )

I heard ya clear as day~ I'm comin' over now—!

✦✦✦✦✦

[Location: ES Breakroom]

Jun: Heya, thanks for all your hard work today. Huh? Are you the only one here, Ohii-san?

Hiyori: It seems Adam's running late at their current gig. Work is work so there's no way around it, but keeping me waiting is unacceptable!

Jun: Now, now. I'm sure they're gonna come by soon. Want some tea while you wait?

It looks like they've brought in that black tea you've been wanting to try, Ohii-san. Shall I brew some for you?

Hiyori: Yes, yes. But of course, you shouldn't even need to ask. It's a given that you brew tea for me, yes? It should be as natural as breathing for you!

Jun: There's seriously something wrong with your personality... Ohii-san.

Hiyori: What's this? Jun-kun, you seem like you've made some kind of breakthrough. That's a fine weather! A little while ago you were going around looking like you were dead inside. Did you manage to master your role?

Jun: Mmm~ Well, you could say I'm finally standing on the starting line.

Right, speaking of which. Ohii-san, you told me the other day that I was a good fit for this hyena role, didn't you?

And that I'd just have to remember why. What was that all about?

Hiyori: Hm? — Ahh, yes.

Jun-kun, you were a non-special student, weren't you? As a result, you had no more merit than a pebble on the roadside.

After all, that's the kind of system that school had, but...

Like a messiah, I extended my hand of salvation to you and lifted you up from that place. That's why you should be all the more grateful towards me, of course.

Jun: You really don't have to be so annoying about it, but I mean, it's true. I'm always telling you how grateful I am, aren't I?

But what does that have to do with what you said, Ohii-san?

Hiyori: Well, it's not like I chose you on a complete whim, of course.

After all, Jun-kun, you had the ambition to haul yourself up from that bottom rung, the spirit to stand up against those above you, and the determination to cling onto that opportunity.

That's the very Jun-kun I chose... and with a role like an exiled hyena prince, returning to reclaim his kingdom with the help of his friends — there's no way it wouldn't suit you, right?

Jun: ......!

Hiyori: As I've told you once before, you're a noble beast who can't tell lies. [2]

And you see, that's why I extended a hand to you. Isn't my foresight incredible!

Jun: Can you stop flattering yourself with everything you say? It really doesn't feel like I'm the one being praised at all.

Hiyori: I'm just saying it as it is, of course!

Now, if you just think back to those days in Reimei Academy, to when you'd first met me, then that alone would be enough for you to play the Hyena Prince better than anyone else.

Jun: ...So that's what you mean. If that's the case, then I feel like I could keep playing him all the way until the end. Those days are carved right into my soul, after all.

Hiyori: Exactly! That's why out of everyone out there, you're the one who has to play him! Jun-kun, no one else would understand the Hyena Prince better than you!

Jun: Well then, I should know just how to reply, shouldn't I?

"I'll swallow up all the fruits of your charity, and all the days I've lived through up 'til now — and then I'll show you how I've grown strong enough to hunt my own prey!" [2]

✦✦✦✦✦

Translation Notes:

[1]: Specifically a kamado, a traditional Japanese wood/charcoal-fueled cook stove.

[2]: These lines are a direct reference to quotes in Saga - Release 4 (which will hopefully be back up soon!)

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← prev ✦ all ✦

[mandoowhorian]

MY SAMBUCKY HEAD CANONS CAUSE I MISS THEM SM ALREADY

gif cred <3: @alivedean pls go check her out her content is top tier

Domestic life

Sam cuts Bucky’s hair. Idk why but I can see it so vividly while he teases Bucky about how bad he is at shaving he finally decided to start doing it for him and trims his hair when it gets too long

When Sam is sleeping on Bucky’s left side, he likes to trace his fingers along Buck’s scars around his prosthetic. It reminds him of his physical humanity. He likes to kiss along them too, especially when Bucky is has morning grogginess (he gets away with more tender gestures when it’s early)

As much as Sam protested at first, he gets used to Bucky picking him up. All. The. Time.

“AY cut it out Buck I mean it! Put me down or so help me Go-”

Sam INSISTS on doing the cooking. No one can come into the kitchen when he’s at the stove. If Bucky tries to come in to “taste test” whatever he’s making, Sam will seat him with his spatula, but secretly loves when Bucky hugs him behind in the morning when’s he’s making breakfast

However that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want Bucky to know how to cook.

He starts Bucky off with something simple: cooking eggs. Bucky’s insulted st first. Of course knew how to cook eggs. He liked helping his mom in their own little kitchen back in the day. But being out of practice for 80 or so years he begrudgingly agrees to Sam’s lessons.

(An: I don’t think Bucky is incompetent or stupid at all however he’s never had to do anything that deals with domesisity since the 40s, and even then it wasn’t socially correct for him to be doing cooking)

Next is pancakes and oatmeal. Sam wanted to start off with more breakfast food so Bucky would remember to eat if he got up early to train. It definitely goes better than Sam thought it would, but Bucky accidentally stirs the batter to hard and makes the pancakes have a weird texture, though necessarily bad.

After a almost a month of their tri-weekly food lessons, Bucky gets out of bed earlier than Sam, and uses every ounce of his being to be as quiet as he can to make him “the perfect breakfast.”

It wasn’t unusual for Bucky to wake up earlier than Sam, in fact he’d gotten used to it more and more. Bucky likes relaxing but he can’t stay in one place for too long, so he’ll get up and walk around outside or in the living room.

However he woke up and felt his boyfriend’s absence and to the familiar smell of crispy bacon and soon enough put two and two together.

He learned a lot more from Sam, except pan frying/grilling was always something Bucky could do better than anyway so his partner had the best bacon he’d ever had that morning

Bucky tries walking in with a make shift tray out of a long piece of fire wood from outside. He tried to plate everything as nice as the way the people on the food network channel (one of the few channels they have on cable but Sam critiques everyone mercilessly)

Sam loves it. He really does. He didn’t think Bucky would try and make such a nice gesture for him. Besides the eggs being slightly over cooked, everything thing was perfect.

“He better be,” he thought, “I taught him for God’s sake. He better have been paying attention cause I do not repeat myself for any man. No matter how sexy they may be.”

Training

They train together (obviously) and Bucky ALWAYS gets caught checking Sam out and he tries to cover it up with banter

“What are you looking at”

“Nothing really. I think your peck shrunk though. You should really try working out more man. Captain America can’t be some scrawny guy. Steve learned that the hard way and I though you were smarter than that.”

Or

“Who sweats that much? Really? You are not allowed anywhere in the house except the shower.”

They can’t spar long together bc Bucky will end up straddling Sam 90% of the time and let’s just say they both break a sweat doing another activity

Bucky never knew Steve and Sam’s inside joke was “on your left” but Sam hears him utter it daily on their morning runs

When they go swimming (either in the lake or in pool) Bucky will wrap his arms around Sam and pull him under for a kiss :,)

nsfw?

Sam and Bucky ✨do it✨ on the floor because neither of them can stand the feeling of a soft mattress. When they can think of it (cause they’re both horny dumbasses) they’ll lay out a bunch of blankets beside the bed or in their living room

When they’re ~in the mood~ Bucky will pick Sam up and push him against the nearest wall. He always scared he might hurt Sam without meaning to so he cradles his head and wraps his arms around his waste real tight

If you liked mine lmk and if you have any to add pls do!!! If you guys use these for fanart/fics/build upon them more, PLEASE PLEASE TAG ME I WANNA SEE IT. I’ll probably be adding more later on :)

[zmediaoutlet]

fic: there will be better days

I’m so glad about the ending of Supernatural. It found its way, in the end. This fic is me drawing out that sensation as long as I could. I hope y’all like it, but it was written in a small way for a special group in a special discord, because I’m so glad we got to experience this dumb happy thing together. <3

title: there will be better days pairing: Sam/Dean rating: E length: 9500 words tags: Post-Season/Series 15, Spoilers for Episode: s15e20 Carry On, Heaven, First Time, Pining Dean Winchester

summary: Sam and Dean settle into their heaven.

(read on AO3)

They stand on the bridge, in quiet, for…

How long? It doesn't matter. Dean keeps his hand on Sam's back and Sam's shoulder tucks against his side, Sam being kind enough to slump down against the railing so that the position works, at all. The view's beautiful. Some woods, a river. A place Dean doesn't recognize but that hums with steady life. What a miracle, that death can bring them something new.

He's splitting his attention, though. The trees, the flowing water, the late-summer feel where the bright gold of everything burnishes down toward fall, it's a sweet goad toward peace, but. Dean's eyes drag away, every few minutes, and it's just—Sam. His eyes steady on the rush of the receding water, and his hair tucked behind his ear, and his back, steadily rising and falling under Dean's hand. Not pulling away. Not fidgeting, or impatient. Like he'd be content with this, exactly this, as long as eternity stretches out in front of them.

A bird flits by, blue-and-white against the green of the trees. Sam's eyes follow it and he smiles, just barely, a pull of lips that makes Dean's heart thump sorely against the inside of his ribs. His body keeps thrilling, reminding him, over and over: Sam. Sam. He slides his hand up to Sam's shoulder and squeezes, and Sam's eyes slide to his face. "Ready?" he says.

Sam doesn't ask for what. "Yeah," he says, soft and easy, and Dean drops his head, laughs. Something that had been knotted in his chest, for years and years, loose now—everything in him, free.

He steps back, and Sam turns to keep him in sight. Dean spins the keys to the car in his palm, grinning. "You want to drive?" he says, tipping his head at the car.

Sam blinks. Shakes his head, and swallows, and when he speaks his voice is thick. "No," he says, and clears his throat, and shakes his head again. "No, I want you to drive."

*

On the road Dean gives Sam a version of the same explanation that Bobby gave him. "We can go see him," Dean says, glancing across the seat, and Sam smiles and says, "We will," but he says, "Later," and Dean's—yeah, he's good with that. Later. They have forever, to do anything they want.

It's hard to wrap his head around. He doesn't know how long he waited, for Sam. A lifetime. The length of a drive. It felt—feels—like infinity, like every second is stretched and slow and exactly as long as it needs to be. The roads out here are gorgeous, empty, room for the Impala to stretch her legs, and Dean knows in a strange and centered way that if he wanted he could drive forever, and at the same time if he parks it'll have been ten minutes, as far as his mind's concerned, and he won't have missed a thing.

The radio's playing Zeppelin, quietly. Has been since Sam got into the car. Tangerine, right now—does she still remember times like these?—and Dean looks over to find Sam looking right at him. Dean's not sure Sam's turned his head, the whole time. He could make a crack—it rises to his lips, take a picture or what, got something on my face?—but it feels distant. He gets the impulse. Sam smiles, his back against the passenger door, and Dean smiles back sort of helplessly before he turns it back out on the road, and leans back in his seat, and settles into the drive.

*

Anything they want. Anything they could need, or dream of. There doesn't seem to be any real requirement to sleep, or to eat, or to do—anything. Time, slipping strange, and a stasis of a kind if they want it. That isn't what Dean wants, but he's not totally sure, about Sam.

The world changes around curves. Massive trees obscure the turns and it feels like a new road with every switchback. A short way past and there's—a house. Not a house Dean's seen, but he rolls slower, and Sam finally looks out the window at something that's not Dean, so—a house. Okay, Dean thinks. He can deal with a house.

Two stories, and a basement, and an attic full of dust. Dean goes into a sneezing fit when he opens up the hatch and Sam sniggers at him. It's not perfect, by any means. There's a sagging porch, and the sink in the first floor bathroom doesn't work, and there's some seriously fugly wallpaper that's peeling, and a stained carpet in the rear bedroom that, yikes, did something die on it? Would that even be possible? But Sam says, "This'll work," with content in his voice, and Dean looks around and tongues the inside of his cheek and thinks, well, yeah. This'll work fine.

There's food in the fridge, when Dean opens it. "I'll fix something," Sam says, and Dean looks at him in total surprise. A lifted shoulder, like Sam's been able to make anything other than eggs and bacon and bad, bad pasta his whole life. "What? I learned."

He did. They have chicken, roasted broccoli that Dean admit doesn't taste entirely like farts, these crispy potatoes that are—well, goddamn. There's not a dining table and so they sit out on the porch, a six pack of cold beer between them, watching the night settle in. It's cool but not cold. The lamp on the porch flickers, and Dean smiles, because he's damn sure that's not a ghost and instead that he's gonna have to rip out the wiring and start fresh.

Sam leaves his empty plate on the step behind them. He leans his elbows on his knees, and looks out at the darkening sky. The treetops are shadows against deep purple and Dean wants, very badly, to put his hand in Sam's hair, to feel his neck, his back. To settle himself against the fact of Sam's spine, his ribs and lungs, all of him here. Breathing, and here. "You learned to cook, huh," he says, instead of doing anything else, and gets to watch Sam turn his head, just a little. He's still wearing the same clothes he showed up in. Strange things, that tug a little at something Dean feels like he used to know. Sam turns his head but he doesn't look at Dean; Dean just gets his three-quarter profile, and the shape of his mouth turned a little solemn, and his eyes as they flick over the view of the dark, surrounding trees.

"Yeah, I did," Sam says, after too long. "I…"

That's all, for a few minutes. Dean puts his plate down, too (mostly clean, other than some broccoli he's not gonna be forced to eat), and shifts down one more step so they're sat right next to each other, and presses his knee against Sam's. Sam looks at their knees instead of at him.

"I wanna hear everything," Dean says. He reaches and gets Sam's hand, and squeezes it, and Sam's eyes close. Shit he wouldn't have done before, but hell—he's dead, he gets to. "Everything. Okay? Every—dumbass repair you screwed up on the car, and if you took Chinese lessons at a community college, and who won the World Series, okay, because I remember, we had a bet, and I need to know if I owe you or you owe me."

Sam swallows. "Jesus," he says, under his breath, and then laughs, a little. "Jesus, we did have a bet. That was—uh, that year it was the Dodgers." He swallows again, and when he opens his eyes they're wet, and a tear rolls down very slowly, against the crease of his nose, and his mouth hitches up at the side in a piled-up dimpling fold, and his chin creases, and Dean squeezes his hand very tightly. "Dodgers. But I can't remember which way you bet."

God, Sam. Dean knocks their shoulders together and lies: "Damn, I bet they were gonna lose. How's that figure, huh? I go down and my team does all in the same year? Shitty luck." Sam shudders out another laugh, wet, and nods, looking down at their clasped hands. "Guess I owe you, Sammy. Whatever you want, okay? Figure, we got time up here. I can figure it out."

Sam's chin is still shaking. A tear falls onto the back of Dean's hand, shockingly hot. Sam takes a deep breath. "I'll think of something," he says, when he can get his teeth out of his lip. Their knees grind together, close enough that Dean might get a bruise, if there's still such a thing as bruising. Sam sniffs, hard. He always was a sloppy crier. He looks at Dean a little sidelong, and smiles kind of embarrassed. Like Dean isn't an inch from losing it himself. "I kinda—I watched a lot of soccer."

Dean rolls his eyes, theatrical, and releases Sam's hand. "Of course you did," he says, layering on the disgust, and it's enough that Sam snorts and dashes his hand over his face, and when Dean gathers up their plates Sam's enough together that he can repeat his old dumb argument that there's a lot of strategy to find interesting in soccer, and anyway over the years the U.S. got better so it wasn't even really like rooting for foreign teams. Dean brushes it off, like he always did, and the argument's dumb but it feels—right. Something locking in, something solid. He washes the plates by hand in the sink and Sam dries them, and stacks them in the rickety cupboard Dean's definitely going to build a replacement for, and then he braces his hands on the countertop and closes his eyes again and breathes, slow. Calm, now, but still something built up inside that Dean doesn't know.

It doesn't bug him, like it might have, before. Dean chews his lip, and drains the sink, and tosses the dishrag over the faucet to dry, and says, neutral, "Hey." Sam makes a small noise, so he's not in some other universe. "Just—one thing. How long?" Sam turns his head, looks at Dean, and Dean lifts a shoulder. "It's—with how the time works, up here, I got no idea. How long was it, for you?"

He looks the same, is the thing. The same as he did when Dean was standing there, in the dark, with that strange numbness everywhere south of his spine and a stillness creeping up in his heart. The terror of that moment has already faded but the rest of the feeling is right there—looking at Sam and loving every single part of him. Pinning him into memory, exactly as he was, with his goddamn stupid haircut and his wide mouth. A few greys, at his temples. His body, lean-but-muscled, trim from running. His eyes, beautiful, even as panicked as they were, even as he told Dean that it was okay.

It wasn't. Dean knows that, now. Sam's cheek sucks in, on one side. "I was 68," he says. Dean feels the air go out of himself, a little. That's—jesus. Sam doesn't look sad about it. Not exactly. He slides his hands into his jacket pockets, tipping his head. "I was—I was in bed. It wasn't bad."

Dean bites the corner of his mouth. "Guess that makes you the older brother, then, huh?"

Sam smiles, just a little. "No," he says, and doesn't elaborate more than that.

*

There are two bedrooms, upstairs. That first night they sleep in the living room, watching old movies on an old TV, Dean in a recliner that's ridiculously comfortable when he kicks the footrest out and Sam on the couch. He wakes up at dawn to Sam still sleeping, his arms folded around a pillow like he always used to do, still in that old jacket, that hooded sweater bunched up and twisted around his waist. Dean recognizes it, now. He dreamed it. His heart feels like it can hardly take knowing, but there it is, anyway. His face is soft, sleeping, and Dean gets up with his back aching just a little—turns out that there are still aches—and he crouches down, and he settles his hand on Sam's jaw, and runs his thumb over the sharp-angled turn of his cheekbone. Sam opens his eyes, slow but not like he was even really asleep, and he looks at Dean looking at him, and Dean just—it's enough. If it was just this, for eternity and past it, that would be—that'd be good.

There's a library, in the house. A small office kind of room, off the kitchen, but Sam says the books change, when he goes in and out, so it stays fresh. The fridge always seems to have something in it. There's always gas, in the car, although sometimes little things need fixing, and in the garage there are things that Dean can use to fix it, so he gets to spend afternoons contented under the big black bulk, while Sam hands him things from the toolbox, and is distracted half the time from reading so that he hands Dean the 3/8s wrench instead of the 5/8s wrench, but that gives Dean an opportunity rag on him so it works out, either way.

"Mom and Dad are here," Dean says, one day. He's doing the wiring, on the porch. As good a place to start as any. Sam's helping, kind of—actual electric work apparently wasn't one of the things he learned, over the years. "They've got a house, Bobby said."

"That's great," Sam says, and when Dean looks down he looks like he means it, soft smile and all, but Sam doesn't suggest they visit, and Dean thinks—well, later's still always on the table. They haven't gone anywhere, really, except for drives sometimes through the mountain roads, and Sam's gone for his runs in the early dawn before Dean wakes up, and Dean's found on a path through the trees a good creek, where he's fished with Sam mostly ignoring him, reading again in a lawnchair with his bare feet kicked out into the soft grass, but still paying just enough attention to smirk behind his book when Dean doesn't catch anything.

They don't really stay apart for more than the time it takes to leave a room and come back. Even with those runs, Dean only knows they happened because as he's waking up Sam comes back with sweat in his hair, and Dean gets to make fun of him for stinking up the place before Sam rolls his eyes and clatters into the bathroom to turn on the creaking ancient shower, and he leaves the door open when he does so Dean can hear the water running, and the splashing, and how Sam's apparently started to hum. He doesn't sing, but Dean recognizes the tunes anyway. When Sam comes out Dean has breakfast ready—they take turns on dinner, but for some reason Sam doesn't like to make breakfast, anymore—and they eat, and then there's some project to do or a movie to watch or a book to finish, and—Sam's right there, solidly content. Like he's making up for lost time, and taking his sweet time in doing so.

Whisky, one night. In the cupboard. It's good—some Scottish blend Crowley had left in the bunker, once, sharp and sweet and rolling smoke down the throat—and they're out on the porch again, on the new bench this time, watching the sunset come down. Sam's mostly holding his glass, rather than drinking, but he looks okay. Head leaned back against the wall, and his shoulders relaxed, broad and strong. He doesn't seem to mind that Dean watches him as much as he does the sky, but he's looking thoughtful, and finally Dean says, "Tell me." Sam rolls his head against the wall, and meets Dean's eyes. "It's been on your mind, all day. Spit it out, man."

The corner of Sam's mouth lifts. "You would've made a good therapist, you know that?" he says. Dean raises his eyebrows. "I've been… I had a son."

Dean's jaw drops. "That's—" he starts, and his brain doesn't supply anything else. Shock—bewilderment—joy, and it's the joy that wins out, and he punches Sam in the shoulder and says, "Frickin' mazel tov, dude! That's—what was his name?"

"Ow," Sam says, half-laughing, clutching his arm. "What do you think? I named him after you."

"Great choice, pick the handsome brother," Dean says, nearly automatic, and Sam rolls his eyes like he's supposed to, but Dean's still spinning through it, taking it in. Sam—with a little boy—and Dean wants to know everything, everything, but Sam's gone from content to content-but-pensive, and Dean makes fun of him for going emo a lot, but this is… "He a good kid? Doing the name proud?"

"Yeah, he is," Sam says. He huffs, after a second, like he's remembering something—some memory that Dean doesn't share. There's been a lot of that, really, although Dean's not sure Sam notices when it happens. "You'd hate his taste in music, though. And he drives an electric car."

"Heathen," Dean says, and Sam raises his hands in surrender, and then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Dean looks at his back, broad in the grey t-shirt. He sips at his scotch. "We could—probably see him. I'd like to meet him. And you must…" Miss him, is what he wants to say, except that his heart seems to catch up to what it means, what Sam's saying. That he had a boy, a kid, and he was old enough to drive and have shitty taste in music, and it was a whole life—that the kid had a mother, and Sam had a world separate to this one, and of course Dean knew that and Dean always wanted that for him, and that was true, that wasn't ever a lie no matter what else Dean felt, deep inside where he never, ever intended for it to matter, but. Dean misses Jack, sometimes, in a soft sore way—misses Ben, even, when that pain's far-distant and not even truly his to feel—but what Sam's going through, that's different, and Dean doesn't know how to touch it.

Sam shakes his head, though. "I do," he says, answering what Dean couldn't say out loud. "But I—no, I don't want to see him. Not yet. He's living, and I think—I hope he's doing the best he can. I was kind of an old dad. Old-fashioned maybe, too, but I taught him right, I think, and he'll be okay. I want to just—let him live. In my head. You know? And later, when he's finally—god, he'd better be really old—then. I'd want to see him then."

Dean gets it, and doesn't. He's not sure he could've waited another minute for Sam, if he'd been forced to. He picks up Sam's glass, abandoned on the bench between them, and holds it forward. Sam takes it, and accepts Dean's clink when it's offered. "To Dean," he says, and Sam huffs and gives him a slanted look back over his shoulder, but he nods, and repeats it, and they finish the bottle between them that night.

*

Funny, that they ended up in the mountains. Kansas was all flat prairie and farmland and endless horizons, and Dad used to joke sometimes when they'd drive across the country's flat middle that you could roll a marble all the way from Abilene to Lincoln and the only way it'd stop is if someone picked it up. Up here it feels—different. With the hills, and the trees. Like they could be hemmed in, if they were feeling bad about it, but instead it just feels like shelter. A place of their own. A place to make their own.

Sam left the bunker, he says, one day. A fishing day, when Dean's got his cooler full of cheap beer and Sam's working on yet another friggin' book, though this time he's at least enjoying the cool air, watching the birds and the river more than he's got his nose in some old dude's ancient wisdom. "Couldn't stay," he says, and Dean—yeah. That makes sense.

Little revelations, now and then. Sam doesn't seem to be in a hurry to tell them, but he doesn't seem to feel bad about them, either. Like they're sorrows mostly dealt with, or details that don't matter in the grand scheme. Dean never had a place, when Sam was gone from him, but even the car—he couldn't drive it, when Sam wasn't there in the passenger seat beside him. He gets how the bunker could've been less a shelter than a prison, when the halls were empty, and the silence got too thick. "I left it to him," Sam says, after a little while. He tucks his bookmark into his spot, tucks the book under his arms. Dean's just holding onto the fishing pole at this point, barely paying attention to the line, but Sam's watching it for the both of them. "I didn't—take him there, ever, but I told him about hunting, about the job, and I left a letter. Explaining it all, with the key and everything. It's there if he wants it."

"Good," Dean says. Sam glances at him. "Someone should use it. He's a legacy, too."

"Yeah, he is," Sam says, and it's quiet for some reason, and then he nods down at the creek. "You're getting a bite, dude—" and oh damn it, see, this is why Sam's a distraction on fishing trips, and Dean fumbles the rod and cusses at his brother and Sam just laughs, and the afternoon's easy, and Dean finally does get a damn fish and brings it home and considers leaving the guts under Sam's pillow, but instead he fries it up with dill and cornmeal and Sam makes nearly orgasmic noises, eating out on the porch because Dean still hasn't built them a table, and Dean says, "Jeez, dude, get a room," and his ears are pink but—he's happy. Sam's happy. That's been the only goal, this whole damn time. A falling-down house in the mountains, with the two of them totally alone, turns out to be as good a place to be happy as any. Go figure, Dean thinks, watching Sam suck his fingers and then turn his eyes hopefully toward the kitchen for more.

*

A drive. There's a road that snakes up high, ending in an empty lookout point, and Sam convinces Dean to come further—a hike, up to the very top of the mountain, where the trees start to thin and there's a view like—

"Holy shit," Dean says, when he heaves himself up over that last friggin' boulder, and Sam says, "Right?"

