#i watched was like ‘why is my anxiety tamping up so much’ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nebulousbrainsoup · 1 year ago

Text

business attire

PAIRING: fashion designer/director!kim hongjoong x assistant!reader GENRE: smut with feelings, lil bit of fluff TAGS/WARNINGS: non idol au, neutral pronouns used for reader, reader wears a dress (but in true joong fashion clothes have no gender), balmain!joong AND strawberry!joong, mentions of anxiety, hongjoong is a simp, pov shifts a lil, ash's questionable editing; lmk if you find anything else! WORD COUNT: 4.5k A/N: so, we were trying to figure out when the outlaw red hair concept photos may have been taken and sky might've mentioned that the cut looks like what he had before the european leg of tour and paris and balmain and... things escalated. tagging my enablers: @hwaightme @jaehunnyy @justhere4kpop

nsfw tags under the cut ; masterlist | join my taglist | buy me a coffee?

NSFW TAGS/WARNINGS: language, they're both switches, reader has female anatomy, mildly public sex (locked conference room), brief dom/sub undertones, sex with your boss is kind of its own form of power play, mentions of punishment, use of pet/nicknames (babe, Balmain Boy, sweetheart, love), hair pulling, marking, joong is possessive, dirty talk, lil bit of degradation, oral (fem receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it homies), piv, finger sucking/fingers as a gag, creampie; lmk what i missed

You were so late. It wasn’t like you in the slightest, so you were hoping against hope that your boss would let it slide this once, but… fifteen minutes behind and counting for the monthly investors’ meeting was certainly pushing your luck and probably his patience. You wish you could say it was entirely not your fault, but you were the one who had both forgotten to set your alarm last night and postponed laundry long enough that, when you spilled your coffee down the front of you this morning, you were left with only two options; either your pyjamas, or the unreleased piece currently hanging on the back of your door, reserved for S(e)oul Monde’s summer release show next week. The wave of anxiety over Hongjoong’s reaction took an extra five minutes to tamp down, and by the time you’d finally figured out the clasps and sashes—having been reminded why models had dressers—you had five minutes to get out the door if you were going to catch your train. You managed it, if barely, yanking on your boots and snagging your workbag from by the door, barely stopping to lock it behind you.

And, of course, you’d made it into the station in time to watch the damned thing pull away. Of all the days for it to be actually on time, of course it was today. Fantastic. The bus had been the only option, and between the walk back up to the street and the distance between the nearest stop and S(e)oul Monde headquarters… You’d known this would be the outcome. It didn’t stop you from trying to close as much of the gap in time as possible, though. The moment you were seated, leg bouncing feverishly, you’d sent a message to your boss, apologizing and letting him know you were on your way.

You’d known it would go unread, but that didn’t stop the irritation that bubbled up at the sight as the bus pulled into your stop. Flying through the doors and up the stairs as quickly as you could, you gave tight smiles and murmured apologies to the coworkers you nearly trampled in your rush to the elevator. The disgruntled sounds of its occupants and those waiting echoed as you wormed your way in, a quick, scathing glare around quietling them as you pressed the button for the tenth floor. With only two stops between you and your destination, you were slipping into the conference room seventeen minutes behind schedule, tablet clutched to your chest as all eyes turned from the man speaking to the door. You immediately dropped into a ninety degree bow, apologizing profusely as you shuffled toward your seat, dropping your bag into it and taking your place.

Hongjoong, like everyone else in the room, had looked at you the moment you entered the room, but unlike the investors, he couldn’t seem to drag his gaze away from you. His surroundings faded to a blur as you made your way to stand next to him, the breath having been knocked from his lungs. The dress was perfect, exactly as he knew it would be—a little short for a traditional office, certainly; he’d seen a few eyebrows raise at your entrance—and on you, of all people, it looked immaculate, like it had been designed specifically with you in mind. Which, well…

Every artist has a muse. Hongjoong wouldn’t be apologizing, especially not when you looked that good in his work.

It was your voice that pulled Hongjoong out of his stupor.

“I’m sorry for my lateness and the interruption, sir. Please, continue.”

He snapped back into himself, blinking rapidly and offering you a soft smile. “Right.”

When he had finished with his presentation and you both sat back down, Hongjoong at the head of the table and you to his left, you finally let yourself relax. The way he’d stared you down over the tops of his glasses as you made your whirlwind entrance hadn’t slipped past your notice, leaving anxiety coiling in your gut, alongside something entirely more exciting. It was no secret to either you or your boss that you each found the other wildly attractive, and the combination of his intense gaze on you earlier and the way he looked today had memories flashing through your mind that were entirely inappropriate for the workplace. He always dressed up a bit more for these meetings, but today, he’d really gone above and beyond. The custom, black velvet Balmain suit he wore made his freshly dyed red hair look even brighter, and it took a stunning amount of self-control to keep from leaning over and taking the chain connecting his lip ring to one of his many earrings between your teeth. All in good time, you supposed, if the way he was looking at you earlier was any indication. Sure enough, as he slid his chair under the conference table, a warm hand settled on your knee, and the chill of the various rings adorning it nearly made you jump. Feeling you twitch, Hongjoong peeled his eyes from the man speaking to flash you a slightly worried glance. You returned it with a slight smile and a nearly imperceptible nod, earning a quick squeeze to your leg. The touch had your shoulders relaxing further, a silent sigh passing your lips—he wasn’t mad at you. Wearing the dress had been a gamble, and if the intensity in his gaze hadn’t been anger, then it was something not entirely different but far more fun. You smiled to yourself as you turned back to face the man speaking once more. All of that anxiety, for nothing.

Or, maybe not, because the second your eyes left the woman who had, at this point, been speaking for fifteen minutes straight, running an increasingly frustrated Hongjoong in circles, you felt his grip tighten. Your jaw twitched, and you carefully brought your gaze back to hers, feigning interest to the best of your ability as his fingers danced lightly up the inside of your thigh.

“Y/N, could you run Ms. Lim through the timeline one more time, please,” he sighed, a tight smile on his face.

“Of course,” you agreed with a similar look, only slightly less obvious in your annoyance, once again flipping your tablet open. Clicking through a few things, you cast your sceen to the TV on the wall and stood, making your way to stand beside it. Hongjoong’s eyes followed you the whole way, eyes wandering over the bits of skin his work left deliciously exposed. He couldn’t wait to kiss his way up your thighs, to tug the sashes criss-crossing over your back free and run his hands across the plane of it, to sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder and make you look that much more his. You once again caught his narrowed gaze over the invisible frames of his glasses, a smirk tugging at his lips that nearly had you weak in the knees. You knew that look all too well; it was both a threat and a promise.

Maintaining an air of complete professionalism with Hongjoong staring at you like he was ready to devour you was a feat you’d be thanking some god or another for later, but right now, you simply bowed and took your seat once more as you finished your quick presentation and returned to your place next to your boss, standing over his shoulder rather than taking your seat.

“If something is still unclear, feel free to send me an email, but we are a bit over time and Mr. Kim has another appointment over his lunch,” you stated with a polite smile, pointedly ignoring the confused look Hongjoong momentarily shot you. “I think it would be best if we wrapped up for the day, in interest of everyone’s time.”

