#i do not actively seek out anything about this man but when i stumble across something it's always a wild time | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yanderart · 4 years ago

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Once you found Shouto on the Anti-Purge forums, it felt so wonderful to be understood. So comforting to finally have someone you could rely on...

So, when you got a letter notifying you of your selection for the Annual Purge later on, of course you went to seek his help.

Should’ve known better than to trust strangers online, though.

My fic/portrait convo for the Yandere Purge Collab, from the Lovesick Discord. And please check the rest of the m. list for other amazing works set in the same AU!

Under the cut is the actual fic (Todoroki x Reader, nsfw, dark themes, 10k), as well as the respective TWs. Hope y'all enjoy 🥀

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Tws: Usual yandere ones (stalking, manipulation, delusion). Dub-con/Non-con. Non-consensual Drug Use, aka Aphrodisiacs. Death threats and sexism (from randoms on the forum, not Todo).

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You couldn’t think straight —hadn’t been able to since waking up again. All you could recognize amidst the fog currently obscuring your thoughts was the longing, prolonged, and tangible in its hold over your being.

You felt hot all over, the flames licking at your skin burning brightly as you squirmed from your place, eagerly attempting to get closer to the cold reprieve emanating from the man that held you.

“Tell me what’s wrong, Y/N." One of his hands was steering you on his lap, the other one gently massaging your shoulders in a comforting motion. “I can only help you if you do."

If your judgment had not been overcast by the desire pushing away your self-awareness, then perhaps you could’ve heard the faint hint of amusement in his voice. Perhaps you would’ve thought to look up and finally encounter the content shine of his heterochromatic eyes.

“I feel…" speaking was laborious, your tongue impossibly weighty and your mind swirling with thoughts that escaped any semblance of coherence. “I feel hot all over. It hurts.”

The hand positioned around your waist went to search for one of your clenched ones, easily engulfing it in his grip as he nudged the side of your face with his chin rather tenderly. A gentle encouragement for you to stay attentive, anchoring you to the moment despite your dazed mindset.

“Show me then,” his low timbre tickled your skin, sending another wave of excruciating heat to wreak havoc inside your body, “Let me know where it hurts.”

With a stuttering sigh, you proceeded to press both of your hands to your lower stomach, gulping audibly before bringing them further down. Dancing just short of your underwear while your eyelids fluttered shut.

You knew your actions were out of character deep down. Even recognized the shadow of wrongness that distorted the current scene. You weren't supposed to do such things, weren't supposed to feel like that…

But the reality was that you were so excruciatingly warm by that point, and his palm felt so deliciously cold.

When you heard the dreadful siren going off in the distance, the instantly recognizable sound of the Purge starting at last, you were already too far gone to think of anything else but the fingers brushing against the thin cotton of your panties, so close to the evidence of your need soaking through them.

Your parents had told you not to trust strangers online once upon a time. You should’ve really taken their advice more to heart.

。。。。。

But first, perhaps a little tracing of your steps is in order —some necessary context to fully understand the extension of your plight.

You see, earlier that day you had woken up full of a peculiar mix of drive and determination. It was indeed Purge Day, the single day of the year you had grown to fear the most ever since childhood, and yet for once you found yourself oddly relaxed, filled to the brim with resolve instead of your usual nerves.

Which was already an unexpected turn of events, considering you had just gotten a letter notifying you of your selection as one of the accursed Darlings of the Night.

A gentle reminder that, if caught, your life would stop belonging to yourself for an entire dreadful year.

Because a Yandere had their sight on you now, or so the notice had informed you in impeccable typography. Anxious fingertips memorized the slight raise of inked words, inspecting every single detail the letter carried.

You had imagined a monster ready to pounce just outside your door then, fitting enough to be the carrier of your bad news. A preternaturally grotesque being, built from all the Yandere themed horror stories you had heard throughout the years.

And yet there you were, feeling safer in that instant than you had in years; Because this time you had a plan. He made sure to give you one you could easily follow.

Just like he later made sure to welcome you in with a kind smile and awfully persistent hospitality.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

You should've known better than to accept.

。。。。。

In the present, fingers were now dipping under the elastic of your panties, ghosting across feverish skin and encouraging your whimpers to grow louder.

"Is this what you want, then?" The man's breath tickled one of your ears, rough digits gathering your slickness with practiced ease. And he sounded genuinely concerned too, as if your discomfort was not a consequence of his own machinations. "Because I wanna ease your pain, baby. Give you what you truly need."

He barely even touched you yet you were already struggling not to crumble, the desire governing your mind mixing with the new sensations to create a new delirious kind of torment.

Continuing to tease you, the man was relentless in his torture, barely even brushing over your neediest spots. A gentle press of his palm to stimulate you for a moment before pulling back, much to your shameful frustration; Better than nothing, but not close enough.

In his own way, though, he was urging you to speak up. Expecting you to demand what you truly wanted.

Yet as a retort, all you could come up with was gasping out his name, dripping from your lips like honeyed prayers as your hips fought to buck up against his hand.

A sound you afterward repeated a hundred times over. Chanted until its melody became engraved on your tongue and the man was finally caving in, sliding his fingers inside with a smirk.

He had known you'd end up caving, had planned for it for months now, and yet nothing had prepared him for the actual view.

。。。。。

Shou, actually, had been his username when you first met him. Once upon a time recited with a genuine smile and an eagerness to please, such a far cry from the anguished whines it would later lead up to.

You started frequenting the forum he inhabited a few months back. A place which happened to be a hidden corner of the internet for people who did not just stumble upon it, but actually sought it out. A part of the web where its occupants challenged societal norms and, against what society had tried to condition you all into thinking, chose to voice their taboo Anti-Purge sentiments instead.

Sentiments perhaps born either due to the inherent discriminatory nature of the holiday (why was it that Yanderes were accommodated for, while Darlings barely got a warning before they were made prey?), a need for contrarianism (when opposing open kidnappings, assault and other debauchery became an act of rebellion), or just a tenuous moral high ground which made it unbearable to stomach. Whatever the reason, it was your first time encountering such a density of like-minded peers.

Despite attempting to commit yourself to being a lurker, deciding to never post or reply to others, your days had still quickly become consumed by the need to read each and every topic. You were simply fascinated with this new dark corner of the web.

That was, of course, until the aforementioned Shou became the main focus of your attention, a dash of intriguing brightness to break the monotony of your existence.

And like moths rushing to the flame, your curiosity would be your undoing.

There was something about him that pulled you in (along with many others from the community, which tended to flock on his posts whenever he grazed the forums). His username was clearly just a nickname instead of a carefully crafted pseudonym; profile picture just an image of the back of what you all assumed to be his hair, dual-toned strands catching the light in a hypnotic way.

Truly, his disregard for anonymity within those parts was a bigger statement than you were expecting, almost as commendable as it was dumbfounding. There was the nature of his postings too, never subtle about his inclinations or ideas.

How to disarm and reutilize Purge Traps.

Most effective ways to incapacitate a violent assailant.

Government lies and why they matter.

Faking a BOPC (breach of purge code) and getting away with it.

There was little method to the madness that was his forum activity, besides the hint that he was evidently more knowledgeable about the subject than most. Plus the fact that he was proactive about his advice, actually seeking to teach others to fight back instead of just hide away and hope for the best. For another self-proclaimed Darling, Shou was ruthless with his methods —it was hard not to admire him.

And admire you did, keeping tabs of his sporadic bursts of activity and speeding to try and interact with him whenever you caught him online. You were, to voice it simply, simply star-truck by him (and perhaps becoming a bit of a fangirl).

Because whoever Shou was, it felt like he understood you. And so, against every ounce of your common sense or natural paranoia, you had finally decided to break your golden rule and reach out for the first time since you joined the niche forum.

And not to just leave a vague comment agreeing on public discourse, but to actually send him a private message. In your defense, how were you supposed to know the chains of events your actions would start?

Do you actually believe what you post?, had been your lame conversation starter.

Luckily for you, he did not leave you hanging. You made sure to send the message while he was still active, one of the few days a week you knew he devoted to his presence on the site (and wasn't it slightly creepy, how you had taken the time to learn his schedule by that point?)

I wouldn't be here if I didn't, dry, to the point and leaving you embarrassed to have even sent the first question.

Yet for some reason, something about Shou reverted you back into a middle school kid seeking to impress a way cooler senior.

Perhaps it was what he symbolized (a change for the better), what he appeared to be (everything you wish you were) —whatever it was, your fingers were frantically typing a reply as soon as his appeared on your screen.

I just think it's amazingThe things you know

How you share them with everyone

The way you see through the lies

I just think you're— , your digits hovered over the keyboard as you were about to type out the last sentence before quickly deleting it. Even in your excitement, you knew how obsessed you'd sound if you started complimenting him personally in your very first conversation.

So instead you sent your thoughts on his posts and awaited his answer with bated breath. A few minutes ticked by this time, your anxiety making you count down the seconds in mortified silence, slowly weighted down by your doubts until your notifications for the forum were going off again with a distinct ping.

I've seen your replies around. I think you're great too.

Whatever your hang ups for praising him directly had been, he clearly did not harbor any. As the prongs of nervousness alleviated their hold over your body, you struggled to see any problems with it either…this was a person you had come to idolize, and they thought you were great?

Your smile, while still anxious, was considerable while you quickly responded.

I'm just a n00b. Learning from the pros.

A moment of thought, biting your bottom lip as you decided whether to add a second message or not. Fuck it, you told yourself.

I wasn't even supposed to be posting anything, but you made me wanna reach out.

Was that too forward? Oh god, it was, wasn't it? You must've sounded creepy, must've sounded desperate and…

That's cute. Did my ramblings teach you anything?

An actual squeal left you then, sounding like it came from an altogether different person. You were an adult, with a career and responsibilities… Yet somehow, this stranger online indirectly calling you cute made you more excited than you were comfortable admitting.

Ofc. I didn't even know what a BOPC was before. Didn't know most of the purge traps you mentioned, either.

The spaces between replies were getting smaller, the conversation turning fluent as you both seemed to be staring straight into the screen, waiting for the other to finish typing.

So you really are a n00b then.

Shit, did you fail some sort of forum etiquette by admitting that? Somehow, the need to impress Shou was more palpable than ever.

And you clearly know your stuff. Makes me wanna up my game.

Be more like you, you left unsaid.

So am I your senpai then?

Your fingers froze just above the keyboards, eyes scanning over Shou's last message and reverted back to staring at his profile pic for a solid minute. You would've squealed again, if you weren't so taken aback.

You make it sound like I am, his second message lit up your screen, coming in quickly after your rare pause in replies.

I don't think that's bad, though. Third message from him, and you were close to fainting now.

Then in that case I suppose you are. You wondered whether Shou wouldn't think you were pathetic admitting that, or whether he had been honest by saying he didn't mind...

I've also noticed you agreeing with some of my more polarizing views.

A welcomed change in topics.

You thought to ask him which ones (most of his posts tended to have a polarizing effect, with people finding him either too radicalized or not radicalized enough), but before you could formulate the question you saw the twinkling circles symbolizing he was typing up another sentence.

Do you actually believe them? And now it was his turn to spit your words back at you.

Well, yah. You make compelling arguments.

Color me impressed then, the start of his new retort left your mind spinning. Never met a n00b like you before.

After his declaration, you found yourself writing and rewriting your answer, hesitating on your word choice, and yet pure elation coursed through your veins.

He said he's impressed with me, your brain kept supplying on loop. You had no way of knowing just how much of a lasting impression you were leaving.

I don't wanna stay one tho. I'd like to jump a few levels. Improve.

Barely a moment's notice before his last message provoked a noticeable hitch in your breath.

I can help you with that.

Which, as short of a reply as it was, left you giddier than would’ve been healthier to admit.

Perhaps it could be chalked up to your work shifts growing more monotonous and tiresome, your social life becoming a faint echo of what it used to be, or just the regular wear and tear from a too-plain existence —a routine where you didn’t tend to engage with life, but just passively watched it go by.

Whatever the true reason was, that night you went to sleep with such a wide grin that the apples of your cheeks had started to hurt from the exertion, infinitely excited after getting to talk firsthand with someone you had already come to admire by that point.

It almost made you self-conscious, knowing just how much it all meant to you, how such a small gesture on his part happened to mean the world to you.

But there was really no reason to feel ashamed or overzealous over your own reaction. If you could’ve seen Shou, you would’ve known you weren’t the only one smiling.

。。。。。

Almost as open of a smile as the one adorning his features right now, currently hidden from your view as his fingers set a maddening pace. Tortuously slow at first until his knuckles started brushing against your opening with each thrust.

All you could hear now were the wet sounds of your arousal facilitating his movements, motions whose only purpose seemed to be to drive you more rambling and disoriented by the second.

"Is this what you want? What you need, perhaps?" His usually calm voice was uncharacteristically affected as he gasped against your ear, the torture he was making you endure clearly getting to him as well.

You were much too preoccupied with the waves of pleasure and warmth overflowing your body to give a proper response, but your lack of one did not deter him.

If anything, your needy gasps and whines were the only encouragement he required.

"Don't worry, Y/N. I'll take care of you, make you feel good."

By that point, the hand that had been petting your hair had found its way to your sopping heat too, calloused pads circling around your pearl while the man continued feeding you his eager promises.

"I get you, baby. Just like you get me." So close, your entire body taut and ready to snap. "And you want me to take care of you too, right?"

You weren't conscious enough to understand the implications, your impaired judgment prohibiting you from reading further into the meaning of his words. He sounded so encouraging, so deceivingly tender despite stuffing you full of his fingers as you squirmed on his lap.

All you could do was nod furiously.

And later on, when your senses sadly returned, dedicated yourself to lamenting over which of your actions brought you down this unfortunate path.

。。。。。

Perhaps, your consciousness supplied, it had been the fact that you opened up so readily. That you had dared to share with a supposed new friend, things that should’ve better stayed hidden in the first place.

But goddamn it, you felt downright honored that he even considered you worthy enough to entertain in the first place. From the very first second, Shouto already had the upper hand.

During the first few conversations, the topics you two discussed were all closely related to the purge and your mutual hang ups with it. Concise and carefully typed out messages were exchanged, discussing opinions you had never expected anyone to be interested in hearing—not from you, at least.

But then, as the weeks slowly progressed, the subjects of conversation began shifting to both of your lives, to your occupations, hobbies, and, directly against the forum's policy for privacy, the people you two were outside the confines of your online corner.

Even without actually exchanging any real data or supplying him with your name or age, you found yourself starting to open up more and more with each day.

You told him about your grueling office job, the friends you hadn’t seen or texted in weeks, and the reality of an apartment which more closely resembled a containment cell than a home…

Revelations that you had kept hidden for so long, which now came pouring out without regard for how mortified they made you feel. You were conscious of the limits blurring between you two the further you kept going, of how you were telling him things best left unsaid, cramped and buried in a hard to reach place.

And yet, for some obscure reason, everything Shou represented made it impossible for you to resist the temptation to speak up, to demand to be heard for the first time in an eternity of quietness.

You’re pathetic, is what you expected him to say in return. Pathetic, weak, meager, and worthless. Anticipating him, somehow, to echo all the doubts and deeply held fears you carried inside.

Most of my friends don’t understand either, was instead the response you received. But most people don’t see what's wrong, what needs to be changed. You feel lonely because you do.

It wasn’t clear what you would’ve wanted to hear beforehand, the things you had fantasized someone would reply if you ever gathered the courage to share your anxieties. Whatever those expectations had been an eternity ago, they now vastly paled when compared to what your new friend was dangling in front of you.

It felt like he was giving an excuse for things you had always perceived as personal failings. If what he said was true, it would mean it wasn’t your social ineptitude that kept people away, your uselessness, or uninteresting personality.

It would mean the shadows around you could still be dispelled somehow, exorcising the silhouettes of a suffering that had become a regular companion in your day to day life.

Brandishing a courage that only anonymity could give you, your fingers were a blur on your keyboard as you tried to ignore the rapid heartbeat in your chest, the fear, and exhilaration from opening up for the first time in forever.

Something you would later regret a thousand times over.

And you do too, and it wasn’t a question, a nervous comment or a stuttered retort. With the aid of the text format, you could look as confident as you knew you weren’t. You understand as well.

You understand me, was the tacit meaning behind it. The prickling of unshed tears made it so you were furiously blinking, fighting against the downpour despite your eyes refusing to leave the screen for longer than an instant.

I do. More than you realize.

For all intents and purposes, your first mistake was indeed opening up.

And your second one was being naive enough to let him in. Seriously, why hadn’t you heeded your parent’s advice about stranger danger?

。。。。。

...If they could only see you now, coming apart at the seams and with the name of your tormentor being the only word you were able to string together.

"Such a beauty, and all for me," his praises accompanied you through the rough orgasm ripping through your body, lips kissing your forehead in stark contrast to the digits still pumping inside your heat. "Let me hear your voice, baby. Let me hear how beautiful my name sounds on your lips."

And you obeyed, because what other choice did you have. Mindless, broken, and oh, so needy.

You continued to audibly moan as your climax unwound, crying out his name in absolute reverence while Shouto's smile deepened against your skin. The chill of his touch was still as soothing as ever, calming down the embers of a lust that refused to completely die down.

When he finally pulled his hands from your core, you felt excruciatingly empty. But you were not given enough time to wallow in your despair, because who you once considered your friend was then grasping your face gently between his hands, leading your gaze to meet his—forcing you to witness the intensity and adoration present there.

"My Y/N."

Even in your deeply intoxicated state, the last few dredges of your senses supplied just how utterly abhorrent the situation was.

The sirens signaling the start of the Purge had died down a while ago, drowned out by your own cries of pleasure, but you could still see the remnants of the government logo still plastered all over the TV, its bright glow bathing you both in an eerily scarlet ambiance.

From the same weak place of coherence, a shiver of fear managed to break through your stupor.

"You're going to continue to be a good girl for me, aren't you?"

When he kissed you then, slow and almost ironically hesitant despite what had just transpired moments before, you couldn't begin to tell your body to refuse. Much to your own horror, you were soon eagerly kissing your tormentor back.

。。。。。

The second mistake leading up to your downfall, on the other hand, took a little longer to occur. It was after a few more weeks of conversation. You vented and talked way too much, while Shou listened intently and even rewarded you with a few crumbs of advice of his own.

So wrapped up in your new seemingly innocuous friendship you were in, you failed to recognize the magnitude of an event that should've sent you scrambling to shut off your monitor. A warning so loud it would've put the Purge sirens themselves to shame.

You see, with Shou's help, you were slowly becoming more of an active user around those parts. You didn't just stick to replying to his posts or lurking until he shot you a private message anymore; no, you were now officially a contributor, deciding to step out of your anonymity to share what you thought was a fairly interesting article. It was a rather long-winded thinkpiece on the morality of Darlings’ treatment after the Purge had ended—the reality of that year spent in captivity that most people tended to just brush under the carpet, all in the name of making the entire ordeal more palatable to digest.

In all your eagerness, however, you had failed to realize a very crucial detail, which was that the article was a whole two days old. Already an ancient text by forum's standards, apparently.

So with that in mind, of course you should've expected the hate, an outpouring of bitterness fit for a community of loners and acidic underdogs. You were on an anonymous forum on one of the darkest parts of the internet, somewhere most sane people actively stayed away from—Clearly, a rookie unwittingly reposting something was the perfect target for a lot of your bitter comrades. An excuse to finally take out all of their pent up frustration.

Fuck1ng pleb, thanks for copy-pasting the same post for the 55th time.

This is why we shouldn't let newbies post. Look at this mess @mods.

Time to hang it up, n00b. And by “it”, I mean your f****** neck.

i bet ur a girl, [Username]. u type like a b1tch.

And the icing on the cake for internet interactions, a myriad of wall spamming "KYS" being plastered all across the comment section, bold and daunting as they filled your notification box with the repetitions of hate. If you weren't so sure of your safety behind your screen, perhaps you would've felt intimidated.

As it stood, you were just embarrassed, mortified at the fact that you had seemingly botched your only attempt at leaving a positive first impression. If anything, it only seemed you had given everyone a common enemy to pick on for once...

Or that was, at least, until Shou happened to log in at exactly that precise moment. You knew he was usually busy around that day and time (he never actually told you whether he had a job, but you had surmised as much from your past chats), so his instantly recognizable profile picture and username popping up had you genuinely gasping at first. It was one hell of a coincidence, but you couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief at what looked to be your savior.

Everyone, stop getting your panties in a twist. This is why no new users end up staying, the environment is abhorrent.

It was vague enough not to betray the fact that you two weren’t just strangers anymore, as well as keeping Shou’s reputation as a lone wolf from completely shattering.

And a comment which, surprisingly, instantly dulled most of the incoming messages your post was being flooded with.

People respected him there, his status as a renowned user giving him a genuine sort of power and hold over the rest of the community. One of the first things you had recognized on the forums was the distinct hierarchical structures amongst its users, and there Shou might’ve as well be granted the title of mayor for all the weight his every sentence carried.

Or at least they did with the majority of the community. As in every place where large numbers of people gathered, there were always a few rotten apples just begging to be tossed.

and ofc ur whiteknighting for her, Shou The Great. shes sucking ur dick under evry single post u make

You cringed, studying the bitter user that had decided to be a contrarian and easily recognizing him from unsavory past encounters you witnessed. Although, if you were completely honest, this time you couldn't exactly say his words didn't carry a certain degree of validity.

Shou had told you he was glad that was the case with you, that his post resonating with anyone was one of the main reasons why he hadn't just disappeared from the site completely. But in reality, saying you weren't subtle about your agreement with his ideas would be an understatement.

You were like a puppy skipping behind him, trailing his interactions and always ready to write an eager comment backing him up. Yet you had never thought others actually paid attention to your mostly one-sided interactions, the occasional meager downvote or emote being the only thing that made you aware your comments weren’t just lost in the sea of spam Shou’s posts were usually showered in.

For the longest time, your support had just felt like leaving letters for the man to find. Letters you hadn’t even been sure had reached their target until a few weeks back...

Suddenly, the sharp sound of Shou's incoming reply drove you from your tribulations.

Well, maybe if you weren't such a crude man you wouldn't be permabanned from starting topics yourself. Although I doubt anyone would be sucking your dick either way, shitty ideology considered. [Image attached]

A grimace was quick to grow on your face as you aptly studied the picture Shou decided to close his reply with.

It was a screenshot of what looked to be someone's post history, a rather extensive list with alarmingly offensive titles such as "Why male darlings should be spared", "The purge is a form of cuckoldry" and “Feminist agenda: female yanderes and their biological advantage [Repost]". Almost all of them exhibited a tragic downvote ratio right as well, besides the red symbol signaling the posts had been archived by senior users or mods.

For someone who also loathed the terrible holiday, it was almost admirable how the man managed to be almost as detestable as the criminals you all rallied against.

But even so, what disturbed you the most wasn't the clear bigotry of the user, but the fact that that screenshot couldn't have been taken from public records. A user's post history was hidden, just another measure on the site’s part to keep people from recognizing too many details about each other and possibly endangering themselves.

No, it could only have been taken from inside the account. And judging from the other guy's quick reaction, you weren't the only one who came to that realization.

how the fck did u get that

I knew u were friends with the mods. fcking rats

By that point, everyone else had stopped clogging the comments and, you assumed, instead opted to settle down and attentively observe the events transpiring. Apart from the emote reactions and the rapidly rising number of upvotes on Shou’s comments, you had all become a passive audience to the public ridicule.

Although you couldn’t help feeling slightly disjointed by Shou’s behavior. Below your wicked sense of pride at having him defend you, there was still the whispers of your gut telling you the man was going a little too far, his actions spelling a more sinister meaning than just “having a friend’s back”.

You've been here for years, Minoru. Surprised you haven't yet noticed how much of a pest everyone sees you as.

Minoru? You did a double-take, going back to read the username of the guy Shou was arguing with. But he just had a randomly generated number as a pseudonym, same as you and most others, and with just a picture of some anime sneezing girl to distinguish his profile from the rest. No trails or signs of what could Shouto be referencing to.

Nothing but an option you preferred not to consider. But it couldn't be, could it? your friend wouldn’t...

fucking delete that right now, man.

this isn't a joke, DELETE THAT.

Only that the abrasive and desperate reaction told you everything you needed to know. Your heart was beating rapidly in your chest, shock mixing with equal parts horror and amazement you couldn’t even begin to try and disentangle. Because right that second, you were witnessing your friend breaking the forum’s number one rule with a front-row seat to the spectacle.

And he was doing it all in your name.

Then maybe think twice before you go out of your way to harass newbies. Or have you had too much time on your hands after being fired, is that it?

It was vague enough not to represent any kind of threat... if not for the context of the site. And yet you all knew the hidden message behind it, the warning for whoever Minoru was to understand Shou knew much more than what he was letting on. That he could expose much more than he was currently alluding to.

y are u even doing this, shou? y do u care wtf happens to this noobslut anyways?

Shou's reply took barely a moment to appear, lighting up your screen and, despite the slightly morbid nature of his protection, coaxing out a smile to adorn your lips. It was like a balm being applied to your worries, quieting down most of your incipient concerns in favor of rejoicing.

They're a friend.

For fuck’s sake, you even screenshotted that for posterity. Somehow, him acknowledging the new bond you two had openly felt like a milestone.

When a mod came in to archive the post and give everyone involved a stern warning later on, you were already way past your previous doubtful sentiments.

Instead, the last thing you did before going to sleep that day was to open up your private conversation with Shou and send a quick yet heartfelt message of gratitude his way.

Months prior, you wouldn’t have ever thought you’d be thanking anyone for semi doxxing another human being. How rapidly things were changing, though, and all while you got lost in the thrill of mattering.

Thanks for sticking up for me. It meant a lot, you typed feeling slightly lightheaded, drunk on the idea that anyone would think you worthy of having your back.

You thought Shou went offline after dishing out his not so thinly veiled threats, but somehow he was back again in an instant, the sound of notifications going off shaking any remnants of your exhaustion.

Anything for you, [Y/N].

You were so tired, it didn't occur to you that you hadn't yet shared your real name with your friend either.

That night, for once, you fell asleep with a twinkle in your eye and the image of Shou's multicolored locks dancing against your eyelids. Imagining, ever so briefly, your fingers trailing down the back of a neck you now had memorized from analyzing his profile picture.

And, while you slept with your phone clutched to your side, you also failed to notice the peculiar sound of your own camera going off, the soft glow from the red light beside your lense bathing your features in its subtle illumination, flickering against your eyelashes and the lingering grin on your curved lips.

You truly looked angelic like that.

Suffice it to say, Minoru never bothered you again after that day. In fact, his name disappeared from the site not too soon after.

。。。。。

But now, to continue the grueling task of giving a context for your inevitable end, it is necessary to jump a month further into the future, barely a week from the excruciating present.

Because it was then that the last strike finished nailing the coffin of your proverbial undoing, burying you under the weight of your own ignorance.

You got your notice in the mail on the Day of Announcements, an inconspicuous letter lacking any further distinction beyond a scarlet government seal emblazoned across its front. But even before you opened and read the message, you already knew of its contents—easily recognizing the image before you from several of the varied posts you had seen floating around on the forums lately.

Purge Notice!!! Help needed Urgently.

Just got my letter. Do I stay hidden or fight back? [Open poll]

Third time getting mine. AMA about my methods.

The range of how you had seen other users reacting to their own selections was diverse, with some of them being more experienced while others, such as you, had just gotten their first letter ever. If things played out differently for you, then you were sure you would've been another one of the numerous panicked voices, awkwardly trying to maneuver their way out of their new situation.

And maybe, then, your odds wouldn't have been so completely fucked from the start.

As it stood, as soon as you laid eyes on the notice, the first thing you thought of was how quickly you could boot up your computer and open the forum’s private messages. Because, for the first time in forever, you were overwhelmed by the feeling of someone else being there for you.

Shou was your friend, had earned that spot fair and square after months of listening to you venting and sharing deep discussions; faster than you could even realize it, and so it was only natural for you to seek his help once the news of your selection for the new yearly Purge reached you.

He had even threatened another user for your sake, for fuck’s sake. So, really, what harm could come out of relying on someone you were sure was trustworthy?

Maybe it was too late by that point for you to snap out of it, but it was almost amusing seeing you being so easily deceived.

Just another reason why you needed him, certainly.

。。。。。

Already told you I'd have your back, had been his immediate reply barely an instant after you attached a candid photo of your hand holding up the envelope. Whatever you need, I’m here.

His lack of hesitation was palpable through your screen, heart hammering in your chest as you were faced with a kindness you had thought yourself undeserving of not long ago.

As soon as you closed your mailbox, you had immediately raced to send him the message, completely foregoing telling any of your other friends or family members when you doubted they would even understand you in the first place. Shou had been right when he told you people just didn’t want to see the truth, even if it slapped them right in the face, leaving dark imprints in the shape of their narrow mindedness.

But he was there, he was letting you know as much, in his own words. And for what felt like the hundredth time in the past few months, you felt incredibly lucky to have stumbled upon the Forums in the first place, to have traced whatever fortunate path had led you to find him—the one person able to distinguish you in a world you always thought you blended straight into.

Thank you, Shou, for everything. And at that moment, you really had been truthful, so much so that there were tears prickling at your eyes, an overwhelming feeling of gratitude drowning you with its intensity.

Indeed, your final mistake had been your desperate need for acceptance. A need that had, in the end, cost you everything.

You can call me Shouto now. No use for nicknames anymore.

Amidst the chaos of your life possibly crashing down all around you, somehow his revelation put a trembling smile back in your face.

Then allow me to repeat: thank you, Shouto.

Np, Newbie. Told you I'd help you level up, didn't I?

His teasing managed to garner a small stuttering laugh out of you despite the dreadfulness of your situation.

But you couldn’t help it. Somehow, every reply Shouto sent you only served to wrap the illusion of safety tighter around you. So tight in fact, that you should’ve started worrying about suffocating.

。。。。。

On the other side of the screen, the man with the multicolored hair couldn’t help but keep staring at the picture you had sent him earlier.

He was transfixed, eyes almost unblinking as they refused to separate from the image. The way your fingers tentatively held the letter up for the picture was simply adorable to him. Beautifully naive.

It wasn't like he hadn't seen your face before, like he hadn't already memorized the texture of your skin and the everlasting trace of a frown always threatening to dampen your mood. He read your expressions like poetry, every mole and scar furthering the securing of his interest.

But this was the first picture you had actually chosen to send him out of your own volition, the final symbol of a trust he had worked so tirelessly to earn. Used to catching prey as he was, the man wasn’t entirely sure when you had turned from a game into a priority, from a priority into the only thing he could even make himself care for.

And it didn’t help that it was his letter you were holding, too. His formal declaration of pursuit.

With time, Shouto was sure you would find it in yourself to appreciate the beauty of such irony.

But, for now, what he really needed to do was buy some tea. Couldn’t have your own stubbornness ruining your first encounter, could he?

。。。。。

In the coming weeks, your friend aided you and even coached you as you jointly planned for the horrific holiday, not only suggesting ideas but tracing the safety measures needed for them to succeed. You really had no reason to doubt him by that point.

That evening, after you finished letting Shouto know you were back from work, you made sure to pack all of your supplies into an inconspicuous bag you had acquired for the occasion. Whoever your Yandere was, it was best to not give any hints of your new acquisitions, just in case they were already stalking your movements.

Shouto had helped you devise the list, mentoring you in your selection of weapons as well as self-defense arsenal—what brands of pepper spray to get, which ammunitions were most efficient and reliable, even what kind of clothing was the least troublesome if the need to escape ever arose. If you had been sure he knew his craft before, now you were surprised at just how vast his wisdom genuinely was.

After the last few finishing touches of preparations, you were already on your way to the direction you had both agreed on (supplied by him, approved by you). There were several hours until the start of the Purge still, but the adrenaline swimming through your bloodstream was already considerable.

Shouto had suggested you visited him for the Holiday, quoting how the measures in place for his home made it nothing short of a fortified vault, impossible for any outsiders to break into (and for anyone to break out of, but let's not get ahead of ourselves).

With that in mind, how could you have refused his offer? Your place was barely an excuse for an apartment, windows that didn't entirely close, and feeble doors that could be easily broken into. Even if you weren't partly driven by the curiosity of meeting your new internet idol turned friend, it would've been foolish to decline.

So in a few hours, you were sporting a nervous smile on your face as you parked your car in front of the largest apartment complex you had ever encountered. It was luxurious in a way you had only seen staring back at you from a television screen, marble, and gold accents giving you the impression you were about to step into a drama set instead of visiting an online friend.

Before the surrealism of the entire situation could begin to set in, however, you noticed the young man sitting on the ample stairs of the building. He had an air of effortless elegance, tall and lithe, yet sporting a black turtleneck which hugged his frame and made it clear just how much sheer strength hid behind his movements.

And he also sported the same peculiarly colored locks you had already memorized from the last few months, the light softly reflecting on them proving to be an even more impressive show when admired live.

You were dazzled for an instant, wondering if, somehow, this entire thing was a prank and the Shou from the forums had just schemed his way into making a fool out of you in front of a handsome stranger. Way too convoluted, yet entirely too plausible to your bewildered self.

Until the man lifted his eyes—as beautifully dual-toned as his hair, and catching sight of you standing just beside your recently parked vehicle.

"Y/N," he was sharply climbing to his feet as he called out your name, the shy hint of a smile in his lip contradicting the monotone cadence of his tone. "Good to finally meet you."

You had first been under the impression that the Shou you knew was cold, the way he interacted with others on the site reminding you of an emotionless robot at times, but the man addressing you seemed like he was ripped straight out of a stereotypical rom-com.

Maybe he'd be the aloof, tormented heir? Which, in your fantasy drama land, would make you the nearly illiterate and poor love interest. Your feelings of inadequacy only grew at the comparison.

Almost cute, how that had been one of your greatest worries once upon a time. How foolishly eager you were to be liked back then.

"Shouto." The name still felt somewhat strange on your lips, even after he had insisted you started calling him that. "It's good to meet you, too."

He was by your side in an instant, taking your bags from you swiftly and shutting the door to your ride. From this up close, it became considerably harder to disguise your staring.

Even the scar which covered his left eye, a splash of reddish textured skin, somehow came across like yet another enhancer of his appeal. An underlying harshness which you couldn't help but be intrigued by.

"Your hair looks even better in person."

And leave it to you to once again find a way to screw first impressions. You were chastising yourself a mere second after the words left your mouth.

But Shouto only sent you that same hint of a smirk your way, his eyes appearing genuinely pleased at your praise. If he thought you were a weirdo and was regretting ever inviting you to his house, then he was a good enough actor for you to be fooled.

And fooled you he did, but with completely different intentions.

"You look just like in your pictures," came his serene retort not long after.

Which you assumed was a joke, keeping in mind that the only photo you had ever sent his way had been of the Purge letter you received a few days ago.

Laughing lightly, you tried to ignore the nerves tugging at your chest before catching up with him on the steps of the building.

As you giddily barged straight into the open jaws of the beast, it once again struck Shouto how utterly unsuspecting you were. How you trusted him so wholeheartedly.

He couldn't wait to see it all come crashing down.

。。。。。

Inside his honest to god penthouse, your previous feeling of insufficiency only became more severe.

The interiors were decorated sparingly, albeit fashionably. Filled with different muted shades and being unexpectedly traditional in the way they were designed. It was a stunning abode, even if you couldn't help but mentally point out how utterly unlived in it appeared.

There was not a single cup, shoe, or book out of place, everything perfectly polished and organized to the point that you felt hesitance as your sock-covered feet continued making their way through the place.

"Make yourself at home," Shouto told you most matter-of-factly. If you weren't so sure of his intentions by now, perhaps you would've thought he was being sarcastic.

Without any of your belongings to distract yourself with, you instead gravitated towards what you could see of the kitchen through one of the sliding doors.

It was very modern despite the rest of the aesthetic the penthouse sported, shiny stainless steel and spotless dark countertops. It should've looked out of place when paired with the carpeted floors, wooden furniture, and sparse pieces of classical Japanese art…

Yet somehow, it strangely fits. Just like his owner, you supposed, thinking back to the oddities that amounted to his unique brand of appeal.

And you really needed to stop thinking of your friend like that.

When you heard the door to the apartment being audibly locked with a resounding click, you instantly stopped your fingers grazing the smooth countertops. Your instincts flared up with worry for a moment, right before you forcefully willed yourself to calm down.

After reminding yourself of the true reason why you were there, the exhale you released next was one of clear relief.

"Want something to drink?" Shouto appeared in your line of sight again, hands buried in the pockets of his pants and looking like the picture of composure.

You felt embarrassed once again, knowing he had given you a free pass to roam but still somewhat self-conscious about intruding on his space.