A vastness. The forest is thick and the sky's this clear, depthless blue, and the valleys and hills spread out in front of them untouched. Like they're really the only people in all of heaven, nothing but them and the trees and the house. Sam stands with his hands on his hips, looking out, looking like a damn model for that weird orange hiking jacket he's wearing, and Dean sits down on a handy flat rock and feels the sun on his back, takes it in. "You know, I thought the memory thing would've been okay, honestly," Dean says. Sam glances back at him. Instantly knows what Dean means, from the way he's furrowing his massive forehead in disbelief. "I mean, maybe it would've gotten boring, I don't know. Stuck on our hamster wheels forever. But there was good stuff, in there, and we—I mean. We would've been together. Right?"

It had been brutally painful, at the time, but in later years Dean had thought about it. Approached it cautious, like something that would break if he touched it. Soulmates, he thinks, now, deliberate inside his own head, and Sam smiles, like somehow he heard it. "Yeah, I guess so," he says. He tips his head. "Could've watched that memory of you turfing it into the pasture on that wraith hunt about a hundred times, I think."

Dean raises his eyebrows, says, "Ha," while Sam grins at him, but then Sam looks back out at the view. "Would've been some choice ones of you, too, you know," he says, but then shakes his head, even if Sam's not looking anymore. "This is—better, though. Glad Jack did it like this."

"And Cas," Sam says, and, yeah. Cas.

Dean takes a deep breath. He hasn't gone there, in his head, really. Castiel, free of the death he'd cursed himself to, free of darkness. Dean drags his hand over his stubble, remembering. The dark, reaching out. He looks out at the clear, bright day. "He was in love with me," he says.

Sam turns his head, but Dean's focused on the trees—past them—through to that day. All the time after, Dean never said anything about it, out loud or even in his head. They hadn't had a body to burn, and Sam hadn't asked questions, careful and kind in that way Sam had learned to be once he was older, and it had been an old bruise, unhealed, that Dean didn't like to press on because what was the point? It doesn't hurt now, but it's…

"He told you?" Sam says, and Dean nods. A pause, again, and Sam comes and sits down on the rock, too. His hands are clasped between his knees and Dean looks at them instead of the trees. Broad and tan, and big, and calm like everything in Sam is calm, now. "And you didn't know?"

Dean looks up, sharply. "Did you?"

Sam's mouth tilts. "I wondered," he says, and Dean huffs, leans back on his hands, looks up at the clear sky. A breeze, just chilly enough that he's glad of his jacket. Sam shifts, beside him. "Did you want to see him?"

It's asked—a little careful. Like Sam doesn't want to influence him either way. Dean imagines it—praying, and saying—what? He doesn't answer, and Sam doesn't press him, and they sit there for a while, in quiet, with the breeze bringing the smell of the trees.

"I didn't marry her," Sam says, after a while. Dean lifts his head—another revelation. Sam's slowly rubbing his thumbs back and forth, a dry chafing, looking out at something Dean can't see. "She was a really good person. Good mother. I wore a ring so people wouldn't ask questions, but I—I think she would've said yes, if I'd asked, but I didn't ask. She moved across town, when Dean was ten. We got along fine—hooked up a few times, even, after we split, but it just…"

"Never came together?" Dean offers, when the pause has gone too long, and Sam lifts a shoulder, his mouth curling wry as he looks at Dean. "I know the feeling."

Maybe it was some cruelty of Chuck's. To make it impossible for anything else to feel true. Dean tips his leg out so it touches Sam's, and Sam huffs, and touches Dean's knee, and the heat of him sinks right through the denim before he pushes to his feet, and offers a hand to help Dean up, too. They walk back down the trail, back to where Dean parked the car, and they drive down the winding roads with sunset spilling through the valleys behind them, and when Dean parks in front of the house the porch light's on like they left it, and Sam's getting out and saying something about maybe burgers, for dinner, and he'll make potato salad if Dean'll take care of the cooking, and Dean has to pause, with his heart suddenly thick and full in his chest, and thinks—well, if it was intended to be a punishment, then shit if Chuck didn't get it wrong.

They have burgers, and potato salad. Sam doesn't put in enough mayo and Dean tells him so. They watch The Right Stuff, and Sam listens mostly patiently to Dean filling in all the extra details about the astronauts before he tells Dean that he's a nerd, and Dean says, "Oh, if anyone's the nerd—" and they bicker, and wash the dishes, and Sam's beautiful, is the thing. Beautiful. Whole and healthy and content, in the lamplight in the house they're building. Beautiful his whole life, from when he was a little kid and Dean was wiping his snot-nose with the edge of his t-shirt to when he was a bitchy asshole of a teenager to when he was a high-handed and distant adult to when he was just—Dean's brother, paying him half-attention in the mornings, getting all his jokes, being bossy and being kind and being himself, and himself is all Dean ever wanted him to be.

Sam picks up one of the endless books that he's left on the kitchen counter. "You going to keep watching old nerd movies?" he says, a dimple tucked into his cheek.

Dean's chest feels somehow tight and full of molten gold, all at once. "Sammy," he says, and Sam hears the change in his voice, and blinks at him. Dean knows what Cas had meant, those years ago. How it could feel so entirely perfect, just to hold it like this, under your heart. To acknowledge it and know it for true. "You're it, for me. You know that, right?"

A slight tightening, around his eyes. He searches Dean's face but Dean—he doesn't know what expression he's wearing. It hardly matters.

"Our whole lives. I never—there wasn't ever really an option, for something else, but I don't think I ever even really wanted something else. Ever since I was little. It was you and me in my head, no matter how I thought about the future. I wanted you to have more but I never pictured anything else for me, not really. Even when I got the chance. Never came together, you know? But I don't think I wanted it to. All I wanted was you." Sam's lips have parted. Confusion there, but concern too, and Dean smiles at him. "I guess this sounds—this isn't like a goodbye or anything, or a… I don't know. I just… wanted you to know. In case you hadn't guessed."

Sam lays his hand on the counter, like he's looking for something steady. "Dean," he says, and then doesn't seem to know how to follow it up.

Dean shakes his head. "Didn't mean to drop a bomb on you," he says, and it's that loose knot again, an untangled free thing. Easy, when this had never, ever been easy. When he'd died for it, and lived through way worse than dying. Here, looking at Sam's expression—shock but also not quite shock—his other hand still clutched around his book—it feels like nothing but right. He smiles, looking at Sam's eyes. "After the life we had, man, this is the cherry on top. I don't need anything more than this."

He goes to bed. Sam's still standing there, in the kitchen, when he does.

*

Time moves more because they expect it to than because of any rules. Sam's been studying it, sort of, out of curiosity more than anything else, and he says he thinks that if they wanted it to be it could be about two pm in a warm July forever. Dean's noticed, even if he doesn't much care. How long have they been here, and still it's those last days of summer creeping into autumn, where it's cool in the shade and the sun's warm, and it doesn't snow, and if it rains it's just for long enough to make the house feel cozy and right, and then when the sun comes out again the world's washed-new, and he doesn't have to dig his car out of the mud.

It's raining the next morning, and Dean lays in bed with the covers pulled up around his shoulders and enjoys it, knowing there's nowhere to go. His room is his room only because it's the bed he picked, with the north-facing window and the view of the car, if he wants to glance down and see it; they leave their doors open, almost all the time, and they hardly have possessions that need keeping anywhere. He lifts up on an elbow after a while, and looks over the foot of the bed down the hall, and on the opposite end by the stairs Sam's door is open and he's a solid lump, in his bed, still snoozing through the rain, and Dean's heart folds up in his chest, looking. It tends to do that.

He goes through some morning things. Making the coffee, and sipping at a cup while he eats a slice of toast. He goes into the library and picks something off the shelf, and carries it back upstairs, and then it's the solitary, strange contentment of a morning crap (the door closes for that at least, and he'd wondered why that was something that stuck around in heaven until he experienced the weird peace of an unhurried morning), and then a coffee refill, and then it's still raining and he thinks—yeah, back to bed, crawling in with his coffee and his book, his back to the headboard, the house warm, the sifting rain outside nothing but soothing.

"Hey," he hears, and looks up.

Sam—oh. In his flannel pants and one of those v-neck sleeping shirts, black this time, his hair rumpled, leaning in his doorway. He closes his book and lets it fall down by his leg. Sam's eyes follow it, with a small frown.

"You really went for the beauty sleep, huh?" Dean says, as though the clock means anything. Even in heaven, he feels weird when Sam catches him reading. In that time in the bunker—after Jack disappeared—he'd started again, like he used to when he was in his twenties. Dumb stuff, nothing like what Sam would pick, but he liked the stories. Sam's never made fun of him for it, but he still—well, still.

Sam's still looking at the book but the silence has stretched, with the patter of the rain filling the space between. "I stayed awake for a long time, last night," he says, finally. "Thinking about stuff. What you said. Other things, too."

He seems okay. Not bitter, or angry, or even particularly stressed about it. Still, "Sorry," Dean says.

Sam shakes his head, and looks up at Dean's face. "Don't be sorry." He pushes a hand through his hair, sort-of smiles. "Figures, you wouldn't say anything until you knew I was a sure thing."

Dean snorts. He moves the book over to his bedside table, leaves it with his empty coffee mug. He pulls his knees up under the blanket, making room, and Sam comes and sits at the foot of the bed, one knee pulled up onto the mattress, looking at Dean steady and—and okay. They're okay.

"I had a dream last night," Sam says, finally. Dean nods—the dreams come pretty steadily, up here. Never nightmares, just invention, and memory recontextualized. "It was about… when Azazel had Dad. You remember that? Forever ago. All I wanted was to kill him. All you wanted was for us to be together. Remember?"

Of course, Dean remembers. The way he'd dragged Sam away from another fire. Sam looking at him with almost-pity, when he'd finally admitted what he wanted.

There's not a trace of pity in him, now. He pulls his knee up against his chest, comfortable. "You know, I thought about it," Sam says. "After you were gone. How everything felt—incomplete. Half-a-loaf. Even…" He shakes his head, and Dean wonders what goes there. He'll find out someday. "We were always breaking the world for each other. Normal siblings don't really do that. I don't know if you realized."

"I bet Mary-Kate and Ashley would give it a shot," Dean says, and Sam smiles at him, but rolls his eyes, too. "Sam—"

"I wondered," Sam interrupts. He lifts his eyebrows, a little, and Dean hears it as the echo it's meant to be. Despite everything he can feel his cheeks going pink. "If it wasn't just that we couldn't find something that was better, but that we never would. If you'd…"

He trails off. Dean picks at the blue yarn-ties on his blanket, watching Sam's face. Turned now, toward the rain outside, lit beautiful with morning. "I wouldn't have said anything," he says. Sure, somehow. "Even if we'd had—hell. Another decade, just you and me. When I said this was enough, I meant it."

"I know you did," Sam says. "And I know you wouldn't have. Because you wouldn't have wanted to ruin anything for me, right? If I had some outside shot—some kind of normal I might've dug up?" Dean nods. Sam nods, too, and then reaches out and flicks his knee through the blanket, hard it enough that it nearly stings. Dean claps his hand over the spot and smacks Sam's hand away, but Sam's already retreating, hands up, smiling. "Truce, truce. Just saying. I wouldn't have tried for anything, if you'd been there. It would've just been me and you and the dog."

The dog. "Did he—" Dean says, distracted, and Sam says, "Old and kinda fat, and happy as he could be."

Sam's just looking at him, along the length of the bed. "Sammy," Dean says, and chews his cheek for a minute. Sam's patient. "I know it wasn't easy, that I was gone. But I'm still glad you got that shot. Glad I didn't ruin it."

"You didn't—" Sam starts, and then closes his mouth. He smiles at Dean with his lips closed, and then breathes out slow through his nose. "I'm glad you're glad," he says, instead, and maybe that's all the compromise they'll ever get, on the subject. Dean's not sure Sam gets it, smart as he is. That Dean would've always wondered. That there would've been some horizon, distant and gold, that Sam might've always looked to, and imagined something different.

The rain's slacking, outside. Sam looks out the window again, at how the sun's drawing out, the light changing. "Do you want to try to figure out the cabinets today?" he says.

God, Dean loves him. "You can work the band saw," Dean promises, and Sam rolls his eyes again, and stands up, and says, "Let me shower first, before all the excitement," and Dean watches him step into the hall and then into the bathroom and hears the shower come on, through the open door, and he thinks it'll be a good day. Inevitable argument over what color to stain the cabinet doors notwithstanding.

*

It sits between them. Dean didn't feel tense about it but saying it aloud nevertheless makes him feel almost weightless. He knows that Sam's thinking about the conversation—going over past conversations, and things they've done, and choices they've made, over and over, because Sam's an egghead who had to puzzle things out forever before he can come to some kind of peace with them—but that's okay. They're still together and nothing's ruined, and the house comes along. They work on the kitchen for a while, Sam pulling down the horrible wallpaper while Dean does the woodwork, and there's a week nearly where they build a fire outside every night and dinner's what they can rig up over the flames—hotdogs, and kebabs, and mac and cheese even that gets a weird smoky flavor to it, and honestly it's about the best version Dean's ever had.

When Sam starts talking he comes at it obliquely. They're watching a movie—Moonraker, just as dumb and wonderful as Dean remembered it—and right over the top of the scene where Jaws is whaling on the guards, Sam says, "I didn't sleep with anyone for almost fifteen years."

"Makes sense, your game is terrible," Dean says, and grins when Sam sighs. "What do you mean? After the breakup with—"

Sam still hasn't said her name. "It just didn't…" Sam shrugs. "It wasn't important somehow."

"Plus you would've thrown your back out," Dean says.

"Yeah," Sam says, dry. "Plus that." A pause, while they both watch the end of the fight. Roger Moore was a way better Bond than people gave him credit for, Dean's always thought. "How long for you?" Dean makes a sound. "Before… You used to brag about it, you know? But you didn't come home bragging for a long time."

"You trying to get me to say just looking at your goofy mug every morning was enough?" Dean tips his head on the couch to find Sam raising his eyebrows, actually surprised. "Hah. Well, it was."

"Seriously?" Sam says.

Dean shrugs, not sure why it's coming as a shock. He doesn't actually remember himself, even though it's closer in memory for him, when he last had that urge—to just go for a hookup, to let off nervous energy. On the screen, Bond's punching someone, and Holly Goodhead's in trouble. "No need to try to fix what ain't broke, as they say," Dean says, and he can tell Sam watches his face for a while before Sam turns his attention back to the movie.

Later: Dean's peeled back the scary carpet and it turns out there's good wood flooring underneath. Go figure. He's trying to decide whether he wants to cut it out in pieces or roll the whole thing up and see if he can get Sam to carry it. Sam brings him a cup of coffee, while he's standing in the doorway to the bedroom and frowning, and then says, "I never thought about being with a guy."

Dean slops the coffee, a little. Good thing he's tearing out the carpet either way. "Uh, okay."

The corner of Sam's mouth tugs up. "It just never occurred to me," he says. "Not really."

Dean takes a sip from his mug. Even in heaven Sam manages to screw it up, somehow—this time, way too strong like he used three times the amount of grounds needed—but it's Sam's coffee, and Dean's so damn gone for him that he's fond of the sludge, too.

Apparently he's been silent too long. Sam tips his head, leaning against the doorframe, opens his mouth and closes it again.

"Do you really want to know?" Dean says, after a minute. He'd answer, he thinks. If Sam asked. What would be the point of keeping it secret, after all, with what they both already know?

"I think you just told me," Sam says, quiet, but shakes his head, and then jerks his chin at the carpet. "If you think I'm carrying that whole thing downstairs you're insane."

"Worth a shot," Dean says, and they put it away, for another day.

Later: they're painting, in the hall between the kitchen and the living room, and it was a long bickering session to come up with the color but Dean thinks that Sam was really arguing just to argue and not because he cared, at all. It smells like paint, which in theory is unpleasant but which really Dean's always kind of enjoyed—because it means there's a project being done, and progress being made, and that always settles something, in his bones—and Sam's got a full on handprint of slate blue on his ass that Dean thinks somehow he still hasn't noticed, and which should cause some entertainment when he does—and Sam says, standing back and squinting at his edging work, "How did you know?" Dean grunts, not following for once. His brush needs to be cleaned. Sam reaches up and fixes a line, carefully swiping blue away from the ceiling, and says, "About us. When did you know?"

Dean pauses, fingers all tangled with the brush in the murky water. Sam's frowning up at the ceiling, patiently doing his part. That's a question he never really asked himself, and he doesn't know the answer. Too easy to say always, even if sometimes that feels like the truth. November 1983 is another answer, but of course that's wrong, too. From the first time Sam smiled at him. From the first time he guided Sam's hands around a gun and helped him pull the trigger, and they nailed that empty Coke can like it was a vamp, at thirty paces. From the day Sam left, at that shitty house in Utah, and Dean stood in the dark street with his heart bleeding out 'til it was empty. From the night Sam died, and Dean knelt in the dirt with him and understood how it felt to die, too, and yet still be forced to stand up and keep living, and to have his whole body reject it, everything in him knowing: no.

Sam crouches down by him, and nudges Dean out of the way, so he can clean his own brush. "I didn't get it, I don't think," Sam says, when Dean hasn't responded. He riffles his fingers through the bristles, blue blooming up so that Dean can't see his skin. "Not for… Man, I don't know. It might've been when I thought we were going to lose you to Amara. Maybe earlier." He draws his brush out of the water and squeezes the wet out, and Dean watches his hands, like he does so much of the time. Capable and square-palmed and long-fingered. Blue paint stuck under his fingernails. He rests his brush on the side of their paint tray and his hands lace loosely between his knees, where he's still right there, inches from Dean. "Wish it hadn't took me so long."

Dean looks at him. Sam's looking back, not really smiling but with his face soft. He stands up, after a few seconds, and from Dean's crouching vantage Sam looks impossibly tall. "C'mon," he says, easy. "Let's finish this up. I want to watch you fail at fishing at some point today."

Later—

*

There's no real time, and therefore it's no particular day. Days have passed and yet the days are still gold, and beautiful. Sam goes for a run, and comes back, and they have breakfast, and they shower, and it rains briefly midday and so Sam reads in the armchair while Dean watches a movie—Godfather II, and he tells Sam he's a barbarian for reading through it, but Sam calmly ignores him like he always does—and then the rain stops, and Dean thinks, maybe a drive, and so they go for a drive, with the late afternoon sun pouring down. They park, in front of the house, and Dean gets out, and he's thinking about dinner—Sam's turn to cook, but Dean wants steak and Sam's never actually gotten the hang of steak—and Sam says, "Hey," and so Dean turns, and there with the driver door still open on the car, Sam steps up close to him, and takes Dean's face in his hands.

Dean's heart thuds slow, in the base of his throat. Sam's been this close before but he hasn't had quite that look in his eye. He stands still, waiting, and Sam's mouth twitches into a quick smile, like he's had some funny thought that he'll share with Dean, later—and Sam leans down, and when their mouths press together it's...

Sam pulls back, after not long enough. "Is that okay?" he says.

Really asking. Dean's holding Sam's forearms, his lips warm. "You're supposed to be the smart one," he says, and his voice comes out raw. "You figure it out."

His eyes are closed. Sam laughs, softly, and Dean takes a breath, and then there's Sam's mouth, again, soft but insistent, just the right amount of pressure. Sam's very good at this. Who knew. Dean's hand slides to Sam's chest and he parts his lips, and Sam takes the invitation as it's given, licking just barely inside. They're both unshaven but the scratch of Sam's chin feels good. Sam's nose brushes his. Dean pulls back, and tilts so their foreheads are touching, and there's an infinite universe of time around them and he could just stay—here. Right here, with Sam's breath mingling with his, and Sam's hand on his face.

Once they've started, though, Sam doesn't seem to feel the need to stop. "Bed?" he says, quiet, and Dean nods, and then—Sam's room, with the sun coming in the window and the thick blue blanket soft under Dean's hand. Sam sits beside him and leans in and they kiss—again—for ages, Dean's arm around Sam's neck and no sound but their lips meeting and parting, and the breeze soughing against the house.

Sam's—happy. That's the only thing Dean can think, over and over, his heart thrilling for it. "Is it weird?" Dean says, at one point, and Sam touches his cheek with two fingers, and drags them soft along Dean's stubble to his jaw, to his chin, and shakes his head and then laughs and says, "Yeah, but who cares about weird," and Dean says, fervently, "Not me," and Sam laughs again and presses him down to the bed and kisses him, again, and again.

Clothes go away, slowly. Boots, and jackets, and Dean pushes Sam a little upright and unbuttons his shirt, careful, while Sam watches his face. "Do you know what you want?" Dean says, not pushing either way. When the shirt's open he spreads his hands on Sam's chest—god, even through the undershirt, it's—but Sam's shaking his head, and Dean tries to focus, even if focus seems a billion miles from here. "And you never…"

But no, because Sam told him. Sam lays his palm on Dean's stomach, warm. "What did you want?" Sam says. Gentle almost. "The first time you—when you thought about it. What did you picture?"

"Who says I pictured anything?" Dean says, and Sam just smiles at him, and, yeah, okay. So Sam knows him better than anyone. So what.

Naked, Sam is… It's not like Dean never saw it before, but he never let himself look, like he's looking now. Never with the sense of right, that he feels now. Sam's looking right back, which somehow comes a surprise. Dean lets Sam tug off his jeans, his boxers, and he's left on his back on the bed, and Sam stands there and his eyes go all over—from Dean's chest to his dick to his feet, for some reason—and Dean feels himself flushing, but it's more because—

"I didn't think it'd be like this," Sam says, and yeah. Yeah, that's it. Sam's flushed, too, a little red come into the hollows of his cheeks. His dick's half-hard, swinging heavy against his thigh, and Dean wants it. Wants Sam. It should be complicated but it isn't. He spreads his legs, and Sam kneels on the bed and then fits himself there, so Dean's thighs can slide against Sam's, and there's the warm glance of his belly, and his chest against Dean's, and how his nose brushes Dean's cheek and how his hair falls forward, and the dense familiar physicality of him. How he's Dean's brother and how he's—everything, everything else that ever mattered.

They rub together, kissing. Sam's fingers find his nipple and play with it, slow and insistent. Sam's hard, thick, pressing into the crease of Dean's thigh, and Dean nudges under Sam's jaw, kisses his throat, drags his thumb down between Sam's pecs. "Do you want to," he says, against Sam's skin, and Sam's hand cups over the back of his head and he doesn't have to say anything for Dean to know.

There's lube, in Sam's bedside table. Dean laughs, while Sam blinks surprise at it. This perfect house. He pulls Sam in close again, and he doesn't think it'll take much—hell, they might not even have to bother—but he wants it, like this is a first time they might have had, some perfect day that never existed on earth. He drizzles the lube over Sam's fingers and Sam knows what to do, reaching below, and Dean spreads his legs wide and sinks into the pillow, into how it feels. "Do you like it?" Sam says, curious and a little pleased, and Dean hooks his arm around Sam's neck and drags him down for a kiss so Sam won't ask such dumb friggin questions. The slow drag and stretch of Sam's knuckles inside—and he's not going far enough or deep enough, because he's done this to women maybe but never to a guy, but it feels good, anyway.

They don't move from that position. Dean reaches down and tugs at Sam's wrist, and gets a slick dragging hand on his hip, instead. Sam kisses his cheekbone, shifts his weight, and the press inside—ah—thick, and just that first bright sting that makes it count for something, but it doesn't hurt beyond that, and it's just the slow parting drag of Sam, inside him, until he's as far as he can go and stops with his hips pressed right up close. Dean holds him there, feeling. Sam's breath against his cheek, and his weight held tense on one elbow, and their chests rising and falling together. Dean's dick presses against Sam's belly but it doesn't feel important, right now—it's more that they're—finally, they're—

"Please say I can move," Sam says, breathless, and Dean gasps in and then laughs, dizzy, says, "Jesus, you've been waiting on me? Get the lead out, come on—go—"

It lasts—

For the time it takes Dean to curl his hips up and feel how Sam jolts, hard inside. For the time it takes Sam to lift up higher, getting enough space between them that he can see Dean's face, and for him to fit his hand around Dean's jaw and press his thumb against Dean's lower lip and look him in the eyes, startled, like even after everything he's learned something new. For the time it takes Dean to wrap his thighs around Sam's waist and arch, and for Sam to bury his head down into the curve of Dean's throat, and for Dean to hold Sam's shoulders, and for it to be…

Perfect, Dean thinks, after.

They're on their sides. Dean's leg is still caught around Sam's hip. Their heads are on the same pillow and Dean's got his hand on Sam's chest, and Sam keeps tracing some nonsense shape into the skin over Dean's ribs, and the sun's still out, and the breeze is still gentle, and it feels in a way like no time has passed, at all. Like this is still their first day in heaven. That first moment, when Sam appeared on the bridge, and Dean's heart thumped into place, like it was beating again, at last.

Sam's hand settles flat on Dean's side. Dean looks up from Sam's chest, and Sam's waiting there, to meet his eyes. A smile, small. "Good job, tiger," Dean says, and Sam's smile goes deeper, and Dean rolls his eyes, and tugs Sam's chest hair in retaliation. Sam mimes pain but all he does is pull Dean an inch closer, and sigh.

"Do you think we could've made it work?" he says, eventually. Dean hmms, asking. "Before, I mean. When we were alive. It feels like…" He shakes his head, a small movement against the pillow. "I don't know. Like we wasted time."