God, he could kiss you. He would kiss you, he decided; he’d kiss you breathless the moment he got you alone for this.

Ms. Lim pursed her lips, but the look in your eyes left no room for argument. After all, who knew the S(e)oul Monde director’s schedule better than his assistant? She nodded, pushing her chair back, and the rest of your restless company followed. “I certainly will.”

“As always, thank you all for your continued support of S(e)oul Monde, and I hope my work continues to exceed your lofty expectations,” Hongjoong offered as he stood. “Thank you for your time. I hope to see you all at our showcase next week.”

The men and women in the room murmured their own parting pleasantries, phones returning to hands and bluetooths returning to ears as they filed into the hall, leaving you and your boss alone. Only a beat of silence passed before he turned to you, heat burning behind his eyes as they flicked over you hungrily.

“Lock the door and close the blinds.” Your low-burning nerves and arousal were both lit ablaze again at his direction, and you stuttered. He raised an eyebrow, tongue darting out to toy with the lip ring you so desperately wanted a taste of. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

The warning snapped you out of your stupor in a moment, and you paused only to set your tablet on the table before rushing to comply. His gaze was warm on the back of your neck as you moved through the room, first clicking the lock shut, then moving to drop the shades on the frosted windows that faced the hall, and finally crossing the room to do the same with the exterior windows. When you reached for the controls, Hongjoong clicked his tongue disapprovingly, the noise pinning you in place.

“Leave those. Look at me, Y/N.”

Swallowing thickly, you did as you were told, chin held high. “Yes?”

“You were late this morning,” he commented off-handedly as he stood, and you dropped your eyes to the floor.

“I’m sorry, everything just—” you started, only to be cut off.

“Was this little number,” he gestured to the dress, using the chance to give you another once-over, “the reason?”

“Part of it, but—”

This time, it wasn’t his words that cut you off, but his lips as he lifted your chin and dragged you into a kiss that told you exactly how long he'd been waiting to do this. You squeaked in surprise and quickly melted into him, one hand clutching at the asymmetrical neckline of his suit tightly as the other grasped at the base of his skull in an attempt to pull him impossibly closer. With a sigh, your lips parted against his, tongue darting out to finally get a taste of the brand new jewelry you'd been eyeing the entire meeting. The metallic tang pulled a pleased hum from you as you took it between your teeth, shifting to catch more of his lip than the jewelry itself as you pulled away.

“This is so not business attire, babe,” he breathed against your lips, and you laughed quietly into his mouth as he captured them again.

“Are you telling me I can’t—mm—wear your designs to the office?” You teased between kisses, finally pressing him away from you.

Hongjoong rolled his eyes heartily, his own half-smile giving away the feigned nature of his annoyance. “Not all of them, no,” he sighed, hands coming to rest over your ass, pulling you into him and groping at it lightly. “You know better than that. And one that isn’t even released yet?” He clicked his tongue again. “I was going to forgive you for being late since you look this good, but maybe I should punish you after all.”

You frowned, pulling away from him slightly as your earlier anxiety washed over you again, and Hongjoong wanted nothing more than to take his words back. “It… This was the only thing I had clean, I spilled coffee on myself this morning and I—”

“Y/N, it’s okay, I promise,” he soothed, shifting closer to you and squeezing at your hips in a way he hoped was reassuring. “If it weren’t, I could’ve asked you to change. It’s not like we don’t have clothes in every size you could ever need.”

“That’s… true,” you muttered, tugging your lower lip between your teeth.

Hongjoong hummed in distaste of the action, reaching up with one hand to pull the skin free and immediately planting a chaste kiss where his thumb had just been. “You just look… too good,” he murmured, grip on you tightening. “This may be my best work yet.” It was your turn to roll your eyes, scoffing as you tried and failed to push him away from you. “And yours may be getting me out of that meeting.”

“How do you know you don’t have an appointment over lunch?” You grinned, ever unable to pass up a chance to tease him. “I know you haven’t checked your schedule since this morning and—mmph!”

For the second time in the past five minutes, he cut you off with a heated kiss. “Oh, I know I have a lunch appointment,” he shot back, spinning you and guiding you backward until your hips hit the edge of the table. “And we both know it’s with you. Up,” he directed, tapping your thigh twice.

With a little hop and loose guidance from Hongjoong’s hands, you boosted yourself up onto the edge of the table, your boss following behind quickly to spread your knees with his own body. He couldn’t get enough of your lips today, it seemed, wrapping one arm around your waist as the other came to rest on the surface behind you, forcing an arch into your back. You let out a pleased hum against him, reaching up to card a hand up over his scalp and give his hair a light tug. The action pulled a groan from his lips as he leaned back into the contact, and when his eyes blinked back open, the predatory look he pinned you with sent electricity coursing through your veins.

You met his fire with a burning challenge of your own, tugging harsher on your fistful of red and grinning wickedly as a throaty groan left the man’s mouth. “You,” he hissed, grabbing ahold of your wrist and tugging it free from its home, “drive me fucking insane.”

“Ditto, Balmain Boy,” you shot back, and you reveled for a moment in the shine of the smirk on his face, before it disappeared into the crook of your neck.

Little pleased sounds fell freely from your mouth as his worked its way down your throat, kissing and nipping at the skin, never enough to mark—although, you knew if you let him, Hongjoong would jump at the opportunity, jealous as he was—and he closed his eyes, basking in every single one. The hand around your waist shifted to splay out against your back, the warmth of his palm in contrast to the cool metal of his rings making you shiver again, and you felt him grinning against your skin for a beat before sinking his teeth into your shoulder. You choked back a sharp cry at the sudden action, grasping at his velvet suit.

“Hongjoong,” you hissed in warning, the last syllable coming out whinier than you would have liked. In your regular attire, anything below the neck was fair game for him to mar as he pleased. But between the safety pins holding together the strap on the side he was currently working over and the mesh of the other, you were working with far less coverage than usual. He let out a low noise akin to a growl at your protest, pulling a choked-off yelp from you, before soothing over the angry skin with his tongue.

“Joong,” you tried again, and this time let it be a whimper. “Careful.”

“Who cares,” he muttered, pressing a quick kiss to the blooming mark before letting his lips trail across the collar of your dress. “Let them know.”

You squirmed, a quiet whine leaving you as heat struck through you at his words. “We… we can’t,” you protested weakly.

Hongjoong let out a low, dark giggle. “You don’t sound sure, sweetheart. You want people to know you’re fucking your boss?” Another whine, this one more frustrated than the last. “Nasty,” he chastised, but you could hear the grin in his voice. He got off on the thought more than you did, the possessive shit.

Straightening up, he pressed one more quick kiss to your lips before just as abruptly dropping to his knees in front of you. The action made you wince—not for the man in front of you, but for the pants he was wearing. You carded a hand into his hair again as you groaned in protest, tugging on it to force him to look up at you. “You’re gonna wear out the knees on th—”

“Worth it,” he shrugged, fingers immediately sliding under the hem of your skirt, kneading at your thighs. The moment they found the hem of your underwear, his hands slid smoothly from the outside of them in, fingertips dancing teasingly over your clothed core. He smiled up at you as you squirmed under his attention, the expression spreading to his signature smirk as he pressed harder and pulled a low moan from you.