"You don't need to make me anything. I'm fine." Your timbre was apologetic, not used to slipping into the role of a guest just yet.

He seemed strangely dissatisfied with your answer, closing some of the distance between you with a presence that had you almost flinching back for a second.

There was an intensity in his gaze, something which you could not quite yet place.

"But I want to be a good host. So let me." He appeared very serious about it, too, with his face growing stern as his peculiar eyes bore into yours.

Not wanting to cause further distress, you imagined relenting would be the best course of action.

It was like you were molded to be the perfect Darling, so wonderfully meek and gullible.

"Okay then. Water is fine."

Yet Shouto shook his head, still somewhat dissatisfied with your answer.

"Tea it is." His phrasing allowed little space for argument. "I know you mentioned liking a few brands before, so I took the liberty of stocking up on them."

A surprising burst of laughter broke through your anxious feelings then, drawing Shouto's eyes again from the particular cabinet they had drifted to as he mentioned the beverages.

He looked at you puzzled, an unasked question written all over his otherwise blank expression, and so you decided to reply from the surge of unexpected amusement you were experiencing.

"It's only a night, Shou," you didn't even realize you had slipped back into his nickname, too entertained by how much he had apparently overdone his hospitality. "There really wasn't any need for you to go buy my favorite teas."

His eyes blinked quite slowly your way, his expression back to his vacant mask before a smile reappeared.

"I wanted you to feel welcomed," he supplied as he approached the cabinet he was eyeing before, dedicating himself to searching for whatever kind of flavor of tea he had in mind.

In response, you just shrugged your shoulders with another chuckle.

"And I didn't get you anything. You're making me feel even more out of place."

"Nonsense," he cut you off in that deadpan way of his, hands rummaging through the most ridiculously vast tea collection you had ever seen. And then he added, decidedly quieter, "today is supposed to be about you, after all."

Too bad you didn't pick up on it.

When he ushered you back to the salon with barely a wave next, pointing at one of the cushions arranged around the short-legged table, you decided to follow his suggestion and wait there while he finished brewing the drinks. By now, you understood the futility of offering any kind of help when he was still so intent on properly welcoming you.

So, curious as you were, your eyes continued to inspect each and every inch of the apartment, drinking up all the pieces of info you could observe, that you didn't even think of the potential dangers of letting a stranger fix you a cup while you weren't looking.

Unbeknownst to the other, you were both actively counting down the seconds until the Purge started, minds lost to your own inner turmoils from opposite sides of the suite.

And for entirely different reasons, you were both filled with anticipation.

。。。。。

Meanwhile, finally back in the present after retracing the steps that guided you there, it was becoming increasingly hard to compartmentalize the chaos brewing inside you.

Shouto’s lips were the personification of hunger against yours, an inescapable gluttony to mark and consume every single inch of you he could encompass.

After a hint of understanding returned to your body post-orgasm, your vision and the sensations you endured were becoming disturbingly vivid. It was impossible to conceive anything beyond his hands ridding you of your flimsy camisole, palms cold in comparison to the heat you felt, splaying against your sides and slowly making their way up the sensitive mounds of your chest.

“All mine, baby.” You barely registered his teeth nipping at your bottom lip until a shock of pain snapped you out of your trance.

He bit you, and quite harshly too, but when you tried to instinctually pull back his response was to hold you even tighter. Before you could attempt to voice your complaints, his tongue was darting out to clean up the droplets of blood he spilled.

“Out of all the Darlings I’ve played with, you’re the only one I’ve ever even considered keeping, you know?”

And now that had you freezing, even amidst the cloud of desire still muddling your cognizance. His arms pressed you closer still, forcing you to bury your face against his chest, completely unphased by the bloody mess your mouth had morphed into.

Had he tricked others before then? Was that the reason why he was even on the Forums in the first place?

You wanted to ask him what he meant, wanted to demand explanations for a phrase that had dread closing around your neck like a noose. But whatever he slipped into your drink to keep you so awfully responsive and pliable, also appeared to make forming any complex sentences incredibly hard…

Shou, ever the receptive one, caught onto your change in demeanor rather aptly. His face nuzzled your hair softly, humming a calming melody as if you were a scared child who could be so easily reassured. Meanwhile, his hands hadn’t abandoned your breasts, still tenderly kneading them with a touch bordering on worship.

“But I’m glad you weren’t my first, baby. Means I could be all ready for when we met.” He rocked you both as he rested his back further on the sofa, opening his legs wider below you and forcing you to settle closer to his clothed groin with a whimper.

Your arms reached out to grasp his shoulders while you tried to stabilize yourself, the strain of his erection resting snuggly against your still sensitive slit.

"Helped me to know when to pull back," he kept confessing, purposefully thrusting into you while he kept lovingly massaging your chest, fingers twisting your hardened peaks to coax a new kind of mewl to be uttered against his skin. "Wouldn't want you to break now that I've finally found you."

The fact that your bodies seemed to fit so perfectly, even in your impaired state, was not an irony lost on you.

Abruptly, Shouto stopped fondling your breasts in order to maneuver your face again, both of your stares meeting in a vehement standoff before he continued.

“I’ll make this as close to perfection as I can, I promise you.” And you got a direct view of the vulnerability in his uniquely colored eyes, the nature of his words clearly heartfelt despite the atrocities they alluded to.

As you heard him drag his zipper down, the hand clutching your jaw trembling in anticipation, you couldn’t help the new wave of warmth spreading through your body, negating all the fear and anxiousness warring inside you in order to shamefully expose your baser desires.

Now that whatever had been clouding your judgment was pulling back slightly, your thought process had begun to snap back into place, overflowing you with a terrible sense of shame at your own reactions.

He gave you something earlier with your drink, you were sure of it, and yet you couldn’t help but still be horrified at just how much you were enjoying it. Once you felt the flushed head of his cock placidly rubbing against your thigh, the sounds leaving your mouth weren’t ones of complaint, peril or dissent.

Quite the contrary, actually, and it only made Shouto grow bolder.

As the hand clutching your face grew tenser, gripping you with force before tugging harshly, you got the hint. Now painfully following his lead, it wasn't long before the previous pressure against your legs was now resting directly against your cunt.

The pre-cum already gathered on him mixed in with your still oozing arousal, smearing the span of your outer lips as he lightly teased you one last time.

You were so mortified by that point, that if he had offered to end your embarrassment right then and there with one of the several weapons you knew he kept, you would’ve been very inclined to accept.

“... I didn’t even think there was such a thing as 'The One' before, actually.” You hadn’t even realized the man was still talking, ardent whispers getting lost on the intensity of the situation.

His eyes were searching your face, a satisfied twinkle lighting them up as soon as you returned his stare of your very own volition. Perturbed, you wondered if his delusion made him see anything beyond a twisted mix of lust and fear reflected back at him.

“But I now know just how wrong I was, Y/N.” So sure of himself, tone back to the stern cadence you previously associated with him for a moment, gripped by a gravity befitting of his obsession. “Indeed, I think you were always meant to be my darling… don't you agree?”

To your credit, you did struggle to speak up, to gain back the control over a body which had stopped listening long ago. Too bad you only managed a single pitiful word out.

“Shouto…”

But before you could even fathom attempting a better response, he was breaching into you, sheathing himself with an ease you wished you could overlook, turning your voice from an anguished plea into outrageously labored moans.

You had once thought Shou had been interested in you because he somehow perceived you as anything but pathetic, but you were beginning to think it had been your weakness which drew him in all along.

So deliciously frail, that even a predator like him had been driven with an urgent need to protect you. To break you down, just so he could be the one to build you back together.

As he started fucking you with shallow thrusts, hips bucking up from the sofa while he tenderly guided you until your body was mimicked his motion on its own, you couldn’t help but be the most disturbed at his oddly affectionate ways.

As awful as it sounded, now that your mind had awakened from its stupor all you wanted was for him to bend you over and abuse you, manhandle you and mistreat you in a way which unequivocally screamed assault. You wanted bruises painting your skin, proof that you hadn’t just willingly given up and facilitated your own ruin.

He was humiliating you despite the pretty words he decided to disguise it as—showing you how easily he could own you and even make you enjoy it, drug-addled drink or not.

But as his mouth latched around one of your hardened nipples, sucking generously until his name was once again fast on your tongue, you also couldn’t deny the crystal clear responses you were giving.

You could attempt to lie to yourself later, could swear it was all a delusion born out of the deranged man's mind, but the particular brand of your screams was unmistakable.

When your own hand reached down to facilitate your release, you knew you were already acting beyond what you could've previously attributed to the drugs. Toying with your bundle of nerves, you rested your forehead against Shouto's shoulders, tears from the pleasure mixing in with the subjacent agony of your guilt.

Why did it have to feel so good? And how far did the drugs truly affect you? Or had they just peeled back your inhibitions perhaps, baring you until all you had were dark desires and no self-control to contain them.

You still tasted blood inside your mouth when your walls started clenching around his cock, the coppery flavor entirely too vivid on your tongue. Hearing his own choked groans gasping against your chest, you felt his mouth abandoning your bud with a pop before his kisses were trailing a path back up—eager in their search of your face, your lips.

You were still cumming by the time a lascivious kiss connected you two again, unwinding in his grasp until his hands were the only thing keeping you whole.

“Even if I wasn't taught how,” he began promising while his rhythm grew frantic, barely resisting the allure of your core fluttering around him. “I promise I’ll love you, Y/N. Love you so good, you won’t ever want to leave when the next Purge comes.” He was getting increasingly excited by his own words, imagining a future where you did not need the aid of a little cup of tea to eagerly kiss back. “I’ll fuck you every day, fill you up and show you just how much I care. How much you matter.”

Faced with his degenerate promises, all you could do was gasp out his name one last time, perhaps seeking to express your reticence, perhaps oddly excited by the image he was painting.

You indulged him in the pitiful sound of your whimpers molding around its syllables, and it wasn’t long before you were coaxing him to join you with an orgasm of his own.

He actually came inside, you recognized inwardly after the aftershocks of enjoyment now quieted down to a lull, a new type of dread quickly following the realization. His cum was still shooting in hot ropes, stuffing you to the brim with the intent and purpose of a man bent on marking you, owning you.

But Shouto was so loving as he kissed you time and time again, painfully reminding you of just how nice he could be for you, how gentle and attentive. It made the lines between your tormentor and a traditional lover blur even further, the confusion clouding your sense not merely born out of narcotics any longer.

You had been so preoccupied with a monster outside your house once. A creature ripped from the kind of movies that were ripe with cheap scares and considerably cheaper thrills.

But monsters never were like that in real life, were they? As the man continued to cradle you in his arms like the most vulnerable of creatures, you were suddenly struck by how glaringly obvious things should’ve been from the beginning.

Because your Yandere’s obsession had not come with claws and a row of sharp teeth. No, it came instead with a suit of deception to hug its frame, the bait of acceptance, and the promise of a reliable ear to comfortably listen. It arrived with whispers that assured you that you were not alone, that it was not you who was flawed, but the world for not welcoming you.

It dangled everything your little heart desired, so by the time you were reaching out, you were simply too distracted to notice the dangers of the abyss you were throwing yourself at.

Luckily for you, Shouto had made such a void his home. And for however long it took you to consider the darkness as your own, his was a kind of hospitality that no amount of your struggles could ever hope to wear down.

And if the worst came to pass, if you kept stubbornly refusing and fighting despite your odds? Well…

He could always brew you another cup of tea.

-------

Well, I can finally rest now 💀

This monster of a one-shot took me a lot longer than expected, so I ended up being a lil later to the collab that I would’ve liked. Either way, I’d really appreciate hearing any feedback or opinions on either the fic or art (or both?)... I swear that’s what keeps me motivated ;___;

So fr, thanks to everyone who takes the time to let me know your takes! y’all are the bests of the best 🖤 And speaking of bests of best, special thanks and gratitude to the actual angels who helped and gave me feedback for both the art and/or fic @reinawritesbnha , @drxwsyni, @wootato, @snappysnapo and @coyambition. Don’t catch me seeing y’all drop your crowns bc it’s on sight 😠 👑

#bnha fanart #todoroki #yandere todoroki #todoroki x reader #bnha imagines #bnha #mha fanart #bnha x reader #todoroki fanart #todoroki smut #todoroki shouto #todoroki shoto #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #anime fanart #bnha smut #bnha art #artists on tumblr #just art tingz

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leakyrocktarot · 3 years ago

Note

What are epidermis pedestrians? First time I'm coming across that word... And your blog so I'm kinda trying to navigate here

An epidermis pedestrian is a "Ski*n W*lker" We don't say the name because it can bring them to you. In the spirit world names are super important and when an entity has your name it can have power over you, and vice versa. Epidermis walkers are beings that can slip into the skin of literally anything to stalk and hunt its prey. An epidermis walker can even take the form of a "Not Deer" Though they are two different things, they can be of the same entity. They originate from Navajo culture, and are called The Yee Naldlooshii and are often times mistaken for wendigos. In Navajo culture, epidermis walkers are derived from ’ánt’įįhnii, which in our terms would be a witch. It is said that after initiation an ’ánt’įįhnii has the ability to become a Yee Naldlooshii. Not all witches are epidermis pedestrians, but all epidermis pedestrians are witches. It is important to note that not all witches are evil, not all of them practice baneful magic, they are a part of two different worlds. "In some stories, people who have attained the highest rank are called clizyati, which means pure evil. This can be achieved by killing a close blood relative, incest, necr0phili4, or other culturally taboo and evil acts. Upon completing one or more of these acts is said to destroy their humanity and allow them to become fully initiated in the way of witchery."

An epidermis pedestrian can take the form of a coyote, wolf, fox, eagle, owl, or crow, but they have the ability to change into whatever animal they need for whatever purpose they need it for. Again I will say Do Not Say The Name Out Loud, Ever. It calls them to you as if you have a target on your back, like being marked by a hunter. I made the mistake of doing it, and there was this bird that followed me for days and it was unlike any other bird. I shit you not, it flew in circles, upside down, and even backwards. I swear to you sometimes it looked like it was hovering in one place. Take note of how animals walk and act around you. If it is a predatory animal and it clearly doesn't think of you as prey, it is most likely a epidermis pedestrian. They often take the high ground, so if you see an animal following you especially from a high place, it most likely will be an epidermis walker. Pay attention to how the body moves, unless they are at the highest level it will always reveal itself by being clumsy. The most obvious example is the countless stories about the deer who turned around, but their legs stayed behind. Sometimes it may walk in a shamble, or jutt around, or even have distorted and crooked limbs. If you see one and you look it in the eye, their eyes will glow yellow whether it is day or night. They can only be found in the desert as that is the only place where they can strive. In the rare case of names, epidermis walkers are the only being that will fear your name. If you call out your given name, it will have to wait until the resonance dissipates. They don't have names, they all consider themselves to be a part of the "Shift".

Below the cut is a clip of a person talking about the things their grandfather has told them about epidermis walkers, how to spot them, and more about them.

Skinwalkers typically live in caves where man cannot reach, or on the tops of mesas. Skinwalkers, while being able to shift, must assume their human form during rest. They are still vulnerable to human patterns of existence. So they seek out places of rest that are seemingly unattainable to humans. The Utes would use this to their advantage, and climb nearby cliffs to catch or kill skin walkers when they least expected it. NOTE: Skinwalkers when sleeping are at their MOST powerful. In the state of rest, the strength to shift circulates through their body over and over again. If they are disturbed during rest, they are at their strongest and can kill at an instant. My grandfather told a story of a particularly Nasty group of two skin walkers who killed several children in a Ute village. A group of brave warriors tracked them to a set of cliffs, where there was a giant half dome cave about 200 feet up. The bravest warriors of the Ute tribe in the region snuck up the cliff, and when they reached the half dome cave, they opened fire on the two skin walkers. The skin walkers were not to be deterred, and instantly killed 3 warriors with their bare hands. The remaining Ute warriors kept firing, and finally the skin walkers lunged toward the edge of the cliff, telling the warriors that they would come back for them another day. The skin walkers ran to the end of the cliff and jumped...but The Utes were already two steps ahead. For weeks they had been bringing in dry brush to the valley below the cave, and by the time the skinwalkers jumped, nearly 3 acres of deadfall was piled strategically throughout the valley trees to look natural. The minute the skin walkers left the cliff, the Utes below lit the pitch-covered dead fall, and when the skin walkers landed, they were quickly trapped in a giant raging bonfire. The skin walkers howled so loudly, that it was said the wind whistled like wolves in that valley for another 50 years.

Skinwalkers sloppily shed fur and you can use it to summon them. When skin walkers turn back, it's just as ugly as when they turn. Instead of cleanly shifting back into human form, skin walkers often leave behind chunks of fur, sometimes up to 6 inches long and 2 inches wide, called "bent skin". If you find "bent skin", you can lure a skinwalker by blowing on the chunk of fur into a fire. The skinwalker will instantly follow the scent to your fire, without question, instinctively. The Ute's would use this method whenever they could, but it was very rare to find "bent skin" without actively knowing the footsteps of a skinwalker.

"The White Wind". That is the expression the Utes used to describe the effects of speaking into quartz rocks to a skinwalker. Skinwalkers are greatly weakened by the voice vibrations of a quartz rock. Medicine Men would carry with them giant quartz rocks, and set them upon a cliff to send out warnings to all nearby skin walkers never to come near their camp. This could only be done when the evidence of skin walkers in the immediate area of the camp could be found. It could not be used as a blanket method to ward off would be attacker skin walkers. The Utes thought that quartz resonated with souls, and that if spoken to with the proper countenance from a Medicine Man or Warrior, that the quartz rock could speak directly to the soul of a person or animal. There was one story about a particularly aggressive skinwalker who chose to stand outside the camp in Elk Form to intimidate the tribe. An elder Medicine Man walked to a nearby rock face, put a giant quartz stone on top, and sang the name of the most recent victims to skin walkers over and over again. Within a matter of hours, the elk began violently kicking, turning from human, to elk, and back again, until it finally started taking the shape of the victims who it killed. The Medicine Man then commanded the skinwalker to turn back to its evil elk form, and jump off a cliff to its final death. The next morning the tribe woke up and found the skinwalker in human form split in half over a pointed stump.

If you can find a skinwalker trail, usually characterized by animal footprints with unusual spacings and variations (example: Deer hoof prints that all of a sudden emerge into 10 feet gaps), you can weaken a skinwalker greatly by putting fish remains in its prints. Animals from the water are highly poisonous to skin walkers in the spiritual sense because they represent water, the killer of the desert. The scent of the fish or other water animal will approach the heel of the skinwalker, and cause him to weaken the more he walks. Warriors who found skin walker trails would alert the tribe, and they would spend days fishing our a local river and then preparing the remains to be used against the skin walkers. The Utes would then follow the footprints for miles, leaving fish rot in each skinwalker indentation, and pouring a mixture of water and fish oil near any pissing sites. Sometimes if they followed the skinwalker closely enough, they would find it wandering half dead in the desert and then kill it or capture it. It is important to note that the use of fish in weakening a skinwalker can ONLY be used when following it. It has to do with the skin walkers sense of smell. They smell for miles both forward and backward, and the fish stench, in order to exact harm, must come subtly from behind, otherwise it will be detected and avoided ASAP. So in summary, one cannot catch a fish, post it at their campsite, and expect to ward off a skinwalker for good. One has to use the fish scent carefully to eventually send the skinwalker into ruin.

Skinwalker Ritual Sites. Skinwalkers have religious sites all across the southwestern desert where they congregate from time to time, (no one knows how often), but they know it happens. These religious gatherings usually take place on the tops of mesas or in secret caves only accessible by skin walkers. At these gatherings the most diabolical happenings occur, innocent captives are eaten alive for sport, children are sacrificed, humans are forced to fight to the death, and abducted women are forced to bear every depraved sex act ever conceived - all for the skinwalkers' entertainment. The Utes told a story of the operator of a Spanish Mine who stumbled upon a viewing of such a ritual. The Spaniard had come to them to trade for supplies and had told them he knew of a skinwalker religious festival coming up that he wanted to sneak in to view it from afar. The Utes pleaded with him not to go, and to head back to his homeland for his own safety and the safety of his men. The Spaniard was far too stubborn to listen to a mere "Native" and snuck into a viewing of the ritual. Weeks later, they ran into the same Spaniard. He had aged at least 30 years. His hair was lightning white, and his skin had been charred by fire. The Utes gave him some water. He tried to speak, but each time he did his whole body trembled. Upon trying to speak for a third time, sweat poured out all over his body. But it was not the kind of sweat that would soak on a warrior's back after battle. It was blood coming out of his pores, because sweat had given up. The Spaniard died seconds later, unable to communicate what ungodly things he had seen at the skinwalker ritual. He didn't have to communicate -- the Utes knew.

Skinwalker Ritual Sites - The Ute Response. 3 Generations before the Spaniard died from sheer panic and fear over the Skinwalker ritual, the Utes had their own tragic experience with it. Four women, including two of the wives of the chief had disappeared within a month. Through dreams the two wives of the chief had reached out to the medicine man to let them know that they were being held captive in a giant room underneath a mesa. The Medicine man and the chief assembled all the warriors in the tribe approached the mesa, which was over 100 miles away. When they approached the mesa they saw a sea of bones, which became more pronounced with each step. What used to be dried and withered animal ribs soon became human hips, skulls, and spines. The plants were dead for nearly half a mile in every direction. The Medicine man and the warriors came up with a plan. The warriors would distract the skin walkers, while the medicine man and his team would build a giant lightning rod on top of the mesa. The warriors and the medicine men went their separate ways and carried out the plan. When the warriors found the cave beneath the Mesa, they formed a perimeter around it and waited in the bushes until its rightful king returned. When the skin walkers came out of the brush and into the cave, they opened fire, from all sides, everywhere, nearly painting the mesa with arrows. Before their arrow fire could finish, the Medicine man at the top of the mesa, grabbed a quartz stone and directed lightning to hit his 4 story tall quartz tower. The lightning hit the tower with such a force that the Mesa cracked in half, and covered half of the tribe in rubble. It is said that the skinwalkers came out roasting alive, with smoke pouring out of their eyes, ears and mouth, covered in charred black skin. The captured native women came out soon after, unscathed, with only a few cuts and bruises on them. The warriors yelled for the Medicine man to come down, that they had been victorious. The Medicine Man then yelled back: "No victory until dust...." The Medicine man proceeded to conduct 50 more strikes of lightning on the Mesa. With each strike it crumbled, until finally it was reduced to a small sand hill. The medicine man was barely able to walk, so succumbed with forcing the lightning strikes when a warrior approached him and said "Look." The Medicine Man looked and saw a beautiful white bird landing on the small sand hill that used to be the Mesa. The Medicine Man, then grabbed the bird and snapped its neck. The bird turned into a muscular human. The Medicine man said: "Let's find his sand hill." This medicine man who was named Fist of Lightning and Death, went on to destroy 4 mesas, and 3 giant caves, but in his words only "chased the wind" of the skin walkers.

#skin walkers #epidermis pedestrians #meat sack runners #skinwalker #The Yee Naldlooshii #’ánt’įįhnii #lore #mythology #crypitid #spiritual entities #entities #spiritual practices #spiritual journey #lower vibrational spirits

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homoose · 4 years ago

Text

Through the Smoke

Request: could you do spencer x bau reader where they aren't dating yet but they both feel for each other? where both spencer and reader are very closed off people and the whole team knows that. but after one rough case on the flight back, they're both just exhausted mentally and physically and seek comfort in each other. then spend the night at reader's apartment and kiss for the first time there. sorry if this is specific but thank you (:

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Category: angst with a happy ending

Warnings/Includes: typical CM stuff, cults, kidnapping, violence, etc.

Word count: 8.1k

Music recs: Through the Fire by Jake Etheridge and Margot Todd; scared by Jeremy Zucker

a/n: anon, I have no idea if this is what you were looking for, but this is where it went. It’s a generous rewrite of 300, substituting the reader for Garcia. Also this blog operates with the understanding that the season 14 jeid arc does not exist lmao. JJ is firmly in the “I love you as a brother” camp and I will not be taking questions at this time. Also, this is a reminder that my requests are open! send me some fresh ideas, head cannons, rambles, whatever!

———

“Metro PD and the Bureau have been made aware of the Believers and possible activity following their leader’s arrest,” Prentiss confirmed, looking out over the team mingling in the bullpen. “But taking Theo at his word—”

“We only arrested three. There’s probably more out there, but if they follow cult dynamics, they’ll break down on their own without the messiah,” Matt finished.

“Typical cults: you think it’s a cast of thousands when really it’s just four whackos sitting around in the dark,” Tara mused.

Prentiss smiled. “I think we deserve some decompression time, and Rossi’s kind enough to host.”

Rossi leaned over the railing and nodded. “And I have some top shelf wine picked just for the occasion.”

The team started gathering their belongings and heading towards the elevators. Y/N hesitated, looking toward the case file still sitting on her desk. Something about how this had all wrapped up just… didn’t sit right. Her nearly five years with the Critical Incident Response Group had given her an up close view of some of the most prolific cults in American history. She’d studied Jonestown, Waco, Ruby Ridge, Liberty Ranch; new cults emerged onto CIRG’s radar regularly. And there was something about The Believers that just didn’t add up.

Y/N began shuffling things around on her desk, trying to look busy. She caught Spencer and JJ out of the corner of her eye, talking quietly. They ended their conversation with a hug, lingering just a little longer than Y/N would have preferred. She shook her head to try to physically clear the thought from her brain. She knew that Spencer had been through a lifetime’s worth of trauma before she joined the team, and that JJ had been an integral support for him. Y/N was also aware that she had zero grounds to be concerned with any of Spencer’s relationships, romantic or otherwise.

“Y/N, you coming?” JJ asked, walking toward her desk. Spencer headed out of the bullpen and down the hall.

Y/N gave her a half-hearted smile. “Yeah, I’ll be there in a little bit. Just wanted to finish up a couple things here.”

“Well, don’t stay too late.” JJ pressed her lips together for a moment before adding, “Maybe you and Spence could drive together. He said he might not make it, but if he had some company...”

Y/N hoped her immediate flush wasn’t too obvious. After nearly a year in the unit, she finally felt like she had built some solid relationships with the team, and Spencer was no exception. She relished their card games on the jet, the laughs over too-sweet coffee, discussions about books and films and music. But she also adored the way his hair sometimes curled and fell into his eyes, his animated and rambling tangents, the way his hands traced over the tiny print of his books. Most of her adult life had been spent surrounded by men who would gather up her trust in their pitted hands and crush it on a whim. She’d kept her heart behind glass for a long while, but Spencer was slowly chipping away at the fragile panels. She was certain he had no idea that he was even holding the chisel; but just about everyone else seemed to have figured it out. JJ, with her hands clasped together and an eager smile, definitely had. Y/N smiled, too. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“So we’ll see you in a bit?” When Y/N nodded, JJ gave her a warm smile and headed out.

Turning back to the case file, Y/N pressed her fingers to her temple and looked over the documents. Some of the pieces fit together, but the whole case felt littered with gaps and holes. The tale that Theo had woven about The Believers seemed true enough— his parents were simply the suppliers of potential cult members. Although, she still couldn’t figure out the reason for the kidnapping and torture. There were much easier ways to recruit vulnerable people.

She flipped past the pages of written statements and read over the report from the warehouse raid. It was short— the take down of Merva was too easy. Why was he sitting alone in an empty warehouse with only two unarmed, sleeping followers as a defense? Where was the rest of the cult? Matt was correct that most cults fall apart without their leader; unless the loss of a leader was a possibility they’d already prepared for.

The burns on Quinn’s hands didn’t make sense, either. Why use the initiation ritual as a torture device? Shouldn’t that be saved for people who had accepted the invitation? And then there was the one coincidence that nagged at her the most: what were the chances that Theo just happened to be enrolled in Spencer's course? Why did Spencer seem to be at the center of the whole thing?

Y/N sighed as her phone lit up with a message from JJ. She realized she’d been poring over the file for twenty-five minutes, and she had to laugh. As the least experienced profiler on the team, what could she possibly see that the others hadn’t? She closed the case file and quickly packed up, grabbing her jacket and bag and making her way toward the elevator lobby. She paused at the glass doors, retrieving her phone and pulling up Spencer’s contact information. Her thumb hovered over the call button for a long moment before she huffed out a breath. If even JJ hadn’t been able to convince him to go, there was no way she’d be able to change his mind. Despite herself, she glanced down the hall, allowing herself one moment to imagine an alternate timeline where she asked him to come along with her— to Rossi’s, to the moon, anywhere.

With a sigh, Y/N pushed open the glass doors and saw Agent Meadows leading Quinn to the elevator. She pushed down the little red flag in the back of her mind. As she stepped onto the elevator, she smiled politely at the two agents.

“I knew you didn’t do it. I just knew,” Meadows said to Quinn. She turned to Y/N. “And I can’t tell you what a privilege it’s been working with the A-Team on this case.”

Something about the calm in her voice made Y/N uneasy. “Yeah, it’s— um. It’s a great team to be a part of.” Her phone lit up again, this time with a phone call from JJ. “Okay, okay,” she muttered under her breath. Y/N answered the call, half an ear still listening to Meadows speak to Quinn. “Hey, I’m just leaving now.”

“Are you still at the BAU?” JJ demanded, voice low.

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. But I’m in the elevator,” Y/N answered.

“Listen, we’re pretty sure Quinn was converted,” JJ told her. Y/N’s heart dropped into her shoes. “I need you to make sure he doesn’t leave that building. We’re coming back now. Where’s Spence?”

Y/N took a breath to try to even out her voice before speaking again. “Mom, we already talked about this. I don’t know.”

JJ paused. “Is Quinn in the elevator with you?”

“Yep.” JJ spoke quietly to someone on the other end of the phone. Y/N watched as the elevator dinged to the floor of the parking garage. “I’m going to have to hang up, mom. I’m gonna lose you, but I’ll try to take care of it tonight, okay?”

“Y/N, we’re on our—” The call dropped as the elevator hit the basement level.

Y/N took a deep breath to steady her voice. “Ugh, lost her.” She glanced at Meadows and Quinn, forced a smile and shrugged. “Elevators, right?”

The elevator doors began to open and Y/N stepped out, surreptitiously reaching for her holster. She had just lifted the strap when she heard the crack of metal hitting bone. Her face hit the concrete before she realized it was her own skull that bore the impact. She watched as her gun skidded across the parking lot floor, the taste of iron flooding her mouth. “Fuck,” she muttered, wincing in pain and scrambling up off the ground as a gunshot went off.

She didn’t feel the impact of the bullet. She looked down at her body, expecting to see a blooming rose of blood. She stared dumbly for a second too long, before remembering that she needed to get to her gun. Her hand instinctively went to her nose as she stumbled forward, coming away wet with blood.

“Stop, Agent Y/L/N.”

She heard the sound of a gun cocking, and then another. She closed her eyes and ran through an internal stream of curses. Raising her hands up, she turned slowly around. An older white man stood to her left, his gun trained on her. Meadows walked slowly towards her, lowering her own weapon. Quinn leaned against the back of the elevator, clutching his abdomen and blood staining the front of his shirt.

“Surprise,” Meadows sang, a sick smile spreading across her face. She stopped in front of Y/N, sweeping her hand in the direction of the man. “Now, John’s going to make sure you don’t do anything stupid. Get in the car.”

Y/N glanced in the direction of the vehicle, a dark sedan, driver armed to the teeth as well. “The team knows something’s up. You won’t make it out of this garage alive.”

Meadows laughed, loud and unhinged. “Oh honey. They’re not looking for lil ol’ me. And they sure as hell won’t be looking for an ambulance.” Her smile returned. “Plus, I already erased 299 murders from the Bureau’s radar. What’s a couple more? Now, shut up... and get in the car.”

Y/N moved to the open car door, keeping her back as straight as possible and her chin up, refusing to show them any cowardice. The barrel of the gun jabbed her in the back as she lowered herself into the vehicle. The door slammed shut, and in a moment, the gun was back on her, the man sitting next to her in the backseat. Y/N waited for the car to pull out, still trying to make sense of it all. Meadows was a Believer? What did she mean by “erased” 299 murders? Why would she blow her cover to shoot Quinn? Did she think that he had figured her out? Or that Y/N had? If that was the case, why not just shoot her? Why wasn’t the car moving?

“Drop your gun, Agent Reid,” Meadows’ muffled voice penetrated the inside of the vehicle. Y/N’s heart began to race. John dug the gun further into her side.

“It’s been you the whole time,” Spencer deduced.

“Yes, it was. Quinn somehow figured it out first. Pity having to shoot him,” Meadows mocked. “But he can’t give me what I want. And you can.”

“What’s that?” Y/N’s brain scrambled to put the pieces together as she listened to the exchange. Spencer was at the heart of it after all. It was right there, she just couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

Meadows continued, “You and I are going to go upstairs and free my Messiah.”

“You’re in the heart of the FBI. As soon as the rest of my team figures out it’s you, you’ll be dead before you’re out the door.” Y/N hoped to god that he was right.

“Then we need to work quickly.”

“I’m not going to cooperate with you,” Spencer told her. “Might as well shoot me.” Y/N didn’t even have time to panic before the car shifted into drive.

“I have a better idea.” On Meadows’ cue, the driver squealed out of the parking space and into Spencer’s line of sight. His eyes fell on Y/N, hands nearly pressed against the window, John’s gun pointed at her head. “Now, what’s it gonna be? Because you can either join us, or she dies.”

Y/N tried to radiate her rage through her eyes and screamed, “Reid, just shoot her! Shoot her!” The last thing she saw before the second crack of steel against her skull was the hesitation in Spencer’s eyes.

⧭⧭⧭

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open and she groaned at the pounding of her head, the rhythm of her heartbeat throbbing in the space behind her ears. She tried to lift her hand to check for blood, only to strain against the hold of a zip tie attached to the base of the chair. Instead, she surveyed the room around her. A warehouse, lots of shipping containers, and even more men— this time armed with assault rifles and machine guns. One stood at the entrance point of the small area she was being kept in.

She worked through her memory, putting the pieces together. Meadows was a Believer, had been for quite some time to pull all of this off. Quinn wasn’t special, he just got in the way of her real target. Ben Merva might have been the messiah, but Spencer Reid was clearly just as important to whatever mission they were carrying out. Every twisting thread of information somehow traced back to him: Theo in his class, Quinn’s attachment to him, Meadows’ demand that he be the one to free Merva.

“Good, you’re awake.” Meadows strode through the space with a laptop in hand. “I need your handiwork.”

Y/N stared at her. “Is that so?’

Meadows set the laptop on the barrel in front of Y/N and then leaned down to cut the zip tie. “Besides being my collateral for the good doctor, you’re also going to help me access CIRG’s surveillance data.”

“Fuck you.” Y/N spat on Meadows’ shoes. “I’m doing nothing for you.” Her head rolled back, eyes piercing daggers into Meadows. “You should just kill me now, because this is a waste of your time. And I’m sure you know the A-Team isn’t going to waste theirs.”

Meadows narrowed her eyes and gave a theatrical sigh. “I should’ve known you’d make this difficult.” She nodded to John, standing at the entranceway.

Y/N spat again, this time to rid her mouth of the taste of blood. She steeled herself for the next onslaught, compartmentalizing every emotion outside of her fury. Her mind raced to salvage and scrutinize the memories from her time in CIRG, trying desperately to identify what Meadows could be looking for in the surveillance reports. The Believers hadn’t even been on the Bureau’s radar. The reason had to be linked to their interest in Spencer… a piece of information that involved both Spencer Reid and the existing surveillance data. A single grain that could bring the whole damn bushel down.

She heard a scuffle at the entrance of the room and raised her head. Her heart jumped into her throat at the sight of Spencer, bloodied and bruised. John dragged him into the room, throwing him down onto his knees in front of Y/N. His eyes tracked over her face and clouded over with an emotion she couldn’t quite place.

“Shit, Reid—”

“I’m fine—I’m sure it looks worse than it is,” he murmured. The concern in his eyes told Y/N she looked about as bad as she felt. “Are you all right?”

“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known—”

“No,” Spencer interrupted. “This isn’t your fault. We all missed it.”

“What’s the end game here?” Y/N asked. “What’re they doing?”

“I’m going to be their last victim.” Spencer shook his head, barely able to keep himself upright. “I don’t know why, but I overheard them. There have been hundreds.”

Meadows stepped up behind Spencer, grinning at Y/N. “Have you changed your mind? I sure hope you have.” She raised her gun to his head. “Because if you don’t do what I want, I’ll blow his big, beautiful brains out.”