"Maybe," Dean says. He shifts, stretching out his legs, and lifts up on one elbow. Sam tips his head back to keep looking at Dean's face. Dean looks back, unhurried. The straight line of his eyebrows, and his tip-tilted eyes. His mouth, relaxed in contentment, and the slope of his nose, and that mole that Dean feels the weirdest fondness for. He touches it, and Sam blinks, and Dean smiles at him. "It worked out, though. Don't you think?"

Sam's mouth tips, a dimple peeking up in his cheek. He looks as glad as Dean's ever seen him. "Yeah," he says, finding Dean's hand. Their fingers tangle together, caught warm against Sam's chest. "Yeah, it worked out okay."

[specialagentsergio]

now i’m getting colder || part two

summary: Emily’s been dating you for nearly a year and she’s never been happier—until her past comes to call. Then she’s gone, and Spencer’s left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart.

pairing: spencer reid x f!reader (unrequited), emily prentiss x f!reader

category: angst

content warnings: (faked) major character death, mentions of / implied sex, swearing, grieving, mentions of drug abuse & addiction, unhealthy coping mechanisms

word count: 5.1k

series masterlist || masterlist

The morning after Emily dies, Spencer wakes up to the smell of cooking bacon. He feels groggy and disoriented as he sits up in an unfamiliar bed. It’s not really a new feeling—it happens often enough with the amount of hotels he’s stayed at through work. This bed, though, feels way too nice to be a hotel bed.

He feels around for his glasses, eventually locating them buried under one of the spare pillows. I’ve got to stop falling asleep with these on. Once he can see clearly, he realizes where he is: one of the guest room’s at Rossi’s house.

It had been nearly four in the morning when the jet got back to Quantico. JJ and Hotch had gone home to their families, and Rossi had insisted that everyone else stay with him. “None of us should be alone right now,” he’d said in a voice thick with emotion.

Spencer tries to ignore the migraine he can feel building behind his eyes as he pulls himself out of bed. He doesn’t know how long he was asleep, only that it wasn’t long enough. He follows the smell of cooking food out of his room and downstairs to the kitchen. Morgan and Seaver are already awake, chatting quietly at the island while Rossi cooks.

“Pretty boy,” Morgan says, noticing his arrival. He pulls out the chair next to him.

“What time is it?”

“Almost eleven,” Seaver answers.

Morgan puts a hand on his shoulder when he sits down. “How are you feeling, kid?”

Spencer shrugs. “Okay, I guess. Where’s Garcia and (Y/N)?”

“Garcia was dead asleep when I got up,” he replies. “I’d guess (Y/N)’s sleeping, too.”

“Food’s going to be ready shortly,” Rossi announces.

Seaver looks to Morgan. “Should we wake them up?”

“I think we should at least check on them.” Morgan stands and pats Spencer’s arm. “Come on, kid.”

He trudges back up the stairs after Derek. He nods towards the door to the room you’re staying in before going into the one he’d shared with Garcia.

Spencer opens the door quietly. You’re barely visible from the doorway, huddled under the covers, but from what he can see, he thinks you’re still asleep. He really doesn’t want to wake you—he wishes he was still asleep himself—so he just closes the door again and waits in the hall for Morgan.

Garcia is with him he returns, her sparkly sleep mask pushed up onto her forehead. She hugs him immediately. “Where’s (Y/N)? Is she okay?” she asks when she pulls back.

“Still asleep,” Spencer says. “I didn’t want to wake her because I don’t think she’s been asleep for very long. The pillowcase was still damp.”

“Oh, poor girl,” she whispers. “I can’t imagine how awful this must be for her.”

Morgan puts his arm around her shoulders. “Me either, baby girl. Let’s just let her sleep for now.”

They make their way back downstairs, where Seaver is helping Rossi dish the finished food onto plates. When Spencer tells him you’re still sleeping, Rossi loads one up with everything and puts it to the side for you to eat later.

It’s quiet as everyone eats. The food tastes fantastic, and under different circumstances, Spencer would be delighted to be eating it. But as it is, he can’t even finish his plate.

“Somebody please say something,” Garcia says suddenly. “I can’t take this silence anymore.”

Awkward glances are exchanged across the table until Seaver offers up, “Um, I’m almost done with the academy training. The written test is just a few weeks from now.”

“Yes, good,” Garcia says. “Your test. Tell me all about the test.”

Spencer rubs one of his eyes, knocking his glasses askew. He’s hit the point where he can’t ignore the pain anymore. “I’m gonna go lie down,” he mutters to no one in particular.

Morgan looks up at him when he stands. “You alright, Reid?”

“Yeah, I’m just tired,” he lies. “Uh, thanks for the food, Rossi.”

Rossi nods in acknowledgement before focusing back on Seaver and Garcia’s conversation, and Spencer shuffles off towards the stairs.

Squinting against the light coming through all the windows, he nearly runs into you in the upstairs hallway. “Oh! You’re awake.”

You look smaller than normal, standing with your arms wrapped around yourself. It’s like you’re trying hide from the world. “Unfortunately,” you murmur.

“Are... are you okay?” he asks hesitantly.

Your laugh is humorless. “Of course I’m not.”

“Yeah, me... me either,” Spencer admits quietly. You don’t reply, so he keeps talking. “Rossi made breakfast. Well, I guess it’s more like brunch now. He saved a plate for you.”

“Alright.” You start to move past him, but he puts his hand on your arm. “What?”

“Could I hug you?”

You think over it for a bit, then nod.

Spencer doesn’t know if he’s hugging you for your comfort or his own, just that it feels nice. But then he puts a hand on the back of your neck and you draw in a sharp breath, pulling away abruptly.

“Don’t,” you mutter. “Em always did that. Don’t—don’t do that.”

“Sorry, I—I’m sorry,” he stutters. “I won’t do it again.”

You take in a deep breath and brush away the tears that have slipped down your face. “I’m gonna go eat.”

Spencer watches you until you’re out of sight, then returns to his room. He can’t stop himself from rubbing his eyes again. The curtains are already closed, but the room still feels too bright. He deliberately puts his glasses on the bedside table before crawling back under the covers. He pulls one of the pillows over his head to try and block out as much light as possible.

The insides of his elbows itch, and he wonders how he’s supposed to get through this.

---

The funeral is hard.

It’s a nice service, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Each member of the team places a rose on the coffin. You kiss your fingertips before putting yours down, pressing them to the polished wood and barely holding back a sob.

JJ drives you home, and Spencer tags along, not wanting to leave you alone in an empty apartment right after burying your girlfriend. But it turns out to be something he doesn’t have to worry about, because when you open your front door, you’re greeted with a meow.

“Sergio!” you gasp. You immediately drop your bag on the floor and pick him up. “How did you get here, buddy?”

“You know how Penelope and I have been feeding him? We both thought he’d be happier here,” JJ says. “I brought him by this morning, but you had already left. I hope this is okay; I just didn’t want you to have to go to Emily’s apartment if you weren’t ready.”

“It’s more than okay. It’s...” There are tears in your eyes. “Thank you, JJ.”

She smiles softly. “His things are by the kitchen table. I wasn’t sure where you would want them.”

“That’s fine. I’m sure we can find good spots for everything, huh, Sergio?” you coo, turning and heading in that direction.

Spencer exchanges a glance with JJ as they both follow. You’ve barely said anything for the past few days, so hearing you chatter away to a cat in a baby voice is a little disconcerting.

“Um, do you need any help?” he asks. “With Sergio, or with, um, anything?”

“Hm? No, I’m okay.”

Sergio has settled himself over your shoulder and is now staring at him and JJ. He shifts on his feet, feeling oddly unnerved by it. “Why’s he staring at us?” he whispers to her.

“I don’t know, Spence. He’s a cat,” she replies. “That’s just what they do.”

You press the side of your face against Sergio’s body and close your eyes. It’s the most content Spencer’s seen you since he noticed you worrying over Emily a month ago.

“You can go,” you say. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” JJ asks. “I don’t mind staying.”

“I’m sure.” But neither of them move, so you open your eyes to look at them. “Guys, I really appreciate all the support. It means a lot. But I also need space. I’ll be fine with Sergio here, I promise.”

“Just as long as you’re sure.” JJ gives you a tight hug. “We’re only a phone call away.”

You nod. “I know. Thank you.”

Spencer hesitates, though. He understands that you need space and privacy to grieve, but he doesn’t know that he should be alone right now.

Your expression softens when you look at him. You gently slide Sergio off your shoulder and onto the table so you can hug him properly. He all but clings to you, turning his head into your neck. It seems to clue JJ into his dilemma, because when you pull away from him, she says, “Why don’t you come visit Henry, Spence? He’d love to see you.”

He sniffles, trying to stop himself from crying. “Yeah, okay.”

He lets JJ lead him out into the hallway. You give him a small smile and a wave before closing the door.

---

Spencer’s never been one to frequent bars. They’re loud and often overcrowded. He doesn’t like the concept of drinking out of a glass that some stranger used the day before. And more often than not, the surfaces—be it a table or the bar itself—feel sticky. It’s just not his scene. But that’s where he’s found himself tonight, two weeks after the funeral. He’s staring down at amber liquid in a glass while his brain is fixated on an entirely different one.

He hasn’t had cravings this bad since Gideon left, and he ended up relapsing that time. He doesn’t want that to happen again. He swirls the glass, watching the ice clink against the sides as he silently debates with himself. Technically, drinking would be considered relapsing, but it’s better than using, right? If it’s between the two....

It’s the guilt that’s driven him here tonight. Guilt over Emily being dead because they didn’t get to her in time. Guilt over not seeing the obvious question, why families, right in front of him, the answer to which would have gotten them to her sooner. But most of all, guilt that he can’t stop craving companionship with his dead friend’s partner. Every time those thoughts come into his head, he feels like he’s betraying Emily.

Spencer feels himself slipping dangerously close to the ledge. So when a stranger sits down next to him, strikes up a conversation, and eventually asks if he’d like to get out of here, Spencer says yes.

It’s not the best decision he’s ever made, but it’s better than the alternative.

An hour later, he’s lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling in the awkward silence that follows a hook-up. The stranger’s name is Ryan, he learned as he slid into the car’s passenger seat. And it was nice—god knows he’s touch-starved—but it was a risky choice. He knows all too well what getting into a stranger’s car can lead to. But he just hadn’t cared. Emily’s dead. They’re supposed to be the best, but they weren’t able to save her. So what’s the point of anything?

When his phone goes off, Spencer quickly scrambles out from under the thin sheet and sorts through the clothes on the floor to find his pants. The display identifies the caller as you. “Hello?”

“Spencer.” Your voice is so quiet, he can barely hear it; he has to turn up the volume on his phone.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He starts to gather the rest of his clothing from the bedroom floor.

“I...” Your breath catches, and it’s a while before you speak again. “I can’t sleep. Could you come over?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course,” he answers immediately. “It’ll just—it’ll just take me a little longer than usual to get there. I’m, uh... I’m not at home.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Just use your key when you get here.”

He ends the call and looks through the clothes in his arms, making sure he’s got everything.

“Was that them?” Ryan asks from behind him, and Spencer jumps. He’d nearly forgotten about him.

“Um, I’m not sure what you mean,” Spencer says, turning. He has a strange urge to cover himself, and nearly does before reminding himself that he wouldn’t be covering anything the man hasn’t seen already.

“When we were having sex, you were thinking of someone else,” Ryan says. “Was that them on the phone?”

Spencer opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure what to say. Eventually, he mutters, “Yeah. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Ryan says easily. “I only noticed because I was thinking of someone else, too.”

“Oh.”

“Mine’s straight,” he says. “How about yours?”

“Um, she loves someone else.” Spencer’s not sure why he’s telling a stranger this, but it feels good to get it out. So good that if you weren’t waiting on him, he could see himself oversharing and telling Ryan everything. But you are, so he says, “I, uh, have to go. Would you happen to know where the closest Metro station is?”

“Yeah, it’s a few blocks north of here. Just turn left when you leave the building and keep going straight.”

“Thanks.”

Spencer gets dressed quickly, double checks that he has everything he came here with, then leaves with an awkward little wave goodbye. He finds the metro easily; it’s right where Ryan said it was. He stops by his apartment to take a quick shower, then decides to drive his car to your place to get there faster.

At your door, he flips through his keyring to find the right one. As he unlocks and opens it, he knocks lightly on the doorframe in the pattern you’d set ages ago, a signal to let you know that it’s him coming in. The alarm beeps and he silences it by punching in the code, another thing he’s known for years.

After shutting and locking the door behind him, he calls your name softly. There’s no response, so he ventures in, eventually finding you on one of the couches, curled up on your side with Sergio in your arms. You’re staring blankly across the room, but you must be vaguely aware of his presence, because when he touches your leg, it doesn’t startle you. There’s a small trash can full of crumpled up tissues on the floor in front of you, and your eyes are red and puffy.

There’s a bit of space on the end of the couch near your feet, and Spencer takes it. He waits a while, but you don’t say anything, so he speaks first. “Why can’t you sleep?”

The breath you take in wavers with unshed tears. “The bed’s too empty,” you whisper.

Sighing, Spencer runs a hand through his damp hair. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“Do you?” you ask. “You weren’t at home when I called you, and instead of coming straight here, you stopped at your apartment to shower. You were with someone.”

He doesn’t have a response for that. He didn’t think you would notice, but of course you did. Whether it’s because you’re a profiler, or because you know him too well, he isn’t sure. Either way, it makes him anxious, and he starts worrying the edges of his cardigan between his fingers. “I... I don’t know what to tell you,” he admits.

You finally look at him properly. “Look, I don’t care about you sleeping with someone,” you say. “Just... just don’t say you know what I mean when you actually don’t. It won’t make me feel any better.”

“Okay,” he says quietly.

You squeeze Sergio closer to your chest; surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s not the same as wishing you had someone. Emily is the love of my life. You don’t know what it’s like to have that, and then have it snatched away.”

Spencer bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying anything else. He wants to explain, to tell you that even while someone had their lips on his tonight, he’d felt incredibly lonely, and that it had only gotten worse afterward. And he absolutely should not tell you that he thinks he does know what you mean. He thinks he’s felt something similar to what you’ve just described, watching you with Emily the past few months. But you buried her. To compare that to him loving someone who doesn’t reciprocate is insensitive, to say the very least.

So he does what he always did before you came along and helped him open up: he bottles it up and shoves it down inside.

You look away from him, and after a few more silent moments, he hears your breath catch in your throat. “Was,” you say, voice cracking.

“What?”

“Emily... Emily was the love of my life,” you correct quietly.

“Don’t do that,” he says sharply, without thinking.

Your eyes fly back to him and hurt crosses your face. “Spence.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I just meant, you don’t have to do that. Not with me, at least.”

You don’t respond, just look back at the wall again, and god damn it, he can’t stand to watch you stare blankly at it anymore. “What do you want to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe we could watch a movie,” he suggests.

“I don’t care.”

Spencer grimaces. Loss of interest or pleasure in most or all normal activities. A sign of depression. Of course, you’re grieving the loss of your partner. This type of depression is to be expected; it isn’t clinical. But he still feels uneasy seeing you like this.

“Well, I’m going to put something on,” he says, if only to keep the apartment from being silent.

“Knock yourself out,” you mutter. Then you tilt your head down, pressing your forehead into Sergio’s fur.

He takes the remote off the coffee table and flips through the channels until he lands on Discovery. Right now it looks like they’re showing Mythbusters reruns. He’d probably like it more if he knew less about physics and chemistry, but it’s interesting enough to keep him occupied.

You surprise him when the next episode starts by quietly asking what he thinks the outcome of the planned experiments are going to be. Eager to have something to do, he launches into an explanation. You murmur an occasional, “uh-huh”, but he doesn’t think you’re actually listening. You’ve still got that blank look on your face, but at least it’s focused on the TV instead of the wall. He suspects you just want to hear someone talk, to break the silence that’s been permeating your apartment since the funeral.

The affirmations stop after a while, and he looks over to see that you’ve finally fallen asleep. He stands up and Sergio lifts his head, blinking up at him with wide eyes. “Stay there,” Spencer whispers as firmly as he can, afraid that the cat leaving will wake you.

He looks around until he finds a blanket to put over you, then settles down on the other couch with a second one. Neither the couch or the blanket are anywhere near long enough for him to sleep comfortably, but he doesn’t want you to wake up alone.

---

They had to practically drag you out to the movie tonight.

Things have been up and down since you came back to work, a week after everyone else did. You have good days and bad days. Today has been a bad day. You’d tried to just go home, but seeing that you were in a dark place, Spencer had insisted you come out with them.

“It’s unnecessary,” Garcia says as the five of you trail out of the theater. “There was too much blood and gore and ew.”

“Garcia, it’s a slasher film,” Spencer says, amused. “How do you do a slasher film without violence?”

“You imply it.”

“Baby, the movie is called Slice 6,” Morgan says. “What were you expecting?”

“A refreshing beverage with a twist of comedy. I’m gonna have nightmares for a week,” she complains.

“With everything that we do and see on a daily basis, that got to you?” Seaver asks.

“Listen, newb, you may be all Sigourney Weaver ass-kicking tough, which is awesome, but the mystical mavens of innocence like myself jump at things that go bump in the night.”

“Why are you worried? I’m sure that Morgan will protect you. As long as he’s not jumping out of his chair like a prepubescent schoolgirl,” Spencer says, making no effort to hide his laugh.

Morgan rolls his eyes. “The only reason I jumped is ‘cause you guys woke me up.”

Garcia puts her arm through his. “How could you sleep during that?”

“Easy. You drag me out after a twelve hour workday, for what? You’re telling me that girl didn’t know that the unsub was waiting for her upstairs? Come on, now.”

“Villain,” Spencer corrects.

“What?”

“In movies, unsubs are called villains.”

Morgan barely holds back a snort. “My bad.”

Spencer looks to his other side. You haven’t said anything at all; you’re just staring at the ground as you walk. In an effort to bring you into the conversation, he asks, “D’you wanna know why horror movies are so successful?”

You glance at him, but Morgan’s the one who answers. “Why’s that, genius?”

“They prey on our instinctual need to survive. In tribal days, a woman’s scream would signal danger, and the men would return from hunting to protect their pack. That’s why it’s always the women and not the men who fall victim to the bogeyman,” he explains.

“Well, that’s not the only reason,” you say quietly. “It’s no secret the film industry is sexist.”

“That, too,” he agrees, just happy you’ve said something.

Garcia smiles affectionately. “Count on you, Reid, to break a movie down to science.”

“My favorite thing about horror movies is the suspense factor,” Seaver says, playfully shifting her voice to sound intense.

“Ah, the ticking clock,” Spencer replies.

“The helpless victim walks through the dark, shadows reaching out to get her,” she continues.

He’s got a smile on his face now as he plays along. “A sudden noise draws her attention. Is someone there, or is it just in her head?”

“Still, it’s totally unrealistic,” Garcia interrupts. “No one should be walking through a dark alley by themselves at night.”

Derek clears his throat, feigning offense. “Hello?”

“Ah. No one should be walking through a dark alley without a Derek Morgan by their side,” she corrects. Morgan chuckles in approval.

“But the best part of a horror movie?” Spencer asks, not done with the conversation. “You never know when the end is gonna come.”

Everyone splits up when they reach the parking lot, heading to their own cars. Morgan is driving Garcia, and you offer to drive Spencer home. But before you start the car, you ask, “Will you stay over tonight?”

It’s not really unexpected. He knows you’ve been struggling to sleep alone since the first night he stayed on your couch. He’s done it a few more times since then, and you’ve slept on his couch every now and then as well, when you reach the point where you’re absolutely exhausted and can’t take it anymore. You’re understandably lonely, but he suspects you’re also scared of Doyle returning, if the way you double check your front door, windows and alarm before bed is anything to go by.

“Of course,” he answers quietly.

You stop by his place on the way so he can pick up some clothes and a toothbrush. When he walks into your apartment, he starts to put his things down on the couch, but you take his wrist in your hand and pull him towards the bedroom.

His heart skips a beat. “Wh—what are you doing?”

“You’ve woken up with back and knee pain every time you’ve stayed on the couch. It’s too small for you. This bed is easily big enough for both of us. We’re adults; we can share it.”

“Uh, alright. Th—thanks,” he stutters.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you say. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

The bathroom door clicks shut softly behind you, leaving Spencer alone to take in his surroundings. He’s been in your bedroom before, of course, but it feels different this time. He can tell what side of the bed you sleep on by the personal effects on one of the bedside tables; he sets down his things on the opposite one. Once the shower has started and he’s sure you won’t be coming back in, he gets changed into his pajamas.

As he pulls back the bedcovers, he tries not to think about how Emily was the one doing this just a few months ago. And he especially tries not the think about what the two of you undoubtedly got up to in this bed, and what your face must look like when you—

Stop that right now, he scolds himself. And there’s that guilt and betrayal again, making his chest feel hollow. He leaves the room to brush his teeth at the kitchen sink (he doesn’t want to bother you or rush your shower), and splashes some cold water on his face after to try and pull himself together.

He’s settled down with a book by the time you come out of the bathroom, your hair wet and the scent of your bath products clinging to your skin. “Uh, how was your shower?” he asks awkwardly, feeling out of place in your bed.

“It was fine.” You plug in your phone to charge and get into bed. You turn off your bedside lamp and lay down on your side facing him, apparently ready to sleep right away. Spencer doesn’t want to keep you up, so he marks his place in the book and turns off the lamp on his side. As soon as he’s adjusted to a comfortable position, you speak.

“Would it be okay if I slept close to you?” you ask in a whisper. Your voice wavers when you continue, “I miss being close to someone.”

Spencer couldn’t say no even if he wanted to. He nods before realizing you can’t see him in the dark. “Yeah, sure.”

You scoot towards him and curl up next to his body, your forehead touching his shoulder and legs pressed against his side. He tries not to tense up so you won’t think he’s uncomfortable with it, because it’s very much the opposite. He’s always liked your touch, and right now your skin is still warm from the shower and you smell so nice.

You fall asleep quickly, your breathing becoming slow and even. It’s the fastest you’ve fallen asleep in weeks. He’s just about drifted off himself when you shift, startling him back awake by moving closer in your sleep. One of your hands settles on his chest and your legs straighten out, one of them slipping between his.

Slowly, hesitantly, he moves the arm closest to you, putting it around your shoulders and resting his hand on your back. You don’t stir, so he closes his eyes again. And if he lets go of the guilt for just a little while and allows himself to pretend that you’ve moved in your sleep to hold onto him because you love him back? Well. You don’t need to know that.

---

It takes ten weeks, but the team finally has Doyle in custody. Morgan’s in the interrogation room with him, but is interrupted when everyone is told to gather at the roundtable. Spencer’s one of the first ones in, followed by Garcia and you. The rest of the team isn’t far behind.

“You get anywhere with Doyle?” he asks Morgan.

“Doyle doesn’t think Gerace has the guts to take him on.”

“But that’s definitely Gerace on the tape,” Garcia says.

Hotch enters the room, looking much different than the last time they saw him, sporting a beard and loose, casual clothing.

“Welcome back,” Morgan says, a bit of surprise coloring his tone.

“Thanks. Everybody have a seat,” Hotch instructs.

Morgan stays standing. “Why? What’s going on? Everything all right?”

Hotch crosses his arms and looks at the table as he begins to speak. “Several months ago, I made a decision that affected this team. As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle. But the doctors were able to stabilize her. And she was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration. Her identity was strictly need-to-know. And she stayed there until she was well enough to travel. She was reassigned to Paris where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to for her security.”

“She’s alive?” you choke out.

Spencer can’t process this; it doesn’t make any sense. “But we buried her.”

“As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision,” Hotch says. “If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.”

“Any issues?” Morgan asks, voice shaking with emotion. “Yeah, I got issues.”

“I’ll say,” you agree. But before either of you can continue, you’re interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind you.

---

Ten weeks. Seventy days. One thousand, six hundred and eighty hours. None of it went by without Emily thinking of you.

Ten weeks, seventy days, one thousand, six hundred and eighty hours had passed by painfully slowly as she waited for the call.  

Every time her phone had rung in Paris, she answered it with bated breath, hoping this was the one, the call that meant she could come back to her home, her team. Her family. You.

Unfortunately, it also comes with the news that Declan is in danger.

The glass doors to the BAU don’t feel the same as she walks through them. None of the building does. She had expected to it to feel the way it always had. Warm, full of life, where she belonged. But tonight, it just feels cold.

Through the blinds, she can see Hotch talking to the team, presumably revealing the truth about her death. As she gets closer, she can hear voices.

“... anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.” Hotch.

“Any issues? Yeah, I got issues.” Morgan.

“I’ll say.” You.

She stops in the doorway, and everyone turns to face her.

“Oh, my god,” Garcia whispers.

Everyone’s looking at her, but Emily only has eyes for you.

You’re staring back at her, mouth hanging open slightly, tears slipping out of your eyes and down your cheeks. There’s silence until you suddenly push back your chair and stand. Emily drops her bag to the floor just before you slam into her, nearly knocking her over. You cling to her, and she clings back.

Then she feels it. She feels the warmth and life, the sense of belonging.

Here, with you in her arms, she’s finally home.