“Get on with it, we don’t have all day,” you breathed, tugging lightly on his hair again. The sight of his eyes rolling back in his head—an exaggeration, sure, but you wouldn’t be complaining—sent heat rushing to your core again, the muscles in your thighs twitching as they tried to close around Hongjoong’s hands.

The look he gave you was one you immediately wanted to wipe off of his face. “We do if you’ll clear my schedule,” he quipped back, earning a harsher yank to his hair, this time in the direction of your body.

“Put your mouth to better use, Kim Hongjoong.”

The second the words left your mouth, his fingers were hooking into the waistband of your underwear, and you lifted your hips off the table. In one fluid motion, he’d tugged the fabric free from your legs and left your skirt bunched around your waist, exposing you to his increasingly hungry gaze. Tossing his glasses onto the table beside you and throwing your legs over his shoulders, he pressed kisses up the inside of one of your thighs, breath barely ghosting over your center as he switched to the other. Annoyed, you tried to pull him where you wanted him, earning a breathy little laugh for your efforts.

“Ask nicely, babe,” he muttered, pausing his work just long enough to properly look up at you.

His dick twitched in his pants at the sight. You stared down at him with half-lidded, pleading eyes and parted lips, lust clouding over your face. The neckline of your dress was still askew from where he’d pulled it aside, the skirt hiked up and now balled in your hand to give you a better view of him. And just as his eyes drifted lower, landing on your glistening heat, you breathed out a quiet, breathless, “Please.”

Who was he to deny his muse when they looked so breathtaking?

A weak, weak man. Weak for you, for everything you gave him and everything you let him take from you. Weak for the way you looked in his designs, in your own clothes, in a burlap sack, probably. Weak for the way you looked commanding the office—the whole operation would fall apart without you, and if Hongjoong were being honest with himself, he’d go with it. Weak for the way you tasted—your lips, your skin, your cunt; he’d drown in you if you would let him.

And now, mere minutes after you’d saved him from the most boring meeting of his life; a few short hours after you’d strutted into the office in the piece he’d made for you, he was going to try whether you let him or not.

Biting back your moans while he ate you out like a starved man was a feat you didn’t think possible until you achieved it, muffling all but the quietest little whimpers and gasps as your orgasm coiled in your core. The closer you got, the harder it became, and the hand in Hongjoong’s hair left it in favor of clamping over your mouth. He growled against you in protest, the sensation making your thighs twitch, and wrapped his lips around your clit. With a few harsh sucks and practiced flicks of his tongue, you were clamping down around him, muffling the squeaks of pleasure he so desperately wished to hear.

You tugged him up off of the ground and he was weak for you, so of course he followed, palms hitting the table on either side of you as your lips crashed against his. When you pulled away again, he could only hope—fruitlessly—that you didn’t hear the way he whined.

Smiling softly, you tugged him in again briefly, gracing his lips with a chaste kiss before breathing a quiet “Fuck me,” against them.

Hongjoong was so, unbelievably, undeniably weak for you. Weak for the way you felt pressed up against him, the way he knew you would feel around him—and with that thought, he was scrambling to unfasten his pants, suddenly desperate and so, so weak. He hadn’t noticed how constricting the fabric had become until you shoved his pants and boxers down to his knees in one go, the release of pressure pulling a low moan from him.

Reaching between your bodies, you wrapped your fingers around his length, delighting in the way it twitched in your hand at the same time his breath hitched. He shifted forward, bracing his hands further behind you and crowding into your personal space, slowly guiding you back down onto the table. You stroked him slowly for as long as you could reach, until finally, with a whine of protest, he pressed your shoulder back against the wood. Bracing himself with an arm beside you, he leaned down to catch your lips in a heated kiss, his free hand busying itself with lining his cock up at your entrance. His tip brushed your folds once, twice, before he pushed into you in one fluid thrust, hips falling flush with your own.

The feeling of him filling you and the sound of the breathy moan that left Hongjoong had your walls fluttering around him, and the pause he took was as much for himself as it was for you, you could tell. So, you gave him his moment, taking the opportunity to drink in his form above you. He looked as desperate as you felt, so before he’d opened his eyes, you rolled your hips, pride swelling in your chest as his eyes shot open and he cursed under his breath.

“You’re not the only one who doesn’t like repeating themself. Fuck. Me,” you demanded, punctuating it with another grind of your hips against his.

His gaze darkened, and electric arousal warmed your body. You saw him fight for words for a split second and quickly give up, electing instead to drape your knees over his arms and start fucking into you at a brutal pace. The suddenness punched a small yelp out of you at first, and you clapped a hand over your mouth, turning to look anywhere but at the man grinning devilishly down at you. He clicked his tongue and the rough grip he had on one of your thighs disappeared, his hand shifting instead to your chin. You were nearly folded in half as he reached for you, and the shift in angle had his length dragging over all the right places.

Securing your face between his fingers, he yanked you back toward him, forcing eye contact as he pounded into you. “Watch me, sweetheart. Watch me make you come undone again. I want you to remember this.” His rough handling had dislodged your hand from your mouth, and as a drawn out keen began to bubble up from your throat, he shoved two fingers past your lips to silence you.

Some combination of the intimacy of looking into his eyes and the way he knew your body so well—shifting and adjusting until your legs were shaking—had your high building rapidly, and your teeth closed lightly around his knuckles as you felt the coil tightening in your gut. He tilted his head at you, a weak grin gracing his sweat-coated face as you sucked at the digits, pulling a breathy sigh from him.

“Close?” he uttered, and you nodded rapidly, one hand snaking between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit. “Cum with me then, love.”

Whether it was the pet name or his permission that sent you over the edge, you weren’t quite sure, but just like that, the tension lacing your body snapped, and you clamped down around his cock. Hongjoong did his best to fuck you through it, quickly toppling from his own height and pressing his hips flush you yours as he spilled into you.

When you had both caught your breath, he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss and lowering your hips back onto the table. You whined as he slipped out of you, pouting at the low chuckle your reaction received. Before he could walk away to search aimlessly for paper towels or a tissue box you knew weren’t there, you kicked him lightly and pointed to your workbag. “Tissues in there.”

“Mind reader,” he hummed, a lilt of faux annoyance in his tone.

“‘S why you hired me, Joongie.”

Another quiet laugh and a private smile graced your eyes and ears as he cleaned you both up, tucked himself back into his pants and handed you back your underwear.

Most days, this was it—he’d be waiting by the door to make a clean exit and you’d see each other when you finally made it back to your desk. So today, when you finished dressing yourself and found him still staring at you, you turned your eyes to the ground bashfully. “Don’t you have work to do?”

Most days, he’d quip back something along the lines of “I don’t know, do I?” Today, he tilted his head at you and smiled.

“That piece was made for you. I think I should work that way more often.”

With another quick kiss to your lips and one to your cheek, he left the room, and you with it, heat rising to your cheeks. “And maybe I should wear ‘not business attire’ more often.”