Spencer locked eyes with Y/N. She held his gaze for a moment, then tilted her head slightly as the gears started turning. The tie between Spencer and Benjamin was where it all unraveled. “No, I don’t think you will.”

Meadows’ grin faltered for less than a second, but it was long enough that Y/N knew she was right. “Is that right?” Meadows questioned.

“Yeah, it is.” She furrowed her brow, and Spencer looked at her. “You need him, don’t you? Alive.” Meadows’ tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Y/N was sure. “Because this isn’t just about Benjamin Merva. It’s about Benjamin Cyrus. It’s about Liberty Ranch.”

Meadows held her gaze for five seconds, then ten seconds. Y/N raised her chin, refusing to be the one to blink first. Meadows shifted the trajectory of her gun a foot to her right and fired off one shot. The breeze from the bullet shifted Y/N’s hair.

“You have two minutes to decide,” Meadows advised. The phone in her hand began ringing. “The next one won’t miss.” She answered the phone and stepped out.

Spencer spoke quickly. “Do whatever she’s asking. We have to get you out of here.”

“Reid, are your eyes broken?” Y/N snapped. “There’s a cult loyalist with a machine gun every five feet. You got a plan for that?”

“Listen to me.” His voice was calm, determined. “You’re right about them wanting me alive.”

The frustration bled through Y/N’s voice. “You should have just shot her.”

He shook his head. “I couldn’t do that.”

“You could’ve shot all three of them and ended this in the garage,” Y/N argued.

“And then I would have watched you die,” he said quietly. “That was never even an option.”

“I’m failing to see how that would have been any worse than this. Look at us.” She gestured wildly between them. She watched as the storm of emotion returned, a cyclone swirling in seas of gold and brown. “The team needs you. Spencer, I—” I need you. She reached a hand up, almost touching his face before dropping it back in her lap. He had found the chink in her carefully constructed armor; a fissure he’d fractured a little further with every smile, every look, every moment. All at once she knew she’d never be able to keep him out, no matter how much it might hurt.

“You’ve got one minute,” Meadows barked, hovering over them.

“Y/L/N, listen to me… Please...” Spencer’s voice was thick with tears. “Tell my mom—” The phone rang again, and Meadows stepped away to answer it. Spencer dropped to a whisper. His eyes flashed with urgency. “They’re taking me and Theo. We’ll distract them. The car we were in is right outside the door. We’re 18 minutes from Quantico. Turn left outside the parking lot, take a right at the light, you’ll recognize the rest. They stay off the highways.”

Y/N’s voice was frantic when she asked, “What about you?”

His eyes pleaded with her to respect what he was asking her to do. “I’ll delay them. Get the rest of the team back here. And do not worry about me.” John hauled up him off the floor.

“Time’s up.” Meadows, in a rare display of mercy, allowed them a hug.

Spencer leaned into her and Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She squeezed as hard as she could and whispered his name. She felt him take a deep breath into her hair, holding it for one impossibly long moment. Just before she released her hold on him, he mumbled, “It’s all happening. 10:23.” John dragged him back out the way they’d came.

“I gave you what you wanted.” Meadows ordered, “Get to it. Now.”

⧭⧭⧭

Y/N worked and waited, then watched and worried. Spencer spoke to Meadows. He was stalling her, offering a deal, boosting her ego, granting Y/N the opportunity to mentally prepare. But no matter how much time he gave her, she would never be prepared to leave him in that warehouse. He met her eyes across the movements of the operation and gave her an imperceptible nod before lunging forward to reach for John’s gun.

Chaos exploded throughout the warehouse. Theo ran in one direction, accosted by half a dozen Believers. Spencer and John tussled over the gun, one fighting for control and the other fighting the inevitable. Y/N sprinted, largely unnoticed, toward the huge sliding doors left slightly ajar. Bursting out into the night air, she immediately spotted one of the black sedans, unbelievably unlocked and with the keys in the ignition. She slammed the door behind her, turned the key, hesitated with her eyes on the door and her mind on Spencer for one moment too long. A single gunshot sounded from inside the warehouse.

Meadows raced out of the doorway, gun drawn. “Stop!” She pointed her gun at Y/N and there was nothing to do but step on the gas. Y/N had her eyes wide open as Meadows bounced off the windshield and onto the asphalt. She didn’t look back.

She drove. Left out of the parking lot. Just a dark, rural road—nothing particularly special or descript. She drove. Right at the stoplight. Then it was, just as Spencer said, familiar terrain. She wondered how it was possible to have seemed so far away— a world away— when it was right under their proverbial nose. She drove.

Her brain navigated of its own volition. Her mind couldn’t have been farther from the inside of the vehicle. She didn’t realize she’d arrived at the Bureau until she was attempting to pull into her usual parking spot, only to be met with her own abandoned car.

She turned the car off, left the keys in the ignition, and nearly floated out into the garage; up the elevator; across the cold floors of the lobby. Her body had walked this same path so many times before; it carried her without hesitation. She could hear the voices of the team, drifting through the open glass doors.

“She accepted their help knowing she would betray the government,” Tara deduced.

“Not every survivor wanted help,” JJ clarified.

Rossi continued, “We ran those who left the ranch and kept their names. A few relocated in rural Maryland and Virginia.”

“They could be helping now,” Luke suggested. “Any of them have large pieces of property?”

“A few,” Emily confirmed. Y/N turned the corner as she continued, “The Washington field office has started searches in Maryland. We’ll take the lead in Virginia.”

As she moved into the doorway, JJ’s eyes went wide and she rushed to Y/N’s side. “Oh my god, are you hurt?” She gently grabbed Y/N by the shoulders.

“It’s a warehouse in Hillcrest,” Y/N said flatly, eyes unfocused. “I can take you there, but we have to hurry. They hurt Reid; he looked— bad. He told me to r-run and take the car, but he’s still there.” Everyone headed for the doors except JJ and Garcia. “They won’t be there long, they have lots of trucks.” Y/N’s eyes locked on JJ, and for the first time since the whole ordeal started, she allowed herself to splinter, just a little. “I heard a gunshot. JJ, I heard a gunshot. I tried—”

“Shh, it’s okay,” JJ nodded, drawing her into a hug. “I know. I know you tr—”

“I left him there.” Her voice broke, but she couldn’t cry. Not yet. “I couldn’t get him. There was no way to save hi—”

“Stop,” JJ ordered, pulling out of the hug. “Y/N, look at me. You got out, you got back to us. If you hadn’t, we wouldn’t even know about the warehouse.”

“What if— what if I got him killed?” Y/N asked.

“You didn’t get anyone killed. Spence knew what he was doing.” JJ’s voice softened. “That’s what he does. He always figures things out before the rest of us. He has a plan and getting you back to Quantico was part of it.” She raised her eyebrows, making sure Y/N was listening. “And now we have to help him by putting the rest of it together.”

Y/N ran a hand over her face. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right.”

Garcia stepped forward and laid a hand on her arm. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Then we’ll get Reid back.”

They cleaned the blood from her face and hair as best they could in the bathroom sink. JJ patched up the lacerations with steri-strips. Back in the conference room, Garcia insisted she should get screened for a concussion as Y/N rubbed the knot on the back of her head. “There’s no time. Reid said, ‘It’s all happening. 10:23.’”

“But it’s past that,” JJ considered.

“So what did he mean?” Garcia asked.

“Could be a clue here.” Rossi's voice came over the speakerphone from inside the warehouse. “They got sloppy since they left in a hurry.”

“Okay, well you can’t be that far behind them,” JJ insisted.

“I know,” Emily agreed. “But there’s easy access to three major highways, and we don’t know which way they went.”

“Right, but they’re in tractor trailers. That means we can track them through weigh stations.”

“Garcia?” Emily prompted.

“In order to do that, I’d need the transponder identification numbers,” Garcia answered.

“Which we have no way of knowing,” Rossi sighed. “Everything they used was almost definitely forged.”

“We’re going to do another sweep here, and then we’ll head back,” Emily said. “Try to map out the most likely routes they’d use to get out of dodge.”

JJ hung up and looked to Y/N. “What do you remember about the warehouse?”

Y/N pressed her fingers into her temples. “It was full of supplies. They were disguising them, but they had stockpiles of weapons and ammunition; non-perishables and other food items; water. Enough to be off the grid for at least a year.” Y/N leaned back in her chair. “But it wasn’t just about The Believers. I mean, we know they’re a reincarnation of the Separatarian Sect.” She looked at JJ and Garcia. “It was more than that, though. Reid was at the center of everything; he was the target all along. Merva is the messiah, but it somehow all comes back to Spence.”

“Makes sense. They blame him for the downfall of the Sect,” JJ supplied.

“Yeah.” Y/N cracked her knuckles. “But—and I can’t—I can’t really explain it, but Meadows really wanted to kill Reid right then. She was— she was irritated, more than anything else.”

“So what stopped her?” Garcia asked.

“That’s what I can’t figure out. She threatened me with it, with ‘blowing his brains out,’ but I— called her bluff. And she was pissed.” Y/N rapped her knuckles on the table. “I mean, really, really furious. Which tells me that, even though she wanted to, she couldn’t kill him.” She looked between the two of them. “Merva was pulling the strings, and he wouldn’t let her do it there.”

“So it matters where the final sacrifice takes place,” JJ concluded. “We’ve got to figure out where they’re going.”

⧭⧭⧭

They’d been rehashing the details over and over. Liberty Ranch, The Strangler investigation, The Believers, Meadows, Merva, Cyrus, 300 victims, the hyoid bones, all of it. About the only thing they knew for sure was how far the cult could get in the trucks. Spencer could have told them the exact square mileage, but the potential geographical range of the trucks was dauntingly large. Y/N tried not to panic as she stared at the map.

“If this is about a Believer's rebirth, babies are born with 300 bones,” JJ said. “And they’re taking the hyoids.”

“And the hyoids we had in evidence are missing, which means Merva needed them back,” Tara reasoned. “And that means they mean more to the end game than we thought.”

Y/N felt her patience waning. “But why did Reid need us to know it all happens at 10:23?” Y/N hated that her voice sounded snappy and desperate. “That’s got to be important. It’s the last thing he said to me.”

Matt put his hand on her shoulder. “Listen, you’re right. It means something to him. We’re trying to figure it out.”

“Yeah, well, we better figure it out soon.” Y/N shrugged off his hand, pushed back from her seat at the conference room table, and turned for the door. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Every minute they spent floating ideas was another mile between them and Spencer. Another moment closer to losing him. She shoved the bathroom door open, hurrying into the stall and emptying the contents of her stomach.

She slumped back against the side of the stall, head gently knocking into the cool metal. She needed to pull herself together. The team was always strongest when they did their group think sessions, building upon each other’s knowledge and perspectives and filling in the gaps. If they’d done more of that earlier— if she’d had the confidence to call it out as soon as she saw the holes, Spencer might not be locked in the back of a truck, hundreds of miles away.

Y/N hoisted herself off the ground and out of the stall. She braced her hands on the counter top and tried to breathe evenly. She turned on the water and splashed her face, tapping against her cheeks. With water dripping down the planes of her face, she stared herself down in the mirror, willing her tired brain to make that last connection, to find that missing thread. It was all about the Benjamins, and she had a feeling that Cyrus was the key.

Y/N rolled her shoulders back and made her way to the conference room. She listened to their rotating conversation, knowing that this team was the only group of people capable of getting Spencer back alive.

“We have confirmation that there’s been no activity in or around the old ranch,” Matt informed them, pocketing his phone.

“If this is about rebirth, they’ll choose a new place,” Luke posited, arms crossed.

Tara leaned over the table. “Given their adoration of Cyrus and his love for the country, he’d want them to stay within our borders.”

“But Benjamin Cyrus wasn’t his real name, and he wasn’t born into the Sect,” Y/N reminded them quietly. Everyone turned to look at her. She gave an apology grimace to Matt. He just shrugged and smiled, motioning her over to the table.

Garcia nodded. “Right, let’s see. Uh, he and his mom arrived there when he was a teenager. He was kicked out for molesting girls. And then he served time in prison in Kentucky.”

“And that’s where he found religion,” Y/N recalled, thinking back to the report she’d studied dozens of times. “So he was reborn as Benjamin Cyrus in Kentucky.” She closed her eyes and flipped through her mental file cabinet, looking for 10:23.

“That’s within the area,” Garcia confirmed. “Maybe that’s where they’re headed?”

“Find out what city he was born in or where he was in prison,” Luke said. “We’ll spread out from there.”

“He found religion,” Y/N repeated, mostly to herself. “Chapter ten, verse twenty-three. 10:23 isn’t a time.” Y/N shook her head and then dragged her hand through her hair. “It’s scripture.”

“Let’s get in the air; we can narrow down which verse and city before we land,” Emily instructed.

⧭⧭⧭

“We’re approaching Kentucky; the pilot needs to know where to touch down,” Rossi informed them.

The team was scattered throughout the jet, scrolling through scripture on their tablets, reading out verses. Y/N held her chin in her hand, eyes unfocused, dragging a net along the furthest corners of her mind.

“Hey guys, listen to this,” JJ said. “Matthew chapter ten, verse twenty-three: ‘When you are persecuted in one place, flee to another.’”

“They’re going to the next town,” Emily said.

“Flee to the next town. But which one?” asked Garcia.

“Their end game is also a new beginning,” Rossi explained. “Cyrus brought religion back to the cult. They’d honor that by wanting to start fresh.”

Y/N raised her head. “Like the Garden of Eden.”

“That’s how 300 fits,” Tara concluded. “That was the number of angels that protected the Garden of Eden. Are there any Edens in Kentucky?”

The sound of Garcia tapping across the keyboard came through the laptop. “Um, no, but there are two synonyms: Canaan and Arcadia.”

“Cyrus is the original messiah. Which one is closer to where he was born?” Y/N asked.

“Arcadia,” Garcia informed them.

Y/N stood up. “That’s where they’re going.”

“Garcia, pull land deeds. I’ll notify SWAT,” Emily instructed.

JJ grabbed Y/N’s hand. “We’re going to get him.”

Y/N met her eyes. “I just hope we’re not too late.”

⧭⧭⧭

The new compound proved easy to find. In the middle of nowhere but illuminated by hundreds of lights, there were rows and rows of tents. The team began strategizing, looking for the best route to Spencer.

Emily tried to convince Y/N, now showing clear concussion symptoms, to stay with the SUVs.

“With all due respect, there is no way in hell that I’m going to sit in this car while Reid gets sacrificed by a homicidal cult leader,” Y/N said. There was a hushed pause, the team exchanging knowing glances.

“Fair enough,” Emily conceded. “Matt and JJ, I want you on the left side. Luke and Tara, the right. Dave and Y/N, you’re with me. We’re clearing every tent; eliminate any threat that would give away your position.” She unholstered her gun and swept her eyes across the team. “Our objective is to extract Reid with minimal loss.”

As they approached the first line of tents, Y/N could faintly hear Spencer speaking. “To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven.” Her heart hammered against her ribcage. “A time to be born and a time to die.” She could feel the blood rushing through her ears. “A time to weep and a time to pluck up that which has been planted.”

“Okay, he’s stalling,” Meadows snapped. “That’s enough!”

“All right. Let the sacrifice begin.” That was Merva now, riling up the followers. “Protect us from all harm.”

As Merva led The Believers in a monotone chant, Y/N tried to block it out. She scanned a tent, watched as SWAT took out a bodyguard, looked for Spencer. Rinse and repeat, again and again. It was taking too long.

“And we thank Our Guardian, who will protect this family now and always,” Merva’s voice rang out. “Spencer: keeper of provisions!” Y/N saw the gathering of followers, but she couldn’t see Spencer.

The SWAT commander stopped them. They had reached the final line of tents. He signaled to the leaders on each side. They were ready to strike.

Y/N’s eyes scanned the crowd. She could just barely make out some sort of hanging mobile, white u-shaped decorations suspended from string. The hyoids, she realized, a wave of nausea hitting her like a truck.

Merva continued, “You have given selflessly to others and will be rewarded by the highest honor we could bestow. Your blood will be our blood. Your life will fuel ours.”

A gunshot rang out. The followers gasped. There was a split second of calm before the bedlam. Y/N took a single breath. Then she heard Matt yell; saw John lift his rifle and be felled by a solo shot to the head; watched Luke take down another bodyguard directly after.

And then she saw him. Strapped down under a canopy of bones, Spencer was silent and unmoving. He didn’t struggle. He didn’t call out. And there was Merva, knife in hand— still trying to complete his mission.

She didn’t vacillate, barely breathed, just let her legs carry her forward. She heard Emily call out his name. When Merva turned, the curved blade of the knife poised at the column of Spencer's throat, Y/N’s trigger finger compressed. She felt the gun recoil, felt the force of the shot travel up her arm as she put a single bullet in his chest. As he fell, she didn’t stop, just stepped over him, knew one of the others would take care of it.

She tripped over the small platform Spencer was restrained on, stumbling and holstering her gun. Her hands moved over the straps, loosening the one over his waist, then the ones at his hands, finally pushing the leather from his head. He panted and muttered his thanks, but she didn’t dare speak, afraid that if she did, she’d never be able to stop. Instead, she flung her arms over his shoulders, pulling him down and close and over her heart. She wondered if he could feel the way it pummeled against her chest, because to her it felt like it might smash through at any moment. His arms came around her, chin resting on her shoulder, nose in her hair. She heard him inhale and hold his breath, a mirror of that last moment together in the warehouse. She held onto him as an overboard sailor holds a life ring: single-minded, unrelenting, desperate.

There was a touch on her opposite shoulder and Y/N swung around, adrenaline still racing through her veins. JJ put her hand out in a placating motion, and Y/N came back to herself, allowing JJ to step forward and help Spencer off the platform. Y/N let out a breath and reached a hand out to steady herself, only to flinch when it brushed one of the straps that had held Spencer down. Luke caught her on one side, Tara on the other. She grasped at them, her emotions teetering right along with her physical form. Luke pulled her out from under the macabre canopy and into a hug. Tara held her hand. For the first time since the parking garage, she let herself go.

⧭⧭⧭

The jet was quiet. The team was spread out around the cabin, each of them lost in their own heads. There was a tranquility over the space, one that only ever happened when unmitigated relief overwhelmed even the joy or fulfillment of a life saved.

Y/N sat in one of the single seats, across the aisle from where Spencer was settled. Tara and Luke had finally convinced her to get checked out by the EMTs, who had confirmed her concussion. She convinced herself that the fuzziness on the corners of her vision was just a symptom of that, not a product of the tears she was struggling to hold back.

The team each stopped by Spencer’s seat, patting his shoulder, squeezing his hand, or in Rossi’s case, gently ruffling his hair. They all spoke briefly in hushed, grateful tones. All except Y/N. She couldn’t formulate a sentence that seemed adequate. There was simultaneously too much and nothing to say. Everything felt contrived or insufficient or intemperate.

Spencer was safe. They hadn’t been too late. He was bruised and undoubtedly sore, but ultimately, he’d been through worse. So why was her heart still aching? Why couldn’t she catch her breath? She hadn’t spoken more than a few words since leaving the raid, so why did her throat feel like it was on fire? She closed her eyes, leaned her head back. She incessantly pressed her hands together, trying to crack her sore knuckles over and over again.

A pair of hands gently closed over her own, stopping the abuse, and she didn’t have to open her eyes to know who they belonged to. His thumbs stroked over the backs of her hands and she cursed the tears that spilled over her bottom lashes. He didn’t say anything, didn’t force her to look at him or acknowledge her shattering. He waited her out, rubbing a rhythm on her skin and steadying her without a word. She opened her eyes but couldn’t bring herself to look at him just yet. Instead she focused on their joined hands, reciprocating the gentle pulses he gave every so often.

She turned her head to wipe her wet cheeks on her shoulder as the landing announcement came over the cabin speaker. She did look at him then, and the emotion in his gaze left her feeling raw and exposed. Their hands reluctantly separated to buckle their seat belts. Y/N closed her eyes again, turning her face into the warmth of the early morning sun as the jet began its descent.

When they landed, everyone wearily shuffled off the plane, eager to get home to their beds. Penelope met them at the elevator, enveloping Spencer in a long hug, the rest of the team smiling at their embrace. They each moved through the bullpen, gathering their things and talking quietly. Y/N’s eyes paused on her bag, brought up from the parking garage by one of the team after she’d gone missing. They lingered for a long moment on the case file, still sitting where she’d left it hours ago, before she let herself let it go. She grabbed her bag and turned to see Spencer standing in the aisle, hands in his pockets and eyes fixed on her.

“Hey,” she said dumbly.

He smiled. “Hi.”

Her hands wrung the straps of her bag. “How—how’re you holding up?”

“I’ve been worse.” He shrugged. “How’s your head?”

“I’ve been worse,” she agreed.

“That’s good. Because I think after all that, the least you could do is give me a ride home,” he joked.

Y/N knew he was trying to reassure her that he was fine, but she couldn’t bring herself to laugh. If anything, his attempts to provide comfort made her feel worse. Because she couldn’t forget the sound of the gunshot at the warehouse, the sight of the knife at his throat, the feeling of nearly losing someone whom she knew she could love if she just had more time. Too exhausted to hide her emotions, she could tell by the change in Spencer’s eyes that the pain was apparent on her face.

“Actually, you probably shouldn’t be driving, even if it’s just a mild concussion. Where are your keys?”

“It’s fine. I’m all ri—” Y/N started.

“I know I phrased that as a question, but I’m not really asking.” He held out his hand.

Normally she would have argued, but she just didn’t have the energy. Y/N dug into her bag, fishing out the keys and dropping them into his hand. He closed his fingers around them and jerked his head toward the door. “Come on,” he murmured. He waved to the rest of the team, and Y/N nodded, avoiding their eyes.

The ride in the elevator was silent. The walk to the car, too. They were pulling out of the garage before Spencer finally broke the silence.

“You know this wasn’t your fault, right?” he asked. Y/N stayed quiet. “We all missed the connection to Liberty Ranch.”

“But I knew something was off, and I didn’t say anything. I— I almost came to find you before I left, and if I had just done that—”

“Y/N,” Spencer interrupted. “The plan was already in motion. Meadows and Merva would have just figured out another way to execute it.” His fingers tightened on the wheel. “And without you and the leads from the warehouse, the team might not have figured it out in time.”

Y/N opened her mouth before realizing she didn’t have a response. She didn’t even want to consider that possibility. She leaned her head against the window, pressing the thumb and fingers of one hand into her eyes to stave off the throbbing.

Graciously, Spencer let her remain in silence the rest of the ride to her apartment. There was so much to say, especially now; she didn’t know where to begin. And even after everything, she couldn’t stop herself from bringing up that wall— protecting herself from what she knew could hurt her more than any unsub.

They pulled onto her street, fairly empty at such an early hour. Spencer parked in front of her apartment, opening the car door and coming around the other side of the car. She expected him to give her the keys, but as she exited the car, he waited by the gate for her. “I’ll walk you up.”

Spencer opened the gate, allowing her to walk through before closing it behind them and following her up the sidewalk. “I need the keys,” she told him.

He shook his head as if to clear it. “Right, right.” He placed them into her outstretched hand, and she wondered if she imagined his fingers lingering over hers.

When they reached her door, she unlocked the deadbolt and swung the door open, stepping over the threshold. He waited outside, hands in his pockets. Y/N rolled her keys in her hand, and Spencer watched them.

“Um— thank you for—” Y/N started.

“I told Emily on the jet, and I’ll tell you now.” Spencer raised his eyes to meet hers. There was that look again, the one she couldn’t quite identify. “I’ve always had a hard time saying what I feel. And maybe sometimes it’s because I’m afraid of being disappointed. But sometimes it’s because the words I’m looking for don’t exist in the English language.”

“Spence—”

“Please just let me get this out,” he said. “There have been a couple moments over the past few months where I thought maybe we were sharing mamihlapinatapei.”

“Mamih what?” Y/N asked.

“Mamihlapinatapei.” He repeated, gesturing with his hands. “It’s a Yagan word that originates on the Tierra del Fuego archipelago off the southern tip of Argentina. It translates succinctly as ‘the wordless, meaningful look shared by two people who both desire to initiate something, but are both reluctant to do so.’”

“Oh.” Y/N felt a flush rising up in her cheeks.

Suddenly, Spencer couldn’t meet her eyes. “I, um—I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize our friendship or make things awkward at work. But last night, I… I just— I’ve had too many moments in my life where I thought it might be my last, and I hadn’t said all the things I needed to say.” He met her eyes again, and there was that familiar storm. “Last night I was out of time, and I hadn’t told you how I feel, and I realized that I wouldn’t get another chance, and it’s okay if you don’t feel the same, but I needed to—”

Y/N stepped forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and crashed their mouths together. She tried to pour everything into the kiss: every blush, every worry, every laugh, every panicked moment, every mamihlapinatapei. Spencer cradled her face in his hands, opening his mouth and capturing her bottom lip, accepting everything she gave him. She wound one of her hands into his hair, pulling him impossibly closer and grounding herself to this new reality that almost wasn’t. The height of the kiss tapered off, and Y/N drew back, untangling her fingers from his hair and her heart from his grasp. Spencer watched her carefully, honey eyes uncertain.

“I do. Feel the same,” Y/N confirmed. Spencer’s lips twitched. “I’m not good at vulnerability. I’ve got a great track record of getting hurt.” Spencer grabbed her hand and opened his mouth, but Y/N continued, “But then I thought we might lose you, that time was out, and that I— I wouldn’t get the chance to see if you could be— if this could be more.” She gestured between them and then met his eyes again. “And I guess being vulnerable isn’t so bad in comparison. Because I think I could fall in love with you. I think maybe it’s already happening.” She held her breath and pressed her lips together, fighting the regret of saying too much.

“Actually, there’s a word for that, too.” Spencer smiled, warm and soft and genuine. “Forelsket. The origin is Norwegian, and it roughly translates to ‘the euphoria experienced as you begin to fall in love.’”

“Forelsket?” Y/N asked.

“Well, it’s more like forelsket,” Spencer corrected.

“Wow, okay, 187.” Y/N laughed for the first time in what felt like days. “Forelsket.”

“Better,” Spencer praised. “There’s also the Tagalog version, kilig.”

Y/N took a step closer to him and smoothed his shirt where her hands had wrinkled it. “Translation?”

“‘The sudden feeling of an inexplicable joy one gets when something romantic happens,’ or alternatively ‘the feeling of butterflies in your stomach.’” Spencer moved his hand to her waist and stepped over the threshold.

Y/N cupped his cheek in her hand, soothing the bruises and guiding him back to her. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

#spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer x y/n #spencer x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid #spencer reid angst #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds self insert #criminal minds #homoose writes

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palbabor-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Latibule

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi x Fem!Reader

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, panic attacks & hypochondria, adult language, eventual SMUT

Words: 9790

His usual spot at the cafe is taken, and he’s already decided to keep walking on, but somehow, somehow, he manages to catch your eye.

His feet are slowing, a stuttering breath stagnating in his lungs, all at once hopeful and bewildered, but before he can examine his fluttering emotions, you’re alongside him on the noisy sidewalk, passing him his usual evening drink, a pleased smile on your soft lips.

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you.

Notes: hi. this is my first real foray into the world of Haikyuu!! & i’m so excited to branch into this fandom! if this is your first time reading my stuff imma warn you, i take things slow, so expect some slow burn.

this will be a multi-chapter fic with eventual NSFW/18+ only content. i will post warnings for each update. i’ll also link other chapters on this page and any other pages that come up, so keep in mind that there will be edits to links as things progress - i wasn’t planning on this being anything more than a one-shot, but this first exploration of Sakusa’s character turned into a monster & i wanna really hone in on that sweet, sweet build up.

big, huge shoutout to @wickedfaerytale & @albinoburrito for their edits and suggestions. y’all are amazing and i love you both so much, this fic wouldn’t be what it is without the two of you.

Latibule /lat-i-bule/ noun a hiding place; a place of safety and comfort

pt. i: an opening

[ pt. ii: four set ] ||

It’s a quiet coffee shop.

He likes that about it. He likes it almost as much as the simple fact that he can tell what day of the week it is by the smell of the disinfectant and bleach that’s being used behind the counter.

There’s a strange comfort to this place’s consistency and Kiyoomi Sakusa likes to linger here, propping his MSBY issued volleyball bag beside his usual table. He’s already placed his coffee order with the cheerful man who guards the cash register, watching as his paper cup is marked with a fresh sharpie and placed on the bartop, beside the elbow of that barista who always attentively turns to wash her hands before making each new order.

He had stumbled upon the shop his senior year of college and he’s haunted it ever since, content to sip on a smooth cortado as he watches over the latest plays from the MSBY games, mapping out his overestimations, his successes, and his flukes in his notebook– carefully lined kanji listing out what worked and what needs some extra practice. The caramel sweet flavor of the ristretto shots always helps to relax him, his broad shoulders lowering, the ache of self-induced tension and overworked muscles easing as his drink cools between his fingers, finally sinking fully into the plush leather seat of his clean chair.

The young woman, he should know your name, but he’s never caught a proper glimpse of your name tag, because you’re always moving, gives him a familiar lifting of smooth lips and places his completed drink on the handoff plane. You know his personal preferences well enough that you’re already moving the caddy of lids and cardboard sleeves forward, so he can select his own from the neatly stacked row. He gives you a cursory nod and his calloused fingertips pull the frothy beverage into his hands, cupping the curved sides and taking a deep drag of air through his masked nose, inhaling the bright smell of fresh coffee.

And…vines…or is it a tangy pine?

There’s something else that’s tickling his senses, and he blinks toward you, dark brows knitting together, a misplaced curl of inky hair brushing against his forehead, trying to make sense of the smell. His chin lifts and his head tilts, eyes watching your polished movements as you move onto the next drink in line. It’s definitely got some floral notes, but it’s not cloyingly sweet, like honeysuckle or gooseberry–no, it’s got some kind of balmy spice to it. It returns when you move closer and he swears he can taste summer when you shift back.

Odd.

When you look up at him again, he’s already stepping away, his running shoes squeaking across the slate tiles, making his way back to his bag and table. The aroma of your perfume is half forgotten when he cracks his laptop open, squirting some hand sanitizer across his chapped palms before he starts to clack his fingertips across the dark keys. He needs to get more lotion; he thinks as the sterile solution cools between his splayed fingers, this weather always dries his skin out.

The next time he comes in he spies you at the back of the shop, jotting something down in a large binder before kneeling behind the counter, returning with a sparkling, grated drain top. The white gleams under the accented lighting and he watches as you thumb at the paint, denoting a splotch of rust that rests under the dip of the metal. You return the cover to the ground and immediately twist to the hand washing sink that rests behind the bar, lathering up some dispensed soap and methodically stroking from the tips of your fingers to your wrists. A steady puff of steam is rising around you as he places his order–

[ a oat milk smoothie, with an extra scoop of protein powder, chia seeds, turmeric, kale, cucumber, dash of dates for sweetener ]

and by the time he’s paid and padding toward his usual spot, you’re finishing up, yanking a few disposable paper towels from the overhead dispenser and gingerly drying your damp hands.

He’s seen you wash your hands plenty of times before, but he finds himself distractedly following your movements this afternoon as he waits for his order and his computer to finish booting up. You catch his obsidian eyes when you turn around and give him a brief smile; a flash of teeth peeking through your lips before you move back to your binder. You jot down a few more notes as you move onto the fridges that sit under the countertops, pulling and prying at the gaskets that line the doors of the whirring chillers, speaking softly to a fellow employee, pointing out the missed stains and chipped flecks of ice that like to hide within the folds of the protective plastic.

You’re not overbearing in your coaching, keeping your tone even and friendly, focusing on what can be done going forward, rather than lingering on the ‘what if’s’ and ‘why wasn’t’ of the situation.

Practical, efficient, thorough with your work, and careful with your craft.

Those descriptors float to the forefront of his mind as he takes his smoothie from the barista that’s standing beside you. He lets his gaze hold against your half leaning form, watching the lead tip of your pencil mark over the stark red checklist that you’re working your way down.

He’s not sure why he’s so focused on you. He’s never thought much about you. You’ve been someone that exists in the background, part of his routine to be sure, but he justifies that your attention to detail is likely the reason why he prefers this shop to the dozens of other coffee houses that litter the main street by the MSBY training facilities and stadium. Your head shifts, and he can tell you can feel his gaze, so he swiftly plucks up his icy cold cup, his nose involuntarily trying to seek out that perfume you’d been wearing the other day.

Strange. His brow furrows, and he hunches into his sports jacket, walking back to his chair and his glowing computer. He can’t smell it today. Maybe you’re too far away, or perhaps you’d forgotten to put it on before coming in.

Pity. He’d liked it.

“Running a little late today, I see,” your voice snaps him out of his stupor, onyx eyes lifting to rest against your open expression.

“Kind of,” he replies blandly, his deep cadence muffled by the pull of his mask.

“Damn, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you be late! Want me to push your drink to the front of the queue? I’ve got the power to do that, you know,” you tease, tilting your head as a mischievous grin settles over your quirked lips. Kiyoomi blinks impassively down at you and shakes his head. How would he even reply to something like that? You were joking, right? You must be. And if you weren’t, the people who are clustered around the handoff plane would certainly realize that he was being given his drink first, clearly ahead of all of theirs, and they’d probably toss him a few disgruntled stares or mouthy jabs, and likely accuse you of playing favorites.

Wait. Favorites?

Does he count as a ‘favorite’ here? He looks away, lips drooping into a pursed line. You’ve always been…nice…but there’s no way he’s a favorite of yours. He’s hardly spoken to you in the year and a half that he’s been coming here. But is that all it takes? Just take up space in the cafe a few times a week and get special treatment?

No. You must be joking.

All the same, your jovial tone and that welcoming smile is a little intriguing.

He shuffles closer to the heat of the espresso machines, easily lifting his head over the lip of the bronze metal, watching you. You’re looking down now, fingers gripping the dark handle of the portafilter, holding it under the buzzing grinder to gather a fine sprinkle of dusky espresso grounds into the waiting basket. Then, you lift a lustery tamp to the heaping mound and press expertly against the delicate remains of the arabica, packing them to an even level before clamping the filter under the display of the machine. When you flick the switch that activates the group head you must sense his stare and lift your eyes to his, eyelashes momentarily fluttering against your cheeks when you spy his unabashed observations of you.

For a second, your hands falter, trapped within the unexpected intensity of his curious gaze, and you pat blindly for the cup that’s sitting to the right of your curled arms, embarrassingly disarmed by his transparent focus. But once your grip wraps around the waiting plastic, it seems to ground you and you let out a huffing chuckle, eyes crinkling up at his half obscured face.

“I’m only kidding about moving your drink up, don’t worry, I won’t get you in trouble. Besides, it’s against our policy. First come, first serve and whatnot,” you assure him, halting the stream of water that’s pouring the carefully timed flow of espresso into the clear shot glass that’s waiting against the gleaming metal of the drip tray.

“You’re busy today,” he notes, jerking his curly head toward the gaggle of college students sprawled across some of the bigger tables, their laughing voices and overly loud conversations easily drowning out the hum of lofi jazz that’s playing from the recessed speakers.

“Ah, yeah, finals are coming up for a lot of us that go to the university. I know my classes are starting to gear up for that last push and sometimes you just need a pick me up and coffee is great for that. We also get a big boost from the smoothies and frappes that we sell in the afternoons, so we get a little packed. Most of our sales happen during the weeks leading up to finals and midterms, uh, anyways, not that you asked for an economic lesson on a small cafe’s profit margins.”

“You’re a student?” he asks, head dipping back, eyes glittering in the lights. Wait. How old are you? Not that he can boast any sort of seniority on that front, he’s only 24 after all, but you just seemed, hmm, more mature? He didn’t picture you as a co-ed. Not that he’s actively picturing you when he’s not here. Well, he is a little recently, but you’ve always felt sort of timeless? Ageless? Is that the right term? You give off an air of confidence. So he’d assumed that you were older than him. Not in a bad way, in fact he’d sort of like it if you were. Why, that is, he’s not willing to look too deeply into, at least, not right now. Maybe later, when he gets back home and can…oh, you’re talking again.

“I’m a graduate student, but not for much longer. I’m finishing up my dissertation this week! Thank God. This semester has been the pits, I’m so ready for a break!” You sound genuinely happy and he can smell that faint aroma of your perfume each time you move.

“Congratulations,” he murmurs, unsure if you’d heard him since you’re stepping away from the machines that he’s posted himself behind. He watches you set up two steaming drinks, topping them with a lazy swirl of silky, housemade, whipped cream, a crosshatch drizzle of caramel, carefully snapping a set of black plastic lids on top, before calling out the handwritten names and handing them off to their respective owners. Then you’re back, hands already unhooking the portafilter, knocking out the used espresso pucks into the trash and bringing him back to that spicy smell of summer that sits on your skin.