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

tell me what you thought here!

series taglist: @sobereinstein , @zizzlekwum , @goldenxreid , @closetedreidstan , @afuckingshituniverse , @uswntxx , @johnmulaneyslut , @90spumkin , @mcntsee , @zhuzhubii , @shadyladyperfection , @mggbler , @eva-cadeau , @esmesisle , @anothergayinthelifee

[alleycat97]

Snow Queen

Part 1? Just some random Hella Soft Blaine and Mc story. I don’t know what I was shooting for but here you go. Maybe a part 2? Idk yet.

F!Blaine x Mc(Kennedy Monroe)

Tag list: @blaine-hayes @samanthadalton @fundamentalromantic @kwaj05 @danna-min-sinclair @mintchocolate-chip @dopeyouth @shows-simp-card @clowneryme @scarlet-letter-a0114 @avanimous @choicesilona @somewillwin @iamsimpforpoppy @robintora @alexlabhont

Some vacation, who would have guessed a private ski lodge for diplomats with body guards and maximum security would have an issue with paparazzi?

Usually they don’t bother or even get near the place unless there is a story, and Kennedy Monroe was the story of the year, that was, if they could catch her.

She spent most of her vacation avoiding the paparazzi by a series of gut wrenching maneuvers on the slopes along with Blaine. It was actually becoming quite fun trying to evade them. It kept the adrenaline pumping for the girls as they tried to outdo one another in their big escapes.

For as much as they skied together and spent time together laughing and hanging out on the slopes, no one had put the two together, something that might unravel itself sooner rather than later.

Blaine and Kennedy started their morning’s off sitting next to each other at breakfast. Blaine always made sure Kennedy finished all her food before hitting the slopes. Besides evading the paparazzi, Blaine helped Kennedy with new moves and tricks on some jumps. Kennedy wasn’t the worlds worst skier, she just wasn’t as polished as Blaine.

But it wasn’t always skiing. The two girls would sneak off the runs and build snowmen and snow angels. One afternoon was so bad with the paparazzi, Blaine pulled Kennedy off the run and built them an igloo to hide in. One of many hidden talents the Ardonian possessed.

Of course the igloo wasn’t the largest of structures, especially the inside. Kennedy nearly had to straddle Blaine’s lap just to fit inside, something neither girl was complaining about.

“I see what you did here Blaine.” Kennedy smirked.

“What? I didn’t do anything.” Blaine replied with her trademark grin. “Just big enough for two.”

The two were quite fond of the igloo, it was their private oasis away from their friends and press on the slopes but would always end up back in Blaine’s room soaking away the aches of the days adventures.

The two started opposite of each other, just barely allowing their feet to rub one another. Then they started sitting side by side so they could hold hands. Then they always ended up with Kennedy sitting with her back to Blaine’s front, with the brunettes legs wrapped around the blonde’s waist.

Kennedy would just relax back into Blaine as she felt the girls grip tighten and the soft brush of her lips caressing the skin behind her ear. Not much was said, but the delicate actions spoke louder than any word either could muster.

One of the last morning’s, Blaine wasn’t at breakfast. Kennedy shot her a quick text before taking her own seat.

Blaine immediately responded with a message telling Kennedy to meet her at the igloo around noon for a surprise. Kennedy couldn’t stop bouncing in anticipation at the possibilities.

A surprise? From Blaine? Kennedy didn’t know whether to be excited or afraid.

Kennedy made it to the top of the ski lift and solo skied down the run and over to the secret igloo that Blaine had made. Finding Blaine tucked away inside with a blanket strung out with a picnic basket.

“Surprise!” Blaine greeted awkwardly, this feeling was all new to her.

“Oh a picnic? How romantic.”

“Yeah yeah I’m a saint. Now dig in, I’ve slaved over this all morning.” Blaine admitted timidly.

“You!? You made all this food? Thanks for the warning.” Kennedy teased pushing the basket away.

“Hey! It’s not that bad! I worked hard on it!”

Kennedy took the basket back and dug in, moaning in surprise on how tasteful the food was. “This is amazing Blaine thank you.”

Blaine smiled due to her small victory. Never in a million years did she ever consider baking anything for anyone, including a special someone. But here she was smiling, watching Kennedy enjoy her handy work.

After the tasteful lunch Kennedy tossed the basket aside, capturing Blaine’s lips with intensity and passion.

“Thank you so much for lunch Blaine, it was perfect.”

“A perfect lunch, for a perfect girl.” Blaine happily replied returning the kiss.

“When did you become so soft!?” Kennedy grinned.

“First day of school when I slammed that limo door shut, I caught a beautiful blonde staring from the sidewalk. I knew then I was toast.”

Kennedy squeezed Blaine’s hand thinking back to that day and how far the two have come, even if it was on the down low.

“But don’t you dare tell anyone Rutherland, my reputation would be destroyed.”

“We will keep it our little secret. And speaking of secrets? Do you think we will ever spill this one?” Kennedy said gesturing between them.

“I hope so, and soon.” Blaine admitted. “I value our time together as us, but I want the world to know you’re mine.”

“I agree. But do you think we are ready to take that on? We have countries to think about, our own people, our families.”

“Hell with them. We are grown women Kennedy, we can make our own decisions for our own reasons.”

“So...you do wish to keep this going?” Kennedy questioned.

“Kennedy we can do anything if we try. It’s just you and me. Our future is what we make it, not what our parents or countries make it.”

“Ok who are you and what did you do with Blaine.” Kennedy teased, lightly nudging Blaine.

“I mean it Rutherland. You mean the world to me. On a night when bad dreams become a screamer, When they're messing with the dreamer, I can laugh it in the face. I can twist and shout my way out, And wrap yourself around me. Because I ain’t the way you found me, And I'll never be the same.”

“D...Did you just quote a Hall & Oates song?” Kennedy thought, mulling over Blaine’s words.

“That’s not important, but what is, is that you changed me for the better Rutherland. You got me bad and I don’t want it to stop. I mean hell, I even cooked you lunch!” Blaine pointed out.

“Yes you did my little chef.” Kennedy said giving Blaine another appreciative Kiss. “Soon the world will know. Soon.”

The two were interrupted by an intense wind gust that started to blow snow into the igloo. Blaine stuck her head out to examine the outside world.

“It’s snowing again. These are big flakes Kennedy, and with this wind, it won’t be long until it’s blizzard conditions.”

“It’s getting colder too.” Kennedy added watching her breath intensify into the air.

“We better get back now before it’s too late.” Blaine spoke hurriedly packing the gear up and slapping her skis on.

The two abandoned their igloo and set off for the lodge. It was a decent run, and the near whiteout conditions had set in quicker than either thought.

“Kennedy!” Blaine yelled over her shoulder. “Stay close! We will cut through the woods up ahead, snow should be lighter.”

“Ok!”

The two approached a small thicket, telling them the woods were close. An odd movement in the thicket caught Blaine’s attention.

“Kennedy! To the left!” She pointed out.

“Paparazzi!” Kennedy yelled back. “Do these guys ever take a day off!”

“I don’t think he see’s us!” Blaine added looking for the guy again. “Where did he go?”

“He was just right out front?” Kennedy said speeding past Blaine unaware of how close she was to the woods. “I don’t see him!?”

“Kennedy! Look out!” Blaine screamed as the man appeared in front of Kennedy with his camera snapping shots of the first daughter.

The close proximity in the blinding snow startled Kennedy and she swerved around the man, hitting a tree head on.

“Kennedy!” Blaine whined out in fear, stopping next to the blonde, checking her over. “You fucking asshole!” Blaine snapped towards the cameraman.

“Oh this is good footage!” The man said recording the entire interaction. “You care to comment why you are so worried about your rival countries first daughter?”

Blaine reared back and slugged the creep. Taking his camera and tossing it against a tree, making sure it was good and broke. “Put that in your article asshole.”

The man staggered over and snagged his sim card before Blaine could and made his escape before Blaine had a chance to kill him.

“Kennedy!? Are you ok?” She asked rushing over when she heard the girl moaning in pain.

Kennedy tried to roll over, crying in immense pain. “Where does it hurt?” Blaine asked.

“My shoulder and neck.” Kennedy weakly got out. “My nose. I...I can’t breathe Blaine!” Kennedy started to freak but Blaine tried to calm her. Blaine noticed the blood surrounding the girls face.

“Broken nose, try and breathe through your mouth. Relax... breathe in, and out. Stay calm and I’ll call for help.” Blaine assured.

Soon the ski patrol made it with a evac snowmobile to find Blaine using her body to cover and warm Kennedy.

“Miss? We need to get her to the lodge.” The rescuer spoke removing Blaine.

The brunette watched as they speed off down the mountain with Kennedy and she hopped on the other machine to quickly get out of this snow storm.

As soon as she made it the lodge her classmates and Tatum had swarmed her.

“What happened to Kennedy?” Dionne asked.

“Yeah! They rushed her in on a stretcher and everything!” Peter added.

“I’ll need to ask you some questions Miss Hayes.” Tatum asked professionally.

“What the fuck is this!? 20 questions? Where is she?” Blaine snapped.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to answer the questions first. I’m not letting you see her without answering my questions. You are a witness and depending on your answers, a suspect.”

“Take your questions and shove them up your ass pretty boy. You’re not stopping me from seeing my girlfriend.”

The room went silent. Blaine could hear the many gasp’s from her friends but didn’t dare hide her relationship anymore.

“Girlfriend!?” Alexei asked. “I thought Evelyn was her girlfriend?”

“Pretend.” Evelyn noted.

“Finally!” Dionne squealed.

Tatum drug Blaine away and wrote down a room number. “That’s her room number at the hospital. Helicopter just took off.

“Then why are you still here?” Blaine questioned.

“I was supposed to interrogate you, but I see no need. I will need to ask you two what happened for my report when this settles down.” Tatum spoke.

Blaine, as restless as ever, called in her helicopter, and within an hour was taking off from the ski lodge in route to the hospital.

It was another 30 minute flight as she rushed into the hospital finding the correct level and the lucky door she was searching for. Demarco guarded the door but nodded for Blaine to go in.

“Kennedy?” Blaine asked easing into the room, finding the girl asleep on the bed. Her nose was severely bruised but had all the blood washed from her face. The cuts had been taken care of, and she was placed in a neck brace.

“Miss?” A nurse spoke entering the room. “We need to get Ms. Monroe to surgery. We are ready for her.”

“Surgery?” Blaine asked worriedly.

“On her shoulder and clavicle. It took a beating on that impact.” The nurse spoke taking the bed out the door.

Blaine wondered the halls alone waiting for Kennedy to finish surgery. It was literally the longest 5 hours of her life and the longest she’s gone without Kennedy aside from sleeping.

She didn’t know exactly how she fell so hard for Kennedy but she knew she didn’t want to go back. Life was so much better and worth living with her by her side.

“Ms. Hayes?” A nurse timidly approached, not wanting to interfere with a somber looking Blaine.

“Yes?”

“Ms. Monroe’s surgery was successful and she has returned to her room. She won’t stop asking for you.”

Blaine smiled as she took off running down the corridors, nearly bulldozing the room door down trying to get in so quickly.

“Blaine!” Kennedy squealed.

Blaine delicately took the girl in a hug, careful not to hurt her too much. “I missed you Rutherland.”

“Not as much as I missed you. You like my new look? Vogue says if your atleast 33% in castings, your trendy.” Kennedy teased.

“I guess given the circumstances, you look ravishing.” Blaine agreed.

“Ms. Hayes, if I didn’t know any better? I’d say your blushing.” Kennedy teased.

“Am not!” Blaine protested, blushing even harder. “Ok maybe alittle, so sue me.”

“I’ll do one better, come here.”

Blaine did as told and leaned down, meeting Kennedy in a much relieved and much needed kiss.

“I love you Blaine.”

“I love you Rutherland. So much.”

[sooibian]

Flambé - I

poster and edits/collage credits to @is-that-baekhyuns-shirt​ ! 

chapter two | moodboard by the lovely @pororodks​

🍜 pairing: kyungsoo x fem!reader ft. baekhyun, mark lee

🍜 description: pull up a chair. take a taste. come join us. life is so endlessly delicious. - ruth reichl

🍜 themes: fluff, crack (ish), slight angst, a lil bit of spice (in the future), rivals to lovers au

🍜 word count: ~ 9.7k

🍜 a/n: writing this makes me feel lonely and hungry and that, my friends, is a deadly concoction of emotions so while i wallow in my misery, i dearly hope you’ll enjoy this creation. i'd love to hear from you <3<br>

🍜 reference notes: yt channels: maangchi, one meal a day, bore.d; netflix shows: midnight diner, street food: asia, chef’s table

🍜 tag list: @changshapatrol​ @j-pping​ @kyungseokie​ @exosmuttytalk​ @his-mochi-cheeks​  @littleflowercrown13​ pls lmk if you’d like to be added/removed from the tag list!

Water bobs in frenetic bubbles in a massive ancient stone pot perched atop a fort of raging wood. Amidst brutal peals of thunder, a gushing stream rises from a nearby hill, obscuring the shrill cries of the sacrificial crab.

Chanting a spell, you lift the enormous crustacean by its pincers and lower it into the growling, pitch black utensil. Blubbering helplessly, it lodges its claws at the rim of the pot in desperation, seeking escape. The sound of your maniacal laughter reverberates through the cave as you thrust it back into the violent undulation with a heavy-handed flick of the bladed-spatula. 

All of a sudden, you’re swept over with a wave of unconsciousness, your skin tingles, and boiling water begins to fill up your lungs. 

You are alone at the bottom of the very same utensil.

“Help!” frantic, you stagger up, gasping for air. But the bladed-spatula wielding crab, now untied and hovering over you, roars jubilantly at your defenseless form.

Maybe the spell didn’t land, you think. 

“Please, Chef!” you whimper as a last ditch attempt. 

In one swift motion, it swooshes down to your eye level. 

Bushy black brows sprout on its forehead, just a little over a pair of big brown circles for eyes. Then comes the nose, followed by a bloody red mouth that snarls at you.

zzzz… 

“Late again?” 

zzzz…

zzzz…

zzzz…

4:00 a.m., your phone blinks.

In a sleep befuddled state, you reach out for the wailing device. ‘Late again?’ Chef’s cold, deep voice sounds in your consciousness as you wipe the droplets of sweat off of your forehead.

Chef. 

Doh Kyungsoo had insisted on the title and you’d boldly refused to call him that. What business does a man working at a Kalguksu stand in Gwangjang Market have, being called Chef. You’d seeked redressal with the higher ups. The owner. 

Your aunt.

“Aegiya, he has something that you don’t.”

“A dick?”

“YAH! A degree in culinary arts.”

“Imo, haven’t you watched Parasite? Anyone can forge documents these days and if so then why is he here? He could very well land a job at Four Seasons like Hyunjin. Think, Imo. Think!” 

“Exactly! With forged documents, he could be anywhere. But he’s here, no?”

“Maybe you’re just easier to manipulate.”

Finally, she said in her no-nonsense, stern voice. "Chef. You’re calling him Chef.”

Every time the egotistical madman opens that darned mouth of his, it makes you want to knock him down with a roundhouse and beat the living daylights out of him. 

But, counting to five, you always resist the temptation. 

Because one day, one glorious day, you’d take over your aunt’s business and the very first item on your agenda would be….well, the obvious. With a glimmer of hope, you flounder out of your comforter, muttering every cuss word you’d learnt…and crafted in the course of working with the devil himself.

.

.

.

“Ah 3000 is a bit too much for cucumbers", he says to the middle aged vendor, flashing a boyish grin. 

The face of sourcing has drastically changed in the last six months since Kyungsoo’s arrival. Prior to his dictatorship, Imo had tie-ups with vendors who’d hand deliver the produce every single day, without fail. Guess Kyungsoo didn’t fully comprehend the benefits of customer loyalty. ‘There could be better quality ingredients out there, Sajangnim…economically priced, I might add’, he’d convinced your aunt using his military corporal voice. No matter if it meant awkward break-ups with the vegetables ahjumma or the prawns ahjussi: you were left to do the dirty work.

And required to tag along for the routine 5 a.m sourcing runs. Every morning, he’d greet you with an accusatory ‘you killed my cat’ expression.

Groaning, you shift your weight from side to side. If only he’d quit flirting with every woman in the market and hurry up! The purchases have long exceeded the capacity of your humble cart. Flailing your numb arms awake, you urge him to speed up with a nudge of the knee but he glares at you like you’d asked him for a kidney. 

Kyungsoo has a tendency to overbuy but never does he help with a single bag. ‘I don’t like to sweat’ is his excuse. Which is pretty ridiculous considering he spends over ten hours a day overseeing a scorching frying pan at the stall. 

But you know better than to argue. 

Because as much as you loathe every fibre of his existence, he terrifies you a little. The man possesses the duality of a psychopath. As fierce as he is in the Market, ruthlessly competitive even, he’s quite the sweet talker. Incredibly charming. And you can bet your life on the fact that every ahjumma - whether or not a rival - would take a bullet for him.

“Ahdeul-ah”, the woman coos at him, making your insides violently contort, “you know how tight the market is these days. But I’ll throw in some more only for you.” 

The additional weight of three kilos on your right arm ends your sourcing run for the day.

***

“Chef”, huffing, you say to him on your way out, “I had a late night last night.”

“And I need to be privy to this little nugget of unwarranted information because?” He paces ahead of you at his usual lightning speed.

“No, I meant, could we stop”, panting you continue, “could we stop for a quick cup of coffee.”

Halting abruptly, he turns around to look you square in the eyes, “No.”

“Asshole!” You murmur under your breath.

“I heard that.”

.

.

.

Monday at Choi Yoonsun’s Kalguksu stall was busier than usual. 

It went by in a daze amidst the cacophony of a sizzling girdle, clanging of pots and pans and Imo’s relentless vocalization inviting guests to the stall. Having served thousands of bowls of Kalguksu and Kimchi Mandu, you rely heavily on muscle memory to get you through a workday’s demands.

Despite its massive chaos and commotion, you quite enjoyed working in the Market. 

Not being particularly skilled at much and having nearly flunked out of high school, cooking was the one thing that defined you. It was your safe harbour. You’d lost your father in an accident at the tender age of ten and your mother was forced to work long hours to put food on the table. So you honed your culinary skills, little by little, because you thought it vital for your own well-being as well as your mother’s. 

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.

At the end of yet another rewarding day, you leave a wet towel soaking in vinegar for Kyungsoo to clean the iron girdle and proceed to tend to the dirty dishes yourself. 

“Yahh!” Imo calls out for Kyungsoo and you, thumping her hand on the table, gesturing for you to join her.

“Ahh! Imo, there’s a huge pile of dirty dishes!” You cry out in response, only to turn around to find that ass-kisser already at the table, schmoozing with your aunt. Hastily taking off your grubby apron, you wash your hands and wipe them clean with a rag cloth. Straightening your black shirt, flattening unruly flyaways, you rush toward the table but she’s already up and ready to leave, “We’ll have dinner together tonight. I want to have a word with both of you.”

“But -”

“Sajangnim”, Kyungsoo interrupts, wagging a finger in your direction, face scrunched up in mock concern, “this one’s had a late night last night -”

“Chef! So I guess I’ll be seeing you tonight. As if seeing you every day of every week wasn’t enough already!” 

An overtly saccharine smile spreads across your face and his jaw hardens in response.

“Aish….you two…I’m leaving now”, shaking her head, she sighs, “see you both in two hours.”

.

.

.

Kimchi jjigae, Pajeon, Tteokbokki, Jajangmyeon, some leftover Bibimbap with sides galore from Hong Lim Banchan Stall. Imo clearly has something important on her mind.

But the vibe at the dinner table just doesn’t sit right with you. 

The reason for that could be the bespectacled black hole of negativity that’s seated besides you in all black clothing but there’s something off about Imo. 

She’s being a little too nice.

Fear gradually starts to settle in your bones. Is she finally closing down? Is this delectable fare an attempt at softening the blow? After all, she’d settled her husband’s debts over five years ago and her sons were doing well for themselves. Quite well, in fact. The elder one, Hyunwoo, is an investment banker and the younger one Hyunjin went to culinary school and is working as a chef at Four Seasons’ Chinese restaurant. It only makes sense for her to trade the Market’s gruelling ways for some much deserved peace and quiet.

“We’re closing down the stall”, she says coolly.

It’s like a punch in the gut.

“Imo -”

“Aegiya”, she rests her chin on her hand, face clouded over with serenity, “the Market’s given me everything. It’s given me a sense of independence…a sense of pride. It put my family back together. I used to think that I’m nothing without my husband and my sons…but the Market gave me an identity. I continued to work even after my husband’s passing not because I needed the money but because this is something that I’ve created and I’m mighty proud of what’s become of it today. My name is a brand in itself. And a decade ago I couldn’t have imagined this even in the wildest of my dreams.”

A million scenarios cascading through your head drown out Imo’s voice.

Would you now have to go back to Bucheon? Or invest in a stall of your own at the traditional Gwangjang that would never accept your big and bold ways with cooking? And to start from scratch? With a new recipe? Kalguksu with a twist, perhaps? But you had no insight into your aunt’s special broth. She’d never let you or even Kyungsoo for that matter whip up the hand-cut noodles. The two of you only ever helped with the ancillary tasks.

You soon come to the realization of not being the only one caught in the eye of the storm. Kyungsoo’s unwavering gaze is scarily fixated on the bowl of jajangmyeon before him. His miserable state gives you a fleeting sense of relief and it’s in that exact moment that he chooses to say something unpalatable.

“Sajangnim, you’ve worked too hard. It’s time for you to reap the fruits of your labour. We’ll be fine, you don’t have to worry about us.”

Of course he’ll be fine. 

Nearly all food stall owners in Gwangjang have been vying for him ever since the day he set foot into Choi Yoonsun’s with his phlegmatic personality. Whereas you had nowhere to go. The world conveniently assumes Imo hired you only because you were her poor sister’s daughter who she sought to help financially. Not because you had what it took to be there and survive.

“Did I say I was ready to retire?” She laughs, eyeing Kyungsoo quizzically. 

“Here’s the thing..I met up with a friend last month. She was looking for a buyer for her little family run restaurant in Gangnam. So I took out a loan, made her an offer”, balling her hands into fists she sighs, “put in the deposit…and the place is pretty much mine now!”

“IMO”, you yell, “you didn’t have to scare me with that long winded speech! God, you’re so dramatic!”

“Well, it is a big move. I’m not sure either of you are ready to take the leap. It requires a tonne of work and I may not be able to pay half of what you earned at the Market for at least two months until we open. It’ll take the restaurant two years or so to break even and only then will I be able to afford scaling your salaries. On the other hand, what I can do is, help you secure a job at the banchan stall since you love seasoned spinach so much and Kyungsoo even stands a chance at managing one of the Pakgane stalls!”

Pakgane is the mung bean pancake stall that had gotten so popular that the owner managed to branch out of Gwangjang. So even your beloved Imo believes that you’d make for a better “help” and Kyungsoo, a Manager. 

Ugh!

“I’m coming with you”, you say firmly, “I’ve saved up a little and Eomma will gladly pitch in, if need be…”

At this point, you’d expected Kyungsoo to be ready with his luggage considering the little sycophant he is but his expression is stoic, eyes still glued to the jajangmyeon bowl, filling you with insane hope. 

He was going to jump ship…finally!

“Chef…”, you couldn’t resist, “you don’t have to worry about us…I’m more than enough for Imo. You may…”

He shoots you an angry glare making you chew on your unsaid words. But wanting to rile him just a little more, you excuse yourself and bring out a bottle of ketchup. Squeezing it generously atop the stack of pajeon, you snicker maliciously. 

Ketchup. 

The tangy, unassuming condiment is the sole reason Kyungsoo abhors your very existence. But as this dinner marks the end of his torturous regime, you celebrate with ketchup - lots of it - right in front of his nasty eyes.

.

.

.

Steam swirls in different directions and at every twenty metres a contrastive redolence tickles your olfactory senses. Experiencing Gwangjang as a guest is clearly a far richer experience compared to the donkeywork involved in life as a vendor. 

A proper send-off is essential lest Kyungsoo decides to stay, even if it means creating a huge dent in your pocket. You plan on giving him a final tour of the Market where you could both say your goodbyes while receiving a premium fuel of vitamins, minerals and carbs. 

Lots of carbs.

“Let’s start with Pakgane”, says Kyungsoo, with a skewered sausage in one hand.

Wanting to start with nothing less than the best in order to create a lasting impression, you shake your head in response. This was supposed to be a farewell he’d never forget.

With every step, the aroma of scallops drizzled with butter and cheese grows stronger. You start your tour by ordering two portions of the delectable street food which sets you back considerably but you’re far too elated to care, even refusing Kyungsoo’s offer to pay as the woman sets the scallops ablaze with a blow torch.

“Do you know what this technique is called?” Kyungsoo gives a little nod in the direction of the flaming food.

A teachable moment. How does his own personality not wear him off?

You’d made a firm resolve to not let any of his condescension bog you down so with a sweet smile, you reply, “No, Chef. I do not.”

“Flambé, minus the alcohol. Do you know how they manage that?”

The ahjumma calls out for you and you nearly jump to collect the order, the slight upward curl of his lips coming into your peripheral vision.

***

The Market supposedly looks the same as it did fifty years ago and you quite enjoy eating your way through it. The tour makes your heart grapple with nostalgia even though your partner’s vibe is akin to a mug of insipid coffee.

Although you’d spent only a little over a year at Choi Yoonsun’s, the goodbyes were long and hard. Some of the vendors squeeze you and Kyungsoo in heart wrenching hugs, the others give you a little cash to help you through the transition and for some of the food, you pay only with smiles and thank yous.