You weren’t sure what had just happened, exactly, or why, or how serious he was about the dress being made for you—but one thing was certain; you were as weak for Kim Hongjoong as he was for you.

mdni banner | support banner | dividers

#cromernet #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong x y/n #hongjoong x you #hongjoong smut #ateez smut #ateez x reader #kim hongjoong x reader #kim hongjoong x y/n #kim hongjoong x you #kim hongjoong #hongjoong #ateez hongjoong #ateez #ateez fanfic #atz #atz hongjoong #neb.atz #nebulous writes

358 notes · View notes

caxycreations · 11 months ago

Text

Tylvinian Tales: The Wolf's Den

Chapter Seven: Recreation

Ferusian Law, Third Sequence, Article One: Law of Consequence

Ferusian citizens are entitled to consequential action against inciting parties, provided the consequential action does not exceed severity of the inciting event.

Consequential action is defined as any measure, be it verbal, physical, or legal, that is taken in response to the inciting event.

Inciting event is defined as harmful action taken by an individual that is not a consequential action.

Inciting events or consequential action which break established Ferusian law are exempt from the Law of Consequence.

The drive was quiet, with David staring out the passenger side window. Glances at his reflection revealed a dull look in his eyes, and his fur bristled slightly with every movement of the truck. I was still angry myself, the last of my adrenaline only just starting to die down. Pulling into the parking lot, I took another glance at David and saw his expression had regained some of the life to it, his energy returning at the sight of the neon lights adorning the front of the building.

I parked the truck, stepping out as David followed suit, and we made our way into the arcade in silence. His smile started coming back the closer we got, and when we finally reached the front doors, he was practically skipping inside. I stopped at the counter to check the balance on my game card, my regular visits leaving me with quite a significant amount of tickets and credits from past visits. According to the system I was low on credits, so a quick top-up and we had more than enough for both of us.

I found David a moment later, holding the bars of a Tamp Tamp Maximum machine, one of his favorite dancing games. I rolled my eyes and smirked as I stepped up behind him, tapping his shoulder with my game card. He yipped and turned around, blushing when he realized it was only me.

"H-Hey big guy, you scared me!" He said with an indignant pout. His nose scrunched and he huffed a little before realizing I was holding my card out for him. He grinned, grabbing it with an excited giggle and wasting no time in tapping it against the scanner a few times, giving himself a fair few plays. I took the card back and leaned on the wall next to the machine. I wasn't much for the games, but David loved them, and I liked watching him have his fun.

His paws were a blur, tail moving wildly behind him, his arms and hands mirroring the motions of the cartoon dancer perfectly. The song was in Kanorian, nothing I understood, but David moved like he knew every step as well as the folks that wrote it. I let out a smile and, sure he would be fine if I stepped away for a moment, tapped the card against his scanner a couple more times and went to find something I could enjoy.

Basketball, mini-golf, shooters, the arcade had plenty of variety, but what caught my eye every time was skee ball. Simple, cheap on credits, and I was good enough to land enough tickets most times to make it worth it. I tapped a few times to my scanner, then to the ones on either side, figuring the next people would get a nice surprise at their free plays. I was just about to roll the first ball when I heard a splashing sound, and I felt my muscles seize.

I wasn't afraid of water, never had been. And yet here I was, my chest tight and my muscles tensing like I was about to fight, my heart racing. I stood there, as still as a stone, fur standing on end with my heart pounding in my ears. Then it came again, that splashing sound, and I knew why I was so panicked. That dream. That nightmare. I remembered it now. I knew I'd had a bad dream this morning, and hearing that sound brought to mind a flash of the ocean, dark shapes atop the surface, and a deep and unyielding burning in my chest as my lungs fought and failed to find oxygen.

Now knowing what was causing my anxiety, I tried my best to breathe slowly. I closed my eyes, thinking of everything I could think of to calm myself down. Music, food, Mom, Dad, Merissa. I tried to think of stories, of shows, movies, games. I tried to focus my thoughts on something, anything besides the sound of water filling my ears, the feeling of air leaving my body to be replaced by the agonizing liquid. It was no use. I dropped the ball I was holding, the sound muffled as I stepped back and braced myself against the nearest wall.

I wasn't used to this. I didn't get scared. I didn't feel anxious. I was the brave one, the confident one. David couldn't see me like-

David. David was here. He was barely halfway across the arcade. He'd see me. He'd see me afraid. He'd be scared to rely on me again. If I could panic over something as stupid as a sound in a gods-damned arcade, then-

No. No, no, no. He knows me better than that. David knows me. He knows I...

I growled, baring my teeth at nothing but my own fear. Standing up straight, I stepped back up to the game and picked up the ball I had dropped. David wouldn't see me scared, because I wasn't going to be scared. He would never think less of me for it. And I shouldn't expect him to. As I prepared to roll the ball, I heard the sound again and turned my head to find the source. It was a spin-the-wheel game with a pond theme. I glared at it, steadied my breath, and turned my back. I tuned it out and took my first roll.

I played for some time like that, my whole body tensing every time I heard that splash. Eventually, I ran out of plays and decided to make my way back to David. He was halfway through his last song, and I couldn't help but smile. His hair was wildly disheveled, his constant movement having undone whatever care he had taken to maintain the dark brown mess currently adorning the top of his head. I checked his score, chuckling to myself. It was perfect. He hadn't missed a beat.

As the song ended, he gripped the railing behind him, leaning back against it. I could see his chest heaving, hear his breathing. It was heavy, desperate. If I didn't know any better I'd say he'd been holding his breath in the entire time. He turned to hop off the platform, giggling as he saw me.

"Where you there the whole time, Rye?" He asked with a smile, hands fiddling with his hair to clean it up. I smirked, brushing his hands away and helping bring some order to the mess he'd put himself in.

"Nah, played a lil bit'a skee ball. Workin' on gettin' some tickets. Figured we'd see if we got enough for a decent prize this time. Ya still want that game system?" I asked, offering him my game card. He took it with a giddy smile, nodding excitedly and bounding off towards the racing games. I followed him and caught up just as he was pocketing the game card, hopping onto a motorcycle mounted on a metal base.

I watched him play for quite some time, and across several games. Hours passed and my eyes never left him, and my smile never faded. He deserved the break after the incident at work, and seeing the smile on his face, hearing his laughter so often, was well worth the hit my wallet would take. Eventually even he started to run out of energy, his tail swaying less excitedly, his steps losing their bounce little by little. Finally, he got off of a light-gun game and leaned against me with a happy-sounding purr.

"Satisfied? Spent enough'a my money?" I asked with a smirk, rubbing his back a bit. He nodded, smiling up at me and giggling softly. I rolled my eyes and held out my hand, closing my fingers around the card as he lay it in my hand.

"Can we check the prize counter? I wanna see how close we are to the Zenith." He said with a tired, but hopeful, smile. I nodded, and we made our way for the prize counter to check the balance of tickets on the card. I scanned it on the kiosk just beside the counter and while waiting for the machine to load, glanced at the Zenith console behind the clerk. A hundred thousand tickets. I had been saving up a while, and as the machine loaded I gave David a nudge. We were a thousand tickets short.