“Haha, it’s a little early for a congratulations. Don’t jinx me, will’ya? But seriously, thanks, that’s nice of you to say,” you continue, flowing easily back into this half-hearted conversation he’s accidentally struck up with you. He winces at that thought and dips his hands deeper into his jacket, hunching his shoulders into a habitual slouch that he instinctively imposes upon himself when he’s out in public.

“You want a lid?” you question over the hiss of the machine, and he lifts his head, finding your bright eyes through the misting remains of the cleared steam wands.

“No.” His response is clipped, and he gulps down a sudden burst of hazy anxiousness when someone brushes past him, jostling him closer to the low wall that divides the bartop from the cafe floor. He braces himself against the warming top of the machine, his large palm steadying himself, shoulders caving forward, his dark curls falling over his eyes, obscuring his face further. He clenches his jaw, a scowl blooming over his lips.

His social anxiety isn’t anything new, and it’s likely exacerbated by the bustle of the nearby college students, who seem to be getting louder by the second. The noise is needling under his skin. He starts his carefully ingrained breathing exercises, tugging in a deep stream of air through his flared nostrils.

But the smell is coffee is too overwhelming and suddenly his ritual doesn’t help much.

He can feel blood leaving his fingertips and toes, or as his cousin Komori puts it [ the inescapable dread of some imagined ailment, which is making him think that his body is rushing blood from his extremities to his vital organs, his fingertips cold, hands shaking, when in reality ‘you’re just feeling unsure of yourself, man. It’ll be ok in a minute, promise!’ ]

But in the end, it doesn’t matter what anyone calls it, or how they think he should feel during these heart pounding moments, he just knows that he wants to get out of here, now.

His agitation must have twisted the top half of his expression because the feel of your warm fingertips against his wrist jerks him out of his head, causing him to suck in an unsteady breath as he lurches backwards, pulling away from your offending touch.

“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t think…I just…” you bite your lip, a look of stark worry passing over your usually open features. “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. Are you…are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” he grunts, teeth clenched, right leg bouncing in place against the tiles. Shit. It’s not like he could have predicted that you’d try to touch him, so you can’t really blame him for his misplaced reaction. Just get him his coffee and he’ll be on his way…

Come on…come on…

“Here you go. Sorry for the wait, Sakusa,” you lift on your tiptoes, the stretch of your legs and arms apparent as you hold his cup out, careful to balance yourself against the lever of the steam wand. He takes the proffered drink and nods his thanks at you, his gaze dark. The gesture might be a little strained, and he knows you likely think he’s some kinda freak at this point, but he’s glad to see your customary smile before he turns, shouldering his way out the door and into the promise of open air.

“Stop being so secretive about this place. It’s not like you can’t search for it online, Omi Omi. I saw you come in with the logo of their shop last week and I wanna try it out. Don’t cha’ gimme that look, I deserve to have good coffee too! And if it’s close by you can’t just keep it to yourself! Think about the rest of us, huh? Besides, I think they’d like to see something other than yer’ prickly face every once in a while.” Golden haired Atsumu Miya, his fellow teammate and setter for the MSBY Black Jackals, has been walking beside him for five blocks, jabbering on about the bland offerings of the big box coffee chains that surround their home gym, and how he hasn’t had a good cup of coffee in days. Tch, he’d said months originally, but that was an obvious lie. After all, Kiyoomi pointed out, slipping his mask on before the two stepped into the strong midday sun, he’d come in with an iced coffee two days ago, proclaiming to the whole team it was the best he’d ever had, bar none.

“It’s a small shop,” Kiyoomi glumly elaborates, his dark hair soaking up the rays of sunlight as they crossed the bustling pedestrian walkway. “I think it’s run by an American. The staff speaks English, besides Japanese. There’s one barista in particular, a young woman, she has–”

“English? Oh, hell yeah! I can practice! This is perfect! They got any specialty drinks? I couldn’t see any from the menu that they had online, but I told ‘Samu I’d send him a picture of the place.”

Hmph, what’s the use of bothering to hold a conversation with this guy, Kiyoomi thinks, obsidian eyes narrowing as his brows furrow over his scrunched face, watching Atsumu chatter on about the vague sampling that he’d seen on their website. He’s not listening, anyway.

The coffee shop bell dings as the two of them step into the space, greeted by a waft of freshly ground coffee and the sharp tang of disinfectant. “Ahhh,” Atsumu says, propping his hands on his trim hips and fixing Kiyoomi with a pointed look, “totally see why you like the place. It smells like they have a freaking bleach, whaddya call those, ah, an air freshener! Yeah, smells like they have an ‘eu de bleach’ wall plug in.”

“It’s clean,” Kiyoomi affirms, his own hands sliding into his pockets, fingers wrapping around his wallet as he steps into the line. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Not at all,” Atsumu grins, resting an arm on Kiyoomi’s shoulder as he glances over the chalkboard menu. “Just can tell that must be why you like this place so much. Bet you huff cleaner as soon as you get home.. Speaking of, I still need to see your new apartment, heard you let Ushijima come by and that’s not fair at all. Kinda– ow! Omi, ya’ friggin ass!”

Kiyoomi jerked his arm upwards as he stepped toward the register and the abrupt displacement sent Atsumu’s hand flying up, managing to perfectly strike himself on his nose as he attempted to counterbalance his sudden shift in momentum.

“HA-ah, ahem, I mean…hello! Nice to see you again, sir!” the barista calls out, poorly concealing his mirth at Atsumu’s fumbling behind a gloved hand. Kiyoomi nods curtly, his order on the tip of his lips, but before he can utter anything Atsumu is beside him again, leaning against the well lit pastry case and peering over his options critically.

“Hmm, ya’ got any of those little madeline cakes? They’re vanilla, kinda look like a shell? Saw em’ on yer’ website.”

The barista gives Atsumu a broad grin and twists to talk with someone who’s below the arched dome of the food case, quietly asking a few questions before looking back at the blonde man. “Yeah, we do! We’re actually just putting them out, my manager is checking for the–”

Atsumu steps impossibly closer to the gleaming glass and pops his head over the dome, peering down at whoever is restocking the sweets. “Oh! Hey there!” he chirps, lowering his chin, his face pulling into an exaggerated, cocky smirk. “Ya’ know what I mean, right? It’s kinda like a cake, but it’s small, like a cookie. It’s French. No, it’s not that. Maybe on the next tray? What? I can’t hear ya’. It’s smaller. I can step around, see if–”

A familiar voice pipes up before Atsumu can move closer and Kiyoomi turns, ears instantly pricking up at the sound of your reply. “I said, I know what a madeline is, sir. I’m rearranging and organizing my cart at the moment and, if you’d like, you can order your drinks first. I’ll have the madeline waiting for you on the other side of the bar.”

“Lemme just see one,” Atsumu grins, resting his hands against the glass. Kiyoomi’s lips curl at the sight, watching Atsumu’s hands leave lingering prints behind. Great, now they’ll need to clean and re-polish the display. Besides, you’d said you had them. Why keep pushing the issue? Ugh. If he wasn’t regretting his decision to show his fellow teammate the shop before, he certainly is now.

“Just wanna make sure we’re on the same page, is all. Ya’ might give me something else by mistake and that’s a waste of time for both of us!” Atsumu’s smile broadens, a shadowed look falling over his angular features.

You hop up from your crouched position, a wrapped package with bright blue lettering that clearly says [ French Vanilla Madeline ] on the side, clutched between your fingers. “Oh no, I get it,” you begin, mimicking Atsumu’s cheshire grin with startling accuracy. “You just want to double check! I mean, the words on the packaging do say: Madeline. So unless you mean something else, something that’s not called ‘A French vanilla madeline, made with real vanilla extract and buttery goodness,’ I think we’ve got you covered.”

Your voice is saccharine sweet, lilting over the words, a well-practiced smile lifting your lips. You’re still clearly mirroring the one Atsumu is giving you. It’s the snappiest your tone has ever been, and the fact that it’s being used against his annoying teammate is priceless. Suddenly, he can’t help the laugh that’s already snickering its way past his mask.

“Oi!” Atsumu cries, pushing himself off the case at last, his teeth gritted at Kiyoomi’s obvious amusement. “I just wanted to check! And you, manager lady, don’t be so mean!”

“Pfft, manager lady? It’s (Y/N). And me? Mean? I was not mean, I told you that we had them! I just needed to FIFO some of the other pastries first,” you defend, a surprised exhale falling from your lips.

“FIFO? What is that? Don’t use that food jargon on me! I get that enough from my brother. He does that crap all the time, like it’s some sorta secret lingo. ‘Don’t do that ‘Tsumu, gotta make sure it’s in date’. ‘Don’t come on the line!’ ‘Gotta wear a hat or a hair net if yer’ gonna be back here!’ ‘Don’t mislabel the rice!’ On and on. What’s with you food people? So uptight. Look, I just wanted to try one. Yer’ reviews said they were good! Here, tell you what, give me two. Don’t laugh! Omi, help! She’s picking on me!”

“Stop it, you’re making a scene. Any other inane questions? Or anything else you’d like to order, because I’m certainly not buying any of this for you,” Kiyoomi replies, sneaking a glance at your bemused expression. You catch his eye and give him a quick wink and he finds that his smile stays with him long after he, and a chastened and satiated Atsumu have left the warmth of the coffee shop.

“Mmm, these are pretty good,” Atsumu mumbles between bites of his madeline. “Ya’ want some?”

He stops by after his evening practice, when the sun has long since fallen past the horizon of the city, but as soon as he rounds the corner he regrets his decision.

The cafe is brimming with people. They’re everywhere; outside, they are clustered on the pavement, sitting on the collection of iron wrought chairs, and gathered in groups. Inside, most are sprawled close to the hand off plane, or draped over the couches and tables. They appear to be animated, with computer screens and voices bright, too bright. His usual spot is taken, and he’s already made up his mind to keep walking on but somehow, somehow, he catches your eye.

Suddenly, the world smells like velvety pine and heady bergamot, and he can’t stop staring down at you.

“Hey! Glad I could catch you. Wanted to tell you good luck on your upcoming game! I think I saw on the news that it’s tomorrow? Right?”

“Yes, we’re playing Azuma Pharmacy. They have a good starting lineup. It’s entirely possible that we’ll lose.”

“Jeez,” you exhale, cocking your head at his serious expression. “Kind of a pessimist, aren’t you?”

“I’m a realist. I’m perfectly prepared to beat them, but things always play out differently on the court, no matter what your personal expectations are.”

You give him another smile. This one comes quickly, and it’s bigger than any of the others, the pull of it lighting up your face. It’s different, and he can tell that the way you’re looking at him has shifted; that you’ve liked this answer. He’s not sure why, it’s the truth. Nothing more, nothing less.

“Good point. Well, win or lose, you’ve got my luck! I better get back inside. Your drink is on me by the way, for the other day…when I touched your hand…well, I’m sure you remember. Anyway, see you, Sakusa!”

He watches you slip past the packed lines of students, already rolling up your sleeves so you can wash your hands. Once you’re behind the espresso machine you’re hidden by the burnished copper and he walks on, shouldering his MSBY bag higher, lifting his coffee to his lips. It’s got a rich flavor, well balanced and expertly poured. Once again, he’s reminded that you’re good at what you do and, despite the balmy heat of early spring, that makes his fingers tingle and his skin break out in gooseflesh.

Later, when he’s falling asleep, he keeps seeing your eyes. Watching as your colored irises come alive in the moonlight, hopeful, shining, and wholly focused on him.

At practice, Atsumu insists on completing his post workout stretching next to him. He’s used to Kiyoomi’s sullen silences and barbed retorts, content to chatter however he pleases, flitting from topic to topic as he eases into his cool down routine.

“I need to go back to that coffee shop. Ya’ been back lately?”

“No,” Kiyoomi lies, brushing a stubborn wave of curls out of his sweaty face.

“Too bad. Maybe after Friday’s practice? That girl really knew her stuff. Made some great coffee, too. What was her name? Ah, that’s right, (Y/N). She’s cute, what’s her story?”

Something twinges against Kiyoomi’s rib cage at the word ‘cute.’ Hmm, that’s not normal. He flips to his left side, facing away from Atsumu’s greedy eyes and leering smiles.

“How long has she worked there?”

“Not sure,” Kiyoomi replies, flattening his palm against the cool flooring of the gym. “At least a year, maybe more.”

“That other barista said she was a manager. She’s not one of the owners, is she?”

“Dunno.”

“Is she a student? Kinda strange to see an American working in Japan, and she’s definitely an American. She’s good with the Japanese, but her accent is off.”

“Your accent is off, so I’m not sure what your point is. I can understand her, and I can’t say the same for you.”

“Jackass!” Atsumu snaps, flopping up from his splayed stretch to butterfly his muscled legs. “It’s called a regional accent, and it’s perfectly normal. Ya’ got one too, city boy!”

“See? No one says things like that. You sound like a cartoon character. Sometimes I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“Yer’ full of it!”

“Hmph,” Kiyoomi hums, curling himself onto his haunches and flattening the tops of his hands against the floor. The satisfying crunch of his wrists as his fingers settle makes Atsumu visibly shudder and Kiyoomi flashes him a quick smirk of his own, hoping it will spook his stretching companion enough that he’ll leave him be. He prefers to do his cool down in silence.

“She do anything else? Other than diligently slaving over yer’ coffee, that is?”

Tch. It seems that luck isn’t with him today. “She said she’s a graduate student.”

“Oooh, what’s she studyin’?”

“Not sure.”

“Yer’ about as fun to talk to as a stack of bricks, ya’ know? Bet if I’d asked you what her name was the other day all you’d say was, ‘I use’ta just call her barista: first name: cute, last name: girl.”

Kiyoomi doesn’t reply. Something about these questions is bothering him. He doesn’t like that he can’t answer them properly– it’s frustrating, really. All he can honestly tell Atsumu is that you’re neat and efficient, that you have a smile that he can’t quite shake out of his head, a perfume that he wishes he could place, and that, to date, you’ve given him one free coffee. The fact that he knows that you’re a graduate student is sheer luck, information that you’d happened to share with him, not that he’d asked you about. He uncoils his hands and flips them over, letting his eyes rest against his reddened palms. Oh, and you’d touched his wrist once and the sheer metaphysical weight of that contact had nearly sent him stumbling backwards.

It’s stupid; he’s stupid.

It’s not hard to talk with people. It’s just…he knows he’s not good at it. Besides, when would he practice? He’s surrounded by extroverts; extreme extroverts. Extroverts who defy all sense and who usually can’t be silenced unless they’re tucked into a deep sleep, and even then it’s doubtful. Both Hinata and Bokuto have demonstrated that they can, and will, talk in their sleep. Still, it’s frustrating to find himself boxed into a corner, completely at a loss and unaware of the most cursory, mundane, simple, facts about you. For almost two years, he’s seen you at least twice a week, shouldn’t he know more? Why doesn’t he know more?

“Why not give her a ticket to a game?”

Atsumu’s question makes him lift his head, abandoning his musings as he lets the weight of that suggestion sink in. The setter is crinkling his eyes at him now, that all knowing smirk back on his lips, umber eyes hooded, mischievous. “The front office can do that, ya’ know? We’ve got extras. They keep em’ for that purpose. Just say she’s a special guest, or a potential sponsor. They ain’t gonna question you.”

Kiyoomi looks away, crossing his legs and leaning to his right side, feigning disinterest as Atsumu tells him who he can speak with, where he can see the upcoming calendar, and what seats might be open. It’s a good idea, a great idea, and he can’t help but loathe that Atsumu thought of it first.

The ticket is good for a first row balcony seat.

It’s situated in the best spot. He’d picked it out himself, carefully looking over the colored diagram of the stadium and belaboring the proximity of the sight-lines, wanting to let you have a bird’s eye view of the court. Where would he like to sit, if he could watch a game? What works? What doesn’t? Too high and you can’t catch the movement of the ball. Too low and you can’t see the players. Too far to the right or left and you can’t see the breadth of the court. It’s tricky, and he’s cautious with his selection. He can’t help it.

Kiyoomi only considers you not even liking the sport when he’s placing his order, watching as you carefully tuck his empty cup down on the polished steel of the bar. Shit.

The cafe is quiet. The students are gone, and when the register barista goes to the backroom it’s only him and you in the well lit space. The click of the burr grinder almost makes him jump, and he compromises with his nerves by shifting toward his usual table, resting his bag in the chair and taking in a deep breath.

The gentle press of the tamp is audible over the low beats of the music and he hears you knock the side of the portafilter, no doubt leveling off the crushed arabica before you hook the device under the grouphead. Seconds later he sees you flip the switch for his shots, already grooming his heated, foaming, oat milk in the short pitcher, popping the liquid free of any errant bubbles. You’re gentle with this part, and he’s always loved to watch you pour his cortado, liking the raise of your arm and the flick of your wrist as you let the creamy milk flow into the paper cup, swirling a rosetta design through the ochre of the waiting espresso.

Usually, this well-oiled process of yours calms him, but today he feels fidgety and his head is buzzing. The sooner you finish the drink, the sooner he’ll have to talk to you. Shit, shit. When you move the dark lids forward, his hand feels like it’s heating around the slick paper of the ticket, making it clammy and tacky. He bites his lip and removes his hand from his jacket, wiping his palm against his dark jeans.

You’re already looking up at him, nodding toward the fragrant cup that’s waiting at the edge of the handoff plane. Automatically, he lurches forward, completely in-sync with his familiar routine. The question [ would you like a ticket to one of my games? ] is resting on the tip of his tongue and his fingers are hovering beside his cup. He can see that they’re shaking and that sight doesn’t ease him. Then you ask him something and he feels everything skitter to a halt. Why is this happening? It’s just a ticket, it’s just a game.

Wait. You asked him something?

He does his best to ignore the humming of anxious tension that’s filtering down his fingertips and lifts his bowed head. “What?” he mumbles, lips unsticking at last.

“Just asked how your game went the other day. I tried to record it but my stupid cable box isn’t working. I need to try and see you guys, I know I’ve probably said that before, but it’s pretty pathetic of me to not catch one game when the stadium is only two miles away. Plus, I know y’all are a great team! Heard you made the playoffs last year, that’s so awesome!”

It’s a perfect segway.

But he feels like he’s rooted to the spot, like his tongue is trapped against the roof of his mouth, and his hands are too heavy to move, content to shake beside his cooling drink as he whittles his time away, too filled with the what if’s to do anything about the here and now. He’s going down a mental checklist, mulling over each possibility, cautiously tampering with that heady rush of excitement that’s threatening to bubble out of his masked lips. Shit.

He’s gotta check his vitamin intake, maybe he’s low on omega 3s? The team has a general practitioner on standby. He really should call him after this, maybe run by his office before the next practice.

Something’s off with him.

Wait, that worked.

That shift in his whirring thoughts broke him out of that suspended state and then, before he completely fucks this up, the ticket is down against the counter and he’s muttering something about unlimited uses, that if you can’t make it now, then you can always switch the date, or add someone on, if you have a [ boy ] friend you want to take; the next game works best with the seat that’s listed, he’s checked. He knows it’s open. Again, zero pressure and no worries if you can’t make it. See you around.

You might have responded, you might have smiled, fuck, you might have laughed at him. He’s not sure.

All he knows is that as soon as he is out of the shop he’s calling the team’s gp and confirming an appointment for tomorrow morning. It’s not natural for his heart to stutter and thump like that. It could be an arrhythmia.

It could be any number of things.

He hasn’t felt this nervous about a game in years. Sure, it’s a good team, and they have four players that are of his generation, most of them powerful outside hitters that will probably give the Jackals a good run for their money, but they’re not insurmountable. They can beat VC Kanagawa; they’ll have to if they want to advance further in the lineup for the playoffs.

It’s just…

He keeps looking for that seat. Your seat. He’d gotten to the stadium early; opting to forgo the first team meeting, saying he needed to practice his wall drills, work on his spin, but that’s not the real reason. The real reason is something that he doesn’t want to acknowledge. At least, not before a game. He steadies himself, reiterating that it’s not practical or helpful for him to worry about things like that.

Nevertheless, he’s pinned the seat in his mind. He studied it as the lights shuddered on, the maintenance staff flashing him bewildered looks as he stepped into the empty brightness of the court. He’d found it again during the pre-game warmup, onyx eyes committing the location to memory, searching for the little details that he could watch for if he wanted to find it again, later, when the arena was packed with thousands of eyes and waving signs.

As they open the main doors and the seats fill up, he’s still looking at the seat.

“Whatcha looking at?” Hinata asks, his burst of orange hair already slicked with sweat, vivid eyes sharp.

“Nothing.”

The results of Kiyoomi’s physical had shown no outliers, no cause for worry or concern. Everything was fine. He should just get a little extra potassium in, maybe eat a few more bananas in the morning, or after his practices. He’d been a little miffed when he opened the manilla folder, eyes hunting for abnormalities, for a reason, an explanation. If nothing is wrong, then why does he feel like he’s tingling with adrenaline all the time? It makes him light-headed, sluggish, and that’s detrimental to his playability, to his value to his team.

He looks away from Hinata and paces past Atsumu’s arched eyebrow, ignoring the implications of that wicked grin that’s resting on the setter’s quirked lips. It’s fine; he’s fine. His eyes look up to the balcony again. He really shouldn’t be doing that, he reminds himself. It’s a distraction, and he doesn’t–

Oh. There you are.

He can’t make out details, not from this distance, and he suddenly feels self-conscious about his face. There’s no mask. He doesn’t wear it when he plays, and this will be the first time you’ve seen him without it. Suddenly, he wishes he hadn’t cared so much about the visibility of the court. Why did he plant you so far away? If he can’t see you, then there’s no way you’ll be able to tell which one he is either…oh…wait…his name is on the back of his jersey and they’ll announce his number. Nevermind.

The referee calls for the teams to line up and he diligently follows his teammates, standing in his usual spot, ignoring the dull thump of his heart as it beats a ragged tattoo under his ribs.

They won.

They won, and he’d racked up a whopping 23 points for himself, a personal milestone. It’ll be something that will go down on his athletic record, that the local and national news reports will chatter about, that he can feel proud of. He’s glad; you always show him your best, so it’s only fair he does the same for you too.

He’d peeked up at your seat during each time out, each break, every time the momentum shifted, and before he hit every serve. You looked like you had your feet propped up, resting against the metal barrier of the balcony, and he could see that your arms were wrapped around your knees. You were paying attention, and that knowledge made his lungs swell and his pulse quicken.

Now, after he’s finished toweling some of the clinging sweat from his brow and the matted droop of his obsidian curls, he twists back, facing your seat, but you’re not there. An empty curve of plastic greets him and his heavy brows furrow, his fingers dropping the towel onto the bench as they curl up into his palms.

Did you leave? It would make sense, he supposes. The game is over. He just thought you might come down. Might want to talk. Not that he’d have much to say. He never does. Stupid; what would he talk with you about? See the game? Yeah, duh.

The distant voice of MSBY’s public relations manager is calling for him. He’ll worry about it [ you ] later, he thinks, he’s still got a job to do.

During his interview he can hear Atsumu’s voice. It’s annoying. While the setter doesn’t attempt to tone himself down, he rarely talks that loudly. Kiyoomi glances over at his straight back, watching as his hand cups against the back of his golden head, an infectious laugh bursting from his turned lips. Strange. It’s not like him to chat with someone for that long, not when he’s got his own post-game interviews to conduct. He usually–

Ah, it’s you.

Suddenly, questions like: [ how does it feel to be considered for the 2025 Japanese Olympic team? ] don’t matter. His head is half cocked now, dark eyes following the two of you, his comments to the national reporter falling into clipped monosyllables. This is unprofessional; he should focus on the matter at hand, it’s not like him to be distracted.

He’s been thinking about that a lot lately. That so many things are suddenly not like him.

When you push playfully at Atsumu’s shoulder, he lapses into a stormy silence, nails biting into his clenched palms, pressing half moons into his calloused skin. After answering one more question: [ something about his future plans - how’s he supposed to know? That depends on trades, on opportunities. And right now he’s not in the correct frame of mind to answer honestly, not when he can see that you’re right there ] he bows to the smiling face of the reporter, formally concluding his participation in the interview. He knows it’s abrupt; he knows he’ll likely get an earful from the MSBY PR director, from his coach, and from himself, when the full weight of his uncharacteristic rashness hits him, but right now he doesn’t care.

His feet feel like lead and the steps that he’s taking shudder against the gym’s polished flooring. He’s usually smoother than this, more collected, but can’t will himself to stop lurching forward. He tucks his hands into the darkness of his team jacket, coiling his numb fingers into tight balls, and hunches his shoulders. He likely looks like thunder and this suspicion is confirmed when a ball boy scuttles out of his path, eyes wide, but Kiyoomi doesn’t care.

Atsumu hasn’t noticed his approach, but you do, and that shy wave and familiar smile makes his breath catch in his throat. Damn it. What’s going on with him?

Atsumu notices your wandering attention and turns, following your gaze. Once he spots Kiyoomi, he gives him a cheeky smirk, dipping his chin, lazily fixing his amber eyes on Kiyoomi’s arched figure. “Look who caaame!” he calls, lacing his tone with poorly concealed glee. “She said you gave her a ticket. What a great, absolutely original, idea! And you had your record breaking scoring streak today too! Hey! Maybe she’s good luck! Watch out (Y/N), pretty soon we’ll be hooking you up with a personal mascot job if ya’ can light such a fire under our stoic hitter’s ass. Must be something special in that coffee yer’ serving him.”

Kiyoomi narrows his eyes at Atsumu’s blatant needling and the setter chuckles, flipping his focus back to you, sensing the rising agitation that is rolling off of Kiyoomi in waves now. “Well, sure was good to see ya’ again! Talk to me next time, huh? I’ll get you a boxed seat. It’s much better than those nosebleeds in the balconies.”

You shake your head, a smile pulling at your lips, and make a show of rolling your eyes. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, you know? And what boxed seats? Feels like I’d see them if you had them,” you tease, earning yourself a last laugh and Atsumu’s back, a friendly hand waving a last goodbye as he finally strides toward the waiting cameras. Kiyoomi watches him go, his shoulders tense, a feeling of unease settling in his gut. Is Atsumu doing this on purpose?

He almost snaps a retort at his retreating figure, but the sound of your voice immediately snatches his attention toward you. His dark gaze meets yours and the look in your eyes makes his palms feel itchy and his feet scuff mindlessly against the floor.

“This is gonna sound so dumb, but it’s been on my mind since I got here…”

Kiyoomi’s fingers twist in his pockets, coiling over each digit, and his pulse feels like it’s speeding up again. “What?”

“It’s just…well, you look so much younger without the mask,” you let out a small laugh and duck your head, teeth pulling at your lower lip as you face away from his widening eyes.

“Is that bad?”

“No! You look good! Uh, I mean, not that you didn’t…I just wasn’t sure…not that I’d thought about it…a lot…uh, I…yeah, I’m…No, it’s not bad!” You press your hands against your mouth, steepling your fingers under your nose and fix him with a sheepish grin. “Anyway, I know you’ve got things to do, but Miya was right about one thing, you had a great game. I had a lot of fun and it was so nice of you to get me that ticket, and well…”

You pause, lowering your hands to yank your purse forward, fingers digging into the leather before you right yourself once more, returning with a small, zipped bag, and a plastic card that’s balancing atop the metal teeth. “It’s a…well…I sorta tried to think of some things that you might like. To say thanks! It’s nothing fancy. A nail filing kit, because I read that volleyball guys like to keep their hands in tiptop shape, one of those portable ball pumps and some masks.

The masks are from a great company, back home, er, in the states. Well, at least I like them, they’re super durable. And the card, uh, ha, um, the card is to the cafe. I know it’s not super original, but I didn’t know if you liked any other places. And I didn’t wanna assume or — Haha, oh God, I am talking your ear off. Just…here! Take this from me so I can get my foot outta my mouth, okay?”

You press the bag forward and before he can tell you he doesn’t accept gifts from fans, his hands are already out of the safety of his pockets, firmly wrapping around your offering. “Thank you,” he bows. He wants to say more, but he’s not sure how.

He didn’t mean to come by the cafe.

He thought he’d go for a quick run before practice, maybe loop the block, or jog toward the university. None of these things are close to the cafe, but apparently his feet had other ideas. The shop bell rings when he steps inside, wiping some hand sanitizer against his heated palms, onyx eyes alert, already searching for you.

A male barista [ is it Kane? ] greets him and before he can stop himself, he’s asking if you’re there. “Oh, (Y/N)? Nah, she’s off today. But I can make your cortado, you get almond milk, right?”

“Oat,” Kiyoomi replies, voice muffled by his mask. Damn. Why did he come here? He didn’t mean to and now it’s looking like it was a wasted trip. A useless instinct. He’d wanted to thank you properly for your gift, which had been on his mind a lot the past few days. Perhaps that’s why he felt so compelled to jog the extra mile, why he can’t seem to keep away, why he keeps looking for you as he waits, even though he knows you’re not here.

Maybe he can text you his thanks. That would make all of this easier. Oh, wait, does he even have your number? He pulls his phone out of his pocket and examines his contact list, searching for you. No, nothing under your name. Maybe he put it under something else? [ barista? cafe? ] Again, there’s nothing. Damn. Why didn’t he ask at the game? Or when he gave you the ticket?

When he picks up his drink and paces back into the sunshine, he’s still kicking himself that he hasn’t asked for your number yet. It would have made things so much simpler, he reasons, sipping at his coffee; now he’ll have to come back.

But days pass, and he hasn’t returned.

There’s just too much going on. Too many team meetings and late practices. Too much preparation. The pace of his schedule has never bothered him before, but now he keeps hoping for some kind of reprieve.

The other morning Atsumu strode into a meeting with a cup from your cafe, proudly flaunting the familiar label. It made Kiyoomi’s blood boil [ did he see you? talk with you? Did he get to see that addictively pleasing smile of yours? ] and later that afternoon he experienced his first scolding.

“What’s going on, Omi? Five missed digs? This isn’t like you. You look like your head is in the clouds. Come on, get it together. Big game in five days.”

“Sorry, won’t happen again.” It’s all he can say.

When he’s heading toward the team showers, he catches sight of Atsumu’s knowing leer and he grits his teeth, ignoring the huffed snicker and scoffing head shake that the setter sends his way.

Finally, two days later, he’s got some free time. There are other errands he needs to run, things he should do, but the only thing he can think about is you.

He’s walking up from a side street, one he rarely takes, when, at long last, he catches sight of you. You must be on a break. You’re sitting at a bench, facing a small, but well laid flower bed, flipping the pages of your open book languidly as you read under the cool shade of a gnarled tree.

He’s glad he’s wearing the mask that you gifted him.

You’d said that they were durable, and their quality had genuinely impressed him. When he got home, after the game, he slipped them out of their individual plastic cases, fingering the thick, well made materials before washing one. He’d left the others in their containers. He’ll use them, eventually, but not right now. He wants to savor them. He wants them to last.

Kiyoomi is almost to your side when you look up and he bites against his lower lip as soon as you give him that friendly smile of yours, already closing your book and standing, waiting for him to step closer. He comes to a stop in front of you, peering down at you through his dark lashes.

You always smell so nice, he thinks, unconsciously shifting closer, seeking more. You must have showered before coming into your shift because the crisp scent of peppermint and gentle lavender makes his nostrils flare hungrily under his mask.

“Hey there!” you begin, tucking your book into your arms. “Long time no see. How have you been?”

“Fine. I have practice later. I came by the other day. I…” he lapses into frustrated silence, dark brows falling, letting his hands grip at the material of his jacket. Why is this so hard? You, all the others on his team, Motoya [ hell, even the notoriously impassive Wakatoshi has come out of his shell over the years ] can slip into a conversation. Damn it, how can everyone else make this look so easy?

“Saw you’re playing the Adlers soon. They’re the team the Jackals have a sorta rivalry with, right?”

He blinks down at you and lets out a shallow exhale. There you go again. You’re giving him a life raft, a conversation he can fall into, something he enjoys talking about. He remembers his stilted conversation with Atsumu, the one where he did not know about any of the basic things, the obvious things, the things that made you, you. It’s nice that you’re looking out for him, that you’re helping him along, but he doesn’t want to talk about volleyball, not right now.

“We do. How did your finals go? You said you had a dissertation?”

“Oh!” you blurt, your eyes widening, but you’re clearly pleased, even a little excited that he’s asked. “You remembered! Finished it up last week. Now I just need to knock out my revisions and I’ll either go back to committee, or they’ll approve it! I’m hoping they approve it. I’m sick of looking at it, haha.” Your fingers tap against your book and you duck your head, a quick smile passing over your smooth lips. “Uh, did you want to come in for a coffee? Not trying to hold you up, if you’ve got practice to go to.”

“I was the one who came over.” He sounds a little harsh, he thinks, nose wrinkling under his mask. He’s never worried about being blunt, but that doesn’t work here. He doesn’t want to be, not with you. “I mean, I wanted…wanted to say thanks, for the masks and the other things. I like them.” He points to his covered face and you let out a chuckle, gleaming eyes crinkling as you look up at him. Damn, you’re pretty. How has he not noticed that before? He wants to see you laugh again, he’s just not sure how to go about it. Does he even know any jokes? Shit.

“Awe, I’m glad you like them! Speaking of, Atsumu came by a few days ago, I guess you must have worn one around him because he was trying to sniff out if I’d given them to you. He’s a funny guy, but I cannot get a good read on him. It’s almost like he’s doing stuff on purpose, but he’s never blatantly obvious about it. The way he was talking, I was kinda worried he was trying to play a prank on you. Does he like to get under your skin or something? He’s–”

Kiyoomi’s not thinking when he leans down. He’s been doing that a lot lately, not thinking. It makes his skin prickle. Or is that the smell of peppermint on your clean neck, the fragrant lavender in your hair? The kiss is soft; more of a press of his lips than a real caress. But it’s nice, and he actually likes being this close to you, but something feels off and, ah, damn it.

His dark brows knit together, furrowing his forehead, when he realizes what he’s done. He didn’t take off his mask. How stupid. But that shaky gasp of air that you let out when he pulls away, and the following upward lift of your body, your lips chasing his, clearly wanting him to come back, oh that’s so worth it, mask or not.

Your eyes are the first thing he sees when he looks back down, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so perfect. They’re bright, vibrant, and rich with an excitement that makes his toes curl.

The smell of lavender and peppermint, of you, is almost overwhelming, and yet somehow it’s all together, not enough. He doesn’t say anything and neither do you.

What is there to say?

That one, half-formed, touch said it all. It expressed every frustration that he’s felt over the last few weeks, every faded memory of your voice, of your playful smiles, of those hesitant conversations you’ve helped him through. It’s all there, sitting quietly between the two of you, shimmering in the sunlight as you take a step closer and his hands finally fall out of his pockets, waiting, hoping for yours.

“(Y/N)! Break’s over! Coffee’s not gonna brew itself!”

The distant voice of your coworker shatters the euphoria and you tense, pulling away, your head turning toward the barked command as you call out your reply. Kiyoomi huffs out an impatient breath. He wanted to try that again. Do it right this time. How pathetic is he? Kissing you through a mask? But his annoyance dies when you face him again, slipping your hand tentatively into his.

His digits fall limply around yours and he can’t help but marvel at the softness of you. One of his thumbs lifts and he traces the skin along your knuckles, unsure if he’s even breathing anymore. “Come on,” you say, looking down at his touch before lacing your fingers through his, showing him how to hold you. “I’ll make your coffee.”

You’re walking forward and he has the inane urge to snatch you back, wanting to see how the rest of you feels, wanting to know how you’ll fit into his arms, but he distracts himself by following you. There’s a budding warmth that’s spreading from his palm, where your hand rests inside his, to his chest. It feels like a low burning fire is coursing along his veins and his heartbeat thuds out of rhythm, but for once he doesn’t care.

In fact, he thinks he likes it.

He sits in the cafe for too long, his coffee cold, the cup almost empty. But before he leaves [ already so, so late for practice ] he gets your number.

He taps the unfamiliar digits carefully into his device and you watch from the counter, your chin propped in your hand, a gentle smile kissing against your palm. Then he stands, pausing beside you and you run your index finger down his arm, lingering your touch beside his wrist, making him shiver in the warm sunlight, a pleased grin hidden behind his mask.

notes: this man has what, 10 pages of interaction? idk why and idk how, but he is stuck in my brain - like, seriously send help, i think i’m in love.

262 notes · View notes

marvelwritings · 3 years ago

Text

Can't tell me there's no point in trying

Summary: Peter travels back in time, get's a concussion and Tony takes care of him, even though in his mind, Peter has been blipped for three years.