After a gastronomic fiesta entailing tteokbokki, pajeon (minus the ketchup - you did it Kyungsoo’s way), sashimi, kimbap, different types of banchan, a thousand more teachable moments, the both of you end the day on a sweet note with hotteok. 

The ahjussi wishes you both luck, making you choke back tears. 

Your moist eyes don’t escape Kyungsoo’s attention.

“Are you…. Is the hotteok spicy? No, I mean it’s obviously not…erm”

The dam of your tears explodes. 

You were going to miss this place. Even the less appealing aspects of it. You were going to miss the kimbap unnie who greeted you with a hug everyday, also the snooty mandu ahjumma who could hardly stand the sight of Choi Yoonsun’s crew. You were going to miss washing dishes in the winters with water that was supposed to be ice and the sweltering summers that had you sweating through every layer of clothing. 

Hell, you were even going to miss Kyungsoo.

“No”, you sniffle, “No, no Chef, it’s nothing. Take care of yourself. As much as I’m glad that our fateful working relationship has met its rightful end, I truly, genuinely, wish you luck. And learn to smile a little more, yeah?”

“Are you dying?” Eyes glinting, mouth agape, he chuckles.

“What? NO! What? You’re leaving. What is wrong with you?”

“Who says I’m leaving?”

“You! You’re not coming with us to Gangnam!”

“Says who?”

“Your stupid face that looked like it was hit by a freight train when Imo broke the news last week!”

“I’m not leaving?” He draws his words out in a question.

“This is no time to joke, Chef. You are leaving!”

“Says who!”

“Your stu-”

“Stupid face? I wasn’t planning on leaving at all. I’ve even found myself a place close to the restaurant. Oh yeah, sorry for having misled you. It was really just - my stupid face.”

.

.

.

A month from Grand Opening

It’s not just about food.

Food only makes for a fifth of a restaurant’s success equation. Management and promotional skills are essential because a restaurant is, first and foremost, a business. 

Mark Lee, the young consultant from PCY Associates had imparted this crucial business knowledge to your compact team of three aspiring restaurateurs in exchange for an egg sandwich and watermelon juice. The enthu-cutlet has been overseeing the legal set-up of your humble restaurant for a month now. 

However, according to Mark, the crème de la crème of the success equation is customer service. 

Customer service. 

Here’s where the crusty Chef was supposed to take a backseat and you - a real people person, a socially adept charmer - were to sashay in and shine. 

These ideas were a bit too much for that thick, globular skull of his so you tried to educate him with a practical example. 

He’d added a rule to the first draft of the menu - a shared document for brainstorming purposes. It read ‘No ketchup for you.’ This rule (or insolence as you called it) went against your belief system as the restaurant’s to-be-anointed Manager (a girl can always hope). ‘Never say no to a customer’ being the foundation of customer service, you slashed the rule with a strikethrough. 

But the next time you tried to log in, you found yourself locked out of the document. 

“Chef, why can’t I find the draft menu anymore?”

He’s aggressively julienning leeks, pretending to not have heard you. 

“CHEF!”

“What?” Finally, he looks up. The skin between his eyebrows pinched and his arm raised to level his brand new 1-piece chef’s knife (initials etched into the blade) with his profile.

“Why-why did you lock me out of the draft menu?”, you stammer, gaze trained on the cutting edge glistening with tears of The Leeks.

Kyungsoo’s been visibly getting jittery by the day as opening day approaches.

He deliberately places the knife to the side of the board and you take a gutsy step forward. He uses a cold, serial-killer voice to ask, “What makes you think that I locked you out?”

You lean over from the other side of the granite counter, face barely an inch from his, “Who else could’ve? Imo is technologically challenged.”

“Fine”, he sighs, “I locked you out.” His lips curl up in a menacing smirk, “What are you gonna do about it?”

Grinning, you stare right into his dark eyes and let out a shrill, high-pitched scream, “IMO!”

This throws him back a few steps and he’s rubbing and pulling at his right ear when Imo walks into the kitchen. 

“Yah! Am I your babysitter? Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear about it. I am asking you”, she looks at you before spinning her head in Kyungsoo’s direction, “and you, to sort this amongst yourselves. For once!”

“But-but Imo!”, you protest.

“Aegiya, I really don’t want to ship you back to Bucheon.” 

***

“Here’s your tax ID, liquor license… okay so this was a touch-and-go because the officer is transferring to another Department and the one that’s supposed to be coming in is a real piece of work….” 

Mark Lee is here with the final set of documents. 

Imo’s eyes are gleaming with excitement and sheer joy but she’s held a businesswoman-like composure. On the other hand, Kyungsoo looks very much like himself - like someone’s sucked the life out of him. 

You bring Mark his usual egg sandwich and watermelon juice because there’s only so much your restaurant can offer at this point in time, feeling brutally overwhelmed with the volume of pending tasks until opening.

After practically inhaling his mini-meal, Mark dabs his mouth clean and says, “My work here is done. If you need anything you know where to find me. And good luck. Trust me, you’ll need it.”

Imo looks worriedly at Kyungsoo and then at Mark and at Kyungsoo again which prompts him to ask rather uncomfortably, “What do you mean ‘you’ll need it’?”

Mark’s dramatically long sigh is an indication of a sermon to follow. As he leans back into his chair, Imo and Kyungsoo instinctively cower like an invisible weight has been plopped onto their shoulders. The sight is beyond pathetic: they are like peasants before a feudal lord. It makes you want to smash the know-it-all smirk off of Mark’s face.

What comes after, though, isn’t a sermon but a sentence and a half that leaves the three of you shaken.

“The dining business here in Gangnam is hyper-competitive and most restaurants fold in six months. And if that sandwich is any indication…”

Kyungsoo valiantly advances to rescue your team out of the dark bubble of Mark Lee’s words with, “What’s wrong with the sandwich? She makes a perfectly good sandwich!”

What was supposed to be a compliment somehow sounds very wrong in your head, but before you could give him the death stare he leaps to damage control, “What I mean is, we all ate the very same sandwich for breakfast. I don’t usually dissect food for novices but the egg was perfectly cooked, mayonnaise was just the right amount and the seasoning was balanced, too. So I’m not sure what you’re trying to say. We’re serving perfectly good food here.”

“The thing is, this is something even my mother could make and dude, believe me, she’s terri…her culinary abilities are highly questionable. Also, do you think your friend would’ve sold you this place if it were thriving, Mrs. Choi? She’d inherited it from her grandfather and she sold it to you at a dirt cheap price because she was neck deep in debt. I’m sure you know, real estate here is three and a half times the country’s average. So not only do you have significant funds locked into a possibly deadweight property but also your plan clearly lacks vision. Gwangjang’s Choi Yoonsun can keep you afloat for four…maybe six months but Gangnam’s Choi Yoonsun has to create an identity for herself. Look around you, everyone’s serving good food”, Mark tilts his head in Kyungsoo’s direction, “Here, people eat with their eyes first. Now, I’m not saying family-run restaurants serving traditional cuisines don’t do well. A lot of them have been passed down for generations. What I’m saying is…..find your USP.” 

Mark squints, looks into the distance, and pinches the air a lot during this damp squib speech of his.

So the menu isn’t very different from what Choi Yoonsun served in Gwangjang. Her USP has always been homestyle cooking with a twist. But that was the demand of a Market that upheld traditionalism and Gangnam, being precipitously everchanging, would be quite something to keep up with. 

The weight of Mark’s words manifests on Kyungsoo’s shoulders. He lets out a sharp exhale and starts to clear the table, giving him plenty non-verbal cues to leave. You rush to help him out and meet his defeated form (crouched over the sink) in the kitchen.

The shuffling sound of your footsteps reaches his ears and he pivots to face you.

“We’ll be okay”, your voice is but a calm whisper prompting his creased forehead to slowly smoothen.

“We’ll be okay”, he forcefully echoes.

.

.

.

Grand Opening Day

A frisson of fear laced with excitement descends your spine.

Choi Yoonsun’s is enveloped in a pin drop silence save for the sound of Kyungsoo’s pacing. It’s grating on your nerves but Kyungsoo pacing is far better than Kyungsoo “going over the plan” for the umpteenth time. 

The kitchen’s prepped for battle so you’re seated at the cash counter, cuddled close with Imo, placated by her soothing, motherly presence. The three of you are like ticking time bombs, ready to go off at any minute.

This, right here, is the perfect example of a pinch-me-it-doesn’t-feel-real moment. You allow yourself to feel the forces at play as your eyes take in every nook and cranny of the restaurant. The place is agreeably well lit and the ventilation hoods aren’t an eyesore either. The decor’s minimalistic with a sand and stone colour scheme and the floor’s been scrubbed spotless. Eight sturdy wooden tables, tactically placed, allow for movement and privacy yet the area has been optimally utilized. 

Fifteen minutes for the ‘Open’ sign to light up. 

Kyungsoo and you proceed to help each other out with crisp bright yellow aprons affixed with red name tags (handpicked by Imo, the aprons made you both look like dumpy chicks) and clear plastic masks and wish each other luck with curt nods.

***

Imo’s sons are the first to arrive with some friends in tow. They are served with Kyungsoo’s Yachae Twigim and Budae Jjigae, your Gyeran-mari and Kimchi Bokkeum-bap and of course, Imo’s famous Kalguksu and Kimchi Mandu. Makes you wonder if they’ve had enough of it but they seem to be greatly enjoying themselves. Some of Hyunjin’s friends from Four Seasons are here too, their mighty presence driving Kyungsoo to the edge.

But a few compliments from them are enough to soothe his nerves.

Among the flurry of patrons through the day were vendors and stall owners from Gwangjang along with their family and friends, Kyungsoo’s acquaintances who you knew nothing about and neither did you care enough to ask, Mark Lee with his very handsome boss Park Chanyeol also dropped by sometime around noon. 

Your mother couldn’t make it to the opening. It stung a little but as usual, you sucked it up and went on with the highly stimulating day that anyway left you with very little time to mull over any unpleasantness.

***

By the end of it, you were pretty sure you’d wake up with blistered feet the next morning. 

It’d been a splendid opening with sales tallying up to KRW 2500,000: nearly two and a half times the estimate. Imo breaks into a dance at the figure, even Kyungsoo lips stretch into a reluctant grin.

You intensely wish Mark Lee were here to witness this euphoric win.

.

.

.

Six months later

Mark Lee had been right. 

Choi Yoonsun was miles from creating an identity in Gangnam. Regulars from Gwangjang could make it to the restaurant only twice or thrice a week, support from acquaintances had been gradually trickling, and some negative reviews floating around the internet about poor table turnover had also been driving potential guests away.

You tried to mitigate this by hiring part timers at minimum wage but for several reasons, none of them managed to stay: anti-social hours and Kyungsoo’s hostility being two of the key causes.

On your best days, the sales would total up to KRW 1500,000 and the weekday numbers had been dismal.

***

“Dooly-dooly!”

Your eyes light up at the familiarity of that voice. Mirroring its excitement, you run into the arms of its owner.

“Baekhyunnie!” 

Kyungsoo peers over his glasses while scrubbing the iron girdle, studying the floppy haired, cheerful man with a wide grin plastered across his face that’s pranced into the kitchen at closing time. 

Byun Baekhyun has been your best friend since time immemorial. Growing up in Bucheon, he’d been the only family you’d known besides your parents and Imo’s family. You weren’t even as close with Hyunwon and Hyunjin as you were with Baekhyun. Since work always kept your mother busy, his parents had practically been the ones to raise you and not once did they make you feel like an outsider.

“Yah! Quit calling me Dooly we’re not kids anymore! Have you eaten? Let me whip you up something real quick. Look at youuuu, when did you get this skinny! How long are -”

“Not to interrupt, but you’ve left the water running”, Kyungsoo drones, lazily pointing in the direction of the sink. 

You clearly remember turning it off before darting to greet Baekhyun.

‘Sonofa-’ exasperated, you mouth to Baekhyun, whose eyebrows have shot up to his hairline out of vicarious embarrassment, before turning around to face Kyungsoo who seems to be scrubbing the iron girdle to gold. “Chef, you’re closer to the sink.”

“Reiterating. You’ve left the water running. If you wanna go on tittle-tattling, by all means….this wastage is on you.”

“Make yourself comfortable”, too exhausted to pick a fight, you whisper to Baekhyun, gesturing towards the closest table, “I’ll be with you soon.”

***

“It’s bad”, Imo sighs, burying her face in her hands. 

11 P.M., two hours past closing time. 

The sparse lighting in the restaurant is causing you an eyestrain to look at the scribblings on the register. Your neck and shoulder muscles are tense from all the chopping, stirring, and scrubbing: a slow day does not translate to an easy day. You notice that Kyungsoo is growing weary, too. 

Or maybe discouraged.

You communicate with each other in evasive glances as if the restaurant not doing well is, somehow, on the two of you. 

“Imo”, Baekhyun speaks first so as to allay the looming dread, “I’ve been reading the online reviews and those who’ve visited here have been raving about the food - especially the Kalguksu. They say you’ve brought the flavours of Gwangjang to Gangnam. There’s this one thing, though - ”

“Sajangnim”, Kyungsoo interrupts a zealous Baekhyun’s pitch, “I don’t think this is any of his business. We’ve been keeping track of reviews and such - ”

“Let the boy speak. He’s family.” She says softly, pressing her fingers to her temples, clearly clutching at straws now.

Kyungsoo clenches his jaw and nods in Baekhyun’s direction, indicating him to continue.

“There-there”, Baekhyun stutters, eyes fixed on Kyungsoo who’s vaguely fascinated with his cuticles, “are some complaints about slow service. Particularly between starters and mains.”

After an uncomfortably rich pause, Imo gently rests her hand atop Baekhyun’s “Baekhyunah, how long are you here for?”

“For as long as you need”, the apples of his cheeks rise as his eyes crinkle into a gleeful smile.

***

“Somebody is early. Also, the cart looks different…it’s..?” 

Dressed in his usual black athleisure, round eyes framed with chunky glasses, Kyungsoo jogs lightly to match your out-of-character sprightly pace into the market. 

“Bigger. I bought a new one.” You chirp, shooting him an out-of-character smile.

Even the dreary weather isn’t a buzzkill because today is supposed to be Baekhyun’s first day at work.

“How did you get Sajangnim to agree? She can be -” 

“Miserly? Stingy? Close-fisted? Also, when will you stop calling her Sajangnim?”

“Just so that you can stop addressing me appropriately? Dream on. And I meant economical. Sajangnim is economical.”

“Chef, do you even listen? I bought it. With my own money. I figured since we’d need more ingredients now, we could use a bigger one.”

“And how did you come to that conclusion?” Impervious to his smug tone, you step away to pick up a one kg bulk pack of dried shiitake mushrooms while he’s examining a small batch of zucchini. 

“Because Baekhyun’s gonna be working with us now.”

“Temporarily. And we’re suddenly going to start doing better because of an inexperienced, unemployed -”

The wheels of the cart hit his ankle when you swivel it, making him wince in pain. 

“Oops! Sorry.”

“You did that on purpose!” He chides.

Half-shrugging, you say nonchalantly, “Serves you right. Baekhyun may be inexperienced but he isn’t unemployed. If anything, he’s doing us a favour. He’s whimsical like that.”

“I know”, he states, forcefully taking control of the cart, “I know he isn’t unemployed. He owns a Hapkido training academy for elementary school children and is on a break these days. I looked him up. I, personally, wouldn’t have hired him if it were my restaurant but I’m sure Sajangnim -”

“Chef?” You stop dead in your tracks.

“What?”

“You’re on…” you wanted to say ‘social media’ but the words sounded almost blasphemous to be used in front of a very uptight Doh Kyungsoo: a man with absolutely no online presence. 

“What is it?” His eyebrows knit together in annoyance.

“Nothing, let’s go.”

“You know what else is different today?” He says on your way out, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips.

“Hmm?”

“You. You’ve showered.” He chortles, thinking he’s being funny.

But with a hardened expression, you let him know that he’s crossed a line.

“Too far?”

“A tad.”

“Let’s get you some coffee.” 

“No.” You smile inwardly, relishing his apologetic tone.

“No?”

“We have to pick up Baekhyun’s apron and nametag.”

.

.

.

At first you thought you were imagining this. 

A group of high school girls frequenting Choi Yoonsun’s must obviously be because they want to get healthy, homely meals instead of the trash served at fast food chains or the uneconomical subsistence of instagrammable cafes. They’re obviously not here for the charming server with an athlete’s body and a boyish grin.

“He should wear respectable clothing”, says Kyungsoo, indicating at Baekhyun’s skinny jeans and fitted black tee, hiss sharper than the sizzle of minced garlic in butter.

“Why, I don’t think his cleavage is showing”, you retort, scooping out a serving of rice from the cooker.

“You have absolutely no shame”, he states matter-of-factly, stirring the soup pot.

“What? Is my cleavage showing, too?” You ask in mock-surprise, fixing your apron theatrically.

“Forget I said anything.” 

The aroma of Kimchi Jjigae had you salivating and you couldn’t wait to taste it for seasoning. Kyungsoo’s cooking amply made up for his drab, lacklustre personality. 

“Chef, lighten up. Any publicity is good publicity.”

“You sound like a tabloid journalist”, leaving the soup to simmer, he turns around to face you, “What’s wrong with your hair?”

“I got a haircut”, scrunching your face you respond suspiciously, the fact that he noticed it despite the hair cover makes your heart palpitate.

Taking the unwarranted attention away from your hair, you ask hastily, “You think they’re here for Baekhyun and not your food, right?” 

“Ye-yes”, he stutters, looking away.

“These people wouldn’t be here time and again if it weren’t for the food, Chef. You should know that.” 

Moving closer to him, you lightly dust flour off of his shoulders. 

“How did you get flour on your shoulders?”

His ears go scarlet. 

.

.

.

Imo comes into the kitchen while Kyungsoo and you are preparing for the day ahead. Baekhyun has gone down to Bucheon to oversee the affairs of his training academy. 

“There’s this new officer who’s reviewing all liquor permits issued this year. Be careful and make sure to check all IDs twice. I’m taking the day off. Will you two be okay by yourselves?” She swooshes out of the kitchen, not bothering with your incoherent replies.

“Can’t believe they’ve ditched us on a Friday.” You grumble, soaking clams in fresh water.

“We’ll be fine.” Kyungsoo reassures you.

***

It had been quite the day and nearing closing time, your feet were going sore. Baekhyun taking on the toughest role in the restaurant made you greatly appreciate his efforts. While most guests are civil, he’s experienced his fair share of rowdy ones firsthand and his ability to deal with them is unparalleled. He’s never, ever let any matter escalate to a point of embarrassment and has demonstrated the maturity to overcome every crisis situation with a smile on his face. 

The fact that he’s only temporarily here suddenly starts to wear you out. 

Kyungsoo sticks a handwritten note on the steel holder which reads - Yangnyeom - 2. It’s only been a little over eight months since the restaurant’s been fully functional yet the holder’s worn out more because of use and less because of time. 

“About time we advanced to kitchen order tickets, right? Saves Baekhyun…or either of us unnecessary excursions to the kitchen. Also, billing will be simpler that way.” You offer while straightening your apron and getting ingredients ready for Kyungsoo to prepare the sauce.

“Yeah, it does”, he seems really out of it as he’s getting chunks of juicy chicken ready for the fryer. He’s moving around the kitchen rather clumsily, nearly tipping over the bottle of corn syrup.

“Wah, Chef, are you alright? Would you like me to do this?” 

Resting his back against the wall, he slowly sinks to the floor, face buried in hands. “Yes, please.”

While you’re preparing a sauce the recipe for which you know like the back of your hand, his instructions don’t cease. The only thing you’ve ever liked about working with this man is that contrary to Imo, he does not believe in micromanaging. But right now it feels like you’re in the kitchen with her and not with Kyungsoo.

The tension causes you to lower the chicken into the fryer hastily resulting in specks of flaming oil to splatter onto your arm. 

He’s quick to rush to your aid with a cold towel.

“Yah, Chef, you’re making me nervous, what’s with all this nitpicking?” You almost yell at him as he’s gingerly dabbing the towel on the affected area.

“I’m sorry, I am so sorry. It’s just”, he pauses briefly, worrying at his lower lip, questioning eyes peering into yours, before helping you with the chicken - slightly more confident in his movements now, “whatever you do, don’t get out of the kitchen. Table number four, those guys there, are weird.”

“Weird, how?”

“Rowdy, mannerless and drunk. Really, really drunk. Steamrolled by the ‘Friday happy’.”

“Ah, Baekhyun’s well-versed with their kind. Don’t worry, just be polite. Are you sure you don’t want me to intervene?”

“Positive and whatever happens?”

“Stay put. Chef?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s only thirty minutes to closing. We can get through this, okay? And don’t accept further orders!”

***

Twenty minutes after, you’re aimlessly scrolling through your phone to take your mind off the stabbing pain in your lower abdomen. Simultaneously playing a little game of inventing the kind of content Kyungsoo would upload if he were a user on these sites only to be jolted with the realization as to how little you know about the man.

As the restaurant’s occupied with boisterous conversations and raucous laughter, you’re counting seconds to closing. Multiplying three hundred with every bracket of five on the clock.

The din comes to an abrupt halt when you hear a middle aged man bellow, “Yah, punk, do you have a death wish?!”

Gradually moving closer to the door, you try to get a view of the scene outside.

You see a polite but firm Kyungsoo bow before the man, “We can’t serve you any more alcohol, sorry, we’ll be closing now.”

The other two men along with the nasty vermin have long passed out. You quickly call for a cab, subconsciously grabbing a hold of Kyungsoo’s knife in the process.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHO YOU’RE TALKING TO RIGHT NOW?” He thunders.

Kyungsoo recoils as the man grows louder by the second. “We cannot serve you anymore alcohol, sir.”

It happens in a flash. 

So fast you almost feel like you’re astral projecting.

One moment, the man raises a hand to strike Kyungsoo. Kyungsoo swerves. You dash out of the kitchen with the knife in your hand. Face to face with the man, you scream until your lungs hurt, “GET OUT! I SAID GET OUT OF MY RESTAURANT!”

The vermin’s companions stir at the sound. 

With frightened eyes they take in the scene as their drowsy brain is still trying to assess the situation for action. They soon pull the man by his shoulders while Kyungsoo’s tugging at your knife bearing arm that’s still raised in combat mode, simultaneously apologising to the rowdy guest.

Wagging his sausage like finger at the both of you he warns menacingly, “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

Slapping the tab on their table, you proceed to threaten him, “Settle this and get - the fuck - out of my restaurant before I call the cops.”

Throwing a couple of bills on the table, he staggers out, grumbling, “You just wait”, still wagging his finger and reeking of stale alcohol. 

It was only then that your grip on the knife eases as Kyungsoo carefully draws it out of your hand and you see, just like you, he’s shaking too.

“What just happened?” He’s the first to speak as you sit across the table from him, dark orbs glinting in the dim light, forehead beaded with sweat. His hands are tightly wound together as he places them on the table. One day without Baekhyun and Imo and Kyungsoo and you had messed up real bad. By the looks of it, neither of you were ready to accept this fact.

“We did exactly what we were supposed to do. Stop worrying!” You say more to yourself.

He’s not convinced.

“Chef, that man’s reaction wasn’t something that you could’ve preempted or….controlled in any way.” Finding yourself getting mildly annoyed, you try your best to lay the edge off of your voice. All you wanted was for him to be alright because, technically, none of this was his fault. 

“Would you have allowed him to take a swing at you?”

“He was far too drunk for that”, he exhales heavily and you notice his stance relax before clamping up again, “but you-you came out with a knife!”

His tone isn’t accusatory. He’s simply baffled.

“Fight or flight…”

“It’s my knife.”

“I’ll be sure to hide the murder weapon.”

He nods slowly.

“Do you need some water? Tea? A hug?”

You half expect him to scowl or groan or whatever it is that he usually does but he seems to be actually evaluating his options.

“A beer?”

“Down for Chimaek?”

Stood up to go into the kitchen, you awkwardly, and very, very slowly put an arm around his shoulders and give him a tight squeeze.

***

This was your first time having fried chicken and beer in complete silence - a few minutes felt like hours with the incident still hovering over both of you.

“Chef, you know we haven’t murdered anyone right?”

“The restaurant feels like a scene of crime to me. Also, what did he mean by ‘you just wait’?”

“Eh. Empty threats. Testosterone poisoning. Do you think they’ll throw me into prison for threatening him with a knife?”

“You should be sent in for pilfering stock”, he says gesturing at the tray between you, taking a chunky bite of the chicken, “you were going to take this home, weren’t you? It’s good, by the way.”

“Ah, this makes me happy”, you lean back into your chair, smiling discreetly at Kyungsoo’s messy fingers and mouth.

“A compliment from me makes you happy?” His eyebrows shoot up as he takes a swig of beer.

“Testosterone poisoning”, you say pointing an accusatory finger at him, “I couldn’t care less what you think. I’m pretty confident in my skills.”

“As you should be. Then what ‘makes you happy’? The thought of going to prison?”

“Yes”, you lie, “you think I’ll have a prison bitch?”

“I think you’ll be the prison bitch.”

You open your mouth to protest but what escapes is a mortifying burp.

Uncomfortable silence.

Meeting his eyes, you purse your lips, feeling your face flame. He smiles at you and says, ‘wait for it’, before belching. Loudly. Sending you both into fits of laughter.

.

.

.

“What happened here last week?”