"Damn! Can we keep playing for a bit? We're so close to it, can we please, please, please get it today?" David begged, clinging to my arm. I laughed, nodding and loading up another fifty bucks onto the card and handing it to him. He darted off, quickly settling in front of a machine and starting to play. Another hour later, and a quick trip to the prize counter, and David was the proud owner of a brand new Zenith console. He held it in his arms like it was a precious child to him, even curling his tail around it protectively.

The drive home was filled with David talking at length about the games he planned to play, how excited he was to try the console out. I didn't understand most of it, but I did understand a few things. I understood the excited laughter meant he'd forgotten the stresses of work. I understood the beaming smile on his face meant I'd done the right thing. I understood that when we got home, he would set up the system and everything would be okay. I understood he was happy.

That was enough for me. Seeing his tail not wrapped around his waist, seeing his fingers drumming across the box in his lap, his teeth glinting in the light as he smiled, the idle bouncing in his seat. His joy shone in every single movement he made, and I couldn't help but smile with him. As we pulled into the driveway of my house and made our way inside, I figured he would waste no time in setting up. I was surprised when he set it down and rushed me, hugging me like his life depended on it.

"Thank you, Rye...Thank you!" He spoke softly at first, regaining his excitement quickly and letting go, racing off to set up his new console. He didn't even have any games for it, but I wasn't about to ruin his fun by reminding him of that. I was sure he'd find some free games until he bought a few. I sat in my chair beside the couch, laying back and closing my eyes. We had been in the arcade for hours, and I could feel myself getting tired from all the excitement of the lights and others around us. I was glad to be home, out of it all. As comfortable as I was in a club, arcades were a completely different story.

I could hear David giggling, and the sound of a system booting up. A second later, something fell into my lap. I opened my eyes, greeted by the sight of David laying across my lap, head against my chest and legs dangling over the armrest of the chair, kicking idly. I rolled my eyes at him and sighed.

"Comfy?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Very~! Now shush, I'm gaming!" He said with a giggle, nuzzling my chest for a second before focusing on the TV. I shook my head and smiled again, laying my head back and closing my eyes, relaxing slowly before drifting off to sleep, David playing his game and laying across my lap.

I opened my eyes, surrounded on all sides by water. Panicking, I began swimming up, frantically trying to reach the top. I held my breath, lungs burning and head becoming lighter by the moment, until I couldn't anymore. I took in a deep breath, instinctive and against my will, only to find I was perfectly fine. I took in oxygen, and let my breath back out, as easily as on land. I spun, testing my surroundings. They were still water. I was submerged, and yet...I was okay. Looking up, I saw dark shapes, dozens of them, on the surface.

Swimming upward, I found myself reaching surface quickly, with ease. I climbed onto the nearest boat, pulling myself from the water and dripping onto the dark wood of the craft. The moment my paws touched the wood, my lungs flooded, and I found myself coughing, sputtering, water pouring from me freely. I couldn't breathe, my lungs burning, freezing, shrinking, expanding, desperate for air that wouldn't come. I turned, remembering the water below, the safety inside, and just before I could dive in, I was stopped by a hand on my shoulder.

My eyes snapped open, blinking at the light, adjusting slowly as I woke up. David was shaking my shoulder and holding his phone out to me. I could hear a female voice on the line, and sighed. Taking the phone, I put it to my ear.

"Yo." I said plainly, keenly aware Davina was on the other end.

"Hey, Davey said you got him the Zenith he's been begging for. Did you?" She asked, almost pointedly. I chuckled, remembering she had planned to visit soon to give David his presents and pick up hers.

"Yeah, he had a rough day at work so we hit the arcade an' he had enough tickets t'grab th'console from th'prize counter." I replied. I thought she'd be happy, and instead was greeted with a very frustrated sound, halfway to a hiss and almost, but not quite, a growl.

"You bastard, I bought him one for his birthday and now I have to delay my trip so I can return it and buy him something else! Uuuugh, Okay. It's fine, I'm glad you took care of him. But really? I thought I told you I was getting it for him?" She was obviously irritated, but trying to keep calm. I looked at David, earning a confused head-tilt from the caxy.

"I'm sorry 'bout that, 'Vina. Forgot. If'n y'want, I can send a couple ideas for what he might like." I offered, wanting to make up for it. She laughed, a sultry and playful sound.

"If it's from Knotty Nights, don't bother. That was my backup plan." She said with a laugh.

"Well, I'll just keep it t'myself then." I said with a smirk. "Been alright, 'Vina? Ain't chatted in a while."

She was quiet for a moment. "I've been okay. Moss has been keeping me busy. I never thought raising a teenager would be so hard...They're a good kid, they behave and listen, but they're so..." She trailed off, sighing.

"Independent?" I asked.

"Yeah. I'm trying hard to do right with them, and Trace is helping a lot, but I think you should take some time to see them while they're out there this weekend. They talk about you and Davey a lot, I think they miss you." She explained. I nodded, mulling it over.

"I think I can do that, ain't no trouble t'head over t'Trace's place an' visit th'kiddo." I replied. "But ya woke me up an' I'm awful tired. I'mma give ya back t'Davey an' get a lil more rest. Seeya when ya get here, yeah? Stayin' here still right?" I asked.

"Yep. I'll be there in a couple days, gotta stop by K.N. and grab David's gifts, then I'll be heading there when they're wrapped." She replied. "Go on, gimme my brother back. Go sleep, I'm sick of you." She said with a giggle.

"Alright, alright. Here's Davey. Stay safe, 'Vina." I said with a laugh, holding the phone out to David. He took it, and as he chattered away with Davina, I sighed, relaxing again and letting myself fall back into a dreamless sleep, the barest hint of the feeling of something soft and warm being laid over me as the last sensation before slipping over the edge into sleep.

Tag List

@sparrowcraft @moremysteriesthantragedies @thetruearchmagos @a-scaly-troublemaker @that-one-enby-onyx @snakelovingnerd @eldritchx @leisoree @amerylise @profoundlyhauntedclaws @thefinalgoat @leisurelywingedlemon

#writeblr #relan #literature #fiction #furry #modern fantasy #anthro #anthropomorphic #writing #TTC7 #Tylvinian Tales #Story #Stories

4 notes · View notes

inkskinned · 2 years ago

Text

kids remind me, often, of the things i've taught myself out of.

i have a big dog. he looks like a deer. he is taller than most young children. while we were on a trail the other day, a boy coming our direction saw us and froze. he took a step back and said: "i'm feeling nervous. your - your dog is kind of big."

goblin and i both stopped walking immediately. "he is kind of a big dog," i admitted. "he's called a greyhound. they are gentle but they are pretty tall, which is kind of scary, you're right. their legs are so long because they are made for running fast. i am sorry we scared you. would you like us to stand still while you move past us, or would you feel more safe in your body if we move and you stay still?'

"oh. i didn't know that about - greyhounds. i think i ... i want to stay still," he said. at this point, his adult had caught up to us. "i'm nervous about the dog," he told her, "so i'm - i'm gonna stay still." she didn't argue. she didn't make fun of him. she just smiled at him and at me and held his hand while goblin and i, with as wide of a berth as we could make, crept our way through.

behind us, i heard him exhale a deep breath and kind of laugh - "he was really big, huh? she said it's because greyhounds have to go fast."