In hindsight, the exact memory of when they started researching how to travel back to the past is lost on him. It’s just that he had been so devastated, after Tony’s death, that his emotions had reached through to the only person that somewhat knew what he was going through. Peter didn’t want to compare Wanda’s situation with his, after all, Wanda was the one that was forced to choose between the love of her life and saving the universe, but the weight of their grief was the same none the less.

Wanda had approached him while he was out on patrol, and though there was not set plan, Peter was willing to try anything to get Tony back. They started of their plan by seeking help from Doctor Strange, and when that hadn’t worked, Peter had snuck in and stole -borrowed as he preferred to call it- a few books that might have been helpful for their goal. Between going to school, patrolling, putting up a front for his friends and aunt -and as of late Happy-, and searching endlessly for a scrape of hope, Peter had worked himself to the bone. It would all be worth it though, if their plan came to fruition.

It hadn’t worked the first time, nor the second time, and neither did the third. Failed enough times that Peter’s heart sunk into his stomach, and that he carefully tried to convince Wanda to try something else. The spell was eerily straightforward with very little need for ingredients, nothing more then saying two sentences and having a personal item of the person they strived to reach, and if they hadn’t managed to work it out in three attempts, Peter assumed, though the idea rendered him dejected, it would never work.

Until he went out on patrol again that night. One moment he was excitedly talking to Karen, animatedly retelling the story of how he managed to stop a bank robbery, as it the AI hadn’t witnessed it, and the next he tried to shoot out a spiderweb to building so he could swing over, only for the web to hit nothing but air.

‘Ow, wow’, Peter floundered, trying his best to reach something and prevent himself from slamming on the ground -again-, but he failed. He banged into a tree at full speed, colliding head first and tumbling down while hitting every branch possible. That was the first sign that should have tipped Peter off. There were no trees in the middle of Queens. Under normal circumstances, he would have considered that, but the heavy impact is not working well in his favor.

Landing on the ground on his stomach with a hard thud, his body, and specifically his ribs, screamed in agony, and he rips the mask off without considering his predicament. Anyone could walk by and see the face beneath the mask. Still, Peter can’t breath with the way his ribs object, but at least without the mask it’s fresh air he inhales.

He turns around and struggles to get on his back. His hand instinctively slide over his stomach, protecting the hurting area. Come to think of it, every area on his body hurts. Peter knows the logistics of cracked ribs, and savvies that even with the aid of super healing, it’s not going to repair in a few minutes times.

He inhales as a small as he possibly can, despite knowing he shouldn’t, and braces himself for running back to May’s and his appartement. He can’t stay here, where anyone could walk up to him and attack him while he’s down. He laughs incredible, at least aunt May, and Tony of he was still here, would be proud of him for calling it a day.

When he blinks his eyes open though, he’s met with nothing but grass and green for miles, and a blurry vision that tells him he has a concussion. While trying to sit up, his visions spins like he’s a part of a rollercoaster, and his stomach turns uncomfortably.

‘Oh no,’ Peter moans, ‘aunt May is gonna kill me.’ It’s the only thing he can say before he has to swallow back bile and decides it’s best to be quiet from now on. He struggles to his feet, stumbling a few times before successfully finding his footing in the grass.

His vision does not clear, but he forces himself to take a few steps in any direction anyway. Wondering if seeing all these trees are because of his concussion, Peter freezes when he hears tiny footsteps approaching the opening his still currently residing in. It’s accompanied by children’s crying, the hairs on his arm standing up at the sound. Perhaps it’s a trap, but Peter has never done well ignoring a child ever since meeting his baby sister.

‘Hello?’ he calls out tentatively, squeezing his eyes shut firmly to clear it, but it doesn’t help.

‘Hi’, an adorable voice answers back to him, a head peeks out from behind a bunch, as if the child is equally as curious about Peter as Peter is about her. He can only notice she does this because blurring colors that inch closer little by little. The girl sniffles, ‘I hurt my foot.’

Peter is out of his depth here. He’s only ever impressed children by swinging them around in the sky, but his body will not allow that right now. Instead he tries to focus on what he would do if Morgan was the one that was hurt. Adopting a tone only Morgan has ever heard from him, Peter crouches down on his knees. His ribs creak in dismay, but he ignores it firmly. Someone needs him right now.

‘Oh that’s not good. Does it hurt a lot?’ Peter himself cannot assess the damage.

‘No I guess not’, the girls splutters, pulling up her foot to show Peter.

‘Okay, that’s great. Do you live for away from here? I bet that if I take you back home, your parents will give you a lollipop because you were so brave.’

‘Oh’, the child cries out in wonder, pain in her foot forgotten completely at the mentions of dessert. Peter can’t help but smirk a little, bribery works on Morgan every time too. ‘I’ll show you, but you have to carry me okay?’

Peter can’t think of a worse activity for his injured body to sustain right now, but he’s not about to let a kid down.

‘It’s a deal, lead the way and hop on up.’ His tone is cheerful, even though he has to bite back pained groans by biting his lip.

The girl shows no hesitation and follows his lead immediately, giggling in delight.

‘So, do you want to play a game on the way over?’

They end up playing I spy with my little eye, which Peter loses every time, and not only because he can’t see straight at the moment. The girl, being clearly very young, is a spitfire, which is good because it means Peter doesn’t have to talk during the trip.

It gets increasingly harder to carry her the longer he has to endure the pain, but he knows that salvation is near when the girl, points to a brown blob in the distance. ‘That’s it, there it is. Put me down, I want to get my lollie now.’

Peter obligates, and watches as she runs without any regard for her painful foot, smiling to himself. He hears the door of the house open, and a male cadence calling out and sounding so joyful he must not have noticed Peter yet. He can only imagine the weird sight that must be, to see a stranger bringing home your daughter, but Peter can’t move away yet. His body has stopped listening to his commands.

‘Daddy, daddy, can I have a lollipop, Peter said I could if I was brave, and I was! He said so himself.’

Peter assumes she points to him, and his smiles weakly, although he’s having trouble even finding the strength to do that. Once he walks a little further, he should rest for a bit, close his eyes for the briefest amount of time. Before it get’s to that point though, Peter hears a glass mug being dropped on the ground. The sounds is piercing in contrast between the quiet forest and the intrusion, but that’s not the weirdest thing.

‘Peter?’ That same cadence exclaims, the voice breaking of the syllable. It’s strange, because for the briefest moment Peter’s mind flashing the name Tony at him, but the man is long gone.

Peter just about handles frowning at the direction, a weird knowingness to the exclamation, like the man somehow knows who Peter is.

‘How do you-?’ The sentence is cut short when a wave of nausea slams into Peter again, and he can’t keep himself upright this time. His knees buckle, his eyes roll into the back of his head, and the ground nearly welcomes him with open arm. Before he can collide with it again however, in such speed Peter can’t phantom the man being fast enough, he instead lands between the mans arms. All the strength has left his body, and Peter can do nothing but let his head roll onto the man’s shoulder.

‘Pepper’, he screams, so shut up it comes across as hoars, pulling Peter even closer to him than thought possible. ‘You’re okay kid, you’re okay. I promise you’ll be okay.’

---

Peter comes too slowly, groggily, as if moving through solaces. The logical part of his brain, of which there is much, screams at him to panic. He doesn’t know where he is, he can only vaguely remember the events leading up to his current situation, and he can’t ensure his safety or anyone else’s furthermore, but the smaller part of his brain soothes him.

Tells him everything is fine and he’s safe. It’s rare that Peter feels that way. Even at home with May in their appartement, there’s a constant need to be alert. Peter snaps awake from every little sound, his body turning rigid from the forceful transition between sleeping and waking up, even if the cause was only a door creaking.

It doesn’t make any sense for Peter to be this tranquillized right now, or any other time for that matter. He groans, pained, fluttering his eyes open to find himself in a dark room with the windows drawn. His eyesight is still blurry, his head is still pounding beneath his skin, and because there’s no acute danger to be detected- his spider senses tell him so, though he hasn’t learned to trust them completely yet- he allows his eyelids to droop closed again.

A warm, calloused hand strikes through his hair softly, while a thumb strikes out the frowning lines that pain flashes put on Peter’s forehead. Peter realizes with a startle that his not alone, and that must mean his Peter tingle has failed him, but can’t force himself to push the hand away. It’s nice to experience a loving touch after so many rough handlings, and the memories of lab days with Tony, car rides with Happy, building Lego with Ned and cuddling with MJ render him immobile. He longs so fiercely to feel safe, to be safe, that he leans into the touch like a cat being petted.

‘It’s okay Pete, just go back to sleep.’ A rough voice rumbles from besides Peter. All the rest he previously had, flies out of the window, as his entire body fill up with adrenaline. That voice belongs to a man that’s long gone, a man that sacrificed himself to save Peter and paid the ultimate price for it. That voice can only originate from a ghost.

Peter practically jumps up, opening his eyes and looking in the direction where the voice came from, but he miscalculated how fast his concussion would go away. He stumbles, faceplanting into the body that held Tony’s voice, and was only held up by the grace of the other man. Again, there were bouts of pain, but not only from his physical ailments.

The fire that Peter imagines to be inside of him, the one that destroys everyone else around him but leaves him, unfortunately intact, burns up from the remnants of his heart. He’s tried very hard to move on from Tony’s death in the past few months, and he had almost convinced himself that he was over it. That would be a flat out lie though, and Peter Parker doesn’t lie. The agony of the situation had just been shoved to the back of his mind, while Peter took on so much so he wouldn’t have to touch upon it, to prod in it. It peeked out every once in a while, when Happy would tell May about his life and an anecdote with Tony would be told, or when a poster with Iron man on it drew his attention, but it’s easier to pretend to be okay then to deal with the truth.

‘Hey Peter, I’m glad to see you too, but don’t get too excited now bud.’ Tony laughs, but the tone with which he says it sounds grief stricken, with the barest hint of hope coating the edges. He lowers Peter back down into the bed, and Peter has to bite back a sob at how comfortable the sheet caresses his skin, and how gentle it is on his wounds.

He shakes his head vehemently, trying to clear it and be able to think logically. He wants so badly that Tony is actually here, but there isn’t any way for that to be true, unless.. Peter gasps, memories piercing through the fog in his head. Unless Wanda managed to do what they set out to do. And that would mean that It’s no weird fever dream. Peter’s hand clench up in Tony’s shirt, pulling him down so Peter can meet him in the middle and hug him. He still can’t see the expression on Tony’s face, but he prepares to be rejected, and can’t find it in himself to care. Even if Tony pushes him away after barely a brief second, at least Peter still did something he had set out to do for months now.

That doesn’t happen. Instead, Tony grabs him even tighter, a gentle hand cupping the back of Peter’s head as he curves his body around him.

‘Tony’, Peter whispers, the first tears starting to track a path on his cheeks. ‘Tony.’ Sobs are building up in the back of his throat, unable to be contained for much longer, and as they escape, Tony doesn’t scold him, or tells Peter to stop, but he starts to rock the both of them.

Peter can’t be sure, but he thinks he feels splatters of Tony’s tears on his shoulders as well.

‘Morgan’, Peter says nonsensical after a while, sobs are still heaving his body, but he’s had experience pulling himself together in need before, and right now he needs to know Morgan is safe.

‘Is she okay?’ he asks Tony, with a clumsy tongue. The crying has made his weak and aching body even more exhausted, the rocks reminding him of babies being cradled and normally he wouldn’t want to be seen as a baby, but he doesn’t care right now. He just want to enjoy being around Tony again.

‘Morgan?’ Tony laughs, sniffling quietly like he’s refusing to let Peter knows his been crying too. ‘She fine, she’s probably playing in the barn again even though Pepper tells her she’s not allowed. She’s a bit of a menace, just like you Pete.’

At that, Peter sobs turn into heaves, his entire body shaking with the force of them. All the grief of the past few months, the guilt that Peter has carried knowing it’s all his fault, is all coming to a head now. It’s his fault that Tony’s dead, it’s his fault Morgan has to grow up without a father, and it’s his fault the world doesn’t have Iron man to protect them anymore. He’s tried to so hard to make it right, but how can he? How can he ever be the person Tony was, when he’s just Peter Parker.

‘Kiddo, please calm down, you’re gonna make yourself sick’, Tony soothes despairingly. He lowers peter again but stays close, his hand going back to striking Peter’s hair. ‘You’re okay, I promise you, I won’t let anything else happen to you.’ Tony is getting chocked up again, but this time he doesn’t try to hide it. ‘Not again.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry’, Peter whispers, his voice wrecked by the amount of crying he has done. He wants to talk to Tony, explain what happened, spend time with him and beg for his forgiveness, but Tony shushes him, and he’s asleep before he can argue.

----

The next time Peter struggles to consciousness, he senses their presence; Morgan, Pepper and Tony, and he knows without a sliver of doubt that its them. He shakes with the knowledge. The room he’s in, his room as Pepper had told him upon visiting for the first time, is scattered with spiderman toys, and even a few posters on to wall to complete the image. The sight is ridiculous, but Peter laughs at it all the same. He tries to keep the smile on his face, but melancholy isn’t easily beat.

At the very least his concussion seems to have gone away since waking up a first time, and all that’s left to remind him he took a fall is a vague pounding in his head, and the nausea. It’s not as bad as before, and Peter takes the reprieve with greedy hands.

The hustling and bustling of the family, alive and well, downstairs is crustal clear to Peter’s advanced hearing. It’s strange, being back in the lake house without it seeming so bleak. After they defeated Thanos, and Mister Stark died, Peter’s mind helpfully supplies, he had only been here twice. Pepper tried her best to come back, to give Morgan a home away from the home they owned in the city, but too much had reminded of the husband she was forced to burry, so they moved fairly quickly.

So it unusually to see it the way it was supposed to be. Lived in, with Morgan’s giggling and Pepper’s pretend scolding voice, with mister Stark chuckling quietly to himself, a perfect little family. It’s supposed to emit a warm, honey affection bleeding through every crack, and it’s a shame it isn’t anymore.

‘Morguna, go play with your toys for a second, I need to talk to your mom about something very important.’ Spying on Tony leaves a bad taste in Peter’s mouth, but he can’t help it. He’s been so devoid of any scraps connecting him to Mister Stark, that he’s willing to forgo manners.

‘Is it a surprise?’ Morgan asks, mirth in her voice. She’s so much younger than Peter ever remembers her being, because he’d never got to witness her at that age. His heart clenches, the hurt still so fresh.

‘You know what little miss, as a matter of fact it is, so you better scoot, or we might not be able to get in time.’

Morgan squeals in delight, and Peter hears her little footsteps sprinting outside. Peter smiles, he knew Tony would be a good dad someday. The downstairs is quiet for longer than normal, and Peter suddenly turns worried that Pepper and Tony caught him.

Then, Pepper speaks up again. ‘You can’t keep spoiling her you know. She’ll turn into a monester by the time she hits fourteen.’

‘She’s fine,’ Tony placates. Peter visualizes Tony pressing a kiss to the top of Pepper’s head, the only weakness the woman has, which he takes great advantages of. The issue seems to be settled, the playful disagreement put to rest.

Peter ponders over what to do next. He’s so extremely awkward, and despite hoping for an opportunity like this one, he has no idea what to say to Tony.

‘Oh Tony, is it really him?’ Peter freezes, so caught of guard by the heartache in Pepper’s words. She sounds both optimistic and demoralized, as though she has had her hopes up for so long she can’t risk it again.

‘It is Pep. I know it is, I saw it in his eyes.’

‘But how?’ Pepper questions extensively. ‘He was blipped, just like so many people. None of the others have come back.’

‘I don’t have all the answers Pepper, God knows I wish I had. All I know is that my kids back, do I need to question why?’

Hearing, outright hearing mister Stark say Peter is his kid, has Peter tearing up, something sharp sticking at his ribs and feeble heart. It hurts just as much as he longs to overhear it again.

‘He might be able to bring the others back. Tony, I get why you don’t want to hear this, but he could be the key to helping millions.’

‘He has to be nothing but healthy alright? Maybe he can help, maybe he can’t, but all I’m sure of is that I’m never,’ Tony’s voice sinks lower and even more venomous then before,’ putting him in the line of fire again.’

I’m okay, Peter thinks, needing to scream it to Mister Stark’s face that he didn’t do anything. It wasn’t up to anyone, just like it wasn’t up to anyone to save Tony either.

‘I’m sorry’, Tony utters, sounding defeated and, honestly, old. ‘I’m sorry, but I just got him back, and I can’t, I can’t lose him again.’

‘It seems like the first step in ensuring it never does it to go up and talk to him. Go to him Tony, say what you couldn’t say three years ago. And’, Pepper swallows thickly. ‘Tell him we all love him.’

Peter’s grateful he won’t be forced to initiate the first move by walking downstairs.

‘Underroos, I’m coming up so you better not be sleeping anymore.’ The flawless transition between vulnerable and slipping into his role a cool role model is staggering, but it doesn’t surprise Peter in the slightest anymore. He’s spend too much time with Tony for that to be the case.

He doesn’t know what to do with his body, how he’s supposed to respond to seeing Tony in person again? Part of him wants to lung at his mentor, while the other part hisses at him to act like a normal human being. Peter ends up sitting down on the bed, standing in front of the door, hiding behind the closet and finally back to bed in the span of however long it takes Tony to reach the room.

By that point, Peter is too distracted by the glimmer of his past to overthink the encounter. He remembers the lego set as if it just happened. It was the first bout of Peter’s interests that Tony listened to wholeheartedly. After the battle with Thanos, it had slipped Peter’s mind completely. He had no idea Mister Stark had this thing in his home.

‘I asked May if I could take it with me, when I moved out here’, Tony says with melancholy, taking a seat by Peter on the bed, but leaving a considerable distance. He’s not looking at the lego set at all, instead dividing his full attention on Peter. Swiftly his eyes roam Peters face and posture, sucking in all the little details Tony hadn’t been able to discern about him after a while.

‘There’s so many of that stuff in her apartment, but this one was the most fun to put together, because it’s the death star you know? It has all this detail and it took forever to make but that’s all good, cause there’s so much detail and-’

‘Pete’, Tony sounds chocked up, like the façade he was forcing himself to wear is already slipping. Peter hasn’t even said anything yet. ‘God kid, where the hell di you come from? I’ve tried everything but I-‘, he takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. Peter has only witnessed mister Stark crying once, so it’s a shock that it occurs again. ‘I didn’t know how.’

‘Mister Stark-’, Peter stops, cutting his own sentence off. Is he even supposed to say anything? Is he supposed to blab the secrets of the future. His Spidey scenes are distinctively ordering him not too, but Peter itches to all the same. ‘I don’t think I’m supposed to say,’ he settles on, ‘with the butterfly effect and all.’

‘The butterfly effect? Kid what in the world are you talking about?’

‘You know, like in the movie, where he can travel back in the past but it always alters things for the worst?’

‘Yeah, I’ve seen the movie’, Tony asserts, almost deadpans. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘Just- just please trust me Mister Stark’, Peter pleads, hands beginning to tremble with the need to reach out for reassurance. The memories of the one complete hug Tony had ever given him sparking a longing in him. ‘Do you trust me?’

‘Of course’, Mister Stark firmly agrees.

‘Then don’t ask me how,’ even to his own ears the desperation is tangible, ‘please.’

Tony clasps his hand on Peters shoulder, a ground weight to which Peters never endings zing in relief. Before he can stop himself, he’s crumpled in, his head on Tony’s shoulder while his hands twist in the back of mister Stark’s shirt. The reciprocation is immediate.

‘I’ve missed you’, He chokes out, feeling rather annoyed at himself that all he seems to be doing is crying. His time here is limited, he can sense it, the hunch that time is of the essence and he doesn’t posses much of it, and he refuses to waste it on more tears.

‘Me too, Pete, more than you know.’

‘I think I have a pretty good clue’, Peter laughs bitterly, it’s not the same really. He’s only been missing mister Stark for a few months, the man in front of him has been missing him for three and will need to miss him for two more years. The buzzing in the back of his head grows louder. Another stroke of Parker luck, he spend most of the time he had with mister Stark unconscious.

Whatever, he can’t change it now, but he has a few more things to say before he needs to leave.

‘Tony’, he begins, using Mister Starks first name to ensure he understands how important this is. He pulls away, just enough to be able to look Tony directly in the eyes, but what he sees there is nothing short of panic. His hand tighten, softly guiding him back but Peter resists.

‘Please don’t tell me you have to go again.’ It seems that despite Peter intent, Tony savvies more than he’d like. Peter smiles bitter.

‘It’s not your fault.’

‘What?’

‘What happened on Titan, when he blipped all of us, me, that’s not on you mister Stark.’ Peter repeats patiently, watching as Tony’s face hardens.

‘Peter-‘

‘It’s not. You couldn’t have protected me any more then you did. I’m sorry it turns out the way it did, but I need you to know it’s not on you.’

‘I should have done more.’ Tony insist, raising his voice a few octaves. Downstairs, Morgan asks Pepper why her dad is so close to yelling. ‘I should’ve, you were my kid Peter, are my kid, and I failed.’

‘You didn’t fail’, Peter yells back just as loudly, he stands up from the bed, subconsciously trying to appear taller so he has more say in the situation. ‘Because if you already failed then what did I do? I’m still here and you-‘, he cuts himself off once again, almost spilling all the secrets.

Tony approach him like he’s an animal that needs to be handled with care. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, but I’m a grown man Pete, I can take care of myself.’

‘But I-‘

‘Ah, ah, ah, not talking back, I’m the adult here. Zip it kid. How about this, we’re both not to blame alright?’

Peter isn’t convinced Tony believes that, but it’s still a weight of his shoulders to have said it to Mister Stark, maybe, in the future, when he pins the blame on himself once more, he’ll think about this moment. He nods.

‘I have to go now Mister Stark’, The words tumble out of his mouth before he realizes that it’s the truth. Whatever is going to happen next won’t wait much longer.

Peter walks over to the window and opens it, ready to swing out after saying goodbye. He can’t go and see Pepper and Morgan, it’ll upset them as much as it’ll upset him. He’ll see them back in his time.

‘Wait,’ Tony screams, as I Peter was going to leave without a goodbye. The embrace he pulls Peter in is heavier this time, loaded with the upcoming goodbye’s. It’s still nice though, and Peter enjoys every second of it. Tony presses a kiss to Peter’s temple then holds it there when he asks; ‘How long do I have to wait before I see you again.’

Peter swallows painfully and considers lying to make Tony feel better but, ‘two years’, he eventually confesses, figuring that he can at least give that little piece of information.

Mister Stark simply hums, but Peter notices his tears nonetheless. With one last, solid squeeze, Peter wiggles out of the embrace and tries to stall his own tears. It would hurts less if he could go back to find Mister Stark there, if only he had a way to warm Tony.

He’s pretty sure he can’t go into too much detail but; ‘Mister Stark, when it happens, please hold on. I can’t lose you either.’

‘Okay Pete,’ Tony assures, his hands shaking with the urge to drag his kid back, safe in his arms. ‘After this is all over, we’re going to hold a movie night okay? With pizza.’

‘And Star Wars?’ Peter asks hopefully. Mister Stark laughs, his eyes wet. The smile is all Peter demands before he jumps out the window, not waiting for an answer. He prays that he’s done enough without messing anything up. He hopes.

---

When Peter makes it back to his own time, his phone pings with a message.

It reads; ‘Hey kid, still up for a movie night?’ send by Tony Stark.

#peter parker #tony stark #pepper stark #morgan stark #spiderman #peter parker imagine #tony stark imagine #spiderman imagine #post avengers endgame #happy ending #nobody dies #irondad #spider son #hurt/comfort #hurt peter parker #protective tony stark #marvel imagine #marvel #the avengers

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kiki-shortsnout · 3 years ago

Note

For intimacy prompts: #17 laying your head on someone’s shoulder for Frostiron! 💚❤️ Thanks!

I'm back!!! Sorry it's taken so long, but I'm back to answer my prompts! Thank you so much for this one! I enjoyed writing this!

***

Loki stumbled as the Bifrost set them both down, too exhausted to shake off Thor’s steadying hand on his elbow, his brother’s own exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. Loki had no strength left in him to make a jest about Thor’s overprotective tendencies, instead looking around the Midgardian cityscape he’d come to think of as a second home, his limbs limp.

Part of his atonement for his war crimes was to take a more active role in defense of the planet he sought to enslave. His mother and brother’s pleas not to imprison him swaying his father from a harsher sentence. He was a…tolerated member of the Avengers, a proverbial thorn in the side for most. He’d formed a tentative, begrudging respect towards the Black Widow, but he was a constant source of irritation for the rest of them.

Well, someone needed to keep the Avengers on their toes.

Loki was still called upon to keep Asgard and the realms it protected safe, and that was where he and Thor had been, subduing marauders on Vanaheim, listening to whispers of an event called a Convergence was impending, a cataclysmic occurrence that had them all on edge.

It felt as though his very bones rattled as he trudged across the roof of the Avengers Tower beside Thor, like his skin was stretched too taut over the excruciating ache of his muscles. As they came into the hanger, they both looked around, used to having at least one member of the Avengers greet them after their excursions off world.

Despite being used to being treated with distrust and trepidation, the bitter sting of their rebuke still penetrated the fatigued miasma clouding Loki’s brain.

He’d managed to convince one Midgardian that he was not the nemesis that all perceived him to be, that it was an illusion he portrayed to hide the crippling weakness he felt. This one Midgardian had seen through Thanos’s manipulations of his mind, had shattered the deception he shrouded himself in. It was Anthony he looked around for now, bewildered as he was met with nothing but silence, not even JARVIS speaking to them.

‘Is Earth under attack?’ Thor questioned, wiping the grime from his eyes as he frowned, moving towards one of the huge windows. Loki reformed his daggers as he took a step forward, ears straining to hear, his body sluggish and unwilling to cooperate.

The door at the far end of the room creaked open, and Loki teleported beside it in an instant, flinging it open and pointing his dagger at their enemy.

‘Pepper?’ Lowering his dagger, he immediately noticed she looked as tired, if not more so than the both of them. Her usually glossy hair was dull and frazzled, wisping around her face in auburn tufts, her eyes encircled with grey smudges.

‘What has happened?’ he asked, his words curt despite how he’d promised Anthony he would respect this mortal. It was an easy promise to keep, treating the two people Anthony treasured above all with care. Loki genuinely liked Pepper, her attitude, her bravery, her fiery temper. He and Rhodes tolerated each other, their mutual like for Anthony the only thing stopping them from attacking each other, settling instead for snide comments.

‘It’s Tony, he…he’s been really sick, Loki,’ Pepper gasped, her lower lip trembling as she swayed into him.

‘Where is he?’ Loki demanded, catching her by her shoulders. It was as though his body had been invigorated with lust for battle, any fatigue he’d felt moments ago burned away. Instead of the adrenaline he usually felt under such circumstances, his body felt cold, terror seeping down the back of his throat, stroking its clammy fingers across his skin.

Why wasn’t I here?

‘He’s in his room now-’

‘Where was he before?’ Thor asked before Loki could even put words to the thoughts scattering in his mind, the guilt webbing in his lungs, tugging at him with every breath.

‘The medical bay downstairs…JARVIS has the most extensive anatomy files because of the arc reactor and-’

‘Thor, look after her for me,’ Loki ordered, teleporting away despite them calling after him.

Anthony was huddled in his bed, the numerous blankets piled on him quivering as he trembled. The sickly scent spiraling in tendrils through the air made Loki recoil. This…was not something he was comfortable with. He’d never cared about another enough to warrant any actions of concern from him, had never been able to see past his own arrogance and selfishness to consider others.

‘An…Tony?’ he called, scared at what he was going to find, at how sick his mortal was. He’d seen Tony sick before, seen him with what they called a cold, all snuffy nosed and demanding and clingy. This silent, still, Anthony frightened him. What ailed him so? What illness had made Pepper look like a shadow of herself? Why had he needed to go down to the medical bay? Loki had seen Anthony after a battle, had seen him spit venom at any who dared suggest he seek medical help when he was injured, only allowing Loki to tend to his wounds hours later when the pain had grown too much to bear. Even then, he’d pretended it was for his own sake, that he was the one who couldn’t bear to see Anthony in pain.

He took a step backwards, wanting to flee, wanting to escape the fear plucking at him. He’d been in countless battles, fought with odds against him, had stood and waited for punishment by his father. This, seeing someone he had grown to care about like this…why was this affecting him so?

Anthony had reached out a hand in friendship despite all the atrocities he had committed in both Midgard and Jotunheim, the countless lives he had taken and lasting repercussions, Anthony Stark had given him a home, a means to make penance for those he had wronged. He hadn’t forgiven him, not straight away, that had taken time and trust to develop between them.

It was that belief in him, an emotion that so few beings were unwilling to extend to him which made Loki fall in love with the Midgardian, a feeling he had not given life with his words yet. It was this unnamed feeling which made him shove all his selfish fears aside.

Anthony needed him.

‘Anthony?’ he called again, peeling back the covers, his breath hitching at the sheer heat radiating from the man.

‘Hey,’ his voice cracked, his lungs rattling as he drew in a breath, hands tightening from where they were wrapped around himself in a pitiful hug.

‘What…what happened, should you even be here?’ Loki asked, dropping to his knees by the side of the bed, his hands hovering over Anthony’s body, uncertain, scared to touch this fragile creature.

Anthony rolled over in bed, and Loki was horrified at the sunken look to his skin, the waxy grey pallor, the red-rimmed eyes.

‘Oh, beloved,’ Loki breathed out, his hand stroking through clumped together hair.

‘Not a pretty sight,’ Anthony wheezed out. ‘You should’ve seen me a few weeks ago.’

Weeks? He’d left him behind in a worse condition than this for weeks?

‘How did your health deteriorate so fast? You weren’t in this condition when I…’ Loki’s eyes narrowed when Anthony’s gaze dropped, one of his tells when he wasn’t telling the entire truth. ‘You were ill when I left.’ Loki didn’t phrase it as a question.

‘Honestly, Lokes, don’t-’ Anthony’s protest was cut off with a wracking cough, the sheer force of it scaring Loki, sweeping aside whatever anger that had been beginning to build a few moments ago.

‘Why did you not tell me? If I had known-’

‘Thor needed you,’ Anthony said weakly, sagging back into his pillow. ‘Besides, this isn’t…this isn’t what we do.’ He closed his eyes as if the mere act of breathing pained him.

He was correct in his assumptions. They laughed, talked, had sex…keeping everything light and frothy and pleasurable, avoiding anything that encompassed feelings, vulnerabilities, neither wanting to be beholden to the other. It was a foolish act on Loki’s behalf, wanting to keep a distance from attachments, fearful of what Anthony could mean to him.

‘Move aside,’ Loki commanded, shrugging off his cape and unfastening his arm bracers.

‘Loki, what?’

‘Unless me joining you is going to impede your recovery in any way?’ Loki hesitated, suppressing his smirk at Anthony’s interested, fatigued gaze on his now naked torso. Lying beside his mortal, Loki gathered him in his arms, arranging them so he was on his back, Anthony half on top of him, his head on his shoulder.

‘Listen to me,’ Loki whispered, the words delicate, but infused with such meaning that it made them hang thickly between them. This was a precipice on which he stood, a moment he had read about in countless epic sagas. The hero baring the depths of their love after a heroic deed, or a noble act of self-sacrifice… not holding a sickly mortal. ‘I am not…not very good at this,’ Loki finished, his voice trailing off pathetically.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,’ Anthony said instead, wriggling his body closer, enjoying the cooler feel of Loki’s skin. ‘I’m a shitty patient, and I didn’t want you to see me like this.’

That Loki could understand. Only his mother dared to face his wrath when he had been sick, her gentle hands and calming voice the only things he would tolerate. But there was a deeper meaning behind Anthony’s reasoning too, the unwillingness to reveal a weakness, the fear of being abandoned.

‘I am not angry you did not tell me. I am infuriated with myself for not recognizing the signs of your ailment, of leaving you behind for such a long period of time when I know you do not like seeking help.’

‘Then what-’

Loki clutched his mortal closer, resting one hand on his brow to both to measure Anthony’s temperature and to cool him down.

‘I have never felt this way towards another being, mortal or not. I am sorry that you felt as though you could not tell me you were unwell, that I acted as though my intentions towards you were not serious. You plague my waking thoughts, my unconscious dreams, beloved, there is none I would rather be with.’

Rather than receiving a heartfelt confirmation of Anthony’s own feelings, the mortal stiffened in his grip, his rattling breathing halting. Fearful his illness had gotten worse, Loki rose a little from his waist so he could look down, confused at the angry frown Anthony was displaying.

‘Anthony-’

‘This is going to keep happening,’ he interrupted with a snap. ‘My insides are completely wrecked, my lungs, heart… Christ my liver…they’re all damaged and I’m not as young as I once was. I don’t know about you, but this is a wakeup call for why we shouldn’t be fooling around…let alone catching feelings for me.’

‘It is not for you to tell me my feelings are wrong,’ Loki admonished gently.

‘Loki, look at me. I’m a mess. I got a simple cold and it morphed into pneumonia. I might be out of the medical bay, but it’ll take weeks to-’

‘More of a mess than I am? Loki, the God of Mischief who manipulated my brother into going to war with my birth world, who allowed myself to be manipulated by Thanos-’

‘Loki you were tortured…’

‘And I threw you from a window, killed innocent people.’

Anthony didn’t answer that.

‘I know my actions of New York were not wholly my own, that I agreed to invade under duress, that my thoughts were not my own. Anthony, those thoughts were not just placed there by Thanos. I had always regarded Midgard as a lesser race. Those emotions might have been warped and heightened, but they were my own. I tricked my brother into a war against Jotunheim because I was jealous of the attention my father bestowed on him. These are not trivial things to be forgiven. They are sins I will atone for the rest of my life, and still, you found a way to love me.’

Anthony’s breathing hitched, turning into a cough, and Loki ran a comforting hand over his back to calm him.

‘I care not if your body is injured, that you are more susceptible to illness. It does not make you weaker in my mind, it highlights the battles you have endured, the strength it takes for you to continue living,’ Loki told him, lifting a hand to place it over Anthony’s arc reactor, protecting it. Despite his earlier fears earlier, the words he spoke were the truth, and it pained him that he had waited so long to tell him.

Even as he held his sick mortal close, wishing he could create a spell to eradicate any vestiges of this illness, Loki was plotting. He wouldn’t let Anthony be snatched from him by something trivial like time or illness. Technically he needed his father’s permission for his plan, but he knew his mother would see his way of thinking, would be happy he had found another to share his life with.

‘Feels like you’ve been shortchanged here,’ Anthony grumbled, settling his head back down against his shoulder.

‘I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds like you are degrading yourself after I’ve confessed my feelings for you. This is meant to be a momentous occasion and-’

He laughed as Anthony silenced him with a hand over his mouth.

‘Alright, alright, you’re lucky, I’m a peach, I get it.’ Anthony burrowed closer, his sweat-slick hands wrapping around Loki’s middle.

‘Next time, promise me you will tell me if you are feeling unwell.’

‘You had to go- ‘

‘Nothing is more important to me than you. Father and Thor can protect Asgard. We have an army for that reason. I will always fight for Asgard, for its people, but not if you need me.’

Anthony squeezed him close, his legs twitching as he drew closer to sleep.

‘Thank you.’ Loki felt the words formed against his skin rather than hearing them, and he smiled, holding Anthony closer.

‘I love you too,’ he whispered when he was moments from sleep, and Loki didn’t respond, knowing his beloved needed rest, that he would be here to watch over him while he slept.

#writing prompt #fanfic prompt #thanks for the prompt!#thanks for the ask!#frostiron #tony x loki #tony stark #mcu loki #sick fic

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genesisrose74 · 4 years ago

Text

Christmas With the Karasuno Boys (HC’s)!!

Part 2: Kageyama, Hinata, Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, Kinoshita, & Narita

Part 1 (Daichi, Suga, Asahi, Nishinoya, Tanaka, & Ennoshita) here!

A/n: Tumblr said my word count was too much so I’m splitting this bad boi up into two parts :p Enjoy!!