Kyungsoo and you are seated opposite Imo like criminals before a cop in an interrogation room. Baekhyun is holed up in the kitchen, cleaning. For the most part, he avoids conflicts like these where Imo’s red hot beam of anger could be misdirected at him. 

She’s glaring at the responsible child, Kyungsoo, to break first but since it was your idea to keep the incident from her you start to explain. By the time you’re done she seems angrier, but not at the two of you. Only after a tiny lecture on how you should learn to be more tactful in such situations does she spell out her real concern.

Turns out the man the both of you had a scuffle with last week is the new officer’s brother-in-law. Now, the restaurant’s received a notice from the liquor permit’s office for an “inspection” in the coming week. Although aware that this situation isn’t either of your fault, Imo is far from pleased with this development.

“Fix this”, she orders and disappears into the kitchen.

There’s only one person who can help you out of this mess, but neither Kyungsoo nor you possess the emotional capacity to deal with him. 

“He’s our only option”, you deadpan.

With a heavy sigh, Kyungsoo dials Mark Lee.

***

Mouth stuffed with egg sandwich, Mark Lee garbles, “What do you want from me? It’s an inspection so let them come and - inspect.”

Imo’s taken off for the day and it’s just you and Kyungsoo trying to sort out the mess you weren’t entirely responsible for. 

“You said we could call you if we needed help with anything”, Kyungsoo reasons with Mark who’s now ogling at him as if he just got spoken to in an alien language.

“Yes, but I don’t see how I can be of help here?”

“Tell us anything you know about this new officer. Don’t leave anything out.” You’re nearly begging at this point and Mark Lee, as always, is reveling in your misery.

He relaxes in his seat, swirling the glass of watermelon juice, “You know you can’t buy your way out of this right? He’s an uptight bugger and you screwed up! Big time! All you had to do was give his brother-in-law a bottle of beer.”

“Oh, we’re sorry we didn’t have his family tree handy”, Kyungsoo rolls his eyes, “Besides, were just trying to abide by the rules - ”

The helplessness in Kyungsoo’s voice causes you to lose your cool at Mark. “Yah! Quit being cocky and just tell us everything you know!”

“Oh-oh feisty”, his mouth spreads into an annoying grin, “okay so he loves his wife, obviously, it’s why he’s doing this. Has an eleven year old daughter who is the apple of his eye. Erm, let’s see, he’s spent his teenage years in Japan and the country is all he’ll ever talk about. Piss him off and this inspection turns into a review and if things continue to spiral you’ll have your permit revoked. So be careful.” His eyes lock with yours making you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

“What are you planning to do with this information, anyway?”

“We don’t know just yet”, Kyungsoo starts clearing up the table, as usual, and Mark knows that his time is up.

“Dude”, he leans towards you, whisper-chortling, as Kyungsoo retires into the kitchen, “did you drive him out with a knife?”

Nodding, you grin gleefully.

“Fiery! You’re totally my boss’ type.” 

***

“So what are we going to do?” Rubbing your eyes and stifling a yawn, you ask Kyungsoo.

While the world sleeps, the market is awake. Buzzing with a contagious energy. Although you hate having to wake up this early, the moment you step into this space, you’re completely taken by its vigour and gusto for life. 

It’s nothing short of a celebration.

Chefs, big and small, passionately scour every nook and corner for the perfect herbs, veggies, and meats. You may not know each other closely or even by name but you feel part of a community - part of a family. True to character, you won’t ever stop whining about this routine with friends and family and occasionally with Kyungsoo, Baekhyun, and Imo but you know it in your heart of hearts, you wouldn’t skip sourcing for the world.

“So he’s spent his teenage years in Japan right?” Kyungsoo muses, lowering a crate of mudfish in the cart for today’s special, Chueotang.

“Let’s recreate his teenage years for him. Japanese dorm meals?” 

Kyungsoo stops abruptly, “That’s a thought!”

“We can set the menu today after closing.”

“How about a coffee now?” He asks, averting your gaze as a slight smile forms on his lips.

.

.

.

On the morning of the inspection, Kyungsoo sneezed. Once. Twice. And on the third strike he was sent home by Imo because “this is not a good look”. Or forced out of the restaurant - depends on who you ask. He whined a little, even shed a few tears but Imo steeled herself and drew him out, anyway.

Although the menu is simple, the concept is layered and robust. The exercise is, after all, being undertaken merely to impress the officer in question. Well equipped for the inspection, the restaurant’s closed for the day. 

This is nothing Baekhyun and you can’t manage but, obviously, Kyungsoo feels otherwise. He’s been calling to check in in intervals of five but seems like the medication’s finally kicked in and put him in a state of deep slumber. Good for him. And for you. 

Two hours until showtime.

Under your close supervision, Baekhyun is labouring over the fairly straightforward stuff: tako sausages, potato and macaroni salad and egg sandwiches while you’ve kicked off the recipe for rolled omelettes.

Egg mixture aside, you start the rice cooker, leave green tea to boil for salmon ochazuke while the frying pan’s heating up for yaki udon.

***

Once you’d gotten all the dishes down, done exactly the way instructed by Kyungsoo: rolled omelettes, yaki udon, tako sausage, potato and macaroni salad, egg sandwiches and salmon ochazuke, it was time for you to take on the simplest but the most provoking dish on the menu.

Neko Manma. Or, cat rice. 

“Ah, Dooly, shall I bring out the jar of bonito flakes?” Baekhyun prompts.

“The one Chef brought us this morning?”

He hums in response.

“I think we should use the store bought one instead.”

“But he’s worked on this recipe all week. You sure you wanna do that?”

“Positive.”

“He’ll flip out.”

“I’ll deal with it. We’re altering the recipe for Neko Manma, this ones too pretentious. Doesn’t sit right with me.”

“So, what do you want to do with it?” Baekhyun’s tone is wary and questioning. 

“Rice, soy sauce, store bought bonito flakes and just a faint drizzle of butter. Nice and clean.” You respond confidently. 

“Are you really sure?”

***

“Why are you here?” You hiss at Kyungsoo while Imo is outside, busy greeting the motley of high-headed officials, giving them a brief of the restaurant, herself, her team, and going over the licenses and documentation. 

Face flushed, Kyungsoo’s lips are swollen and his eyes are runny, puffy, and bloodshot. He’s clearly in the need for some rest.

“To see if everything’s in order.” His voice is hoarse.

He starts to closely examine the entrees laid out, a smile of approval gracing his lips until he stops short of cat rice.

“These bonito flakes -”

“I didn’t use the fresh ones. I thought -”

“There’s no miso soup?” 

“No, Chef, I reckoned -”

“No grilled fish? Are you being lazy?”

“Chef, no, I am not being lazy. The original recipe just didn’t feel right. So i changed it up a little -”

“Changed it up? That decision was not yours to make!”

“It’s just a side, it’s not going to matter so much!”

Absolutely livid, he runs a hand through his hair and laments. “If we weren’t this close to serving i would’ve dumped this into the bin because that’s where it belongs.”

“Chef, please”, your voice quivers, “let me explain! This was supposed to be the lightest dish on the menu. We ended up styling it with… overwhelming ingredients, so I -”

“I’m utterly confused! What on earth led you to believe you’re qualified enough to teach me? I’ve trained at a diner in Tokyo for two whole years. I know exactly what I’m doing here!”

Eyes brimming with tears, you glance over and Baekhyun who has ‘I told you so’ written all over his face. 

"Kyungsooyah? When did you come in? What’s going on here?”

Imo’s bewilderment cuts through the tension. 

“Sajangnim, I was feeling slightly better so I thought of dropping by to wish you luck." 

Courtesying, he quickly dashes out through the back door. 

***

The inspection has been revoked. Unofficially, atleast. The restaurant is to receive a written order in a week’s time. 

The officer was impressed to the extent of apologising for his brother-in-law’s behaviour. He even lauded Imo on teaching her staff to stick to the establishment’s principles which made you wonder if he was fully aware of the facts of the case: knife and all. 

He also mentioned how, as a student, he’d eat a bowl of Neko Manma before every exam because at the time, to him, anything else was unpalatable. 

And that, this was what he considered to be the perfect recipe. 

You go through the rest of the day as if sleepwalking. How stupid could you have been believe you were “on good terms” with Kyungsoo or that this was an equal and productive partnership. The fact remained that he still thought of you as someone frivolous: some air-headed moron who has no idea what she’s doing. 

Someone beneath him. 

You made an effort to appreciate this victory but the day had only left you with a bitter taste. Your mother had been right. You’ve always been too soft. Too trusting. Letting people in too easily and allowing them to walk all over you. 

Now, Kyungsoo’s always been like this: controlling, stubborn, absolutely thorough. He never deviates from his well laid out plans. But today was different. Today, you expected something out of him. You expected him to trust you. You expected him to understand your reasoning, to give you a chance. To comprehend the fact that you could have a mind of your own and that not everything has to be exactly by the book. 

You loathe yourself for expecting this out of him. 

Sailing rough seas together doesn’t bloom friendships. You were stupid to think of him as a friend while, in all these months, his opinion of you had remained the same. 

Contrary to the Gwangjang days, you’d long stopped wishing him gone. In some farthest corner of your heart you were even grateful that he chose to say. 

You’ve been so stupid.

.

.

.

Two months later

The kitchen has been fervent but hushed. 

After all this time, Baekhyun, Kyungsoo and you seem to have found a rhythm. You don’t need to verbally communicate to get through a workday. 

But, you used to. 

Sometimes unnecessarily even. Kyungsoo and you hardly saw eye to eye on most things but there would be some semblance of friendly workplace banter. He’d say a little something about a perfectly done piece of meat or a well seasoned soup. Baekhyun would take wickedly funny pot shots at some of the customers (to the utmost horror of Imo). Imo would sporadically push morsels of whatever was being prepared into your mouths. 

Baekhyun receiving feedback in the form of grunts has shut him up altogether. And the busyness of the restaurant has seemed to have blinkered Imo into not being able to perceive the tension between Kyungsoo and you.

It’s a dance to no music. 

Furtive glances. Measured smiles. Curt nods. Exceptional dishes. Decent earnings. 

That’s it.

Maybe that’s how it should’ve always been.

“Ready to go?” Baekhyun asks, dressed in a well fitted black shirt and slacks. 

You’re mopping the floor. Clearly not ready to go.

When you make this known with a sharp glare, Baekhyun giggles. 

Nothing good can come out of that impish smile of his. But before you can sink your claws into him and drag him back, he’s already chatting up Kyungsoo who’s fixing the chairs.

“Kyungsoo, you coming?” He says a little too loudly and you groan. But you know Kyungsoo all too well. He’s one to decline offers involving socialising with you (unless of course, the offer is put forth by his dearest Sajangnim). 

’You can do better than that’, you mouth to Baekhyun.

Incurious about Kyungsoo’s answer, you’re fully prepared to chomp Baekhyun’s ear off for inviting him.

“Sure”, Kyungsoo says plainly.

Sure?

Without taking the where-what-why route like normal people do? Just..sure?

“Great! We’re going out for drinks since it’s Dooly’s birthday today.”

“Oh. Happy birthday.”

“Thanks. But, Chef, you can’t come. I don’t want you there. I’m sor-”

Swallowing the apology crackling at the tip of your tongue, you dash into the kitchen, your periphery catching his lowered gaze and tight smile. 

Regularising the erratic thrumming of your heart with deep breaths, you shove the mop into the storage area, take off your apron and throw it in the laundry bag (which you were to deal with the next morning), straighten your outfit, fix your hair, dab some rosy tint onto your lips, throw your tote bag over your shoulder, run back out, grab Baekhyun by purposefully lodging your nails into his arms, and take off.

[shikamarubae]

War of the heart pt4

Pairing:  Kakashi x reader, Itachi x reader

Summary: You are trying to understand what happens and the reason for your kidnapping, but in the meantime you end up getting too close to Uchiha Itachi

Warnings: Mention of blood

A/N:  English isn´t my first languge, please keep that in mind, i hope you like it.(i appreciate comments and criticism).

The parts in italics are memories/dreams with memories.

Tags: @flowersgirl02​ , @affection-rabbit​ ,  @dumb-dork​ @jillanaholland​

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3 Part 5 

After an entire week confined to that mountain, you had managed to reach several conclusions. Whatever you did, neither of the two men who had captured you seemed to intend to harm you, what's more, there was a general effort for you to recover quickly, so your conclusion was that for whatever they wanted to use you, they needed you healthy and unharmed.

The second thing you realized is that they were extremely confident that you would not be able to escape, so they did not put surveillance on you and even left you alone for hours in that place, as at that precise moment. It was already night and there was no one around or so it seemed, sitting outside the entrance to the mountain and with views of the precipice you concentrated on your body, your energy and your chakra, several minutes passed and you determined the direction and speed of the wind, you tried to focus your chakra on the side of your hand and with it cut the burst that was directed towards you, nothing happened, you tried again several times, less and less concentrated by the frustration that was beginning to take over you, it was One of your most simple techniques, it was true that it was easier to create air blades with a sword or a fan, but you had not been able to do anything. It was the first time that something like this had happened to you, even having been hurt on the brink of death, you had been able to use your chakra without problem. Suddenly your mind clicked and you ran into the mountain, looking, around the room you occupied, the plate of food, it was a soup, there was still a little, you wet a finger with the content that was left and you smelled it, It smelled normal, vegetable-like, and the flavor had been common, too, if somewhat tasteless.

Everything pointed to that it was a normal soup but your instinct was screaming that they were doing something to you, something was making you not be able to use your chakra and the only possibility was food.

You wandered around the room, feeling the cold stone under your feet, thinking or trying to do it, if it wasn't the food, what could it be?

Then you realized something, if they had made you unable to use your chakra but still needed you alive and healthy, what they required of you was something that didn´t need chakra and you only had an ability with those characteristics and Itachi knew it because, in two of the missions you had done with him, you had to use it.

Nervously you bit your thumb nail, it was true that all the possibilities you were contemplating altered you but at the same time you were somehow calmer, if they only wanted you for that ability, it was that the reason for your kidnapping had nothing to do with Naruto and that you are family was just a coincidence, that was good, on the other hand, anything that needed the use of your hereditary ability was not good, the things that were hidden or locked behind barriers, were there for some reason.

Even if your life was not in danger at the moment, not being able to use your chakra was a problem and surely in the future you would need it, so you had to find the source of the problem.

The only other thing they had given you was the haori you were wearing, you took it off and looked at the cloth, leaving it far from you, you tried to use some technique again, the simplest one you could think of, walking on the wall. You weren't even able to set foot on it, so that wasn't it either.

You thought that maybe it was the place, that mountain, but it was impossible because you had seen Itachi use his sharingan without problem, it had to be something else, something was making you unable to use your chakra and you were going to find it.

You walked down the corridor, several times walking the small path between the exit to the precipice and your room, the place was small, the only rooms were your room and on one side before reaching the exit the place where you cooked, it was small and there was firewood and some kitchen utensils, you moved each and every object, you checked the firewood and even some food stored in a box, one by one and taking care to leave it exactly as you had found it but there was nothing or so you believed until that when trying to put one of the logs for firewood in place, you stumbled and instead of hitting a wall you ended up in another hallway. Puzzled by the discovery, you went deeper into the hall, feeling the cold hard wall with each step, thus trying to guide you through the darkness.

Orienting yourself in unfamiliar spaces was not your forte and despite being part of ANBU spying was not your thing either, even if it was in harmless situations or by mistake, it was something you had never been able to do and many times it had ended in embarrassing situations.

This was supposed to be a birthday party, but the birthday girl hadn't been anywhere for 20 minutes, although nobody seemed to care much, you took a last bite of your piece of cake and got up.

-I'm going to the bathroom-you warned the rest of the guests sitting at the table and somewhat dizzy from the ingested alcohol you walked to the women's toilet, you weren't drunk because you hadn't drunk so much but the alcohol always left you feeling sick that it made you wonder why you drank.

When you got to the women's restroom the door was closed from the inside, you knocked several times but you didn't get an answer, so your mind told you that it was a better idea to use the men's one, the door wasn't closed, you pushed a little but you stopped at identify what was happening inside, Kurenai was against the wall and Asuma between her legs, your eyes shot open and the dizziness you had felt disappeared, you wanted to turn and go but you had stood there, if they saw you they would think you were a pervert , you had to move your legs and walk away but that did not happen, your feet had been nailed to the ground and you could not look away, until you felt a brush on your ear and suddenly a voice-Do you like what you see?

With your face red and your legs trembling with fright, you turned around and your back collided with the wall next to the door when you met Kakashi, his hand resting on the wall, pinning you against his body, he looked at you with amusement, with a sparkle in his eyes as if he had just discovered a lost land, while you remained red-faced, trying not to look at his face, you were eaten by shame.

-I ... I wasn't ...

"I didn't expect you to like this kind of thing," he said again in your ear, making a chill run down your back, unconsciously you leaned into his voice, getting closer to his mouth.

-I don't like it-you protested-it was by mistake, the women's restroom was ...- You tried to explain yourself but you stopped when you saw how the man who had you trapped discovered his sharingan and looked at you with both uncovered eyes.

"Go on," he said with a tone of amusement in his voice.

-What are you doing?

-It's really entertaining to see you so embarrassed, your face right now is almost as red as my eye.

-Is this something you want to record in your memory? -Kakashi nodded and you reddened more, looking away and hitting his chest as a complaint -It's not funny that you remember me as a pervert, you are the pervert.

-Well, at least I don´t hide it, I carry it with pride -the tone of amusement didn´t leave his voice, but the slight blush on the piece of skin that was revealed indicated that he felt some shame, although he tried to pretend not to continue teasing you.

-Say what you want-squeezing your own cheeks to make sure you weren't burning, you tried to walk away but with his free hand he pushed you against the wall.

-Let's wait for them to finish

-YOU ARE A PERVERT -You yelled indignantly but when you heard the bathroom door open giving way to the other two ninja, you hid your head in his chest, trying in vain not to be seen.

"It's our turn," murmured the man who was now holding you against him, starting to walk, pushing you both into the bathroom.

You shook your head, trying to get that out of your mind, suddenly your face had started to burn at that memory, you rubbed your cheeks and sighed, it was not the time to think about it. 

You had already checked three of the rooms you had found and there was nothing, they were practically empty except for the beds and some bookshelves, but nobody seemed to have used them in quite some time, you thought that you were not going to find anything until you got to the room further away in the hallway.

The room was completely dark but you could see that it was occupied, there was an unmade bed, the sheets were thrown back, it smelled of burnt candles and on the shelves there were things, you went to the first one, just some books, you moved them trying to find something but there was nothing, straining your eyes, you could read the titles, it was literature, some poetry books and some novel, nothing remarkable. It didn´t surprise you much since even though those two were criminals, they were still people and you supposed that they would have their particular tastes.

You felt the wood of the furniture in case you left something but there was nothing, you went to the next shelf, in this there was also a book, but there seemed to be more personal objects, a notebook, it had stripes on the cover, you took it but when doing it, something fell from the pages, two photographs.

In one of the images, two boys in pre-adolescence, you tried to distinguish their faces and quickly you distinguished one of them, Itachi, that must be his room.

You did not recognize the other boy but from his features you assumed that he was also an Uchiha, in the next photo you recognized the two children, again Itachi, with a cat between his arms and the other smaller child, with his small hand squeezing Itachi's shirt, it was Sasuke, the boy had an expression so different from what you were used to, a cheerful smile and flushed cheeks.

A strange feeling took hold of your chest, you felt like someone was squeezing it, you opened the notebook and there were more photos inside, in the academy, with the boy in the first photo, with Sasuke as a baby, playing together, eating dango with a girl that you recognized as Izumi, training, with her parents ... you did not know when you had started to cry and you did not realize until one of your tears fell on the sheets of the notebook and you quickly left it in his place, your lower lip trembled and tears kept falling, why a ruthless killer was going to keep all those memories ?, it was not a forgotten book, the notebook was very visible and clean, without a speck of dust, that meant that it was seen often, was it possible that perhaps Uchiha Itachi regretted what he had done?

Forgetting what you had gone there to do and with the tightness in your chest still present you decided to leave the room but a few steps down the hall paralyzed you, you had forgotten that Itachi and Kisame would return at any moment, not knowing what to do you hid behind one of the shelves, you dried your tears and covered your mouth, trying to block any sound that could come out of your body, the steps getting closer until they reached the entrance of the room, you heard Kisame's voice say something you did not understand very well And then Itachi came into the room, all the candles lit suddenly, letting you see the man, he seemed calm so surely they had not checked your room.

The man walked around the room, stumbling several times on some things that were on the floor, curious because of this you peeked a bit from your hiding place, Itachi used his hands to lean on the first shelf and you could hear a loud sigh, his eyes closed, he took off the robe he was wearing, revealing black clothing, similar to the one you had seen him wear when he was still in Konoha. The next thing you saw stumped you. He walked to the bed and stumbled again, this time dropping to his knees on the floor, you didn´t understand what was happening, why did he stumble on things that could easily be avoided? Itachi stayed in that position for several minutes, until he finally started hitting the hard stone floor with his fist until his knuckles bled, then, with his fist still filled with blood, he rubbed his eyes, staining his face with the red liquid that It was mixed with the tears he was dropping, the only thing that came out of his mouth were sounds of frustration that shrunk your heart, he was suffering.

The sounds and the continuous blows on the floor, together with the smell of blood and candles were making you nauseous, you couldn't take it anymore, you didn't know if having seen those photos and the state the man was in had affected you emotionally or maybe it was just that you wanted to stop the nausea, but you didn't have a logical explanation for what you did.

Your arms wrapped around his body , stopping the punches, the sobs and the sounds of frustration, his eyes wide with surprise “stop please” it was the only thing you said, you expected him to push you away, to do something for getting into his room but he didn't move. He didn´t return the hug but leaned on you, with his forehead resting on your shoulder and your arms squeezing him, you felt his breathing, heat, weight and smell on you, flooding all your senses, nullifying any logical and rational thought, the only thing that happened in your mind was a small voice telling you that it wasfine, that it was correct.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Killan Josta: Make Wish

Killan Josta, World’s Saddest Boy, gets... a moment with a rabbit. Killan exists in @wildfaewhump‘s Iesin and Talvos universe!

CW: Referenced beatings/whipping, ill-treatment, debt-slavery, referenced animal death although none occurs during the piece

Tagging @quirkykayleetam who asked to be tagged for Killan, plus @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp, and @astrobly who asked to be tagged for ‘everything’

Killan couldn’t tell if the rabbit looked scared, or just… resigned. Either way, he knew the feeling.

The poor thing had stepped right into the little trap that Vanya had built for it, boiled and soaked wood to get it soft and pliable and then bent it into a kind of box that resembled all the bushes around it, especially when he’d covered it with some leaves and brush. A bit of bait right in the middle, and then you wait for something to creep in for a bite.

Then, crash! The little door he’d made fell down, trapping the rabbit inside. It had thrashed around for a while, but it was quiet now. Feet pulled close, chest puffed a little bit, ears flat against its head laying against its own back. Thin like wild rabbits are, but not too thin. 

Vanya had a whole row, six or seven cages just like this one. The last round of traps had gotten them a fox - which had bitten Killan when he tried to feed it and good riddance to bad rubbish as far as he was concerned, foxes were nothing but bad luck anyway - and three rabbits. The other traps had come up empty, but Beron and Ren had brought down three deer between them in the time they’d spent in these woods, caught two river-eaters, plus six of what Beron called ‘fur-rats’ that made poor meat but their fur meant something enough to the rich that they could eat for a week (well, everyone else could) on a single sale.

Plus, Tinch had caught a real living hawk with a reddish tail and a mean beak, and meant to teach it to fetch. Their haul to bring into town would be a good one.

Ren would sell the hides and fur separate from the meat, he claimed to know the tanner in the next town, could get a good price for them. Fur-rats made poor meat but they knew well enough that Killan would eat anything he was given, too hungry to care what it tasted like at the end of the day, so they’d smoked and dried that, too, to pack away with some fat and crushed-up berries and seeds. 

He was chewing idly on a bit of the foul-tasting nastiness - the kind made from deer meat was good, this tasted like mud fed on poison - while he fed the rabbits in their cages and found his gaze caught by the last one. 

It had big liquidy eyes, one on either side of its head, so it could only really look at him with one or the other. 

Prey eyes, Beron called them. He’d sat Killan down once and shown him that the foxes had eyes both to the front, like people do - and the rabbits had one on either side. Hunters like us, like wolves - we see to the front, because we focus on what we’re going to bring down. Prey like that has to see every which way so they see us coming.

Might be nice to have an eye on either side. Killan might get fewer surprises, then.

Its fur was a kind of grayish-brownish-reddish mix, the exact shade of a sun-dappled grassy meadow. It could use those hind legs to run and jump and hide, faster than Killan could ever run. Its little nose twitched in his direction and he wrinkled his nose back at it, grinning around the food in his mouth. At least they mixed berries in - now and then a bite was nothing but sweet. It made the rest of the bitterness easier to handle.

“What do I smell like, bun-bun? Huh?” The rabbit didn’t answer, of course, but Killan watched with surprise as it shifted slightly closer to him, an oddly thoughtful look on its fuzzy little face. “Do I smell like prey, too? Or like wolves? I’m not like them, I promise.” 

The rabbit’s nose kept twitching, and Killan leaned in closer, moving down into a crouch so he was eye-level with the cage where it sat stacked on top of another one. Somewhere behind him, the men who owned his life were laughing and joking as they set up their camp for the night, for once giving Killan a little rest instead of making him do it all himself.