"he was big," she said. "i understand why that could have made you a little scared."

"yeah. next time i - next time do you think i could maybe ask to touch him? when - i mean, next time, maybe, if i'm not nervous."

later, going to a work event, in the big city, i stood outside, trembling. my social anxiety as a caught bird in my chest. i took a deep breath and turned to my coworker. she's not even really my friend yet. i told her: "i feel nervous about this. i am not used to meeting new people, ever since covid."

she laughed, but not in a mean way. she said she was nervous too. she reached her hand out and held mine, and we both took another deep breath and walked in like that, interlinked. a few people asked us - together? - and i told the truth: i feel nervous, and she's helping. over and over i watched people relax too, admitting i feel really kind of shy lately actually, thank you for saying that.

the next time i go to an event, and i feel a little scared, i ask right away: wanna hold hands? this feels a little dangerous. i hesitate less. i don't hide it as much. i watch for other people who are also nervous and say - it's kinda hard, huh?

i know, logically, i'm not good at asking for help. but i am also not good at noticing when i need help. i've trained myself out of asking completely, but i've also trained myself to never accept my own fears or excuses. i have trained myself to tamp down every anxiety and just-push-through. i don't know what i'm protecting myself from - just that i never think to admit it to anyone.

but every person on earth occasionally needs comfort. every person on earth occasionally needs connection. many of us were taught independence is the same thing as never needing anything.

each of us should have had an adult who heard - i feel nervous and held our hand and asked us how we could be helped to feel safe. no judgement, and no chiding. many of us did not. many of us were punished for the ways that we seemed "weak".

but here is something: i am an adult now. and i get nervous a lot, actually. and if you are an adult and you are feeling a little nervous - come talk to me. we can hold hands and figure out what will help us feel safe in our bodies. and maybe, next time, if we're brave, we can pet the dog that's passing.

#spilled ink #warm up #so i have worked in childcare as a teacher for like 15 years #hence the language behind ''what helps you be safe in your body?''#like you can tell by what i say here i have EXPERIENCE with kids.#but tbh the REAL teacher moment is watching a 6/7 year old say #''this makes me nervous #can you please not come closer?''#as a teacher i was IMMEDIATELY like ... ahh whomever is raising you is doing an EXCELLENT job holy shit #verbalizing your fears? trusting an adult to listen?#ability to recognize a way you might feel safer?#like .... this kid's caregivers.... that one moment... i was like .... who are u i wanna french kiss you big on the mouth

106K notes · View notes

cloudteawrites · 4 years ago

Text

chapter: five ( 4.7k ) rating: mature (death, past abuse, eventual smut) genre: mystery | romance | hurt/comfort tags: bts x reader | ot7 x reader | hybrid | poly summary: when an estranged uncle leaves you his massive fortune you wonder if the universe is playing a joke on you. when that fortune comes with seven hybrids, you know for sure that it is. << first < previous | next > last >>

The grocery store was a mess of color and light. You swore you’d never seen so much food in one place.

Back when your mom had been alive, you’d never really gone to traditional grocery stores. You’d always just visited markets where your mom knew the vendors and could talk down their prices on ugly produce and day old bread. After she’d died, you’d eaten whatever the staff in the group home had provided, then whatever you could scrounge up from convenience stores. Most of the time since you’d aged out of social services, you survived off the free rice and kimchi available in your goshiwon.

Occasionally, you’d eat at work with your free staff meal, but you tried to avoid it. You knew the sight of you wolfing down ramyeon and cold kimbap as fast as you could made Jiah worry. If she ever saw you looking too haggard, she’d try to slip some home made meals to the front desk of your goshiwon when you weren’t looking and that was as embarrassing as it was helpful.

For as long as you could remember, the question of where your next meal was coming from had hung over your head like a dark cloud. It didn’t seem like that was going to be a problem any longer.

Aisle after aisle stretched out before you, blindingly bright. It looked like an amusement park. You were finding it hard to stop staring. You reached out in a haze and picked up the juiciest apple you’d ever seen. Sure, you sold them all the time at Quickstop, but they’d always been dull and just the slightest bit bruised. This one was perfect: fire engine red and still wet from the mister. It was cold and heavy in your hands. You almost felt like crying.

“You good?” Yoongi is beside you, leaning over on the shopping cart, his chin in his hand. He looks dreadfully bored.

“Yeah,” you tell him, setting the apple gently back in its place. “Yeah; just got distracted for a second.” You give a single tug on the front of the basket to move him along, and he follows, shuffling against the bright white linoleum.

“Why aren’t you getting that?” He calls, just before you can round the corner into the dry goods aisle. You turn and look at him over your shoulder, confusion slightly furrowing your brow. “Don’t you want it?”

Your eyes flick from his face back to the glittering heap of fruit. You gnaw at your lip. “...They’re 6,000 won a kilo.”

Yoongi purses his lips. “That’s not what I asked you.”

“I don’t need them,” you huff, trying to stave off the beginnings of another argument. “There’s more important things...like you three and getting you clothes and better furniture and-” Before you get the chance to finish, the gray haired man has ducked back around the corner. He returns with two three kilo bags of apples and dumps them unceremoniously into the cart.

He looks up at you, brows raised and his eyes daring you to say something. All you do is sigh. “Yoongi-”

“Jimin likes apples.” He says, before you can get a word in edgewise. “They’re for him.” You can’t argue with that. He pushes the basket forward and you two drift down the next aisle.

There’s a question resting on the tip of your tongue and as you compare brands of rice, you spit it out. “So...what do you guys eat? I read an article that said to mainly feed cat hybrids fish, but...”

“But we’re not house cats.” He finishes, flipping over a box of cereal to read the back. His nose wrinkles at something he finds and he slides it back onto the shelf. It’s cute, you think- or would be if you couldn’t see the tips of his razor sharp incisors poking out when his lip curled up. Yoongi senses your gaze and looks over at you. You look away quickly and make yourself busy reading a label. “We can eat pretty much anything you’d eat. Not too much processed shit or we’ll get sick. Whole foods are better.”

You nod, making a mental note to forego sodas and chips. “And when you’re shifted?”

He shakes his head. “We don’t really eat when we’re shifted down unless we plan on staying there for a long time.”

You choose a 10 kilo bag of rice, tug it out from the shelf with a little grunt and plop it onto the basket’s bottom shelf. That was good, you supposed. You were worried you were gonna have to watch three big cats rip into raw meat whenever it caught their fancy. “Why don’t I push the basket and you can pick out things Taehyung and Jimin would want?”

He nods and shifts to the other side of the aisle. “What’s my limit?”

You pause for a moment, then stand and fix him with a strange look. “What do you mean?” He isn’t looking at you. He’s comparing two brands of cereal, scanning the nutritional facts on the back.

“How much am I allowed to spend on food?” he questions, simply. “-and what foods are we allowed to eat?”

You balked at him. “.. .you want me to control your diet?”