*****

Kageyama

This boy has a secret soft side for Christmas istg

He HATES showing it to other people on his team and shit

But holy bejeezus he is mesmerized by the holiday in every way possible

Lights, sweets, snow, just like,,, the general magic of December is the most awe-inspiring thing to him

Since he is still a sporty and pretty active mofo, you decided to fuel that on your holiday-themed date as Kags had noted that he’d never gone sledding before

Your jaw was on the FLOOR when he first told you because he would 10000% enjoy the hell out of it

And so you dragged him out to this popular sledding hill that you frequented as a child and taught him what to do

Not gonna lie, he was kind of nervous

“Well you’re experienced at it. I don’t wanna mess up”

🥺🥺🥺 bubby

“You won’t, Tobio! I can already tell you’re gonna be a sledding pro”

Feels a little better after that, but he asks you to help him out for his first run down the hill

He sits behind you with his arms secured snugly around your waist and his head nestled on top of your shoulder

Which would probably seem really funny to passerby because this boy is tol and intimidating in most other situations

As soon as the sled started down, Kags tightened his grip and made this cute little yelp of surprise

But you were laughing insanely hard at the combination of going really fast downhill whilst also having your boyfriend cling to you for dear life

And then when the sled stopped safely at the bottom he started to chuckle

FULL ON, GENUINE SOUND OF ENJOYMENT

That shit is rare

Y’all stayed at that hill for half the day because it was so fun

You got him a new, very high quality athletic roller for Christmas because his old one was just not cutting it anymore

And you also gave him this really cute bracelet with a volleyball, his jersey number, and a little strawberry milk set of charms attached to it

It matched this really pretty and subtle chain he’d bought for your birthday

His blueberry eyes got all wide with affection dfjdskfjsdk—

Got super blushy and couldn’t get a handle on his speech for a fat minute

He thinks you’re the coolest person ever no I do not take criticism

Geez you’re both adorable together, ideal “stoic boy becomes warmer during the holidays around his love” movie plot and I love it

Hinata

He is all in on Christmas. Not a chance this boy doesn’t get excited as hell

Will openly go into holiday mode as soon as November is over

Was secretly already listening to his Christmas playlist before then

He is one of the sweetest gift givers, that is FACTUAL

If you want something really badly, he will take notice and get it as your present immediately

He’ll also gift you an extra thing that’s handmade 🥺

Like some pastries that his mom helped him make, or a specially made basket of soaps with your favorite scents in it

It’s absolutely adorable and you cherish those ones especially

Is happy if you simply get him something; mans doesn’t care what it is

New practice volleyball? A brand new sweatshirt? Elated either way

You had seen an advertisement for a friendly match between Japan and Poland’s men’s volleyball teams, so you waited online on the ticket sales website until the minute it opened

Spoiler alert: you got some banger seats 😌✨

Shoyo may or may not have tackled you when he read the ticket details, letting out his excited giggle (you know the one)

“I can’t believe you got these, angel! You’re coming with me, right? You’ve gotta! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Gives you sweet little kisses between each individual ‘thank you’

“Of course I’ll go with you, Sho! I’m really glad you like it!”

He will give you the brightest smile of all time — that shit makes Christmas lights pale in comparison

“Have I told you how much I love you?”

RIGHT BACK AT YOU BBY

Hold his hands to warm up together when temperatures drop pls :)))

It’s become a weekly December tradition to watch a Christmas movie with Natsu at the Hinata household

She’ll sit in your lap while the three of you are cuddled under a blanket together, and Shoyo will lace his fingers with yours all discreetly

In conclusion, I am a sucker for holiday Hinata 🥺🥺🥺

Tsukishima

His room is decorated to the very minimum simply because his mom and brother had insisted on him being festive

You know those holiday instrumentals that are really calming and jazzy and stuff? Yeah, that’s the only Christmas music he will tolerate in his house

While he’s still got his usual icy demeanor, this blond bitch does get slightly less snippy with the Karasuno boys

Is always on the nose with getting you the exact thing you wanted for a present

Like,,, TO THE SMALLEST DETAIL

You don’t even have to bring that shit up beforehand, he just KNOWS

“Tsukki, how did you—?”

“It’s pretty obvious, with the way that one ad kept showing up on your phone.”

b r u h

How does he pay such good attention without even letting on??

As for his own present, you’ll usually get him two: one gag gift and one more serious gift

His dino plush collection size is partly due to the former’s contributions this time of year

Yes the dinos have names

You exchanged gifts on Christmas Eve with all the team (you made him go) and he saved your more serious one for last

It was a scarf that you’d gotten custom made, which had a Spotify code knitted into the fabric

Scanning the code opened the app to a playlist you’d created especially for him

He got pretty quiet when figuring it out and scrolling through the playlist

Would let out a certified Tsukki Nose Exhale™ when he came across certain songs

The more subdued reaction was expected because it’s Tsukishima

His little chuckles and warmer eyes were enough of a giveaway to tell you he very much enjoyed your gift

But on the walk home, he took the scarf and wrapped it around you both, and then brought his arm around your waist

“Thank you.”

You deadass almost combusted because it was so unexpected??

“You’re welcome. Merry Christmas, Kei”

Way to respond calm and collected 😌👍

But on the inside your body was in freak out mode

He wears the scarf all the time jdfsklfjdsk

Yamaguchi

Take the most tooth rotting fluff you could imagine

And then double that and put a fucking cherry on top

That’s the equivalent of what Christmas is like with Yama Yama

Y’all are like kids in a candy store — literally

For your Christmas dates it’s all about sweets and shared giggles, so frequent trips to the candy and baking isles of the grocery store is a must

Making gingerbread houses, peppermint tasting (mostly trying those different and wild ass candy cane flavors), you name it and it’s there

Stomach aches? I don’t know her

Yeah you do but they go away with enough butterfly kisses 🥰

Tadashi is exceptionally good at decorating gingerbread houses for whatever reason

He put a poll on his instagram between yours and his final products and he won by a landslide

It’s not like yours was necessarily bad, more like he’s just an icing master

You also might have eaten too many gumdrops which left your rooftop lacking in ✨spice✨

But it’s okay because Tadashi donated some of his leftovers to you

He’s such a sweetheart uwu

Please for the love of everything get him something heartfelt as his present

You know those long distance bracelets for couples?

Basically if your s/o taps the icon on the bracelet it’ll send a little vibration to the other person’s as a notice that you’re thinking about them

This boy seeks constant reassurance, and you love to give him his deserved love and validation, so it was the perfect present

It takes a second for him to figure out what it is, but after reading the directions and testing it out, the most adorable smile erupted on his face

And then since you already had yours on, he tapped the little icon again with a giggle

“Hey there”

It becomes common habit to tap it at least once every couple hours

GOD HE IS SO CUTE

He is just so soft this time of year, give him all the love and he will return it tenfold ☺️

Kinoshita

This boy is absolutely an awkward cutie and an avid romantic

Give him the cliches and he will eat em up, no doubt

It naturally gets more apparent around the holidays

He’ll take you on pretty winter walks, give you lots of little gifts (while blushing a hell of a lot), and is just a professional at stumbling upon some mistletoe

Wow wonder how it got there, Hisashi

He’s quite a bit more confident when simply alone with you than in a crowded space

And that definitely shows when he takes you out on a secluded sleigh ride around town

Yeah you heard me

A fuckin’ sleigh ride

Horses and blankets and everything

Don’t even ask how he managed to pull it off, because he loves watching the cogs turn in your head and simply will not give you a straight answer

Of course there’s the nice driver guy who’s there, but in the back alone Kinoshita’s confidence goes 📈📈

Lots of flirting, tons of skimmed touches and shared giggles throughout the ride

I legitimately simp really hard for him

Anyways it was a gorgeous ride through town and super fun

On Christmas Eve you both exchange gifts together and tbh whatever you got him will leave him happy and flustered regardless

But when he opens the wrapping paper to find an entire set of vintage VHS tapes, he’s stunned

He owns a VHS (actually canon!) and honestly loves it to death, and the fact that you’d get him tapes of pretty high quality for his collection meant a lot

Gosh he’s so underrated but a definite sweetheart, give him all the holiday love

Narita

Another underrated bby 🥺

He’s so chill and is pretty open to anything during the holidays, so long as he gets to spend ample time with you, his friends, and his family

Definitely more of an indoor person despite being accepting of most situations

Hence why you thought a cute little indoor winter picnic would be right up his alley

Which it absolutely was 😌✨ nice work

You’d made plans while in secret communications with his family members about the whole thing

He’d been pretty stressed lately with trying to handle his schoolwork, while also helping out others with theirs

Despite being a wonderful tutor, it was clearly becoming a bit overwhelming as he tried to grapple with so much at once

So when he came home one day to find a pristine house with you settled on a blanket in his living room, he was quite surprised

There’s a cheese plate, soda cans in a cute ice box, sandwiches, snacks, a presparked fireplace — you and his family went all out

Really adorable I cannot lie

“I thought you said you were going gift shopping today?”

“I might have maybe lied :P”

So he gives the sweetest little smile and sits across from you

Y’all stay there and talk for hours

After finally getting through everything previously laid out on the blanket spread, you slid him a little rectangular box that he looked at curiously

“Already? I haven’t wrapped yours yet!”

“Mine can wait a bit! Just open yours”

And so he does, and you watch with a face-splitting grin as he looks down in awe

You got tickets to see his favorite rock band in concert while they were on tour

He sprung onto you and pulled you into the tightest hug ever

“Holy shit you’re the best I love you so much how do you get even more loveable every day—!?!l”

It’s a jumble of words but you’re able to put it together and it makes you giggle

He deadass sprints upstairs to go get your gift and make sure that you feel as equally appreciated as he does

In simple words: wholesome holiday sweetness 🥰

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sweetpickolwarrior · 4 years ago

Text

The Three Times You Didn't Want Them To Hear You, The One Time You Did (Part 1)

Established fic

Small!Brown!Female!Reader

Not too apparent but just letting you know in case.

TW - canon-typical violence, description of fighting, blood, gore, swearing, sexist language, description of injury, descrioptions of anxiety/panic attacks

Fic summary:You have been travelling with geralt and Jaskier for quite some time, you had always been told that your voice would take you places before you had no choice but to abandon your previous life. You still loved it though. This fic explores the times you let go and let yourself sing.

Chapter Summary: The first time Jaskier and Geralt heard you sing. This was not planned. Tis a big deal for you.

Jaskier had grown used to Geralt's constant pining for silence, his rumbles of discontent and years of “shut up” and "fuck off" while he plucked away on his lute and let melodies fall from his lips. Though he knew that under all the furrowed brows and bitter growls, the witcher appreciated him.

Truth be told, coin had often been halved, quartered or suddenly 'stolen' away from lords, knights and nobles alike rendering them incapable of paying the witcher even after monsters had been slain...that is until the ballad had started to follow him like flies after shit. Since then, some noblemen would actively seek him out for any twig crack in the woods to then invite the trio to a throwaway dinner party so they could show off the white-haired champion if they caught word of him within three towns.

Naturally, he resented the very idea of lingering about these people any more than he already had to, being talked about, sung about, danced about, treated like some sort of trophy workhand for these tittering idiots. And of course, Jaskier leapt at the opportunity to perform for the more rosy-cheeked, satin clad crowd, and you often just went along with whoever won the squabble, enjoying either a night of Jaskier singing atop a table in a tavern or atop a table in a banquet hall. (Though the latter often left you with a heftier rattle in your pouches and warm beds, baths and linens for a few more nights.)

How you would have wanted that a few months ago.

About six months earlier

It was bound to happen sooner or later, travelling with two men and often having to settle for a bed on the ground. Not that you often minded, but that night, after a longer than necessary altercation with a couple of alghouls, you had crashed into your bedroll, not bothering to clean the blood off your face let alone off your arrows and out of your clothes.

You woke that morning to aching bones and a musty stench you wanted to be rid of as soon as possible.

The grass was dewy and sweet-smelling as you turned to the other side, letting the sun stroke your cheek good morning. You saw roach tied to a nearby tree and had concluded that your companions had wandered to the next town for supplies. You had been running low on a good few essentials for a while now and were grateful that your companions had let you slumber away, knowing you didn't fuss too much over anything they would get from the market.

You opened your pack and grabbed two lumps of soap before heading to the river that had lulled you to sleep that night. The first, a dry lye soap made simply and quickly, good for getting "blood, shit and grit out" as Geralt so elegantly put it. And the second, still wrapped in wax paper, the last few crumbles of a soft, fragrant lavender soap you had made yourself. You had saved so many dried flowers from where you could, hung and dried them on the side of your satchel, scraped the bottom of vials clean for drops of various oils into your little bottle, olive, sunflower, even a little of Jaskier's special coconut oil. Cooking a soap over the campfire was a waste of wood in Geralt’s eyes, but you could tell the soft scent calmed him as it wafted through the air that night.

You smiled to yourself as you finally stepped into the river, the edges warmed by the kiss of the sun.

You peeled off your trousers and walked further in, letting the water lap at your thighs growing used to the cold quickly. Rubbing the soap into your trousers, you watched as the blood slowly swirled out in front of you and saw as your fingers started to go from angry splotches of red and black back to that natural, warm brown. Your shirt stuck to your skin and hair, caked crimson. After all this time, you still could not believe how much things bled. Your mind flashed back to the alghouls from last night as your fingers worked through cleaning your formerly beige overshirt.

It should have been easy. Just two. You were only there to watch how Geralt wielded his sword for a few, usually weak opponents. His silver sword heaved thick strokes through the air, his feet danced around his opponents and you let your arrows loose from afar, aiding your friend as another got too close for your liking. The specially made silver tips slicing through skin and bone, causing a shriek. It turned and caught another arrow in its shoulder, bounding toward you. Frantic, you simply held out your next arrow in your hand, ready to impale it as it drew near enough. But you froze. Was this one of the ones you had to get in a specific place? Drive it through the heart? The head? Why was it still running? Surely two silver arrows should have been enou-

shhhlllck

Geralt unseamed the creature through it's abdomen from behind and drew his sword up and through it’s head as its blood gushed over you and the last few gurgles escaped what was left of its throat as it crumpled before you in a horrid mess.

"You're too slow up close. It would have had you."

He was right.

As talented as you were with a bow and arrow, able to get a man in the eye from half a field away, your experience with close combat was laughable. Usually, you had time to think, plan out your shots, you didn't even have to deal with blood until you retrieved your arrows. You probably would have had your face ripped off. Or your throat torn out. Or something.

You place the sopping shirt next to your trousers on the bank and scurry back with the lavender soap in your hand. Once you've thrust yourself back into the gentle river almost chest level, you start to hum a soft tune, trying to ignore the murky red all over, instead focus on the light scent of lavender and the gliding of the soap through your hair. You close your eyes and let your mouth fall open, a melody plucked from a memory now dull and faded, the sound clear and bright.

Losing yourself in the rises and falls in the melody, voice opening and notes falling out as your muscles remember what it is to have sound flow and gush from your belly out into the world. No body, no mind, no cold, no blood-

All of a sudden, a loud brightly coloured heap burst through the foliage and breathlessly plunged into the river, flailing erratically. You attempt to preserve your unmentionables with your hands, your lilting voice turning to shrill yelps. You submerge yourself lower, shoulders barely peeking out over the disturbed waves. In contrast, the intruder, exploding out of the water as frantically as he fell in, spluttering and coughing “Y/N! You can - cough - sing! You can sing!! - cough -”

Oh, thank the Gods.

“JASKIER! GO AWAY!”

“But Y/N! -cough - You sounded lovely! I-”

“I’M NAKED JASKIER FUCK OFF!”

Jaskier slapped his hand to his eyes immediately and scrambled back up the bank, stumbling as he managed to regain his footing and ran off, his back to you whilst still covering his eyes.

You had not expected them to be back so soon. Truth be told you had not known how long they had been gone when you woke but then why hadn’t you heard them coming back?

Not focusing again. Fuck! You know you can’t afford to get lost in your own head again, stupid girl. What would have happened if it had been someone else hearing a-

He heard. Geralt too probably with his enhanced senses.

Fucks sake.

It had just been so long since you had let your voice be free. You hadn’t let your companions hear you so much as hum on your travels as you were sure that it would make you come across as a silly little girl. With Jaskier it was different. He is a poet, a bard. He had been studying it for many years whereas you had pipe dreams growing up like every other lass in the village. You sang in school with a wide smile and a voice that rang like a bell, you sang on holy Fridays with fingers interlaced and the plume of your mothers rouge on your cheeks. Nothing compared to the grand halls and festivals that Jaskier would perform at. Gods you hoped he wouldn’t speak of it again. You were sure that they would take you even less seriously now.

You’ll show them

Just go back to camp and pretend it didn’t happen. Say there was a girl wandering nearby and Jaskier should go and chase her before she is lost to the woods forever.

If this carries on, get yourself killed or someone else hurt. You know that Geralt can’t let that happen. He’ll probably drop you off in the town and wish you luck because you’ve become more stress than your skills are worth. You get it, you do.

It will just be so hard getting used to being alone again.

Your head is spiralling again. You need this to stop. You think of the meditation that Geralt showed you. You can't meditate, you're still naked in a river! Tears escape your eyes as you just can’t organise your thoughts into any kind of action. You can't run naked through the woods, you can't turn up in your sopping wet clothes, you’re no help on hunts, you’ve let your biggest comfort turn into your biggest embarrassment because you just can’t think straight.

“Y/N! I - I’m not looking! I have your clothes you left them back at camp”

You look up to see Jaskier was inching closer, eyes covered by one hand, your dry pair of clothes draped over his other forearm. He was inching closer, his toes probing to see if he had gone too far. Once his foot had felt the sploshy bank he stopped and held his arm out. You were sure that he had not heard you cry but you didn’t want the lump in your throat to give it away. You rose out, plucked the clothes from him and he promptly scampered off, one hand still across his eyes for some reason. You let out your breath, finding it had slowed due to holding it in for so long. You wrung out your hair as much as you could before flinging your trousers and shirt on with shaking hands. You were sure you could sleep right on into the next day.

At camp

Jaskier had fumbled back to camp, drenched and squelching till he could hear the soft wooshing of roach’s breath. Geralt was sat, sorting the things they had brought from market.

----------

Jakier was stumbling giddy from when he had first encountered the river, his mind rushing as he made his way through the trees.

That voice! Hesitant, yet rich and full and resonant. Thick with the weight of being tied inside her chest, it would take some practice to let her voice flourish and fly like he knew it could, but that was no matter! With his brief but busy year being a professor at Oxenfurt under his belt, he scoured through the plethora of exercises and scales that he had stored away. Her warm tone, he thought, would contrast beautifully with his chipper and airy voice.

In his head flashed scenes of the two writing together, performing together, studying together. Jaskier, Poet of the continent accompanied by-

“What did you do Jaskier”

The voice came firm and gruff, as opposed to the often exasperated or gentle (rarely was there anything in between) tone his witcher friend usually employed when he was addressing the bard.

Jaskier’s ear wide grin faltered as Geralt towered over him.

Knowing the flirty way of Jaskier and seeing him dripping before him, hearing the shout of “IM NAKED” and honing in his ear, he was presently hearing the soft gasps of Y/N, he could not help but draw himself to conclusions, knowing that human men, even those whom one trusted could turn to be worse than the monsters in his quests. When the fathers and trusted lovers of innocent women could turn as quickly as the page of a book, what was a loose and often unashamed bard that he happened to know for a few years?

He grabbed the young man by his soaking collars

“What the fuck did you do”

Somewhere between a growl and a roar, the words seethed from Geralt as he heard Y/N’s sharp breaths mix with sobs she was trying to silence.

After that night, he knew his small friend would need some time. They had both been exhausted, his head pounding from the potions he had used, he didn’t speak much to her apart from some abrupt criticism after the last alghoul was taken care of. He didn’t know much about teaching or guiding, or comforting for that matter, but he figured letting her sleep in would do no harm and he had bought some apples for her to feed roach. That helped him. The thought that she should be thrust from one horrid altercation to another at the hands of his first companion filled him with rage. These thoughts raced through his head while he attempted to decipher Jaskier’s words through this sudden wave of protectiveness.

Jaskier was chuckling, almost about to pat his massive friend on the head like an overreactive hound,

“I fail to see why you’re so wound up, dear witcher. I simply sought to find the source of the singing, and it turned out to be Y/N! Marvellous isn’t she?”

“Why are you wet.” Geralt demanded.

truth be told, he was so used to hearing Jaskier’s voice or lute, he simply dumped the noise into that category. Thinking back, it was different. Still musical, but different. Jaskier’s sound seemed to sit on the wind and flit and glide like a bird while this new sound was earthy, full, round, blending with the flow of the river and almost raw, coarse and slightly unsteady like a horse that had run for the first time out of market.

“I was simply mesmerised, Geralt. " he sighed, sagging slightly in the bigger man's grip " I was convinced it might be a water nymph, that I might catch it, steal some ideas for melody and- and then let the poor thing go of course, but”

“Why is she crying Jaskier”

The girl’s sobs had subsided slightly, but her breath was shuddering and shallow. He knew when she got like this, it was hard to get back down. He had expected it sometime today but usually, he could smell the fear rising, notice the scrunching up of her small frame, and make sure the trio were alone, quiet, ready.

“Crying? Whatever do you mea-”

The focused and worried look on Geralt’s face clicked in Jaskiers’ head and he felt a wave of guilt wash over him

“Oh gods, shit. Shes alone. What do I do Geralt? Can you hear her?”

The stream came pouring out his mouth as he paced around the camp, his eyes landing on a pile of neatly folded clothes.

“ Jaskier go back and give them to her. Slowly. She’ll come back in her own time”

Geralt listened intently while Jaskier went to return the garments. It surprised him that the sound of his younger companion trying to catch her breath like it was a feather in the wind was the same person who had made such a pleasing sound not very many minutes ago.

It stopped.

He couldn’t hear her breathe, but Jaskier was calm. He heard the rustling of clothes and the damp footfall of the bard returning. He turned his attention back to her again. He was afraid that after the episode, holding her breath would cause her to topple back into the river. Stupid. He should’ve thought of that beforehand. She didn’t. Strong lass. He heard her breaths less shallow as her hair dripped and her clothes were back on.

He was reassured now and started to take out the apples from the small fruit sack.

“Well if she was crying, she isn’t any more” stated Jaskier, almost reassuring himself that his clumsiness couldn’t have hurt his friend.

He proceeded to look for his woollen blanket, laying it out carefully, waiting for his friend to return.

A/N

Thank you so much for reading! Its the first time I've started writing after a long time, if you have any constructive criticism please leave it in the comments :)

I've started a new AO3, Tumblr page and page on Fanfiction.net which will hold my fics too. same username :)

I am very pernickety when writing which is why it's been hard for me to upload anything in the last few years and why it might take a little time for me to upload new chapters but please stick around :D

PART 2

mwah x

107 notes · View notes

jadethest0ne · 4 years ago

Text

In need of Refueling, Chapter 12 - “He was supposed to be”

Summary: “You?! Why would I trust you? You have brought me nothing but failure. Time and time again; nothing but disappointment!”

His father’s words might have been a result of his possession by the White Bone Spirit, but whether or not they were his true thoughts, Red Son vows to prove them wrong. To do so he seeks to attain a power strong enough to destroy his father’s immortal enemy. After all, he’d much rather throw fire at his problems.

Word Count: 3241

Ratings/Warnings: Teen and up; injury, burns, angst and hurt/comfort, toxic thoughts caused by toxic parents, panic attacks, abuse

Notes: Red Son is brooding, Mei finds out that Red Son is Sandy’s house guest, and Sandy is trying his best to deal with two rowdy teens.

Credits: Big thanks to @painted-arachnid and @simplyfornardo for helping me bounce ideas off of them. And also thanks to @lemonsqueazie for providing me with “Journey to the West” lore. I don’t know much about the original novel or other iterations, but I still tried to keep some things compliant with the lore. You should check all of them out, since they’re really great content creators with neat ideas!

Read on AO3

———-

All in all, Red Son had received a lot of injuries from his conflict with his father. Broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, a broken arm, burns, hypothermia (including a lingering cold sensation all over his body that refused to go away), a sprained ankle...

And no powers.

That last one gave him pause. Injuries could be healed with time, and as a demon, he was a fast healer. But he did not know what happened to his powers. Were they really all absorbed by his father’s armor? Were they then extinguished by whatever that Noodle Boy did? He didn’t even know that it could be extinguished. It had to have been though, because based on what little he could get out of Sandy, the Monkey King had survived the conflict. Red Son isn’t sure how he feels about that. Sure, he had attacked him and intended to have him defeated by his father. But that’s not how things turned out. That’s not what his father wanted. And despite him giving the Samadhi Fire to his father, which is what he thought he wanted, that turned out to be disastrous as well. Were his parents even alive? And if they were, what would they want with someone who had nearly gotten them killed? What would they want with a son who didn’t even have any powers? In this state he was useless. Relying on the enemy, no less. How shameful.

Red Son had tried a few times to activate his powers. Each time he was met with not even a puff of smoke. If his parents thought he was a disappointment before, what would they think of him now?

At the very least he was making progress physically, and could hobble around the houseboat a little bit on his own. The Blue One said he could leave when he was better. But where could he go? He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to just be able to do something about it. But he could no longer simply throw fire at his problems. And no matter what anger and vitriol he sent Sandy’s way, the blue giant simply refused to be upset at him. Why didn’t he just kick him out? He certainly deserved it! His own parents likely wouldn’t want him around, why would an enemy?

So when he wasn’t yelling at Sandy, or his numerous cats, he just withdrew into himself. Fuming with no fire. Brooding over his current situation. What was the point anyway? A small part of him wanted to know if his parents were okay. As much as he was sure they would hate him, they were his parents, after all. But the thought of trying to find them terrified him in a way. On one hand, if they were alive, he was useless to them like this. If they weren’t… well, he didn’t want to think about how that would mean that it was his fault if they were dea--

Red Son angrily throws the closest thing near him across the room, which happened to be a mug of tea that he was holding. It flies across the room just missing a few cats who leap out of the way with an indignant hiss. The cup breaks apart and spills its contents all over the floor. He takes some seething breaths, before a voice speaks up next to him.

“Well that’s a much stronger throw than before. At least you’re healing!” Red Son had forgotten that the Blue One was there. He had given him the tea in the first place after all. Red Son had just gotten lost in his musings and forgot about the ever-present, overly pleasant companion. The big man goes over and gets a broom. “However, maybe we could find other, more constructive, ways for you to release your anger?”

“Ugh! Don’t try to give me life lessons! What are you, some sort of life advice guru?”

The Blue One laughs heartily, while picking out some of the larger shards. “No, I’ve just learned how to control my anger via anger management therapy. And I’m always open to listening if you want a friendly ear,” he says brightly.

Red Son can’t imagine this guy ever being angry, and the idea of talking about his feelings makes his stomach bubble in disgust. “What? So I can give away all my family’s secrets? Why would you care anyway?”

The Blue One shrugs. “I just do!” He pauses and thinks. “And also, maybe I could ask you to maybe not throw my cups and scare my cats…?” He ends the last part in a hopeful lilt.

“No promises,” Red Son grumbles.

“What do you normally do to de-stress?”

“Destroy my enemies.” Red Son looks pointedly at Sandy.

“Ah… um… would throwing fire around (preferably in a contained area) help?” Sandy asks hesitantly.

Red Son scowls. “No.”

“Would you like to try contacting your parents…?”

An uncomfortable flutter pangs in his heart. “No.”

“What about, er, a hobby or…?

Red Son is getting fed up. “WOULD YOU JUST STOP!” he shouts. “We are not friends! We are enemies! You are the good guys! I’m the bad guy! The villain. Stop trying to be all buddy-buddy with me! If you’re trying to change me or get me to open up, it’s not going to work!”

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to figure out what would make you feel better… Maybe healing up at your place would make you feel safer…?” Sandy looks truly apologetic, but Red Son is already too worked up to care. Furthermore, bringing up the possibility of going to see his parents causes that fluttering feeling to worsen.

“No! I can’t go back! I--”

Sandy raises his eyebrows. And Red Son shuts his mouth suddenly realizing what he almost revealed. The Blue One nearly had done it! How dare he. He hates him for that. For his stupid honest niceness. He hates that he is here. That he let down his father, again. That he has to rely on a big-hearted idiot of an enemy. He needs to leave. He doesn’t have anywhere to go. But he needs to leave.

He clumsily slips out of bed and does an awkward combination of stomping and limping past the Blue One and towards the door, ignoring the giant’s protests.

He swings open the door and he sucks in a surprised yelp as standing on the other side of it is a girl with green highlights in her hair, and pigtails sticking up from behind, with her fist to the door poised to knock on it. It’s the Dragon Girl. The two stare at each other. They exchange blinks of confusion.

The Dragon Girl is the first to react. Her surprised features shift into a look of pure rage. “YOU!” she shouts.

She flings herself at Red Son, elbowing him in the middle and throwing him across the room. Pain explodes from his various injuries, especially from his ribs and chest area. He crumples to the ground and barely has time to react as she is pulling a sword on him. He rolls out of the way, under a table and pulls himself up using an adjacent book case. He slips a little bit, and is forced to put weight on his injured ankle, which burns horribly, but he needs to get away from this crazy and enraged attacker.

He leans on the far end of the bookcase and holds up a hand. “W-wait!” he wheezes out before he devolves into coughs and choking gasps. He stumbles as he backpedals away from another swing and falls again to the floor. He grabs desperately at anything in his surroundings that can help pull him up, but the pain drags him back down again.

The tip of the sword is pointed at his center and he flinches back. He can’t do much but cough some more. When no attack comes, he chances a look up at his attacker. She’s looking at him with a paranoid gaze, which flickers up and down in confusion, but she does not lower her weapon.

“What are you doing here, Red Son?!” she yells.

Red Son does his best to regain his breath. When he does he shouts back, though not as loud or as strong as he wants it to be. “I was brought here, Dragon Girl! By your blue friend, no less! So- so back off or I’ll burn you to a crisp!”

The threat is empty. He knows it is. And even if she doesn’t, she knows she has the upper hand. He can’t hide his injuries or look powerful, half curled up on the floor and locked down by her sword. But he won’t appear weak. Not to her.

“Mei!” calls the Blue One, as he stands up from the floor, stepping carefully over the glass on the floor and rushing into the adjacent area to move between the girl and the demon.

“Sandy! Are you okay? What is Red Son doing here? Is he hurting you? Is he--”

“He’s injured!” Sandy says with some amount of exasperation quickly shuffling over and kneeling down by Red Son’s side. He puts a hand on the demon’s back and offers another for him to take to support him. Red Son stays silent and looks down, as Sandy helps him up.

“What?!” Pure incredulity drips from the Dragon Girl’s voice. “Are- are you helping him?!”

When he’s able to set Red Son upright, and leans him against a nearby cabinet, he looks to the girl and rubs the back of his head absently. “Er, yes, I am.”

She continues to give him a questioning look.

“He was hurt!” Sandy says simply. “I had to, Mei.”

The girl looks between the two of them, before sighing and lowering her sword. “I was wondering why we hadn’t heard from you much.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you guys. I was hoping to tell you first instead of you finding out this way. Are you… mad?” The big man looks small, like a child revealing that they had snuck a cookie out of a cookie jar.

“It’s not you I’m upset at, it’s him. I don’t trust him. You could get into trouble. What if the Demon Bull family comes and attacks you? What if he burns down the houseboat?!” Red Son gets dizzy at the range of emotions that cross the girl’s features and body language as she talks, from a distrusting glance to panicky waving arms to exaggerated sweeps of her entire body. He remembers why he finds this group so annoying. And even moreso, he is annoyed at being left out of the conversation.

“Excuse me, I am standing right here!” he says with as much afront as he can muster.

“That’s the problem, Red Boy!”

“It’s Red Son to you, Dragon Girl!”

“Oh and now who is getting the names wrong?”

“I don’t stoop to uttering the names of peasants!”

“Shut up! You shouldn’t even be here! Do you know how much pain you caused! Sandy is here helping you, and you don’t deserve any of it!”

“Now now--” Sandy tries interjecting, but is caught in the middle of a now shouting match.

“That’s because you’re all so styoooopidly sappy! I’m GLAD I attacked you! You weaklings are too noble for your own good!” A smile spreads on his face seeing he’s getting under the girl's skin. It made him feel stronger. Shouting let out his pent up frustration from earlier. And banter with the Noodle Boy’s friends made things feel normal for once.

Mei shouts back at Red Son, contempt and hatred dripping from her words. "You hurt my friend! You nearly destroyed the Monkey King!!! You and your dumb dad! I bet DBK is proud of you!"

Red Son’s smile drops immediately and something in him snaps at the mention of his father, and before he can stop himself, the words come out. "HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE!"

There is a beat of silence and Red Son had a moment to realize what he said. He hadn't meant to bring up his father in such a way. How weak is he that he keeps revealing his inner thoughts to his enemies? His heart hammers against his ribs in shame and embarrassment, and he’s about to babble out some excuse, when the Dragon Girl speaks instead.

"He was supposed to be what? Destroyed?"

What?

"Well, you know what? You failed to destroy the Monkey King. And it was the Monkey Kid who beat both of you!"

A spark of relief lights in Red Son's chest. The girl thinks he was talking about the Monkey King. Not his father. She had misunderstood his shout. He pushes down his shock and embarrassment, and forces a well-practiced sneer onto his lips. "Y-yes! The Monkey King was supposed to be destroyed! You just got lucky, that's all!"

The girl gives him a hate-filled look. Just the way it should be.

But when he looks over at Sandy, he sees confusion. And… sadness? Perhaps a bit of worry. Well, they should be worried and sad and angry at him! They should both be afraid. And weakened or not, Red Son isn't going to let them forget that he is still a force to be reckoned with!

He fixes the Dragon Girl with what he hopes looks like a dangerous scowl. "Next time I'll be more thorough in my destruction!"

The girl doesn't look quite as frightened as Red Son would've hoped, but at the very least she clamps her loud mouth shut. She then sighs and turns to Sandy. "I don't know why you helped him. I don't think this is the kind of guy who can be saved."

Red Son's chest burns uncomfortably. It must be because of that shove she gave him earlier, exacerbating his wounds, and not the hopelessness of her statement.

Sandy shrugs and replies simply, “I've got to try, don't I?"

The girl's lips spread in a small smile of understanding and pats the large man's arm. "Yeah, and that's what's cool about you, my friend."

Sandy beams widely. But his expression switches to nervousness. "You won't tell the others, will you, Mei?"

She quirks an eyebrow up and gives him a look. "Sandy, MK is my best friend. I tell him practically everything," she deadpans.

Sandy wilts a bit, but the girl gives him another reassuring pat and says, "But I'll ask them to leave him alone…,” she shoots Red Son a dark look as she finishes her statement, “...for now.” Switching back to something more friendly, she returns her attention to Sandy. "So you better come clean yourself, soon, and give us a better explanation."

"Of course!" Sandy brightens.

With that the girl exits the houseboat, leaving Red Son and Sandy alone.

There is silence between them. Sandy looks at Red Son, and the demon does his best to not notice.

“Did she hurt you much?” Sandy sounds both worried and a bit embarrassed.

“I’m fine.” Red Son says too quickly.

Sandy comes closer and reaches a hand towards him. Red Son flinches back and the motion causes his whole body to wobble. Before he can fall back down, Sandy catches him. Red Son goes stiff and Sandy makes sure to give him some room once he regains his footing.

“Sorry.” Sandy shifts where he stands. “I noticed that one of your bandages is loose.” He gestures to a bandage on his wrist. “I may have to check you over again and re-do your bandages… If that’s okay…?”

Red Son’s chest burns again. He hates this. But he nods anyway. “Okay.”

Slowly, Sandy goes about washing and re-bandaging Red Son’s wounds. Luckily nothing was hurt too badly, but some bandages did come loose during the scuffle, and a few deeper burns had to be cared for.

They stayed mostly silent throughout much of it. Until Sandy finally spoke up. “Did you mean what you said earlier? About how ‘he was supposed to be.’” He was sitting behind Red Son working on some of the bandages on his back, and Red Son was glad for this so he didn’t see his eyes widen in alarm.

“Of- of course! I definitely meant to destroy the Monkey King and bring him to my father as a prize.” Red Son tries to keep his voice steady.

Sandy is silent for a moment as if trying to find his words. “Were you really talking about the Monkey King then? Not… someone else?”

“I-- don’t know what you mean…” The words come out stiff and stilted.

“I thought…” he began, before giving a sigh. “I guess I misinterpreted what you were saying.”

“Yes, I suppose you did.” Red Son answers curtly.

After a bit more silence Sandy continues. “Have you made any progress with your powers…?”

Red Son twists around suddenly giving Sandy a wide-eyed stare. “How did you know about my powers!?” The movement hurts, but the ache of sudden vulnerability is worse.

“I noticed you trying to throw some fireballs and stuff over the past few days… And also you didn’t attack Mei. Or me, for that matter. So I just… guessed”

Red Son feels small. Like the world is pressing in around him. The Blue One’s large form, not helping. And the pain radiating from his wounds makes the sensation worse. He pushes himself away from the blue giant as he starts shivering again, the cold suddenly feeling more apparent. Everything is suddenly fuzzy, like when he first noticed that his powers were gone. But now Sandy knew, and his friends might find out. And if they found out, then maybe his parents would know. They’d know just how weak he was. His chest is pulsing with pain and he isn’t sure why. It feels like the Dragon Girl hitting him over and over again.