Ren had felt bad about the fox bite, currently hidden under bandages wrapped around Killan’s left wrist. I’m not a cruel man, Matti, Ren had said, and Killan hadn’t argued with him. Hadn’t pointed at the scars on his back and his legs and his front, or the little scar on his head from the first week. He could hide that one with his hair, mostly.

He hadn’t even mentioned how cruel it was to take someone’s name away, so almost three years on he had to remind himself of what his name was every single day, had to wake up whispering I’m Killan Josta, I’m Killan Josta, I’m Killan Josta as he got more and more afraid he’d become Matthias, not just answer to it.

He’d only nodded, and tried not to scratch at the itches under the bandage, and Ren had given him the night off, then. Didn’t even have to cook, it was Beron chopping away with his big heavy knife, cleaving meat from bone to toss into the stew. He would’ve felt nice about that if it didn’t mean Killan probably wouldn’t get to eat tonight.

Killan shifted, blocking the rabbit’s view of the cooking-fire, not that it mattered all that much if it saw what had happened to another rabbit it probably never knew. Who even knew if a rabbit could even see so far?

It shifted closer then. And closer again.

They were so close Killan’s eyes crossed a little trying to look at it. He stuck a finger into the trap and it held perfectly still as he traced a fingertip over the fine soft fur at the top of its head, the silken feeling of its long flat ears. He expected it to start shivering - he’d seen shaky little scared rabbits right before their necks were wrung.

This one didn’t shake. It looked at him calmly, like it knew him. It looked at him like, hello, you belong out there with us, not here with them.

Killan bit down on his lower lip, then winced as that pressed on a busted spot from the last thing he’d messed up. “I wish I was out there with you,” he whispered, leaning in close. “I wish I was in the woods somewhere. I wish I could go destroy all their traps instead of helping build them. I promise.”

“Wish?”

Killan stiffened, looking up and blinking. “What?”

The others were busy, no one even heard Killan speak, and none of them had heard it - a hissing sibilant whisper-sound, that seemed to be as much inside his mind as outside it. He turned to look over his shoulder, seeing nothing around their little campsite but the trees, looming eerily overhead at the sun went down. 

“Make wish.”

Killan slowly turned back to stare at the rabbit, which held itself so perfectly still under Killan’s petting fingertips. He leaned forward, as close as he could get, until his forehead rubbed up against the twisted wood. The rabbit leaned slowly forward too, and Killan caught his breath as its soft, cool nose brushed, with little twitches, against his own.

“Pretty,” The voice said. “Pretty human boy.”

Killan had been living for years with Beron’s stories of nature magic and the dangers of the mountains and the monsters who lived there. He’d been raised on his own mam’s stories of wild women who could change shape and sneak into bad childrens’ houses and steal them from their beds. But he was grown now, or as good as, and he had no fear of those stories.

Right?

“Are you the one talking to me?” Killan whispered to the rabbit, which nudged forward against him again with its little twitching nose. Killan held his breath as the rabbit pushed its head up into his two fingers pressed to its soft ears, which no wild rabbit had ever done that he knew of. “Do you want me to make a wish?”

“Make wish, pretty human.”

Killan smiled - small so the others wouldn’t see, but there all the same. He leaned in as close as he could get, lost in the way the rabbit looked at him so calmly, so sure of itself even though it was trapped in a cage, to have its neck wrung to make a good dinner soon enough, just like the other one that Beron was tossing into the stew while singing to himself, just a dozen or so feet away. 

“I wish that you would be free,” Killan said, as low as he could speak and still be audible. “You don’t deserve to be soup.”

The rabbit didn’t speak to him again, but it did nuzzle up against him once more, to Killan’s delight. 

Then Beron yelled at him to stop being lazy and do some damn work for once in his life, and Killan pushed himself up on aching legs to stumble over and help Beron put together the bit of ground-up dried treenuts and water and salt for the dumplings to cook on top of the soup.

They’d given him the day off work, but if you don’t work you don’t eat, so Killan ate the bit of treenut-bread they’d given him out of mercy and watched them with their bowls of rabbit stew jealously from his bedroll, stomach growling, and determined himself to work even harder to get more food tomorrow.

He was so hungry it took forever to get to sleep, the fire banked and Ren and Vanya on first watch, and he only got a couple of hours before it was his turn to sit up with Beron, who was in a foul mood. Bad dreams, he said.

Killan mostly didn’t dream any longer - sleep was too precious to waste on dreaming.

Killan took his ill-tempered ‘jokes’ in silence and thanked him with real gratitude when Beron got tired of that fucking kicked-dog look like we don’t take better care of you than a lazy arse deserves and gave him more of the fur-rat and berry bars to eat.

Killan made it through half of the bar and then looked up, into the dark woods that pressed close around them. The horses were restless tonight, ears flat against their heads and shifting until their ropes were pulled tight from the trees, but they never liked the woods much so that wasn’t unusual. 

The animals in their cages were restless, too, shivery little rabbits and and the fur rats clawing at the edges of their cages.

Killan checked on his favorite rabbit - it was perfectly still, but alert, head head and neck stretched, looking away from Killan entirely. When he turned around to follow the direction of its gaze, he could have sworn he could the glint of yellow eyes watching him in the dark.

He should have been afraid, but he wasn’t.

Instead, Killan stood up, walked to the edge of what little light the fire still gave off, and set the uneaten half of the bar down. A gift for-... for the woods, maybe, they’d taken better care of him than any person ever did, anyway.

His watch ended and Killan fell asleep more quickly with the heavy weight of at least some food in his stomach. He curled in his bedroll as small as he could make himself, and he did not dream.

When he woke up the next day, to Beron’s shouting and Ren kicking him awake gasping for air and scrambling to stand, one of the cages had been busted open. Only one cage, all the others still held the trapped animals shaking and shivering. But Killan’s favorite, the rabbit that had kissed him the day before and been so still, was gone.

So was the half-bar of food he’d left at the edge of the camp.

Killan’s eyes were wide as saucers as he stared at the wood twisted back out of shape or broken, somehow done in silence while they slept, never waking them at all. 

He could have sworn he heard a kind of laughter whispering through the trees above his head.

“Good wish.”

[lilikags]

Meraki (greek) - to do something with your soul, creativity, or love. to put something of yourself into your work.

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ೃ‧₊› a b o u t  t h i s  p o s t° ➮ Pairing: Yaku Morisuke x reader ➮ Oneshot ➮ Tags: childhood friends to lovers, fluff ➮ Word Count: 1863

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Morisuke has been there for you- ever since. You've known each other longer than you can remember, and you really couldn't do much on your own without him. He's always had your back, and somehow a responsibility to take care of you whenever your parents couldn't.

It started way back when you were kids, a really young age- probably somewhere around 4. Your parents and his parents were out in the park, having a picnic. It was a gorgeous day outside- the sky painted a soft blue, fluffy, white clouds dotting the ether, a fresh breeze caressing the skin. Your parents were chatting away, about the time one of their co-workers almost set the office on fire- the outcome was not good for the clumsy employee.

You and Morisuke were left to play, the parents believing they had a good eye on the two of you. You ran around in the grass, having Morisuke chase you, and it was fun. He ended up catching you most of the time, but it was your challenge to outrun him. The two pairs of little legs ran around in the grass, with giggles to be heard along the way. It wasn't long before you tripped and fell, scraping your knee on a rock. The two of you were a bit far away from your parents, and they were a bit slow to respond. Morisuke was paying attention though, and he helped you up and walk to your parents, who treated your injury while they continued talking. Morisuke sat beside you, watching intently in an attempt to learn how to treat those so that he could help treat it in case you tripped again.

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The flu. The thing everyone gets a shot for every year. Even though you did get your shot, you still got it. 4th grade you was definitely not happy. You understood that getting a shot was better than suffering days through the symptoms of the flu from actually experiencing it. The shot was bad, but the actual flu was so much worse. You would honestly rather go to school, at least you got to feel healthy and got to talk to your friends. Well, at least you didn't have to do schoolwork today, that was one plus. You sat in bed all day, with the tissues by your bed, an ever-filling garbage can, and a high fever. It definitely did not feel nice, 0/10 would not like to experience again. At least you got to be on your ipad all day.

That afternoon, Morisuke dropped by your house. He came by with some soup, which he made with his mother after school. He asked your mom if he could see you, and she said that she'd deliver the soup to you, so that he wouldn't get sick from you. He insisted and your mother couldn't help but give into the young boy's requests, requiring that he wear a mask to prevent him from getting the flu. He happily complied with that; wearing a mask wasn't much at all if it meant to see for himself that you were okay. By then, you were already someone important to him, and he knew that, even at such a young age.

You heard the two come up the stairs of your home, the wood squeaking just a little from the two bodies walking on it. You were happy to see Morisuke come to check on you, but you also didn't want him to get sick either. You decided that you would keep your distance from him- that way, you could keep him safe while also letting him see you. Win-win situation, really.

"(y/n), Morisuke's here to see you," you heard your mother say as she opened the door. You saw your mother carry the soup, which you knew was from Morisuke himself. Your mother didn't know how to make this particular soup, despite trying several times- it always tasted a bit off. You'd often go to Morisuke's house and they'd serve you this soup or some of your other favorites; you loved the food there and you'd prefer it over whatever your mom would cook for dinner- though you couldn't go there all the time. You smiled as you saw the soup for yourself, and as you reached for it, the towel resting on your forehead slid off. You picked it up, remembering that it was there in the first place. The two of them giggled at that, and you pouted. After a bit of talking, Morisuke had been called home by his mother and he headed out, telling you to make sure you drink water and sleep well before he left. You smiled and waved goodbye, and you could hear the sound of his shoes going down the stairs.

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"Moriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii," you whined. "Help me with the homeworkkkkkkk." "Just give me a minute (y/n), just need to finish this up," he replied as he was finishing his own homework. It was about time for high school entrance exams, and teachers were piling up homework for about no apparent reason. If they could just give you less work to do when you could be studying for entrance exams, it would be great, but no, they had to give you work. You'd been stuck on one question on a science worksheet since forever, and it was the only one you couldn't figure out. It just made no sense to you, like, it had nothing to do with what the rest of the worksheet. Either 1- it had nothing to do with it and the creator of the worksheet just wanted to put it in there or 2- you were seriously completely forgetting about something. You figured it was the latter, but you really couldn't figure it out.

"Okay, what do you need help with- the science homework?" Mori finally turned to you. "I can't figure it outttttttt, it doesn't make any senseeeeeee," you pouted. He looked at the problem, "Oh, this wasn't in the notes, but the teacher did mention it earlier for a bit." You stared at the paper, trying to remember what the teacher said. You were thinking, and Mori stopped what he was about to say to let you think for a bit. After a while, you continued to stare at the paper, and he knew your mind was just blank.

"Alright, so..." he explained the topic, and even searched up parts he wasn't exactly sure himself to give you a full explanation of the question. He talked for longer than you expected, as you thought the question was simple; after all, it was only fill-in-the-blank. Yet he was probably better than your teacher, somehow answering your questions to the best of his ability, and even if he didn't know part of the answer he was trying to tell you, he'd simply search for it online, learn it himself, and explain it to you. It was a good 30 minutes before he was done, and it was quite impressive, how he taught it to you. You didn't even have that many questions; it seemed he answered them before you could ask.

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Being volleyball manager was harder than it looked- really. Contrary to what it seemed compared to other teams, they were quite chaotic, sometimes even a nightmare to take care of. As their manager, you had so much to take care of, and not being able to be taught about being a manager from any previous manager, you had to figure it out on your own, with a bit of help from Coach Nekomata. Your previous club had been disbanded due to the lack of members, so you had no choice but to join another one. You considered a lot of clubs before joining the boy's volleyball club, but you ended up joining despite Mori's advice telling you that you'd go nuts over the things they do.

He'd insisted, really insisted. He even tried talking you out of it, no matter how much he wanted to see you, he knew you might just go nuts trying to take care of them. Sometimes you came over to walk home with him, and they teased about being Mori's girlfriend, which you were not. It wasn't bad at all, kind of funny, and they didn't do much more. How bad could it be? Apparently, really bad, according to Mori. But your experience said something different, so you decided to go with it anyways.

The moment you were introduced as the team's manager, you were immediately overwhelmed with everything they were trying to ask, along with all the things you had to do as manager. It was definitely difficult, as all their attention was on you instead of practicing. Smh this is volleyball club, not (y/n) club. Sometimes you tried to copy Mori and yell at them, but all they thought of it was something cute. When they were misbehaving, about something else, they'd definitely listen to you, but when they were trying to get your attention, it was always Mori that got them to go back to practicing. You were eternally grateful for Mori for saving your sanity, else you wouldn't have any left for college.

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"(y/n), I have some (favorite food) for you. Mind if I come in?" Mori knocked on the door. "Mhm." you replied, as he opened the door and set the food beside you. You gave him a small smile and looked  back at your computer, your hands continuing to type away on the laptop in front of you. College life was a mess, though perhaps not as "busy" as high school. You were busy getting job experience, as well as doing work for your classes. It all consumed so much time, but the work was strangely fulfilling for a time when you finished it.

"Make sure not to overwork yourself; I'll be coming in later to check on you," he said, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead. Softening at the kiss, tired from working all day, you held onto his arm, signaling you didn't want him to go. He gave you a warm smile of adoration, and you buried your head into his shirt and clung onto him. The warmth was relaxing; you could feel the stress floating away. Mori smiled softly. This was so much better than writing that research paper, definitely. You could probably finish it in time even if you took a bit of time off now.

"Mhm, let's stay like this," you said, wanting to take a break from the research paper you had been working on. You had moved to the kitchen to properly eat your (favorite food), and you and Mori talked the entire time. It was probably the longest dinner you'd had, but it was definitely enjoyable. It definitely helped you with the stress of school, work, and other things you had, and you were eternally grateful that he was always there for you. Even when you did go back to working on the essay, Mori came by with a glass of water and a snack to make sure you were well-hydrated and had something to eat. Later that night, you were still working on the essay, and he came in to remind you that you should sleep. You told him that you wanted to keep working on it, and he sighed, and told you that he was going to sleep without you. Literally, you stayed at your laptop for 10 minutes, closed it, and joined him. He just has this magic of getting you to sleep. (and that was why you weren't tired in class the next day)

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Mori had been fidgety all day, and you knew why, you were just waiting for it to happen. You read him like a book; after all, you'd known each other longer than you could remember. His hand was in his pocket much more than usual, and his usual supportive nature had become a little more nervous- just for today though. You weren't surprised- actually, you found out a while ago.

"(y/n), will you marry me?" you heard the words you had been waiting to hear. You nodded and the tears came flowing out; you couldn't believe you were at this moment in time, such a special event you'd only experience once. You felt him gently slide the ring on your finger, and the two of you kissed right there. You were positively sure that this was the man you wanted to spend your entire life with. From the very start, to the very end.

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『••✎••』 Extra Info * ˚ ✦ ⇢ If you would like to read some of my other works, find them here! * ˚ ✦ ⇢ Taglist: If you would like to be on my taglist, send me an ask! (no one to tag no on has joined yet)

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A/N: Hey guys! Lili here!! Finally got this done after,,, way too long LOL I really hope you enjoyed it and i hope I didn't mess up the ending ,,,, oops. Anyways, just letting you know ilya and take care!

[stressed-crow]

i didnt exactly get tagged, but @lieberts​ said the “whoever wants to do it” thing (like 4 moths ago but i just found it in my likes) so here i goooo

also i tag @krchov​ @cowardlylearningtobebrave​ @feathereddamsel​ @gruntie​ and @luwucifer-s​ but like, only very vaguely. feel free not to~

1. MUSIC TAG MEME 

Rules: Post your first twenty songs in a playlist on shuffle

Mama (My Chemical Romance)

Stigma (BTS)

Man Who Sold The World (Nirvana)

End of Spring (ONEWE)

Love Maze (BTS)

I’m so afraid (Holland)

Dear my friend (agustd)

O-O-H Child (The Five Stairsteps)

Go Go (BTS)

Time is Running out (The Muse)

Movement (Hozier)

Les Passants (Zaz)

The Witching Hour (ODJBOX)

Feelings (Hayley Kiyoko)

0X1=LOVESONG (txt)

YAYAYA (Stray Kids)

Empire (Of Mice and Men)

Problems (Mother Mother)

Question (Stray Kids)

Kill Your Heroes (AWOLNATION)

(i do not take any criticism on my music taste, least of all a costructive one)

2. Rules: MAKE A NEW POST, bold what applies to you and tag whoever you want to get to know better.

APPEARANCE 

I’m an I-need-to-pull-the-driver-seat-all-the-way-in kind of a person // i wear glasses or contacts // i have blonde hair // i prefer loose clothing to tight clothing  // i have one or more piercings // i have at least one tattoo  // i have blue eyes // i have dyed or highlighted my hair // i have gotten plastic surgery // i have or had braces // i sunburn easily // i have freckles // i paint my nails // i wear makeup // i don’t often smile // i am pleased with how I look // I prefer nike to adidas // i wear baseball hats backward

HOBBIES & TALENTS 

i play a sport // i can play an instrument  // i am artistic  // i know more than one language // i have won a trophy in some sort of competition // i can cook or bake without a recipe // i know how to swim // i enjoy writing // i can do origami // i prefer movies to tv shows // i can execute a perfect somersault // i enjoy singing // i could survive in the wild on my own (if it was like... chill wildreness. i mean i can get a fire going and shit like that i cant fistfight a bear or whatever) // i have read a new book series this year // i enjoy spending time with friends // i travel during school or work breaks // i can do a handstand

RELATIONSHIPS 

i am in a relationship // i have a crush // i have a best friend i have known for ten years // my parents are together // i have dated my best friend // i am adopted // my crush has confessed to me // i have a long-distance relationship // i am an only child // i give advice to my friends // i have made an online friend // i met up with someone i have met online

AESTHETIC 

i have heard the ocean in a conch shell // i have watched the sunrise // i enjoy rainy days // i have slept under the stars // i meditate outside // the sound of chirping calms me // i enjoy the smell of the beach // i know what snow tastes like // i listen to music to fall asleep // i enjoy thunderstorms // i enjoy cloud watching // i have attended a bonfire // i pay close attention to colors // i find mystery in the ocean (i dont like it tho the sea scares me) // i enjoy hiking on nature paths // autumn is my favourite season

MISC 

i can fall asleep in a moving vehicle // i am the mom friend // i live by a certain quote // i like the smell of sharpies // i am involved in extracurricular activities // i enjoy mexican food // i can drive a stick-shift  // i believe in true love // i make up scenarios to fall asleep // i sing in the shower // i wish i lived in a video game // i have a canopy above my bed // i am multiracial // i am a redhead // i own at least one dog // i have a cat ---------

3. THIS OR THAT TAG GAME (1)

sage green or baby blue | moon or stars | paperback or hardback | piercings or tattoos (i want a new one... both piercing and tattoo) | drawing or writing | saturn or jupiter | line without a hook or mr. loverman (what does this mean??) | ancient greece or ancient egypt | prague (yo i live here thats wild) or amsterdam | dark academia or light academia | indie aesthetic or cottagecore | stargazing or late night drives | strawberries or watermelons | rings or necklaces | extrovert or introvert | dragons or griffins | ocean or mountain | silver or gold | dawn or dusk | creative or free spirit | early bird or night owl | cook or bake | dagger or sword ---------

4. THIS OR THAT TAG GAME (2)

indoor plants or gardens // cloud-watching or star-gazing // water or fire // paperback or hardcover // running or hiking // sleeping with socks or without socks // fruit or vegetables // hanging plants or succulents // dark wood or light wood // handwritten or typed // instagram or pinterest (i dont do either) // braids or pigtails // books or movies // oceans or meadows // forests or fields // sweet or salty // ice cream or chocolate // hoodies or sweaters // long hair or short hair // piercings or tattoos (new!! both!!) // summer or winter (both suck) // boots or sneakers // cars or motorcycles // curls or straight hair // castles or cottages // sunny days or storms // reptiles or birds // disney or nickelodeon (am european) // strawberries or watermelon (im using this opportunity to pick the other one yes) // essays or posters // phones or laptops // glass or stone // dark or light // photos or paintings // circuses or theaters // reading or writing // dogs or cats // poetry or novels // monsters or ghosts // thrift shops or libraries // fiction or non-fiction

5. Post one picture from my camera roll (no new downloads) to sum up my personality! u get two bcs they are v good

6. 30 QUESTIONS TAG GAME 

RULES: Answer 30 questions and tag others

Name/Nickname: lucy 

Gender: female 

Star Sign: leo

Height: 170 cm 

Time: 22:04 

Birthday: july 1  IS WHAT I WROTE INITIALLY bcs i cant fucking read and thought it just said “date” lol anyway its 11th of August

Favorite Bands: bts, stray kids :)

Favorite Solo Artists: sunmi, taemin :) and hozier i cant betray him 

Song stuck in my head: la la la la vie en rose

Last Movie: def some horror movie but i forget which lol

Last Show: probably the untamed lmaooo did not even finnish it 

When did I create this blog: december 2013 apparently 

What do I post: kpop babey 

Last thing googled: i gotta fact check lots of shit for work so probs smting sports related (but make no mistake i dont know a single thing abt sports) 

Other blogs: what for i dump everything here

Do I get asks: no

Why I chose my url: self-explanatory

Following: 100

Followers: ???

Average hours of sleep: about 8 hours 

Instruments: none 

What am I wearing: pink pajama shorts with kitties, black shirt torn beyond decent wearability and this dark green... jacket,,, hoodie...thing.

Dream job: village witch 

Dream trip: me @ japan: 

(i was supposed to go study there starting winter 2020 :) im abt to lose my fucking mind :) so yeah you get a dead meme for this) also new zealand, iceland, and going back to sweden sometime

Favorite food: pizza bithc its versatile, also cereal coz im a child

Nationality: czech (rip) 

Favorite song: black swan (bts), levanter (skz), take me to church (hozier), noir (sunmi) (those are from the top of my head current favs theres way more but here u go)

Last book read: MIMOZEMŠŤANÉ V ČECHÁCH (= aliens in czechia) by idk, some married couple thats probs wanted whatever xfiles had but low budget, its pure nonsense, best read of this year, dont regret a single second

 Top three fictional universes I’d like to live in: magnus archives bich i dont give a fuck; middle earth to blaze it with hobbits; i wanna be one of those lil shaky-head-tree-things in mononokehime

[multishipperlove]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Critical Role (Web Series) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Caduceus Clay & Fjord Characters: Caduceus Clay, Fjord Additional Tags: Unrequited Crush, First Dates, Except Caduceus doesn't know it's a date, And also Fjord is a terrible cook, Food, Miscommunication, Canon Asexual Character, Canon Aromantic Character, Happy Ending Summary:

Fjord tries to impress Caduceus with a home cooked dinner on their first date, but quickly has to realise that more often then not, things do not go as planned. And as it turns out, almost setting his kitchen on fire is not the worst part of the evening. Or is it?

_________________________

Fjord checked his hair for the third time in the last twenty minutes, nervously bustling back and forth between his kitchen and the living room and somehow getting stuck in front of the mirror every single time. The table was set, most of the food was done, the breadsticks were still in the oven, there wasn't anything left for him to do, and yet he couldn't get himself to just sit down and wait. Caduceus would arrive any minute now, any minute, and his nerves were definitely getting the better of him.

His phone buzzed, but instead of the “almost there” he'd been hoping for his screen greeted him with a message from Beau, a simple “hey, you can do it” followed by a thumbs up emoji, and he couldn't help but roll his eyes a little as he put it back in his pocket. He needed more patience, Fjord told himself, not dignifying Beau's message with a response for now, and instead checking on the breadsticks again.

Not ready yet. Were they rising at all? He wasn't sure.

When the doorbell finally rang it was the only thing saving him from answering Beau after all, and in less than a second he'd cleared his apartment and was already ripping open the door, not quite able to hide the dorky grin on his face when he saw Caduceus in his usual relaxed attire. Gray pants stained from the cemetery, the long sleeves of his shirt still bearing the marks of being around fresh soil and moss and flowers all day, and the smell of the Savalier Woods seemingly following him everywhere. Perfect, in Fjord's eyes.

“Did you work overtime again?” he asked, offering to take Caduceus' jacket as he let the firbolg step inside and carefully hanging it up beside his own. “I thought Clarabelle was taking your shift today.” “Ah, you know how it is,” Caduceus hummed in answer. “Sometimes there is more work than expected, and I didn't want to leave her alone with all of it. But I'm here now, so that's nice.” Fjord chuckled softly, leading him through the living room and to the table. “It is. I got almost everything done, too, so you can just sit down and I'll join you in a second.”

“Oh, well, thank you. That's very nice,” Caduceus agreed again, and continued talking while Fjord disappeared into the kitchen once more. “You know, I'm still a bit surprised you offered to cook dinner, I know you don't do this a lot. I would have been happy to help, too.”

Blushing a dark green and rubbing his neck a little, glad that Caduceus couldn't see him at the moment, Fjord had to admit he was right. “Well, no, I don't. But I, uh... wanted to do this properly, you know?” He picked up the first two plates he'd prepared, noticing with a grimace that the food had gone cold by now. But maybe cold didn't have to mean inedible, so he took it out to the table anyway. “I stuck to the recipes, mostly, so we should be good.”