“I don’t want you to, but most owners prefer a certain look.” He turns his flat, yellow-grey eyes on you. “So what is it? No carbs? no sugars? Low fat? No fat? Dairy-free-”

“Oh my God, no!” You yelp before he can list any more diets. You’d said it a little louder than you’d intended and a well-dressed mom at the other end of the aisle fixes you two with an odd look before hustling her twins into another part of the store. You wince, but continue in a quieter but no less urgent voice. “I mean, I’m not gonna tell you what you can and can’t eat that’s…”

“It’s not unusual,” Yoongi cuts in before you can give voice to your thoughts. He sets one of the cereal boxes, decorated with bright colors and little cartoon animals, back on the shelf and tosses the other -something in a dull green and white box with a little piece of wheat on the front- into the cart. “You didn’t feed us last night.”

A pang of guilt shoots through you. You curl your fingers around the bar of the cart, stare at your knuckles. “I’m sorry,” you tell him, with all the sincerity in the world. “I was tired -and I know that’s not an excuse- but I fell asleep without thinking of you guys. It won’t happen again.”

“Relax,” Yoongi drawls.”It’s not the first time we’ve gone hungry; I’m sure it won’t be the last.” He starts drifting toward the end of the aisle, but before he can go, you catch him by the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

There’s barely an inch of fabric between your thumb and forefinger, but the look Yoongi gives you makes it look like you’d yanked him back by the collar. He whirls on you, eyes narrowed and lips twisted into something sour. You’d overstepped by grabbing him. Still, you speak. “That was the last time. I mean it.”

The hybrid’s face shifts from irritation into something unrecognizable. He’s looking at you like there’s an equation written behind your eyes that he’s trying to work out with his own, like if he looks deep enough into them he’ll find the answers etched across your sclera. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up as the seconds drag on, but you don’t look away. Instead, you hold his gaze and let the moment swell under almost unbearable tension.

Yoongi gives first. He tugs his sleeve out of your grip and shuffles back out of reach. “Whatever you say,” he scoffs, stalking off into the next aisle, his ears tilted back and tail tip flicking in irritation.

You sigh. You’d done it again. The urge to catch him again wells up in you, but you tamp it down. ‘Time and space,’ you remind yourself. ‘Give him time and give him space.’ Satisfied once the distance between the two of you is enough, you go to follow after him, but hesitate as you pass the cereal he’d been looking at. You tug it off the shelf and place it in the basket underneath a few other things so it’d be hidden. You don’t know why and if he asked you about it later you were sure you’d draw a blank. If nothing else, you told yourself as you hurried to catch up with your hybrid, he’d have a choice.

The rest of the grocery trip passed in silence, just as it’d begun. Yoongi didn’t so much as look at you, but that was fine. You were focused on watching him. Anything that he gave more than a passing glance went into the basket. If the bobcat hybrid noticed your rapidly increasing haul, he didn’t say anything about it. He was silent. Even when you flinched as the cashier announced the total and you waffled between trying to walk home or calling a taxi. Even in the lobby then the elevator on the way up as Mr. Park talked both of your ears off and you had to stop him from carrying your groceries in and stocking the fridge himself, Yoongi had remained eerily quiet. It’d given you time to think.

You didn’t know much about hybrids. If you were honest with yourself, you hadn’t known anything about them prior to what you’d anxiety-googled yesterday afternoon. You were so far out of your depth, it was miracle you hadn’t drowned yet. Still, you weren’t completely oblivious.

In between Yoongi’s open hostility, Jimin’s blase attitude toward his own objectification and what snippets you’d heard about Taehyung’s early life, you knew something must’ve been very, very wrong with the people who’d had them before they’d been foisted upon you. The expectation that you were supposed to treat hybrids like actual pets made you uncomfortable enough without the assumption that you’d be dressing them up like dolls and locking the snack cabinets at night.

A spike of anger shot through you. They might’ve been different than humans but they were still people. They hadn’t deserved whatever shady things their owners had done to them and you didn’t want them to come to expect them from you. You shift the grocery bags up your arm, freeing up a hand so you can punch the code into the door. There was no way around it. The four of you would need to sit down and have a good long talk.

The second you punch the code into your door it swings open. “Hey, Jim-” the greeting dies on your tongue. It’s not Jimin who meets you at the door, but Taehyung, freshly showered, the curly ends of his hair dripping water onto the white tile and the front of his sweatshirt damp. His eyes were still hidden behind his hair but you could see more of him than you’d been able to that morning when he’d shifted.

Well, not more of him. He was wearing clothes now, for one- a dark brown version of the sweat suit Yoongi and Jimin both wore. He was taller than you, which you’d known when he’d wrapped his arms around you, but looking up at him now you have to tilt your head back a bit. “Oh,” you say, a little dazed. “Wow.”

The corners of his mouth quirk up in a smile. “Hi.” His voice is still as deep as it was this morning. Was it always like that? He turns his attention to the hybrid behind you and his lips part in a blindingly bright boxy grin. “Hi, hyung.”

Yoongi hums a hello and slips past you through the door. His shoulder brushes against Taehyung’s and the younger hybrid chuffs happily a little in his throat. He leans down as the older man passes and bumps their foreheads together affectionately. Their tails twine together briefly before the gray-haired hybrid is out of reach and dropping an armful of groceries off in the kitchen.

“You shifted up,” you remark “Did something happen?” There’s a tick of concern in his voice. You step to the side of the doorway so the pair can talk without you in the middle.

Taehyung shakes his head, water droplets scattering. His hyung let out a hiss that erred just on the wrong side of animalistic as some of them hit him. You freeze, but the tiger hybrid just laughs. “No, Jimin and I were just-” His smile falters. You can’t see his eyes but his ears have twitched downward and his tail is suddenly stiff, only the tip ticking back and forth. The hybrid lowers his head, and you finally catch sight of eyes, gleaming amber and full of fear. Behind him, you see Yoongi catch a whiff of his junior’s souring scent and his head whips toward the pair of you, ears straight up and his whole body on high alert.

Worry draws your brows together. “Taehyung?” you call softly. You reach out with your free hand to touch his shoulder, then think better of it. Your fingers hover uselessly and inch away from him. In this moment, that distance feels a mile wide. The line of his shoulders is rigid and he’s withdrawn into himself. “Taehyung, it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if you-”

“We went out.” He blurts, snapping his head up to look in your eyes. His own are wide and earnest. “You left your backpack open and I saw the list you made with all the phone numbers and passwords and the door code was on there and I really wanted to go to the park. Jimin told me to wait but I made him come with me; we were only gone for fifteen minutes, I swear. We didn’t even make it; the same police officer from earlier was still on the street.”

“Taehyung-”

“Please-” he cuts you off before you can even get a word in edgewise. “Please, just punish me; Jimin didn’t do anything. The whole time he was trying to make me go back. He only went with me so I wouldn’t be alone.”

Your heart wrenches in your chest. You do touch him, then. Your fingertips barely graze the material of his sweatshirt, but he flinches and you pull away. Your hand drops to your side, limp. “Can you and Jimin meet me in the living room?” You ask him, careful to keep your tone light and non-threatening as possible. “We need to talk.” His ears droop, but he nods and shuffles off to do as you ask. You trail behind him into the penthouse, making sure to give him enough space. The last thing you wanted to do right now was crowd him.