Warmth is suddenly draped around him. The downy sensation of a comforter holds his form. He notices that his breaths are rapid and that’s what was hurting his chest. “Breathe,” a voice calls. So he obeys. Slowly, his breaths return to normal. The blankets surrounding him give the feeling of being cradled, but not trapped, and the warmth brings his trembling to a minimum.

“Red Son,” the voice he now recognizes as Sandy calls. “Do you hear what I am saying?”

The demon looks up, meeting the Blue One’s eyes, and gives a short nod.

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. I don’t think you are weak. You are just injured and healing, and that’s okay. I won’t tell anyone,” Sandy’s calm voice is reassuring. But Red Son worries about how much he might’ve just babbled.

Sandy gives him a few more moments to calm down before talking to him again. “I finished working on your bandages. I can get you some tea if you want.” Then he gives a small knowing smile at him. “If you promise not to throw the mug…”

Red Son looks the gentle giant up and down. He slowly shifts into a more comfortable and relaxed position on the bed, and huddles down into the blankets more. He doesn’t smile, but he sounds and feels more like himself in his response. “No promises.”

Sandy’s smile reaches his eyes and he goes off to make more tea.

Red Son manages to not throw the mug this time.

start || <– previous // next –>

#lmk #lego monkie kid #monkie kid #in need of refueling #red son #sandy #mei #angst #hurt/comfort #comfhurt #injury #panic attacks #fanfiction #lmk fanfic #lmk fanfiction #my writing #jadethest0ne #inor

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miceenscene · 4 years ago

Text

Star-Crossed

din djarin/female oc | soulmate AU | pre-canon

wc: 2.2k / 4.9k (so far)

summary: The Way was not supposed to be a solitary one. People, house, clan. And when all else failed, your Match. “Fits like a Mandalorian Match” was the old saying. Though it wasn’t so long ago that it stopped making sense. But what's a lost Match to a man like Din Djarin?

warnings: canon-typical violence

Previous Chapter | Masterpost | ao3

Chapter Two: The Question

Din Djarin did not have a Match.

He couldn’t.

How, why didn’t matter…

He just couldn’t.

Right?

This Woman with a small dark spot high on her cheekbone and finely calloused hands and wearing his shirt couldn’t be his Match.

She just… couldn’t.

It was just coincidence that he was pulled into her orbit, like a comet desperately seeking gravitational equilibrium.

And it was coincidence that she apparently felt the same. Even foggy as she was.

She still had not said a word, did not reply or even react when addressed, but she always floated in Din’s direction when he stepped away.

Which wasn’t very often.

The urge, or ‘bond’ as the Armorer called it, was only satisfied if she was near.

The pair of them were something of a side-show in the covert for the evening.

Even through beskar and dark visors, gazes felt heavy on Din’s shoulders.

Outside the covert, curiosity – whether hostile or benign – was expected.

But here? Never before.

He thought about leaving. But as confused as she was, dragging her, barefoot, back through the streets of Nevarro, even just to the ship seemed unwise.

So Din found a spare room in the covert–The Woman following in his wake, fingers still threaded with his.

It was barely more than a door and two stone benches that could pass for beds if needed. But solitude was necessary for his kind.

He found himself hoping she’d speak once they were alone.

She didn’t.

But she did grow tired before too long. Not surprising given her recent clinic visit.

“You can sleep here,” he said, gesturing to one of the benches embedded in the wall.

She did not reply. Or move.

He was not used to being the verbose one.

“Here.” He offered her his cape, threadbare at the bottom but warm enough. She took it, thumbs brushing across the fabric.

Nodding once, he moved for the door.

She followed.

“You need to sleep. I’ll be outside.”

He stepped back and she stepped forward.

“No–” he huffed in minor annoyance. Turning her around by the shoulders, he guided her to one of the benches and sat her down. Gently by firmly. “Sleep. ...Please.”

He stepped back once. Twice. She didn’t move.

On the third step, she made to rise, but his hand outstretched stopped her.

He at least made it to the door before she stood back up.

He surrendered with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll stay here.” Sitting down on the opposite bench from her. “Satisfied?”

She apparently wasn’t as she drifted to sit on the bench, hand fitting into his as she curled up next to him.

A beskar pauldron couldn’t have been a comfortable pillow, but it might as well have been down-filled silk for as quickly as she dropped off.

He waited an hour, then two, just to be absolutely certain she was completely asleep, listening to her gentle breathing turn deeper and slower. Then he eased her off his shoulder to lie down, leaving his cape for her blanket.

She didn’t stir as he headed to leave the room, the door hissing open in front of him.

Stay.

A fist pressed to the front of his helmet for a minute in frustration.

Stay.

There’d be no peace if he resisted.

So he sat down in the furthest corner of the room from her, tipping his helmet back to rest in the crook of the walls.

Her sleeping form was the last thing he saw as his eyes drifted shut.

But when they opened a few hours later, the bench was empty.

His head jerked up only to realize that The Woman had simply moved.

Her head now rested on his collarbone, his arm wrapped around her, her hand clasped in his, pressed tight to his cuirass.

Something high in his chest cracked, fissures reaching magma flow far below, and his next breath quaked.

Beskar cautiously pressed to the top of her hair was not perfect, not even ideal.

But the alternative was terrifying.

The next morning dawned and The Woman still had not spoken, still drifted in a haze where Din was her only heading.

“I don’t know what to do with her,” he said, in the early afternoon, back in the Armorer’s forge.

This time with The Woman at his side, hand in his as always.

“I have work to do.”

“Take her with you,” the Armorer replied.

“I can’t do that.” His work was dangerous enough without spacey tag-alongs who did not listen to reason.

“She won’t be happy to stay here. And neither will you.”

Silence seemed the better reply than admitting how correct she was.

“Can you keep her here while I get supplies?”

“Yes.”

Din was never a meandering purchaser, but it was perhaps the shortest supply run he’d ever made. And that was with the addition of finding clothes and shoes he hoped would fit her.

Karga even made mention that he ‘seemed awfully anxious to get going’. But he coughed up four new pucks after a solid minute of silence.

The Woman was waiting at the western entrance of the covert when he returned and followed along happily back to The Razor Crest, now dressed in nondescript pants and tunic that suited the weather.

He set her down in the co-pilot’s seat and started the engines. Cleared for take off. Coordinates plotted. But first––

Turning back to face her, she looked his way, eyes still distant. “If you want to be taken somewhere, just tell me.”

As if that diffused the uneasy energy of leaving a planet with her.

Again.

She seemed entranced by the pulsing blur of hyperspace, eyes wide and unmoving from the windows.

Seeing as there was just one bed aboard, it made sense to sleep in shifts.

Though every time, he woke to her sitting at the cabinet opening, holding his hand.

He really couldn’t bring himself to mind.

He’d never had many passengers aboard his ship before, at least ones not stored in carbonite. But when he had, they felt like an intrusion. Something to be stepped around and removed at the soonest possibility.

It made very little sense why The Woman didn’t fall into the same category.

The first quarry was on Felucia. Seemed a group of bandits had been making life difficult for the local villages, difficult enough to pay Guild rates to have the base cleared out and the leader brought back in carbonite, ideally to be left in there.

The Woman was sleeping when they arrived. He hoped she’d remain that way in the time it took him to finish the job, which he didn’t think would be long. There were two dozen bandits at most, ill equipped and even less trained.

He slung his rifle over his shoulder and paused to rest a hand on her shoulder.

Stay.

“I’ll be back,” he said in a low tone, before forcibly ignoring the bond and heading out.

Return.

Unfortunately, in his admittedly distracted scouting of the base, he missed the patrols they were doing of the surrounding forest.

Which is how his nest was stumbled on by some truly lucky trandoshans, who just happened to have back up already on the way, and Din was disarmed, cuffed, and taken into the yard behind the walls of the base.

Not ideal, but he’d been in worse setups.

Though the odds tilted out of his favor when the head of this bandit ring was revealed to be an ex-storm trooper sergeant. That had not been in the briefing.

No wonder there were forest patrols… and imperial grade handcuffs.

At least they let him keep his helmet for the time being.

However, they were unfortunately interested in how he’d gotten to them. A search party was immediately dispatched to find his ship.

They hadn’t been gone more than five minutes when suddenly,

Danger.

Oh no.

The Sergeant’s comm link activated. “Ship not yet located, but we did find something else, boss.”

“What?”

“Kursan is bringing her to the base.”

No. No. No.

“Well, well, well. This yours, Mando?” the Sergeant laughed as The Woman was brought into the yard at blaster point. “What��s your name, sweetheart?”

The Woman did not answer. She tried to step away from Kursan, but his grip on her arm stopped her, blaster pressing to her back.

“Let her go,” Din said. “She’s not part of this.”

“Oh, so, she’s up for grabs then?”

The Sergeant chuckled when Din did not reply. “‘Cause, ah… I know she’s not a local. And it’s not everyday beautiful women come wandering through the forests of Felucia.”

Danger!

He grinned. “This just got interesting. I know you Mandalorian types. Torture doesn’t bother you. Rip your lungs out and you still wouldn’t talk.” The Sergeant swaggered over to one of the weapons racks, picking up a bo staff. “You’re big on honor, loyalty. But more importantly, Protection.”

The Sergeant turned back to face The Woman, regarding her closely. “I wonder how pretty her face will be after I’m through,” he said quietly, steadily.

Rage breaking through control, Din pulled at his cuffs but they held strong.

“Leave her alone!” Din snapped.

Danger. Danger. Danger.

“Tell me where your ship is.”

Din gaze swept through the area, hopping from his restraints to his captors, seeking alternate routes. Desperate ploys. Anything.

The Sergeant did not wait, bo staff meeting The Woman’s ribs with a crack. She cried out and dropped to her knees, arms wrapped around her middle.

“Tell me where the ship is.”

With a swift inhale, the Sergeant lifted the bo staff for another swing–

“It’s on the ridge. A klick and a half due south.”

The Sergeant grinned again. “There. Now was that so difficult?”

He swung the bo staff down towards her–

“NO,” Din yelled–

The Woman’s hand caught the staff, mid-swing.

Her head snapped up. Snarl on her mouth.

She snagged the staff sideways, through the Sergeant’s grip, and gouged it into Kursan’s stomach.

His blaster fell to the ground. She grabbed it.

One shot, Kursan was down.

Second shot, hit the middle of the Sergeant’s cuirass, making him stumble back, and she got hold of the bo staff.

One quick swing knocked him to the ground.

Din used the cover of surprise to knock his blaster out of the hands of his guard.

Grabbing it, one shot to kill that guard and a second to kill the other.

The rest of the battlements finally caught on and opened fire into the yard.

The Woman ran for cover behind a parked imperial shuttle as Din tried to draw as much attention as possible away from her. Still cuffed, but at least he had the beskar.

A post under the battlements was as best cover as he could find. But it gave him a clear view of the opposite wall. Another shot, another guard fell.

A body dropped right in front of him, shot down by The Woman on the other side of the yard.

Who was she–no. Curiosity could be dealt with later, right now he was just kriffing grateful.

In tandem, they methodically took out the guards on the wall.

But Din lost sight of the Sergeant in the chaos.

He found him again when the Sergeant and The Woman came around the shuttle, bo staff and axe swinging furiously.

Din rolled out of cover, getting the last few guards she left behind above him.

The Sergeant blocked her high swing, but wasn’t ready as she brought the bottom up between his legs.

Then around to sweep his feet out from under him again.

Din turned and fired, hitting the gap between his cuirass and pauldron. The Sergeant collapsed.

The Woman turned on Din, gun back out and pointed his way.

One last guard, buried in cover, popped out and got off a single shot that pinged off Din’s armor.

Without looking away from Din, The Woman fired and the guard fell.

Oh.

Silence filled the yard as she turned her gun back on Din.

Her eyes were clear now, scorching in their fury. He was far more likely to die by her hand than any of the bandits.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Din had never seen anyone more miraculous.

He dared a step closer, still cuffed, blaster in one hand but lowered.

Her grip tightened on her gun.

Probably best to stop moving so the conversation didn’t begin in gunfire.

Her grip flexed again, and her brows flickered together.

Help.

“It’s alright,” he said in a calm, low tone.

She didn’t care much for that, fury flaring brighter.

Frustration became palpable as her mouth opened but no words came out.

She was straining for something, tension pulling her muscles taught. The hand on her bo staff shook once, till finally–

“VAII,” she demanded, the single word wrenched from her mouth with a great deal of effort.

It’d been so long since he’d heard mando’a outside of the covert, it took a moment for the word to register.

“Vaii me’bana?” he asked when she didn’t clarify. Where-what?

“Vaii!?” she repeated, after a shorter struggle.

“Felucia.” He hoped that was what she was asking.

Frustration and fury simmered down into confusion. Mouth opening again but no words coming out for a moment.

“Tion?” How?

Somewhere inside the compound, an alarm sounded.

Next: Chapter Three: The Promise

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#din djarin #The Mandalorian #the mandalorian #pedro pascal #din djarin x ofc #The Mandalorian fanfic #Din Djarin fanfic #soulmate au #Star Crossed #my writing #my shakarian bg is really coming thru in clutch :P

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stutterfly · 5 years ago

Text

Swipe Right 01 | Context Switch | JJK (M)

Rating: M (Explicit 18+)

Pairings: Jungkook x Reader, brot7 x friendship

Genre: E2L, fluff, angst [later on], humor, [eventual] smut, PersonalTrainer!Jungkook, fuckboy!Jungkook, Nerd!Jungkook, Nerd/IT!Reader

Word Count: 12.8K

Fic Summary: Jungkook wasn’t always like this. Or maybe he was and you don’t want to admit that he had you fooled. You quickly discover he has a lot more to offer than exchanging pleasantries and awkward small talk. In fact, he never seems to shut up.

For the better part of a year, he’s held your irritation hostage, never passing up an opportunity to deliver savage one-liners at your expense. When he discovers you’re on Tinder, he turns up the brattiness factor and intentionally seeks you out. Who knows? Maybe if you gave him a chance he could charm the pants right off of you. Then again, maybe he’s just a fuckboy.

Tags: Fuckboy Jungkook, like cannot stress enough Fuckboy Jungkook but gets soft later, dirty jokes, talk nerdy to me, PUNS, friendship feels, sexual tension, Jin being bad at copying Mario’s accent, Namjoon being bad at accents

CW: panic attacks, filthy language, this whole chapter is setup so like nothing too bad i dont think???

Series: Activate your SIMCard Fic: Swipe Right (1/?- Ongoing) Do not repost. masterlist // next chapter

(A/N: This is part of my “Activate Your SIMcard” series. Each member of BTS has their own AU in which IT/TechSupport/NerdReader gets dating help/advice and ends up falling in love with them instead. As with a dating sim, the same characters are utilized--same professions, similar scenario placement-- but different interactions/pathways lead to different romances. ~Anyway here’s the Jungkook route.~ The Namjoon route, “Love Bytes” is currently in the works.)

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Nerves wrack your stomach as you make your way down the hall, clinging to the man beside you. His strides seem gigantic next to yours and you find yourself struggling to keep up with him. “Stop walking so fast, Namjoon.”

The man laughs, but slows his pace just enough to allow you to walk side-by-side. “Sorry. I’m just excited for you to meet them.”

Digging your fingernails into the flesh of his elbow, you swallow hard. It’s been a couple months since the young English professor stumbled into your life holding the pieces of some very expensive, very shattered college property. State of the art technology, brand new, busted in less than a week of his arrival. He’d get the biggest chew-out of his life if he presented it to your boss, and you were too sympathetic to let that happen.

While you’d willingly paid for the whole thing out of pocket to cover for the newbie, it had definitely put a strain on your finances and what little social life you had. Within a week he’d worked up a repayment plan than spanned the course of a year. He even started buying you a coffee every Friday as an apology for how long it was going to take.

After a few months of bonding over kung-fu movies, life before Namjoon’s friendship seemed like a distant past, a hazy dream. It was natural that your new bestie wanted to grow your pitiful social circle. But there was a reason you didn’t let people get close to you. The fact that Namjoon had slipped past your defenses so fast made him an anomaly worth dissecting for scientific discovery.

Just the thought of having to now socialize with people you don’t know has your temperature boiling and your head spinning.

He attempts to tug his elbow away from you, and you stumble forward, keeping your death grip on him. “I know, but talking to people isn’t exactly my strong suit. Are you sure it’s best I meet all six at once?”

“You’ve already met Jimin,” he begins, clawing at your hand with long, veiny fingers until you release your hold on him, “but he’s not coming tonight, so don’t worry... you can relax a little.”

Your face twists into a sour grimace as you try to sputter out a response. “I-Pfft. I mean. Jimin’s a model. His face is on billboards and shit. Like… how is that supposed to not be intimidating?”

“Jimin is the world’s biggest sweetheart,” he laughs, shoving his hands into his pockets as you continue down the hallway. “You don’t have anything to be afraid of. I have a feeling you two will get along fine once you stop being so shy.”

You huff and tick your jaw a few times before wringing your hands together. Maybe.

“Anyway. Taehyung is out of town on business, but you can meet him another time. He’s kind of quiet when meeting new people too. Hoseok and Yoongi texted they might be a little late. It’ll just be Jin and Jungkook you’re meeting now. And it’ll be just the four of us for a bit.”

A deep breath escapes you as you hook your elbow with his. “Okay. I just… I’m nervous.”

He stops at the door at the end of the hall and looks down at you. “Give them a chance. If you’re still feeling bad in an hour, then we’ll leave, and I’ll hang out with y’all separately from now on. Deal?”

You eye his extended palm peeking out from beneath the crook of your twined elbows before a smile creeps across your face. You shake his hand. He always knows what to say. “Deal.”

As Namjoon knocks, you leave the comfort of his side, realizing how your anxious clinging might be mistaken for a romantic gesture. You begin to shrink back, trying to hide in his shadow before the door opens. You’re about halfway there when a young, well-built man appears, prominent leg muscles bulging from beneath his basketball shorts as he props the door open with his foot. There’s a cup of instant noodles in his hands, and you’re pretty sure at least half of its contents are dangling from his mouth.

The scent of garlic and rosemary drifts into your nostrils, and you freeze as you cower behind Namjoon, realizing how long it’s been since you last had a decent home-cooked meal. You were promised free food so maybe it won't be so bad after all.

“Ah, Namjoon,” he greets and gestures with his head towards the domicile. “Come in--Oh!”

He chokes a chunk of noodles back into the paper cup as he notices your figure standing behind the tall man.

“Jungkook, this is Y/N,” Namjoon says, stepping to the side and pushing you out into the light of the apartment “I told you she was coming tonight, remember?”

Jungkook’s dark brown eyes widen and he pumps a fist into his chest a few times as he tries to get the remnants of spicy noodles dislodged from the back of his throat. Namjoon sent a bunch of texts this week making sure it was cool to bring someone to hangout night since he’d made a friend at work and wanted everyone to meet them. The way the texts were worded definitely didn’t give any indication that the friend he was bringing tonight was a woman. Maybe they did. Maybe he should have read more of them.

The muscular man before you holds the remaining food in his cheeks and waves bashfully with two fingers as he swallows. "Jungkook," he mumbles, as if the name itself is introduction enough and all but sprints from the room.

Seconds later, a new voice shrieks out from the other room. “What are you doing eating that?! Dinner will be ready soon! Jungkookie if you don’t put that down--!”

A dull smacking sound accompanies the clattering of silverware and plates. You swallow hard, trying to think about anything other than the way the young man had rushed out of the room at just the sight of you. Maybe you’re just that ugly.

“Hey! I’ll eat! I’ll eat! I promise!” Jungkook cries out. His voice drops an octave. “Namjoon is here.” Their conversation becomes indiscernible, but you can’t shake the feeling that you are definitely the subject of their quiet discussion.

You throw a worried glance in Namjoon's direction. "Did I do something wrong?" your voice is hushed as you work your sneakers off, trying to hold in the crazy amount of anxiety that threatens to unscrew the top of your head and send your brain exploding into the ceiling.

Namjoon shakes his head, unbothered by his friend’s odd behavior. "Honestly, I texted him a bunch this week to make sure it was cool and I got one-word replies so I'm wondering if he even read them." He bites his lip and spares a glance back at you, knowing he probably should have kept that to himself.

"Oh," your heart sinks into your stomach and threatens to fall out your butt as you straighten your spine. "If that's the case, should I... leave?"

"Leaf?!" A bright green piece of lettuce is thrust into your face. "How about a whole salad? You can't go before you try it! It's unbe-leaf-able."

You blink in rapid succession, trying to stifle a laugh at the cackle emanating from the man whose bony fingers are holding the lettuce. It sounds like a... windshield wiper? A giggle slips out, stronger than your will to keep it tucked behind your lips, and it only seems to make the grin on his face stretch impossibly wider. Heavy shoulders rise and fall with his laughter, causing the bright pink apron across his chest to wrinkle.

Namjoon groans. "This is--"

"Now do you smell that delicious flavor in the air? Because this just a taste of what you will find at my amazing restaurant 'Heart and Seoul'," he announces, cutting off the man beside you as he clutches the lettuce to his chest with eyes closed. "Where I give you a piece of my heart and soul... Some refer to me as Worldwide Handsome, others call me the God of Cookery. Some call me an angel and believe I fell from heaven." He bows with a flourish and takes your hand in his. "But you can call me..." He finally looks at you, a dark smoulder in his features that sets your cheeks on fire. "Later?"

He seals your fate with a gentle kiss to the back of your hand. Your jaw, which has been hanging open for some time, finally decides to snap itself shut.

"This is Seokjin, and he's going back into the kitchen to finish making dinner." Namjoon is already ushering his friend back towards the kitchen and chiding him as you purse your lips together to hide the smile spreading across your face. Did you just stumble into some alternate universe where all of the men you meet are ridiculously good-looking?

"It's nice to meet you, Seokjin," you call after them before letting your eyes wander around the room.

Paintings line the walls and photos sit on the bookshelf in the corner. As you approach the shelf to get a closer look, you realize those aren't books, but video games. There must be hundreds. Don't people use cloud storage for most of their games now? Your eyes curiously scan the photos on the top shelf. The man who had introduced himself as Jungkook is in all of them. There's another man in a couple that you don't recognize, but his gaze is piercing and cold when he's not smiling. You're able to pick Jimin and Namjoon out in a few, but it feels like looking at a family photo. Everyone seems so close; it makes you envious.

You lick your lips and can't help but admire the collection of video games underneath. You crouch to get a better look at the ones lining the bottom shelf. You're surprised to see there are games for all types of consoles: PS4, XboxOne, Switch, WiiU, Nintendo DS, SuperNintendo, PlaystationVita, PC... The list keeps going. Jealousy spikes your gut as you note a Mass Effect "SSV Normandy" ship figurine on the shelf above your head. You eye it with wonder and pride as your memories flood with the hours you spent playing the trilogy. Your fingers reach out to brush against the raised letters on the side of the ship.

"Have you played Mass Effect?" a quiet voice asks from behind you.

You jump in place and spin on the balls of your feet in a fluid motion that nearly sends you careening into the basketball shorts in front of you. Surprised by how close Jungkook is standing, you gasp and stumble back into the bookshelf, causing it to wobble and bring some of the frames filled with photos tumbling down onto your head. You wait for the impact but it never comes.

As you look up, Jungkook has several frames balanced on his arms and between his fingers, carefully maneuvering them away from you and back onto the shelf. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scare you! Namjoon told me you liked video games too and I saw you looking at the Normandy and I thought maybe you've played it. Ah, I'm sorry."

It's hard to miss the crestfallen way he rubs the back of his neck and stares at the floor once he places all the photos back on the shelf. You're still in shock that he caught everything before it smacked you in the head, but you force yourself to respond anyway. "No, it's okay. I'm just a jumpy person. It's my fault. I'm just glad I didn't break anything. I'm... asari? Get it? 'Cause like, I'm sorry... but also hot blue alien chicks, am I right?"

He smiles wide and laughs softly as he offers to help you up. As you take hold of his hand, you're quickly thrust to your feet with an ease you weren’t quite expecting. You steady yourself by reaching out to grip his arm, a movement you reverse the moment you feel the firm muscles beneath his t-shirt.

"Thanks," you mumble. Feeling his hand tense around yours, you take it back and twiddle your fingers. "So what decisions did you make? Renegade or Paragon? Rachni Queen? Samara's mission? Quarian and Geth dispute? Genophage?" You pause only to take a breath. "If you let Wrex die, we can't be friends."

He blinks at you a few times before breaking into a relaxed smile. “Of course not. What kind of monster do you think I am?”

You allow a relieved sigh to pass your lips. Maybe this wouldn’t be so painful after all.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

You must have made a good impression that night. It’s been nearly a month and Namjoon’s friends have started pulling you into their group texts and Saturday night plans. This had been fine by you since you rarely had anything going on. Honestly it was kind of nice to be included.

While you still don’t exactly know everyone, you feel fairly comfortable talking with your new friends. Seokjin is absolutely hilarious. He’s so full of himself that his cockiness rides the line between charming and annoying; it’s hard to decide which aspect overwhelms his personality more. But you know that you find him irrefutably, irritatingly attractive because of it.

Jungkook is still polite and rather gentlemanly towards you. Your conversation about Mass Effect was enough to tide over any residual awkwardness regarding your initial meeting. He’s just a muscular, nerdy introvert who seems genuinely nice. However, Namjoon insists that Jungkook is still hiding a louder, brattier side when you’re around. He’s got this theory that since you’re a friend of a friend, Jungkook is holding back his usual antics for some reason. The harmless little crush you’ve developed on him has you secretly holding out hope that it’s because he wants to ask you to be his girlfriend. You’ve considered asking Jin what he thinks, but that man has no tact and honestly you’re afraid he’d just ask Jungkook with you standing right there.

Hoseok is a ball of smiling energy, one who has been begging you to visit his dance studio. It’s hard to say no, but you’ve managed for this long because of the very real possibility that you won’t be able to do anything but stare at the dazzling way he moves. He seems to take pride in his ability to make others feel good and absolutely beams when he’s the cause of his friends’ happiness. You can easily see yourself talking to him without Namjoon around to act as a buffer, which is amazing for someone with your level of social anxiety.

Yoongi is quiet, but when he speaks his words are sharp with purpose. Some people might mistake that for coldness, but you can tell he has good intentions and a soft heart underneath. His pointed remarks in the group interrogations have poked fun at you, but never in a condescending or cruel manner. And it’s certainly not in the way you see him absolutely roast the others. Maybe he’s taking it easy on you.

Jimin is still so beautiful to look at it devastates you, leaving a flustered, stuttering mess behind every time he leaves. Now that he’s become aware of the effect he has on you, he’s been testing the waters of your friendship with some teasing that borderlines flirtation. But you have a feeling he’s just screwing with you because he finds it funny to see you squirm. You’re hoping to build the confidence to dish it back some day.

Taehyung has been a little standoff-ish, but Namjoon had already warned you about that. You wonder if it’s because he’s a hundred times richer than you’ll ever be. Despite seeming like he’s in a different social class, he still seems deeply fond of his friends, and relatively down-to-earth. He’s a bit quirky, but he’s an artist, so you expect that kind of thing.

Namjoon says that he’s known almost all of them since college, so he’s been able to absorb most of the discomfort associated with meeting new people. He’s sweet, and more relatable than you originally would have thought for an English professor. He’s kind of like a pillar that you never knew your life had been missing. And now that he’s got your back, you can’t go back.

The smell of coffee pervades the air as you skim an article on your phone regarding the latest Halloween skins for Overwatch. You’re supposed to be meeting Namjoon here but Seokjin, and Jimin showed up and have been chatting about their plans for the weekend. Apparently they throw a Halloween party every year and it’s Jimin’s turn to host. Seokjin is supposedly in charge of planning the decorations due to his love for theatrics and has been discussing the possibility of a haunted house walkthrough. You smile at the thought of Seokjin popping out of the shadows to drop fake spiderwebs on people. It sounds like the kind of thing he’d get off to.

Namjoon flops down on the couch next to you. “You’re coming, right?”

You’re broken from your thoughts as you scroll further down the page. “E-Excuse me?”

“The Halloween party. You coming?”

You look up from your phone, feeling everyone’s eyes on you. “I mean… I don’t want to intrude on your group thing.”

“You’re not intruding!” Jimin, Jin, and Namjoon’s voices all stack upon each other and you’re taken aback by the sound.

Jin frantically scrambles to make you feel included. “Y/N, we just assumed you were coming. Of course you’re invited! You can help me get everything set up for the scary walkthrough. Please come.”

“Don’t give her work to do that you should have already figured out,” Jimin hisses before sending a warm smile your way. “I’ll text you the address later. It’s a costume party so make sure to dress up!”

Your bottom lip unconsciously protrudes in a pout as you pass a discouraging look Namjoon’s way. “What are you going as?”

He gives you a heartfelt, dimpled smile. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says with the worst british accent you’ve ever heard in your life. “World’s greatest detective.” He drops his accent and starts gushing. “The tweed suit is fairly iconic and most people will recognize the costume so I think it’s a safe option. Originally, I was going to go as Judge Di but Jimin kept telling me no one would get it. It would take some research to really get a feel for how he’d dress, but I’d be willing to put in the work.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “Judge Dee? Like…. Judge... Ju...dy?” you trail off in confusion, immediately regretting your decision to ask.

Jimin throws his hands up as if this is the proof he’s needed to convince his friend that he’s wrong. “You see? I told you no one knows who that is.”

“Judge---! Really?!” Namjoon looks like he’s about to go off, but he shakes his head and sighs. “You know what? It’s okay. I look really good in a tweed suit. That’s all that matters.” He finished his statement by gesturing towards his chest.

You can’t help but laugh. “You’re such a dork.” You turn your attention to the others and raise your eyebrows at them. “What about you two?”

Jimin drags his teeth over his lip and shyly smiles. “I’m going as Iron Man. Tae’s been helping me build my costume for a while now.”

“Jungkookie and I are going as Luigi and Mario,” Jin proudly states he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees while tenting his fingers. “I’m Mario, of course, since everyone knows he’s the best.”

You roll your eyes. “Sounds like you, Seokjin.”

“What will you come as?” he questions with a smirk, cocking a mischievous eyebrow at you.

“Well...” you hesitate, knowing that most costume shops will be sold out of anything interesting or slutty; at this point your options are limited unless you want to be a Crayola shit brown crayon. “I’m not sure yet,” you mumble, scratching your cheek sheepishly. “I only found out just now so I don’t have anything ready. I usually go over Jennie’s place, hand out candy in my pajamas and watch scary movies, so I don’t know if I should bail on her like that.”

Solid excuse. Great job, brain. Really. Can I sound like more of a loser?

“She can come too,” Jimin offers with a thoughtful tilt of his head and a warm smile. “It’s a very open party. Lots of people will be coming and going, so it’s no trouble if you want to invite more of your other friends, if that makes you comfortable.”

Other friends. Like you have more than this group and Jennie. You’re going to just pretend like you didn’t hear that part. You can already hear her shrieking at you to say you’ll be there. She loves dressing up and would be more than happy to exchange a night of handing out candy for a night of partying. You suppose you can always get some vampire teeth and dab some fake blood on your mouth, but it feels like a cop-out. It’s a solid back-up plan at the very least.

“Okay. I’ll think about it,” you murmur with a fleeting look of panic directed at Namjoon.

He offers a sympathetic smile and pats your shoulder. “It’s okay if you don’t come. I’m just saying there will be free food.”

Your spine straightens and you perk up.

“Free food?” The words on you’re about to utter spill from a different source. A chin drops into the space between Namjoon’s shoulder and yours. Jungkook’s hair is still wet, but thankfully it’s not long enough to brush against your skin. The soft, sweet, almost floral scent of his body wash wafts into your nose as you turn your head to look at him. You surmise he’s come directly from work if he’s showering in the late afternoon. You internally swat the butterflies playing with your ribcage, trying to remember how to act normal.

Jungkook smiles sweetly, his eyes nearly closing with how high his cheekbones have risen. “Where is this food?”

“At the Halloween party,” Namjoon comments with a dismissing wave of his hand. “I was just telling Y/N that she’ll miss out if she doesn’t come.”

Jungkook raises his eyebrows and drops his smile as his surprised stare pierces your periphery. “Oh, you’re not coming?”

“I was thinking about it.” You immediately feel the need to defend yourself. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

“So don’t wear--” Jungkook catches himself before the word anything comes out. “A costume,” he finishes simply, straightening his spine and clearing his throat. “I mean we can make an exception. No one’s gonna kick you out.”

A devilish grin spreads across Seokjin’s features. “I’m sure I can help you find a pink dress and crown if you’d like to be our lovely Princess Peach. We can give each other items.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen at his friend and Jin stares back with anticipation, waiting for him to make the mushroom joke he clearly set him up for. Jungkook purses his lips and quietly regards you. As the moment passes, Jin’s brow furrows and he crosses his arms in a huff, wishing that he’d said it instead. It’s been too long since you’ve blushed for his liking.

“Maybe I’ll show up in a leotard, spiked collar, and fishnets as Bowsette instead.” You nearly snort at your own joke.

Jungkook and Jin spill their surprise over one another.

“Whaa? Really?” Jin’s mouth hangs open, the image already permanently searing its way into his brain.

“You what?” Jungkook clamps his hands over the edge of the couch, hulking figure looming over you.

While Jimin and Namjoon are both oblivious what a Bowsette is, the words “spiked collar and fishnets” have certainly grabbed their attention as well.

You blink a few times, realizing how serious everyone has become as you sputter out a nervous laugh. “Kidding, guys. Kidding.”

Jin tuts in disappointment, slinking back into his chair. Jimin simply smiles. Namjoon breathes a relieved sigh. Jungkook starts walking away, distracted by the signage on the counter promoting a cinnamon chocolate chip milkshake.

“Besides, I’m more of a…” A lightbulb flicks on in your head and the thought comes spilling out your mouth before you can process it. “Oh, I have a cosplay from the gaming convention I went to a year ago. Maybe I can wear that.”

All three men lean forward, suddenly very interested in the concept of you using a cosplay as a Halloween costume. Jungkook’s head snaps in your direction just as he extends his hand to give his money to the cashier, but he drops it prematurely, sending coins scattering across the counter.

The sound causes all of you to look over at him and he quickly turns back to the cashier. She raises her eyebrows at him as he scrambles to recover all of the money for her. His ears turn bright red from the attention and you can’t help but put yourself in his shoes, cringing at the embarrassment coursing through your veins at the thought of swapping places.

Spinning back to face the others, you find Jin and Jimin on the edge of their seats, staring at you. Namjoon blinks at you and tilts his head expectantly. “You were saying?” he prods. “Something about an anime costume?”

Suddenly you’re embarrassed for yourself rather than Jungkook. “Don’t be weird, Joonie. It’s just a Princess Zelda cosplay.” You scratch your cheek in contemplation, murmuring, “Actually, I don’t even know if it still fits since I’ve gained some weight since then.”

Namjoon pats your shoulder assuringly. “Ah you’re fine. Don’t worry too much about it, ok?”

“He’s right. Just bring your smile, cutie,” Jimin says encouragingly.

You blush at the nickname and grin in response. He said it innocently enough, but you get the feeling that you reacted exactly as he had hoped because he exchanges a smug smirk with Seokjin. “See? Bring that.”

“Ah, you guys are embarrassing me,” you mumble, diving back into the article on your phone. “I’ll talk to Jennie about it later.”

Jungkook listens carefully as he tongues his cheek and waits for his drink to arrive at the counter. Are you really going to show up in that? He pulls out his phone and starts skimming amazon. There’s no way he can pass up the opportunity, regardless of what’s at stake.

A familiar veiny hand sets the drink down on the counter, and he outstretches his palm. “Service was good, yeah?”

Jungkook looks up from the checkout page and locks eyes with Yoongi. He scoops a large portion of whipped cream from beneath the lid and pops it in his mouth thoughtfully, smacking his lips as he washes it down with a sip through his straw. Yoongi raises his eyebrows at him expectantly, but remains silent.

“Hmm, I’ve had better. Maybe if I had some more whipped cream?” Jungkook suggests as he tilts his cup forward and gives it the tiniest shake, shit-eating grin strewn across his features.

Unblinking, Yoongi squirts a puff of cream into the top of the container before loudly setting the can on the counter. Satisfied, Jungkook reaches into his pocket and fishes out some money for a generous tip. “See this is why you’re my favorite barista. You always make it just how I like it.”