He put both plates down and settled in his chair across from Caduceus, cheeks still feeling warm, and the calm smile Cad was giving him didn't help the matter. After a moment he realised he was staring, and also that the candles on the table were still unlit, making the dim light in the room seem more awkward than the romantic vibe he had been trying to go for.

“Oh, shoot, lemme fix this real quick,” he muttered, fishing a lighter out of his pocket that had once probably belonged to either Yasha or Beau, he wasn't sure, and quickly remedied that. “There, that's better...”

“Oh, yes, much better. Now I can see what I'm eating,” Caduceus agreed, sounding amused. As he picked up his fork and was about to dig in though, Fjord could see a brief frown cross his face. He looked confused. “Actually, what are we eating? This doesn't... I'm not sure what this is.”

Fjord winced a little, feeling his ears grow hot in embarrassment. “It's, uh. It's some sweet potato appetizer thing, I... alright, yeah, the veggies might have gotten a bit mushy, but I'm sure it's still good, so-”

Before he could make it any worse Caduceus already nodded, his tone reassuring as he answered. “Of course, I'm sure it is! I was not trying to imply anything else, my apologies.”

“No, don't apologise, it was a fair question. It turned out a little gray, I suppose.” Already resisting the urge to retreat to the kitchen, maybe under the guise of checking on the breadsticks again, Fjord picked up his knife and fork as well and cut a piece off the... thing, on his plate. At least there was food to focus on.

But as they both tried the first bite he got the next unpleasant surprise. The texture was awful, the taste non-existent, and he could see Caduceus pausing for a second before actually swallowing it down.

“Well, maybe with some salt-”

Fjord waved him off, deciding he wasn't as brave and spitting it back into his napkin. “Nope, this is horrible, you can say it.”

“No salt then,” Caduceus agreed, somehow still looking amused while Fjord was starting to regret ever inviting him in the first place. “But you said this was an appetizer, right? We can just move on to the main dish, it's all good.”

“Right, right... sure, let me just put this away then,” Fjord sighed, still giving Caduceus a smile though as he took the plates back to the kitchen. Some optimism couldn't hurt, and so far Cad didn't seem to mind the chaos all that much. He was willing to take that as a good sign.

Disposing of the appetizer in the trash can with a sigh he then put together new plates, taking the vegan fish out of the covered pan (a little darker than intended), getting the rice out of it's pot (was it supposed to be that soggy?) and just forgoing the veggies completely because those had already been part of the appetizer. The lemon sauce was the only thing he had actually taste tested though, and he knew that one was okay. It was edible.

Coming back to Caduceus he placed it down with a little flourish, smiling again as it got a laugh out of his friend. “Here you go. Something salmon adjacent, with lemon butter sauce, bedded on wild rice. I hope it's better than the last try.”

“It can only go up from here,” Caduceus replied with a smile, and Fjord settled down again. And while he wasn't wrong, it didn't necessarily make the main dish taste any better.

What was true for the sauce could also be said for the dish in general. Edible, but not great. The dry salmon substitute seemed to be in a competition with the soggy rice about which texture was worse, and the sauce was unremarkable enough to count as the best part of it all. Still, they managed some bits of not-awkward conversation while they picked at their food, and Fjord was starting to feel hope again, when Caduceus suddenly stopped mid sentence and sniffed the air.

“Do you smell that?”

It took him a moment, but then he realised it too. Smoke.

“The breadsticks! Shit-” Jumping up from his chair Fjord hurried back into the kitchen, having to tug his shirt over his nose almost immediately as the air got thick and his eyes watered from the soot that had gathered in the small room. But he found his way to the oven and turned it off, glad to see that they weren't any flames at least. Caduceus, who'd been trailing after him, had enough sense to check in with him on that first before he pushed the little window in the kitchen wide open, making it easier again to breath.

Still kneeling in front of the oven Fjord grabbed for a dish towel and pulled the rack out, seeing the blackened, miserable remains of what had once been bread dough. With a long suffering sigh he rested his head against the open oven door. “Damn it. I'm so sorry, Cad. This is all going horribly wrong.”

At this point he should have offered to drive his friend home, or just let him leave, anything that put him out of the danger of Fjord's own cooking, but he was hoping against his better judgement that maybe Caduceus hadn't given up on him yet, especially as the firbolg waved his apology off.

“Don't be, mistakes happen all the time,” Cad assured him, somehow still smiling throughout this whole disaster. “But I'm starting to think you could really use some help in the kitchen.”

He almost sounded amused, and Fjord would have been offended had it been anyone else. But with their situation being what it was he just scoffed and shook his head a little. “I'd say so, yeah. But since there's no saving this, and I know the fish tastes like shit too, how about we just order some take out?” he offered. “I'll pay, of course, and you can choose whatever you want.”

Caduceus considered it for a moment, looking around the kitchen, but then shook his head to Fjord's surprise. “No, you already paid for all these ingredients, and there's no sense in wasting them, is there.”

“Well, no,” he started, “but you can't honestly tell me you want to eat-” And he gestured to everything around them. The burned charcoal sticks of bread, the soggy rice still in it's pot, the mushy veggies. “This.”

“No,” Caduceus agreed, pulling a face as well. “But I'm sure there are enough of the original ingredients left to do something else with it, and this time we'll do it together.” Looking over to Fjord he saw his sceptical expression, and just smiled. “You'll see, good food isn't all that difficult. You were trying to make bread there, right?”

“Yeah, trying being the key word here,” Fjord muttered, finally picking the blackened dough off the baking paper with a fork to dispose of it as well. “But alright Houdini, teach me how to cook. What do we need?”

Caduceus smile grew and he reached for the discarded apron hanging over the door, tying it behind his back with practised ease. The sight finally made Fjord's frown disappear as well, and his heart lightened a little with his friend's willingness to take the situation in stride. Maybe a cooking lesson wasn't such a bad first date either.

“Alright then,” Caduceus hummed, “first of all we need a mixing bowl. Do you have any leftover yeast?” Fjord checked his drawer but came up short, not that it seemed to matter though. “That's alright. How about butter milk and baking soda?”

“Baking soda's the stuff you put in cakes and cookies, right?” Fjord muttered, brows drawing together as he checked his little stash of baking ingredients. “Yeah, I have that. And buttermilk's in the fridge.”

Seeming very pleased with that Caduceus then asked for an egg, some flour, and a little bit of butter and sugar to complete the dough. As he put it all together he told Fjord exactly how the buttermilk and baking soda would interact to let the dough rise, and why, unlike yeasted dough, this one didn't have to to be set aside and rest. But all those things went over Fjord's head almost completely as he watched Caduceus' finger knead the dough in an almost mesmerising pattern.

He wasn't done after that, either. Fjord expected the lesson to be over as the bread went into the oven (and boy did it already look better than his poor attempt at breadsticks), but Caduceus just turned to him with a cheerful smile and briefly wiped his hands on one of the towels. “Time for the main dish then.”

“Wait, really?” Fjord asked. “I don't have anymore of the vegan fish, Cad, and the rest... I don't know, I don't really know of any other recipes we could use.”

“We already agreed that's what I'm here for, did we not,” Caduceus reminded him happily. “Get me whatever vegetables you have left please, and we'll see what we can do.”

With a slight shrug Fjord did as he'd asked, coming back from the fridge with some bell pepper, red beet, and a handful of mushrooms. “This is what I got. Do you think the rice can be saved?”

“Honest answer? No. But cooking new rice would take too long, so we'll use what we have even if it's going to make the texture a little weird,” Cad told him, looking surprisingly pleased with the assortment of vegetables he'd brought though. “I'll show you one of my family's favourites, wild fried rice. The improvised version, but the next time you come over I can show you how to do it properly.” Fjord blushed again, rubbing the back of his neck a little. “Oh, sure, I'd- I would really love that, Cad. Here, let me help with the prep.”

With the two of them working together, cutting everything up didn't take more than a few minutes, and afterwards Fjord was once more happy to stand by and listen as Caduceus took care of the actual cooking part. It didn't take long for the kitchen to take on a rather pleasant smell again, driving the last few remnants of smoke and misery out, and while Fjord finished his last few tasks he looked back to Caduceus with a smile.

“Hey, Cad? Really, thank you, this has already been a way better evening than I expected.”

“It's nice,” Caduceus agreed, sounding just as pleased. “Again, I'm not sure why you insisted on cooking all alone, but I'd be happy to teach you more things in the future.” Fjord chuckled. “Hey, I already told you. I wanted to do it properly, this being our first date and all. I just wanted you to have a nice evening without having to work for once.”

“Yes, yes, our- wait, our what now?”

Fjord stopped what he was doing and looked up, seeing that Caduceus had paused as well, that confused look on his face again. “Our first date,” he repeated, slowly. “I... I asked you if you wanted to go out with me, Cad, remember? I asked you out for dinner, and then suggested I cook instead. And you said yes... remember?” The confused look didn't go away, and Fjord wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or cry.

“Oh.” Slowly though, understanding seemed to dawn on his friend, and the confusion made way for embarrassment. “Oh. No, I didn't- that’s not really- I’m sorry if I somehow lead you on?” he stammered, and Fjord wasn't sure if he had ever heard Caduceus stammer before.

“No! God, no, I'm just-” Great, now he was stammering too, and his face felt hot again, and surely this couldn't get any worse. “I just thought, you know, all the time at the temple, and at the diner, and... God, Cad, I'm so fucking stupid.” Fjord groaned softly, putting the spices he'd been getting ready aside and rubbing his face for a moment, trying to catch a clear thought. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed. Or made things more clear, or... or something. This is on me.”

“Hey now, don't,” Caduceus replied, his tone gentle again, and at least not sounding as embarrassed anymore. “Don't do that. This is just a little misunderstanding, right? But if you would prefer for me to leave now-”

“No, please, stay,” Fjord replied quickly, not even letting him finish that sentence. He finally turned to face him again, leaning against the counter a little. “There's no reason for you to leave. I mean, the bread's in the oven, we actually got some decent food now, so... no hurt feelings, right?”

Caduceus was still frowning, but before he could speak up Fjord stopped him. “Alright, hey, I might be... a little disappointed. I can admit that. But I'm a big boy, Cad, I can deal with it, I promise. And besides, your friendship means way more to me. We're still friends... right?”

Eyes softening a little Caduceus stepped forward, placing his hand over Fjord's. “Of course we are. I never wanted it to be anything else, and again, my deepest apology if-”

“No, come on, we need to stop apologizing at some point,” Fjord chuckled, lifting his other hand to give Caduceus a gentle pat on the shoulder before he pulled back a little, trying to discreetly wipe his eyes as he ran a hand down his face again. “Both of us. As you said, it was a misunderstanding. Maybe in a few weeks we can already think back to this and laugh about it.”

“Maybe. But it's alright if you need some time for that,” Caduceus assured him, and Fjord just sighed this time.

“Yeah, maybe I will,” he muttered, giving Caduceus another smile in an attempt to seem reassuring. “But for now, let's eat. I do want to try that family favourite recipe of yours.”

Humming softly in reply Caduceus picked up the spices he'd been mixing, adding them to the pan and stirring it all in before he lowered the heat. “According to my mother, you would be in luck,�� he told him, his tone still gentle. “This is supposed to work quite well against all kinds of heartaches and disappointment.”

“Oh yeah?” Fjord asked, his smile turning a little more genuine. “Next time you really gotta show me how to do it properly then.”

“Next time,” Caduceus promised, which was really all Fjord had needed to hear. As long as they stayed friends, as long as there was a next time to get together, to cook, or watch stupid movies, or something, it would be okay. He could deal with the rest. And as they settled down to eat, with the still warm, home-made bread, and the fried rice that was every bit as good as Caduceus had promised him, Fjord was glad to see most of the awkwardness between them leave again.

If a good meal could really help with smoothing things over this easily, Fjord thought to himself, he needed to learn to be a better cook.

[aggresivelyfriendly]

Hi guys!

Um-come talk to me(or whatever)!!

Reblogs are love!

I love @dirtystyles, my tag list, @the-well-rested-one and all of my readers, lol!

Tag list: @awomanindeniall @mrsfstyles @fullstopsteph @emulateharry​

Day Eight: The One With The Fort

Elise woke up with a hangover, just not the type when you at least have the wild night you may not remember to show for it. She was certainly not in bed naked, with another nude person, surreptitiously checking to see if they used protection.

This was an emotional hangover.

She'd got feelings, for a boy. Man, did she hate those. The last time she had them, it wreaked all kinds of havoc, and that was just her sister's boyfriend not a world famous object of obsession. She should have known how to read the signs, that mistake had gone a similar way. Time spent together in a house, some things in common, a little tension, fear of rejection, a move, sex, secret relationship, discovery, a broken hearted sister, disappointed parents, and a transcontinental move to escape.

Ok, so this one was in a much safer place than that. Harry was a bad choice as a man to have feelings for, but for totally different reasons than Bryce. Her quarantine buddy was a bad idea because of the rejection and/or future rejection.

Did it count as rejection?

Elise felt rejected, but feelings aren't facts, as her dad liked to remind her. She supposed it was a near miss. She had gone the last 10% just like the movie Hitch had taught her. Maybe he would have finished the gap, closed the circuit, and such, and she could have felt those beautiful pink lips on hers.

But he was saved by the bell.

Instead they ate, and sat on opposites ends of the table just like she had set it. Elise liked that it wasn't a ridiculously long ostentatious piece of dead wood before yesterday. She'd even complimented Harry on it. Last night it was unsatisfactory, definitely not as close as she would have liked to be sitting.

And during cake time, which had turned out stellar, he had touched her elbow and the bones in her feet had rattled. His hand hadn't coasted to her palm, nor had he spun her into him and pressed his lips to hers. He'd just told her it looked great and handed her the knife to cut.

Elise couldn't even think about the couch.

He'd insisted that they cuddle, and had lain behind her in the unexpected big spoon position. She'd been very excited when he suggested it, thinking it was a typical boy ploy to feel her up and get to the kissing they'd almost started.

She figured she'd at least get to feel a boner.

That was an atrocious word. But everything else sounded even worse in her head.

She'd felt no erection, just the warm shape and had wanted with all her might to press back against it, but if there was such a thing as a platonic spoon, she'd just experienced it. Then Harry had fallen asleep, his head bookended by hers until his neck relaxed onto the pillow.

Elise threw in the towel then.

The little voice in her head, that sounded suspiciously like her sister, told her that good guys didn't want her, though they'd be bad long enough to take what she was offering.

She was pretty sure she'd called Jessica a jealous bitch over that. The words had stuck in her head though, and not that she was hoping to make a go of things with her sister's ex, but the idea that he was just playing on her dark side to explore his own, it just poisoned their relationship. It certainly contaminated her already fragile relationship with her sister.

Elise had wanted to go away then, needed an escape, if she left it would be better, her parents didn't have to feel disappointed everyday when they looked at her, and Jessica didn't have to feel betrayed. Hence, England, quarantine, Harry Styles.

The first several days she could not figure out how it was karmic in any way that she got to be so close to Harry Styles. Now that he had become just Harry, the lovely rich weirdo with the bad taste in books and great taste in music, she was temporarily living with, she had figured out the catch.

The universe had given her her adolescent fantasy, shown her reality was better, and then snatched it away, like ice cream falling off the cone into sand within the first ten minutes on a boardwalk. Much as she hated it, Elise also felt it was right. She'd snuck around with her sister's boyfriend, it was only right someone she'd fallen for, who was way out of her league anyway, wouldn't want her even if she was literally the only option around.

Why was self loathing so attractive in moments of reflection?

She was going to have to go downstairs soon. She could hear music, a sure sign Harry was up and waiting for company. Maybe she could heat a thermometer under a light bulb and claim sick. Little water on her face to fake clammy skin.

Then he could baby her and she could take the tenderness and not expect the kisses, or boners. Because nobody liked kissing snotty people. Could you fake snottiness? Not without props, Elise decided. Also, faking sick when in quarantine during a pandemic seemed particularly heinous.

Despite her misgivings, she hauled her sad skeleton out of bed and got dressed. When Elise found herself searching for a specific pair of underwear, she realized she was literally planning on wearing her big girl panties. That at least made her chuckle. Whatever got you there she supposed.

Most of her fretting would be for naught. He was just Harry, and he'd acted like nothing happened. She could follow his lead, right? They were forced friends, at least for the next 6 days. May as well make the best of it and not lean in to the awkward.

The stairs made the echoey sound around the bend and she avoided the creaky part and only got a low groan. She'd relaxed a bit by the time she made it downstairs.

What the fuck was his problem? Why was he shirtless? Again! At least he had on more than a towel. Fuck her life, man. Or fuck her man, that'd be the life.

She stood at the end of the stairs and gave herself a moment until he realized she was there. His back was, woah! He was very broad for someone so slim. And his chest was, ugh, and his face. She often felt like she should congratulate him on his visage, especially the way it had leaned out and squared up. He was so manly now.

Dammit, she should have found that thermometer!

"Morning." She heard him say before she had gotten out of her head.

"Good Morning." She smiled back at him. His smile was like the call for a response in songs. You had to answer it.

"Are you hungry? There's leftover food, we could throw eggs over the last couple puddings. Or coffee?" There was a weird current under their conversation. Like he was walking on the shells of the eggs he was planning to cook her.

"Coffee?" She shrugged. "I can't really think about food yet." Elise's nerves were churning her stomach. All she could think of was the near kiss and the heat of his body behind her.

"Done." He headed to the kitchen and she followed, of course. He'd pulled out the French press, something she would purchase for herself after this. And asked, "what do you want to do today?"

Honestly, she wanted to hide out. Was there a book she could fake wanting to read? Elise was sure he had some book of semi terrible prose he would recommend to her. She need but ask. Then she could hold up in her room. The downside was she'd have to see his little sad puppy face when she told him she didn't like what he did. That was one of the downsides. Elise also wanted to be around him, maybe be able to smell him, and to avoid him noticing her avoiding him. But they needed to have something that discouraged talking, or she was gonna wind up asking him what the fuck his problem was. Because, they'd had a couple moments, she was sure of it, when they worked out, when he touched her thigh, and the near KISS, for fuck's sake. There was chemistry.

Or she was going a bit crazy, and it was totally one sided, which, seemed the way it should be.

In any case, she couldn't just ask him. She wasn't usually an asker, she was a guesser. Elise's best friend Niki was direct and wonderful, she asked for what she wanted or asked people what they wanted. When they were teenagers, she'd thought it was so embarrassing sometimes, now she wished she had some of her boldness. If she could just ask it would really simplify things. Harry, do you like me? Are you having any pesky feelings? Do I make your dick hard? Any flavor of honesty would taste better than the uncertainty she was chewing on.

Instead Elise said, "marathon Friends?" She shrugged.

His eyes opened big and she looked down to dodge the power of his pleased crinkles. "Marathon Friends!"

So there they were, three quarters of the way through a series with popcorn between them when Elise said, "I think I need to stand up. My butt is numb."

"I could rub it for you? No, not an option then?" He giggled. "We could make an obstacle course?" Harry suggested gleefully, and she wondered how long he'd been sitting on that one.

"That sounds athletic. As you've seen, I'm no athlete."

"Built like one." He said and before she could really respond he'd launched into a plea. "It'll be fun, then we can build a fort and watch more Friends."

"Are you 7 at heart?" She giggled. His glee was contagious, like Phoebe's wackiness.

"Nine!" He danced his eyebrows. "But to adult this party up, let's add alcohol. I feel like I have not given you a proper look at British life and quarantine, as we've not been pissed much at all. We can play a Friends drinking game, bet there are loads on the internet!"

Oh, this was a bad idea. But maybe she'd find some liquid courage.

The obstacle course, well it went better than she anticipated, and he let her win. She cartwheeled, the one thing she had learned in gymnastics, across the finish line. He was way ahead of her when they got to the pillow sack race at the end. The idea had struck her like a lightening bolt. She could not bound like him, all that thigh strength, but she could cover ground quick another way! She managed to keep the high thread count fabric on through her revolutions. She was a little terrified of destroying his nice linen. Harry let her cross ahead of him, and he hoisted her into the air when she exclaimed "YES!"

She expected him to complain about her tactics, instead he jogged her around on a victory lap. "Well done!" He danced in a circle and put her down, his arms wrapped around her, squishing her face into his clavicle.

"But I cheated." She muffled into his body.

"We didn't make rules. You saw an opportunity and took a chance." He shimmied his shoulders, all his bottled up energy from a day on the couch coming out in exuberance. "You gotta take chances in life."

They were close, though he'd let her go. Was she supposed to take the chance now? Was that an invitation? Why did she have to do it? "Yeah, yeah, you're right." She said but didn't act.

A beat passed and he sighed and turned around, moving around exercise equipment. "Let's build this fort, yeah?" His smile wasn't forced, but she noticed he only had two eye crinkles, not the full powered four.

His hand was on her shoulder. The opportunity was still there, but yesterday's rejection still clouded up her head like an unkept pool. "Yeah." She turned around and opened the ornamental blanket storage box he had in his media room.

They worked together with ease, and had a fort that would stay up for days on its own with no roughhousing to show for it. IKEA would be proud, they didn't even need pictorial directions.

"It looks cozy!" She smiled at it.

"It's nearly perfect." He said, before jetting off. "One second." He came back with led lights and used some stylish magic to arrange them high."Now we got it. Just missing one thing."

She couldn't imagine anything missing with the attractive light on his face. This was dreamy, she'd almost forgotten that he seemed to have decided that she had to make the move. Leaving them at an impasse. "What?"

"Tequila!" He danced his eyebrows. "One sec." He jackrabbited off.

Should she tell him tequila made her way too honest, or let him figure it out for himself?

"Alright." He skidded into the tent by her side and she applauded because he managed not to shatter the tequila bottle and glasses. "This is the best tequila." He assured her. "Find a drinking game! Unless you fancy strip scrabble."

That sent her diving for the phone. That was an even worse idea than getting drunk together. It was a quick google search later and they had their marching orders.

Phoebe seemed the most reliable. They both were licking salt and swallowing top shelf shots whenever she appeared. Monica and Joey were making a good showing too.

Her stomach hurt and she was bent sideways making a right angle at his hips from laughing so hard. Elsie had forgotten! This show was so funny, and god! They were both drunk.

Rachel was having a sappy moment and it was bringing out the sap in Elise. Man, tequila also made her emotional, she'd swung like a desktop pendulum from laughing so hard she cried to introspective sadness. It didn't exactly make sense, she was definitely more the Ross in this situation. Though her pining had started much later, precisely 7 days ago.

She giggled, nothing was precise after that much tequila. Call her Tarzan with all that swinging.

"What are you laughing about?" He turned on his side to look at her, his face full of mirth, his eyes at half mast and a little red. Bedroom eyes popped into her head and she had to suck in a breath. This felt very coupley, lying side-by-side in a fort. She would say cuddling, but they weren't touching. They hadn't been, but while she was assessing their postures, she realized he'd tangled their ankles together.

Everything they did felt coupley. Because they wanted to couple up or because they were just a couple in number?

"Um" she croaked. "I was just thinking of something, but then, tequila brain you know!" She flicked her temple lightly.

"Oh, I know!" He was jolly and she thought for a minute of other times she'd seen pictures of him drunk. His arm was around her waist now. He liked drunken cuddles, when he was younger, which was knowledge she maybe had no business possessing but knew nonetheless. His face in her neck a moment later had her closing her eyes and sighing. He smelled good, a little like a bar, but also like cologne, and his hair was so soft. She wanted to touch it.

Maybe she had more in common with Ross than she realized. A seemingly unattainable old crush suddenly in her life, maybe attainable, available.

Her drunken hands had a mind of their own, and she ran them through the silk of his hair. It felt wonderful between her fingers. Elise twirled some curls around her pointers and was rewarded by a groan from her cuddle buddy.

"Mmmmm, feels good!" His ankle tangle had become his calf and at that moment his whole thigh had inserted itself between her legs. She'd been ignoring the dull throb there for most of today, for days. The barest pressure was on her crux and she couldn't take this. She tensed and pulled, he moaned. Her hand dropped.

She felt his breath on her neck and then his head roll back to her shoulder. "Hey! Why'd you stop."

If she turned her head their boozy breaths would mingle and it would be their second almost kiss in as many days, and she couldn't take this.

Elise turned her head.

He blinked at her slow and the tequila sunset of his eyes was intoxicating. She let her eyes come down to his lips, and when his tongue peeped out to wet his mouth, hers moved on its own, "Harry?"

It needed to be asked right? She couldn't just let it happen.

"Elise." He breathed back and moved closer.

Tequila, and mint somewhere underneath, was all she tasted. Teeth and tongue, plump lips moving between and surrounding hers was what she felt, until his larger frame pressed her back onto the floor. She felt the one thigh almost against her center become his pelvis, flush. He pulled back, looked in her eyes and gave her a soft buss, resumed the eye contact. Elise leaned up like he had water and she was thirsty. The way his tongue played along the sides of hers, sliding over the top and out before he changed angles slightly and reinitiated had her lightheaded. Her skin was tight, especially where his hands were. Her clothes were heavy and hot, at her hips, around her rips, the sides of her breasts tingled, her shoulders were his palms held her open beneath him. Elise needed water. Was panting. She wasn't even sure how much the kiss had escalated, until his lips were moving over her neck and onto her collarbone, the thick strap of her top coming down, cold air and warm kisses on the swell of her cleavage. Pressure revolving between her thighs. The well was just ahead and if they kept at it, she'd dive in. Water water everywhere, so much to drink. To drown. She stilled.

"Elise?" Harry asked from where his hands and mouth had almost reached her nipples?

"I think we should stop."