Yoongi forces a smile as he stuffs the cash into the half-filled tip jar. “The Java Stop values your patronage, customer.”

He catches a glimpse of Jungkook’s phone screen before the younger man snatches it from the counter and walks away. What the hell is he up to?

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

You curse your past self for choosing Zelda’s outfit from Twilight Princess rather than Breath of the Wild; style over comfort rarely is a good choice, but it’s a choice you often repeat without forethought. It’s tighter than you remember, and not just because there’s a corset sewn into the chestpiece. As you sit in the passenger’s seat of Jennie’s Civic, you fidget with the hem of your dress. Without taking her eyes off the road, she reaches over and slaps your hand.

“Stop it. You look great.”

You rub the back of your wrist and pout, knowing it does nothing to change her mind. You eye her tattered dress, wishing you could pull off something so slutty with the same confidence she does. White contacts make her look even more ethereal than she normally does. Natural waves and curls poke out from beneath the bent witch’s hat atop her head and you can’t help but admire her beauty.

“I look like a nerd,” you say, feeling shittier the longer you compare yourself to her. It’s not her fault. You’re just insecure and wish that you could be more like her rather than the you that you are.

“You are a nerd,” she laughs. “What’s wrong with that?”

You smile. “Nothing, I guess. I don’t know why I’m so worried about it. It’s not like I’m gonna be getting laid any time soon. This costume solidifies it.” Negativity is something you’re used to dosing yourself with, but you know it’s an action you need to work at correcting.

“Hey if no one wants to fuck you in a Zelda costume, do they even deserve to fuck you?” Jennie asks, wagging her pointer at the ceiling as if scolding some invisible source above. “I don’t fucking think so.” She tuts for a second. “So speaking of… Which ones are off limits?”

You scoff and stiffen in your seat, trying to play dumb. “What? What’s off limits?”

“Y/N,” she starts in an accusatory tone. “I’m sure there will be lots of hot people there, but I’m talking about seven hot people in particular. Now if they came up to me and said ‘hey Jennie you so fine you wanna suck all seven of our dicks?’ I’d be like hell yeah I’ma suck all seven dicks. Get in a circle and let me at ‘em.”

You smack your hand to your forehead, wishing you could purge that image from your brain.

“Now I’m just saying in this hypothetical situation that I would never turn down going down on any of them if they asked. Unless I remembered that one time you told me you were crushing, maybe, just maybe I wouldn’t suck that particular dick.”

“We’re about to go see these people. I don’t want to be thinking about this while sipping my drinks across from Seokjin. That man can smell fear, shame, and insecurity,” you mumble, looking out the window at the trees lining the side of the road.

“So that’s why we get it out now before we get there. Can’t possibly slip out if you’ve already got it out of your system,” she explains with a confident smirk.

You cross your arms and give yourself a moment to truly think about the seven men. You certainly find all of them attractive, but crossing that line might make things weird. But maybe, hypothetically… “I don’t know… They’re all pretty hot in their own way…”

“You’ve got to be attracted to one more than the others,” she prods. “Come on, Y/N. Which one does it for you?”

Your tongue clicks against the roof of your mouth before you sigh. “I guess…” You subconsciously lick your lips and give it a few seconds before the memory of falling picture frames surfaces in your mind. An embarrassed smile flickers across your face as you give your quiet, honest answer. “J-Jeon… Jungkook.”

“The young one!” Her mouth falls open. She drums her fingers against the steering wheel excitedly and spares a delightful, yet surprised look at you for a fraction of a second before her eyes return to the road. “Really? I never would have guessed. But I haven’t talked to him much honestly. Doesn’t he work at that nerdy-looking gym you almost joined? What was it, Iron Kingdom? You could always sign up for personal training. Ya know, get some one-on-one time with those muscles...”

“He’ll think I’m dumb for not knowing how to do anything,” you mumble. “Besides that’s not why.”

You shake your head and pause to start counting the list on your fingers. “Okay so he’s got muscles, a cute laugh, he likes video games, he literally always smells so fucking good, he has a great smile, he’s nice, and like he’s so mature for his age. I’m so surprised.”

“I mean from the few times I’ve seen him, I thought for sure he’d be a tool and a major shithead,” she admits.

“I know, but seriously don’t judge a book by its cover. He’s been so chill and respectful and has made me feel so welcome over the last few weeks. None of that fuckboy shit you’d expect to get with younger guys like, he doesn’t talk over me, no mansplaining, he looks me in the eyes and not at my tits, and listens when I say something, even if it’s just me talking about my day.” You pause, registering the words you just said. “Wow, the bar is really low, isn’t it?”

“Sad, but true.” She nods, glancing at the GPS on the dashboard. It’s says you’re nearly there, but it’s kind of further out from the city than you’d both been expecting.

She laughs, mulling over everything you’ve said. “He seems kinda shy. You probably need to make the first move. Maybe you should tell him you have a big fat crush on him. Tell him you wanna hold his hand. Do you think he’d blush? I bet he would. I bet he has a cute flustered face. You should totally do it.”

Recalling the way his ears turned red at the cafe causes you to purse your lips, but the action can’t hide the smile curling at the corners of your mouth. So you have a little crush on Jungkook. Who wouldn’t? He’s practically flawless and totally swoon-worthy. Your heart races as you imagine his reaction to your outfit. Would he be taken aback by how good you look as one of the hottest, most iconic female characters in gaming history? He’s a huge geek so you know there’s a possibility that he could appreciate it. Sweaty fingers work their way down your wig, carefully smoothing out any loose strands. You hope he does.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Walking into Jimin’s place feels like entering a mansion. He told you that he lives with two other people from the same modeling agency, but you didn’t realize how big the place would be. Seokjin’s ability to gather this many decorations and display them with such attention to ambiance is certainly a feat worthy of praise. You find yourself lost in the orange and yellow lights that border each doorway and drape along the walls. Their soft glow is comforting as you walk down the dim hallway, exploring the house just enough to find the table filled with fruits and snacks.

Jungkook is nowhere to be seen and you find yourself breathing a sigh of relief as you sip punch out of a red plastic cup, filling a plate with an excessive amount of strawberries, peaches, and other sweet fruits. Contrary to your previous belief that admission would mean freedom from the thoughts swirling in your brain, uttering the words out loud has made you paranoid that everyone now knows about your secret crush. You’re hoping that drinking will remove the worry from your brain, so you do your best to down the liquid fast and refill your cup.

Jennie immediately hit it off with one of Jimin’s roommates moments after walking in. You’re envious because holy fuck that guy is tall and jacked, and he’s wearing a Captain America outfit. Jennie is about to make out with Captain America and you’re gulping down spiked punch from a little plastic cup. You appreciate being able to silently agree to split, but know that you have each other’s back if either of you were to suddenly express interest in leaving, even if Captain America is balls deep.

She’s an extrovert. She loves socializing. Tossing a strawberry into your mouth, you eye the table of snacks again. You don’t. You love food. Food or sex would be a tough toss-up for you depending on the menu, and in this situation food definitely wins. There’s a buffet table of appetizers looping around the room and into the kitchen. It doesn’t get much better than this, especially knowing it was catered by Seokjin’s restaurant.

You remove a glove and tuck it beneath your armpit as you stuff your face full of sweet treats and survey the amount of people on the dance-floor. There are a good amount of people here --some with ludicrous costumes-- and it makes you feel better about being able to blend in.

You had arrived fashionably late only because Jennie may have passed the house a few times, thinking this place couldn't possibly be it. A hand skates around the periphery of your vision and you frown as it attempts to surreptitiously claim a peach slice from your plate. Following the hand to its owner, you find a smile quickly claiming your mouth in place of the previous sour grimace.

"There's plenty of peaches left over there," you say, pointing to the table of snacks beside you.

"Mmm," Namjoon hums as he pockets the fruit in his cheek. "But this pile is better. I can deduce that you've already picked out the best pieces, Zelda."

You look him over from head to toe, examining the details of his tweed suit. You hate to admit he's looking dapper as fuck in this outfit. Despite often wearing three-piece suits to work, you rarely have time to stop and really appreciate just how flattering they are on his frame. Your eyes settle on the dark brown silk carefully knotted around his neck. "Don't you get sick of wearing ties?"

His eyes widen and he blinks at you as if you'd just told him that he sat in some gum. "Do you think I should have gone with the bow-tie? I spent hours weighing the pros and cons to both and which would be more quintessential to the whole ensemble. Did I make the wrong choice?"

You open your mouth to respond, meaning to allay his concerns and tell him that he looks fine, but he interrupts rather quickly. "You know what, don't say anything. I brought the bow-tie as a backup. It's upstairs in the guest bedroom. I'll go put it on."

You grab his arm just as he's about to leave, noting the plate full of chicken wings precariously balanced on one hand. "Namjoon. Chill. Your tie looks fine. I was only asking because I would strangle myself if I wore one all the time. Now gimme some of that chicken."

His eyes dart from you to the plate in his hand and his anxiety seems to visibly melt away, replaced with a soft smile. "I'm overthinking again, huh?"

The words have never come easier than they do now. "No shit, Sherlock."

At that he offers a laugh. "How about a trade? I share the wings for access to the princess's treasury of peaches."

"Deal," you agree with a smirk, wiggling your eyebrows up and down. "Wanna people-watch with me?"

He nods enthusiastically as he tosses a handful of fresh fruit directly from your plate into his mouth. "I was gonna wander aimlessly and socialize but this sounds way better."

"Glad we're on the same page," you murmur into the chicken wing at your lips, sucking the sauce off of it and scanning the room for any particular eye-catching costumes.

The flash of red, flowing satin catches your eye. Is someone wearing a bathrobe? Seriously? The taste of hot buffalo sauce causes your lips to tingle as you note the soft, fuzzy edges of the robe. It looks comfy, actually.

You elbow Namjoon in the ribs, directing his attention to the slender, black-haired figure gliding across the room. Namjoon opens his mouth as if to identify the stranger, but the flourish of the robe beats him to it. As the material spins, you catch a glimpse of tan skin peeking out from the chest, long legs exposed as he reaches for the sash at his waist.

The silk billows as it comes undone, cascading to the floor like a river of crimson. There's no mistaking it. You're now staring at the nearly nude, half-painted body of Kim Taehyung. You can't help the way you jaw drops open at the sight of so much skin being flaunted seemingly without a care in the world. Namjoon's hand flies up to cover your eyes, as if he's going to spare you the sight you've already taken in. Now that you've seen Taehyung in a thong, there's no going back.

Sauce-covered fingers pry his away from your eyes just in time to meet the piercing gaze of the man across the room. Is it mirth or anger that graces his features? It's hard to tell with a paintbrush trapped in the box his teeth make. He takes lazy strides across the room as you struggle to keep your eyes off the unforgiving fabric outlining every last curve of his dick. It's not until he's closer that you notice the thin belts crossing his hips, which appear to be holding six tubes of paint, three strapped to each side like gun-holsters. You have to admit they frame his crotch rather nicely.

It takes every ounce of willpower you possess to keep your eyes trained on his face. He carefully takes the paintbrush out from between his teeth and extends it to you. "Draw something pretty on me, Y/N. You too, Joon. Tonight I'm a human canvas on display for the universe."

Your eyebrow quirks as you exchange a look with Namjoon and set your plate down. "You know people are just going to draw a bunch of dicks on you, right?"

He scoffs, waving off your concerns. "Don't be so negative. I will have a beautiful mural by the end of the night. Mark my words."

"I think you're putting too much trust in the goodness of human nature," Namjoon comments, his lips pressing together in an attempt to hide the amused grin that is quickly spreading across his features.

Taehyung cocks his head to the side and leans forward with a lopsided grin. You're afraid he's about to get even closer and whisper some dirty secret into your ear. Instead he asks in a breathy, low tone, "Princess Zelda wouldn't draw such dirty things on me, would she?"

Twirling the thick handle of the paintbrush between your fingers, your eyes dip to the paints secured at his waist. His eyes chase the trail yours make down his side and his delight splits his mouth into a goofy grin. "Oh. Help yourself." He gestures to the colors available with a sweep of his hands just above his hips. "Feel free to use your fingers instead.” He pauses when your mouth falls open slightly. “You know, to paint... Just be careful what you grab, Princess," he jokes.

Removing your other glove with your teeth, you drape them over your shoulder and reach out for the tube of yellow paint, trying to hide the way your hand trembles. He looks down and smiles as the cold paint touches his skin. Before long you have the faint shape of 3 triangles at the center of his chest.

“How fitting,�� he murmurs, offering an amused hum as you fill in the last triangle with a glob of yellow that threatens to run down his torso.

“Oops, sorry,” you apologize, moving to tap the brush against the excess, but he grabs your wrist before the bristles can make contact with his skin again.

“That’s alright. Let it do what it does. I like it like this,” he says, watching the clump of paint slowly slide down his midriff. “Besides I’m sure someone else can use it.”

“Like Sherlock!” you suggest, holding the paintbrush out for your companion.

Namjoon takes it begrudgingly and uses the excess yellow to draw a small smiley face beside the triforce symbol.

“Cute,” Taehyung laughs as he takes the paintbrush back from Namjoon. “I love it. Thanks guys.”

Just as he turns to find his next artist, a long object bars his path, pressing against his chest just above the collarbone. You follow the shape of the bar to its owner, revealing a grinning Hoseok clad in an officer’s uniform.

“That’s a bold choice Taehyungie,” he says, securing the faux nightstick into a loop at his waist. “Just make sure you keep that thing on…” He gestures to the small bit of material at Taehyung’s crotch and holds up a pair of handcuffs with his index finger before continuing, “or I’ll have to arrest you for indecent exposure.”

“Impersonating an officer is a crime, you know,” Namjoon says, even as he’s reaching out to touch the shiny metal. “Wait. Where did you get these? Are they real?”

You squint at the device in Namjoon’s hands, looking for the safety release latch like the cheap pair you bought to use with your ex. You don’t see it. That can only mean that these are the kind where losing the keys would have real consequences. But you’re not about to out yourself as the kinky freak you are, so you bring your nearly forgotten drink to your lips and guzzle what’s left in the cup.

As the empty plastic hits the table, your eyes happen to trail across the room and land on a crowd of people gathering around a very impressive, fully-lit Iron Man costume. Jimin seems to be soaking the attention up as the crowd grows ever larger. The massive room has begun to diminish in size, and it’s as though the once comforting lights are now wilting and closing in on you, threatening to strangle the air from your lungs. The adrenalin spiking your veins is telling you it’s time to seek the comfort of open space and solitude. Fast.

You duck beneath Namjoon and Hoseok’s arms, carefully sidestepping around Taehyung to avoid brushing against the wet paint on his skin. “I’m gonna get some air. Try not to get cuffed, Sherlock,” you manage to joke with a smile before turning on your heels and booking it from the room.

If anyone responds to your joke or even acknowledges your exit at all, it’s lost on your ears. Sweat beads on the back of your neck as you hastily attempt to make your way down the hall. If you can just get outside, you can breathe. You’ll be fine. You know it.

Warm bodies clutter the path to your freedom and you can’t help but feel more and more breathless by the never-ending apologies spewing from your mouth as you squeeze past each blockade. You don’t feel like yourself, even as you speak. Taking in sharp, greedy breaths like this isn’t helping. Why is this place so devoid of oxygen? Your body moves on autopilot, seeing the faces of the people you pass, but not feeling their eyes on you.

You float out of the front door, your head as light as a feather, but your eyelids feel like they’ve been anchored. You’re positive you’re about to gracefully glide down the front steps, legs becoming amorphous blobs beneath you that will surely allow you to fly. Just as you’re leaning into the momentum of gravity, two pairs of hands steady your shoulders and criss-cross around your midriff.

“Deep breaths,” Jennie’s voice briefly cuts through the ringing in your ears.

“Do you need to sit down?” The other voice spills into your eardrum as a rushed whisper, one that’s dripping with concern.

Huh? You work on steadying your breathing instead of trying to answer.

“What did she drink?” the familiar voice asks Jennie, the brief flicker of panic quashed by the evenness of his tone. “How much has she had?”

“Relax, Yoongi. Not even our lightweight champion gets drunk that fast,” Jennie reassures him as they help you seat yourself on the top step. “Are you familiar with panic attacks?”

Yoongi rubs the back of his neck and nods silently, backing up to give you some space.

“Jennie. I’m fine now. Thank you,” you mumble, shaking your head and regaining your sense of self. “I’m glad you have my back.”

“Of course. I saw you in the hall and I just knew.”

You jump when you meet the gaze of her white, eerie contacts, which causes both her and Yoongi to laugh. You look up at Yoongi. He shoves his hands into his pockets, long flowing shirt obscuring any flesh poking out from beneath it.

“Hey, you’re not dressed up,” you blurt, realizing he’s sporting a very goth, natural Yoongi look.

He scoffs before bending at the waist and baring his teeth. A single vampire fang is affixed to one of his canines.

You tilt your head like a dog hearing a strange noise. “What, only one fang?”

“Just as dangerous, princess,” he warns with a smirk, standing up straight.

You swear you see a wink, but then again maybe you’re imagining it. You have been known to exaggerate things in your head. Still your stomach somersaults and you focus your attention on Jennie. “I’m okay. I think I’m gonna chill out here for a bit. Get back in there and dance with… god what was his name? Jackson? Jae-beom?”

“Jin-young,” she corrects before biting her lip and glancing back towards the house.

“Go. Hottie McYoungie won’t wait forever,” you tease and point your thumb over at the man hovering above you. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine with toothless over here.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes at the nickname but nods at Jennie. The answer seems to be satisfactory and she gifts you with a tight hug. “Text me if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay. Love you. Now go get laid.” You whisper to her before playfully pushing her back. Before you know it she’s scrambling up the steps and slips back inside, tattered dress swinging wildly with the sway of her hips, revealing just enough of her fishnet-clad thighs to draw Yoongi’s attention. There’s a fraction of a second where he wets his lips as he watches her go, but it’s gone in the blink of an eye. You don’t have time to tease because his dark eyes fall to you.

“Is there anything I can do?” His face is stoic but you can hear the sincerity in his tone.

“Wanna take a walk with me? I’d like to keep away from the big crowd.”

“I know the perfect place,” he says, hopping down from the steps and offering you his hand.

You take it with a smile and rise to your feet, carefully moving down the steps as you dust off your butt. The night air is a bit chilly and you start to work your gloves back up your arms to fight the goosebumps forming there.

That’s when you hear it. You want to misread the sound for a flute, recorder, oboe, or even someone’s radio, but you know those are all incorrect assumptions. It’s an ocarina: an ocarina playing a crude rendition of the opening to ‘Gas Pedal.’

Turning slowly, nothing can prepare you for the sight before you. Jungkook stands on the top step of the porch dressed in a green cap and tunic, tan leggings, and the ugliest dark brown boots you’ve ever seen in your life. He’s got the ocarina nestled between his lips, slowly descending each step with a roll of his hips that accentuates the definition of muscles behind the thin material hugging the shape of his legs.

Your eyes are wide, mouth falling open in surprise. “Jungkook?”

As he jumps down the last step he stops the tune and cups the ocarina in his hands, bowing slightly. “Princess.”

“What are you doing?” you ask, biting back the intimidated voice in your head that’s telling you you’re being picked on.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asks in a low tone, a crooked smile crossing his features as he takes a few tempered steps towards you.

You swallow. How are you supposed to answer that? You take a deep breath, trying to drive off the urge to run as he advances on you. Yoongi takes a few steps back and folds an arm over his torso, cupping his elbow as he brings a knuckle to rest against his mouth with intrigue. He couldn’t hold out for one more day? Should I step in? He brings his weight to the front of his foot, ready to diffuse the situation.

“It looks like you’re trying to fuck with me.” You stand your ground, clasping your gloved fingers and calmly resting them against your dress in true Zelda fashion.

Yoongi’s weight shifts back, retracting the step he had taken. A direct accusation isn’t exactly something he would have expected from you, but he finds himself pleased nonetheless. He certainly chose a difficult target this time.

Jungkook gets close enough that you can see the tick of his jaw and the part of his lips as he drags his eyes across your form, settling on the cleavage created by your corset. “Some of those words were right.” He pauses, leaning to whisper against the shell of your ear. “Can you guess which ones, Princess?”

Heat consumes your face as his posture straightens. He doesn’t budge past the space he’s already claimed as his, but he doesn’t move forward again to invade yours. He watches, basking in the full on show your face puts on for his own entertainment. First comes the confusion, next realization, and then shame.

It’s hard to tell if he’s coming onto you or picking on you. You swallow, throat growing drier by the second. “You knew I was coming as Zelda. Weren’t you coming as something else?”

He throws his head back enough to feign exasperation while keeping his eyes trained on you. “Come on. You don’t like my costume?”

Instead of giving you time to answer, he brings the ocarina back to his lips and blows an obnoxious amount of air through the hollow space inside, producing a piercing rendition of ‘Talk Dirty to Me.’

Your shoulders raise as you inhale, suppressing the irritation bubbling within your belly. You wince, turning your head as a particularly shrill note escapes the instrument. Yoongi’s expression sours as he plugs both ears with his fingers.

Jungkook immediately stops playing and offers a sheepish grin. “Oops. I learned that one for you. Maybe I need more practice. Do you want to help me?” He briefly pauses to wet his lips, presenting the ocarina to you. “I can show you how to blow.”

You grind your teeth as your jaw ticks back and forth a few times before answering, “No thanks.”

Yoongi silently tents his fingers over his forehead and tries to massage the secondhand embarrassment from his skull. This is a trainwreck waiting to explode and at this point there’s no looking away.

Jungkook raises his eyebrows at you as he stuffs the ocarina into a small brown pouch hanging from the flimsy belt at his waist. “Ah. Sorry, Princess. I don’t mean to insult you. You’ve probably already mastered the art. Hah. Maybe you could show me a thing or two?”

Unable to form a proper response, your lips purse as the wheels in your head spin. Say something clever. Think of a comeback. Something. Come on. But here you stand, mind blanking for even the simplest of clapbacks. You’re having trouble coming to terms with the fact that your innocent little crush on the once “sweet” Kookie has come crumbling down with his facade, leaving your chest aching with the humiliation of your naivety.

He looks you over, admiring the artistry in the gown you’ve lovingly crafted. For a moment he’s lost in the embroidery stitched into the sash swaying in the breeze of a chilly October night. “I love your…” he trails off, eyes darting across your shape to capture every last detail of your attire.

He pays special mind to the gems adorned at your hips, and the heavy-looking chain belt which links the sash to your dress. He marvels over the color and velvet texture chosen for the purple corset at your torso. The sheer attention to detail and craftsmanship in your costume stuns him into silence for half a second.

His eyes reach the perky mounds of flesh peeking over the top of the corset. Miraculously his voice resurfaces. “...costume.”

The way his dark eyes linger on your chest isn’t lost on you. Your cheeks burn in the cool air, despite the goosebumps littering your arms. You cross your arms over your chest, higher than you normally would to combat his lurid gaze. The green hat atop his head folds over itself as he cocks to one side. Dark, hungry eyes snap to yours, voicelessly pouting at your blockade. For a split second a guilty excitement pulses through you, but you’ll be damned if you’re the cause of an obviously already inflated ego.

“You never said what you think of mine,” he prods. His eyebrows wiggle up and down as he slowly runs his hands along his torso, as if feeling himself up is going to sway your opinion.

You tell yourself not to fall for it, that he’s playing you for a fool right now. Still, your jaw is tight as your eyes helplessly follow the flow of his fingers down his body. His pinky purposefully catches on the flimsy pleather strap acting as the belt at his waist. An impish grin spreads across his face as he notes the way your chest stutters out the breath you’d unknowingly held. Satisfied, his hands continue their languid journey down his body. Your eyes are glued to the way he traces the contours of his thighs.

Finally his fingers dig into the meat of his those muscles and you feel the need to look away before answering. “I hate it.”

He sighs. “Hate is a strong word. Are you sure that’s how you really feel? Why don’t you look at me when you say that?”

Strengthening your resolve, you force your eyes back to his smug face. Stupid doesn’t even begin to cover how you’re feeling at this point. Biting back tears, you swallow hard and do your best to remain composed. Here he stands, a crooked smile amplifying the air of arrogance surrounding him. He’s playing you. He’s been playing you this whole time hasn’t he?

“I don’t even know who you really are, do I?” your voice cracks, only adding to your humiliation.

“I’m the bad guy. Duh.” With that he cackles as he pulls the ocarina from his pouch, proceeding to play the melody from ‘Bad Guy.’

You spin on your heels and storm past Yoongi, the blood rushing through your ears in a distraught rage, drowning out the bitter sound of the notes. A pang of guilt strikes the half-assed vampire as he stares at his friend. “One more day. You couldn’t make one more day?”

Jungkook shrugs, making his way back up the stairs. “If you see Hobi, tell him I’ll have his money tomorrow.”

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

Dragging your hands across your face, you keep your gaze cast towards the ground.

How fucking idiotic, how self-absorbed have you been to assume that he’s been nice because he likes you and not because he was playing some game with you? He's probably just been waiting for an opportunity like this and you fell right into his trap. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

A hand clamps down on your shoulder and you spin, ready to deck the person you assume to be Jungkook. Yoongi's eyebrows raise as you stand poised to punch. He ducks to the side just in time. As you realize your mistake, it's too late. The momentum brings you forward.

His arms come up around you in a soft embrace, one that you're quick to return. "It's just me," he mumbles, kneading his thumb against your back. "...Sorry."

You bury your face into his shoulder, allowing the tiara to slip from your head and hit the soft ground with a dull thud. Why is he apologizing? He didn't do anything wrong. You want to tell him that, but any sound you make might bring about a slew of tears you've been holding back. Instead you just squeeze your arms around him even tighter.

He awkwardly pats your back a few times, not quite knowing what to do with the hug that's lasting longer than anticipated. Sensing his discomfort, you pull away and adjust your wig as you offer an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry."

A figure approaches, bending down to pick up the forgotten adornment. Out of the corner of your eye you see him rub the dirt off the tiara. Jin carefully places it on your head. "A princess should have a crown."

You look him over, noting the giant overalls, red newsboy cap and hideous fake mustache. You can't help but laugh as he forces a hard blink and puckers his lips, alternating lifting sides of his mouth so the mustache comically tweaks itself in a seesaw motion. "I like your costume," you manage between giggles.

He grins back, donning an over-the-top Italian accent. "I a-like-a yours too! A beautiful costume for a beautiful a-woman."

"Please stop," Yoongi groans.

Jin ignores him, fiddling with the corner of his mustache. "I don't-a know where my brother went. I think he's a-scared of the haunted mansion."

You roll your eyes at the joke. That's right. Jungkook was supposed to be Luigi. "He's busy playing a dick for the night."

A look of realization washes over him and he nods, puffing out air through overly inflated cheeks. "Hmm. You know what might-a make you feel better? Helping me scare-a the pants off of people!"

He folds his elbow and holds it out for you, tempting you to lace yours around it. Channeling your bruised ego and hurt feelings into scaring people for fun? That might just work. You feed your elbow through the crook in his. "Zelda and Mario working together."

Jin laughs. "The dream-a team!" He makes a motion to skip towards the outer entrance to the basement that he's dressed up with spiderwebs and a large, hand-made sign that says "MARIO'S GHOST HOUSE." Beside the entrance is a giant blown-up decoration of King Boo, its pink tongue flapping in the breeze.

As you're tugged in the direction of his creation, he stops abruptly. "Oh, we haven't had that many people though. So we have to make the few that come through count!"

Yoongi's eyes light up. "Hey. I’ve got an idea. I’ll get you a the best customer. But you have to really scare him. I promise it will make your night."

Puzzled, you furrow your brows and tilt your head. “Okay…?”

Jin grins like a maniac as Yoongi makes his way towards the front of the house. “Come on. I’ll show you the best spots to hide.”

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

About twenty minutes have passed since Yoongi left in search of his promised customer. Only a few people have wandered in. You have to admit it’s therapeutic to watch people scream and jump when you bang on the false walls within the maze Jin has somehow constructed in this basement. Watching people run up the final stairs to safety leaves you with a feeling of satisfaction, always giving Jin a prideful high-five before returning to the beginning to await more guests.

“Ah! My-a new-a guests!” you hear Jin enthusiastically greet the latest people to stop at the entrance. “Are you a-ready to have fun?”

There’s some hushed whispering that you can’t quite make out from your hiding place within the set.

“Don’t be such a pussy,” Yoongi chides loudly. “Seokjin made this. Do you really think it’s that scary?”

“P-Pussy?” Hoseok stares wide-eyed at his friend and scoffs. “Don’t be rude. I just know Seokjin. It will be worse than whatever I think”

Is that Hobi? You were kind of hoping Yoongi would get Jungkook to walk through. Knowing what you do now though, you have no doubt that Jungkook would be unphased by something like this. All you can hear in your head is the echo of his obnoxious laughter and a pang of hurt slices through your heart. God, you’re so stupid.

Yoongi points to the Boo’s tongue flapping in the wind. “It will be like that, probably. It’s silly to be so afraid.”

Hoseok bounces from foot to foot in uncertainty. Even a police uniform can’t steel his spine or guarantee safety. “Why should I do this to myself?”

Yoongi sighs. “I’ll help you look at new places and… help you move. I’ll even be your roommate if the rent is too high.”

Hoseok is beaming. How long has he been asking for help searching? Jin looks from one man to the other, hiding the subtle smile beneath his mustache. He knew Hoseok wouldn’t go in so easily, that something had to be offered up, but he really didn’t expect Yoongi to go so far.

Hoseok points at Jin. “You’re my witness. I go through this and he’s my roommate.”

“If the rent is too high only,” Yoongi tries to reason, but it’s too late. Hoseok has heard what he wants to hear. He grabs his friend and marches into the depths of the basement.

Immediately you bang the walls on their journey down, feeling Jin rush past you to set up for the next scare. Hobi screams. “Never mind! Never mind!”

Yoongi scoffs, dragging his friend forward. “Come on, officer.”

You listen for their footsteps as you circle the walls behind the maze. Hobi’s frantic yelling breaks through the room, slipping into loud curses. You pull your glove up and wait, peeking through the hole you’re hoping he’ll get close enough to. Even shrouded in shadows, Yoongi’s form peeks out from around the corner.

“Don’t think about the dark,” Yoongi says, slowly shuffling towards the wall with Hoseok crouched behind him, using him as a shield from any more scares. “Think about how you bet Jungkook he couldn’t stop himself from trying to get in Y/N’s pants, not even for one month.”

You freeze. Yoongi knows you can hear him, right? He has to know.

“Think about how well he was doing. You would have been cleaning his house tomorrow. Maid Hobi, bound by servitude.”

“I know…” Hoseok groans. “It would have been awful. He’s so messy! I wouldn’t even be getting paid! What was I thinking?”

“But instead, he bet you a month’s rent that he could,” Yoongi continues loudly. “He blew it tonight for the chance to dress up as Link and tease Zelda. He only had one more day.”

“He’s a dumbass,” Hobi comments with a nod, turning to look at the ceiling and making sure nothing is going to drop down on him.

You swallow, taking in the revelation Yoongi has just bestowed upon you. All this time you had spent thinking Jungkook was a sweet gentleman was actually due to Hoseok making a bet with him? You would rather have known Jungkook was a dick straight up because now the innocent, harmless crush you have on him feels so dirty and foul that you wish you could swipe it from existence.

It’s Jungkook’s fault. He lied. He pretended. You know this. But still you can’t help but partially blame Hobi for the bitter taste in your mouth. As Yoongi passes, you reach out, letting your fingers swipe down Hobi’s forearm and retract through the hole in the wall as he lets out a high-pitched scream.

“Hoseok, get off.” Yoongi tries to push away the man climbing onto his back.

“Something grabbed me! Something grabbed me!” Hoseok wraps his legs around Yoongi’s waist and huddles close to his neck pointing. “Over there! It grabbed me from over there!”

“Let’s keep moving, then.”

“No! No more! I’m standing right here until the sun comes up.”

“How is it standing if your feet aren’t touching the ground? I won’t carry you all night,” Yoongi says, adjusting his stance to compensate for the weight on his back.

“You will, too,” he pouts.

Jin helps you position a furry spider decoration above them, slowly dangling it lower until it finally hits Hoseok’s shoulder. The wail that escapes this grown ass man almost makes you feel bad. Almost. He swats the creature into darkness as he spurs Yoongi on by digging his heels into his belly. “Get me out of here! Please!”

Jin’s shoulders move up and down with the sound of his laughter as he slaps your hand in victory. Scaring Hobi made you feel a little better at least.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

The party has died down quite a bit and at this point Jimin has been passing you far too many drinks as he and Namjoon regale you with tales from college. Namjoon is clearly feeling toasty, laughing like a dork at every memory Jimin brings up. Apparently they were roommates and Jimin has a liberal arts degree from four years of being undecided.

Your head lolls around to rest on Namjoon’s shoulder, your backs pressed against the bottom of the couch as Jimin sits cross-legged in sweats and a t-shirt on the floor before you, his costume laying discarded beside him. He’s spinning his latest story of how Namjoon had accidentally thrown up on some girl he really liked. Yoongi silently lays on the couch behind you, smirking with his eyes closed. You can’t tell if he’s sleeping or just relaxing as you struggle to stand, using Namjoon’s shoulder as leverage to prop yourself up.

“Bathroom?” you ask distractedly, searching the room like a door will appear if you look hard enough.

Jimin smiles pointing at the doorway across the room. “Go out that door, take a left down the hall. It’ll be on your right.”

Your head dips a bit as you try to take in the directions. Namjoon looks up at you as you stumble forward, clearly off-balance. “Do you need some help, geeksquad?”

“I’m fine,” you mumble, hating the nickname he’s given you from work. “I’ll be right back. Don’t drink my drink.” You narrow your eyes at Jimin and he blinks at you in surprise, like you’ve accused him of such a heinous, unthinkable crime.

Rounding the corner, you pass a grinning Taehyung being led upstairs by a cute girl in a red beret, black and white striped shirt, and miniskirt with suspenders. Art hoe? Mime? It’s hard to tell what her costume might be. While his skin is covered in a beautiful mess of colors, your tri-force symbol still stands untouched at the center of his chest. You smile as you watch him climb the steps, clearly distracted. But as his back is revealed, your eyes widen at the sight of a mural of painted dicks. Well. At least he can’t see them.

You walk down the hall for what feels like an eternity, passing a few closed doors on either side. Maybe you should try one? Knocking on the one closest to you once, the door swings in and you lose your balance, not expecting it to open.

“What took you so long? I almost came without you.” The voice is pouty and low, somewhat familiar. He gasps when he realizes you’re not the person he’s been waiting for.

You stumble forward, falling to your knees and catching the bed frame before your face smacks into the wood. As graceful as you can manage, you pull yourself up. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to! I didn’t realize it was open and I was just looking for the---” The will to speak leaves you as soon as you see him.

A very sweaty, very naked Jungkook crosses his arms and he leans back expectantly, smushing the pillows behind him into the headboard. Your eyes take in the pleased expression on his face, quickly scanning the muscles of his folded arms, his chiseled abs, his bulging legs. The pointy green hat he had been wearing earlier tents across his sculpted hips and pelvis, thankfully obscuring any shape hidden beneath it.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again tonight,” he says, licking his lips as he watches your form tremble, practically falling apart in front of him before adding, “...Princess.”

A devilish grin overtakes him at the sight of you spinning around a little too fast, staggering towards the door and holding onto the frame for dear life. “I hoped I wouldn’t see you again tonight.”

“I can’t say it isn’t a nice surprise. You don’t have to leave,” he coaxes. “Do you wanna see my Master Sword?”

“Grow up!” You make sure to slam the door shut behind you. You hate him so fucking much it hurts.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

“Jennie, how could I be so wrong about him?” you sigh, dropping your forehead against the kitchen table. It’s been three weeks since you’ve talked to him, but it’s still the only thing you can think about.

Jennie takes a sip from her beer. “Sweetie, you’re not good at reading liars. Maybe you should look at some dating apps. You could get good read quick.”

“But I don’t wanna,” you whine into the coated wood. “Why can’t people just be nice?”

“Because. People suck. Come on, Y/N. Jungkook ain’t worth the headache. Drink with me. I’ll show you how Tinder works. It’s not so bad.”

When you don’t say anything, she tugs your chair across the floor, dragging your form close to hers and setting her phone down on the table. You peek out at the screen as you raise your head and rest it on a lazy elbow.

“Swipe right on the hotties. Swipe left on the fuckboys and losers. Jungkook? He’s a swipe left. But look at all these good ones on here. These are all swipe righties.”

You nod as she goes through a few profiles and begin downloading the app on your phone. Maybe she’s onto something.

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