You drop the groceries on the counter in the kitchen and look up to find Yoongi squinting at you. He’s coiled up like a spring, ready to bolt at any moment. You try to give him a reassuring smile, but it comes out watery and wan. “It’s okay,” you tell him. “We’re just gonna talk.” You can tell he doesn’t believe you.

Still, he follows you into the living room, takes a seat on the couch while you settle cross-legged on the ottoman across from him. A few seconds later, Jimin and Taehyung slink down the stairs. The tiger hybrid is clinging to his hyung who, for once, isn't smiling. Jimin’s face is settled into a cool mask of neutrality. You almost don’t recognize him.

They sink into the couch on either side of Yoongi, their backs stiff and eyes on anything other than you. For a moment, the four of you sit there in uncomfortable silence. You speak first.

“Jimin, Taehyung, Yoongi-”

“Y/N,” Jimin cuts in, “Whatever Taehyung told you-”

“-I’m sorry.” You finish. That seems to surprise them. You interlock your fingers on your lap and look at each one of them individually. “I’m sorry that I didn’t check to see if there was food in the house last night. I’m sorry that I didn’t make sure you had the things you needed to feel comfortable here. I’m sorry that I made you feel like you weren’t allowed to leave.”

Taehyung swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He’s got a death grip on Yoongi’s arm with one hand and the other fisted in the fabric of his sweatpants. “You...You’re not mad?” The tremor in his voice makes your heart ache.

“No,” you tell him with all the sincerity in the world. “I’m not mad at you. I’m sad that you were ever around someone who made you feel like you needed to apologize for wanting to see the sun and I’m angry that they made you think that was something to be punished for.” It was true. Beneath your sadness, beneath your shock at his expectation of punishment, anger was twisting in your gut. What type of person would reduce another to fear and trembling for the sake of leaving the house? “I’m not going to...to punish you, I need you to know that.” You tell him, before looking at Jimin and Yoongi. “Any of you. Ever. I’m never gonna hurt you.”

Taehyung’s jaw is clenched like he’s trying not to cry. All the wind has gone out of Jimin like a deflated sail and the leopard hybrid just looks exhausted. Yoongi’s rubbing soothing circles in both of their backs. You can’t tell from his face, but by the way his ears have relaxed, you think he was worried about your reaction, too.

You let out a little exhale and slouch. “Whatever happened to you with your previous...the people you lived with before? It wasn’t okay.” You’re as firm with it as you can be while still keeping your tone gentle. “They were supposed to take care of you and love you and help you grow, but if they starved you, if they made you feel this bad, if they treated you like property, then fuck them. I don’t want to be anything like them.” You admit. “I don’t want to be your owner and I don’t want you to be my pets.”

“What do you want us to be to you then?” Yoongi rasps. Despite the question, there’s no challenge in his voice. He’s genuinely asking.

One corner of your mouth quirks up and you give him a small shrug. “Friends, maybe? Eventually, if we can. For now let’s try…” you search for the word you want. “Roommates?” You supply. “We live together, but you guys don’t need to feel like you owe me anything. I’ll get you phones tomorrow, if you want, and copies of the credit card. We can get you clothes and furniture too. And if there’s anything you want to do or want to see, go see it. The door code is 0613.”

The tension that’d run between the three hybrids like a livewire is gone. Now they’re...if not relaxed, then at least relieved. There’s nothing else to be said. You stand and move to hurry into the kitchen so the trio of hybrids can have their space. The last thing you wanted to do after having a talk about their freedoms was crowd them. Before you can take three steps there’s a hand wrapped around your wrist, holding you in place. It's Taehyung's.

The tiger hybrid is looking up at you, his eyes beseeching and a nervous tremble in his bottom lip. “Don’t go,” he croaks, sounding like he’s still unsure just how to use his voice. He tugs once on your coat sleeve. “Please.”

Your eyes flick from him to his hyungs. Jimin’s looking at you with apprehension, perched on the edge of the couch like he’s a split second away from helping the tiger hybrid drag you down- but Yoongi’s face is turned away from you. As usual, you can’t tell what he’s feeling. “I’m just going to the kitchen,” you assure him. “I’ve gotta put the food away-” Your brain short circuits as the tiger hybrid flips your hand over and presses his face to your palm. His eyelashes brush against your lifeline; his lips trace the veins in your wrist.

You’d never say it outloud, but it was hard to deny you were touch starved. You could count on one hand the amount of times someone had touched you gently since your mother died. You didn’t show yourself kindness most days and you’d come not to expect it from others. The world was cold and cruel, and you were far too old to be seeking solace from strangers. You’d thought you were above it, but the feeling of Taehyung nipping at your radial artery is almost enough to make you go to pieces. “Just a little bit,” he huffs, his voice muffled against your skin.

“...The groceries will get warm,” you argue, finally managing to make your mouth move. “Do you wanna eat hot kimchi?”

“I’ll put them away.” Yoongi is up and vaulting over the couch before you can get a word in edgewise. With him gone the last of your excuses goes up in smoke. Taehyung smiles against your skin and you let yourself be pulled down.

No sooner have your legs touched the cushion, then Taehyung is snuggled up against your side, his arms wrapped loosely around your middle and the cool tip of his nose pressed into your neck. “Tell me again,” he murmurs softly. “Can you tell me again that you’re not mad?” He wanted reassurance. The least you could do was give it to him.

You slip a hand into his hair, scratch gently at the base of his ears. He chuffs happily, the sound vibrating in his chest as he presses closer to you. “I’m not mad at you, and you’re not in trouble, buddy.” You tell him. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

A warm presence on your left tells you Jimin’s settled in beside you. Sure enough, a second later a golden tail is tracing the edge of your calf. “Don’t leave me out,” he purrs, settling his chin on your shoulder.

You slide a hand into his hair too, letting the locks slip through your fingers as you pet him. “Never.”

The three of you stay like that for what feels like an hour. Even when their hyung finishes putting the groceries away and returns to sit with them -albeit at the far end of the sectional- they don’t seem like they’re in a hurry to disentangle themselves from you. You’re surprised to find you don’t mind it. The weight of two grown men against your shoulders was heavy, but not uncomfortable and they were warm and the steady hum of Jimin purring is almost enough to lull you to sleep. You cut a movie on and order samgyeopsal. You think they’re gonna kill the delivery man for making you get up, and they stay glued to your back even as you pay. It’s not until the first movie goes off and Taehyung and Jimin are playfully bickering over what to watch next that you’re able to slip away to the bathroom.

You shuffle quickly down the wide hallway, trying to remember which door the closest bathroom lay behind. You careen around a corner and run smack into someone. They let out a huff and you stumble back a few steps, an apology on your lips. You look up and find Yokngi there. Guilt bubbles up in your stomach. Between Jimin purring in your ear and Taehyung rubbing his cheek against your hand every ten seconds, you hadn’t even noticed he was gone. “Sorry,” you mumble.

He quirks an eyebrow at you. “For what?”

You’re not even sure you know.

He stares at you and you stare back, frozen. Finally, the bobcat hybrid sighs and gestures at you. “C’mere,” he mumbles.

You approach hesitantly, not trusting him to not suddenly snap at you. “Why?” You ask, apprehensive. Should you have not let Taehyung and Jimin scent you? He’d been around the entire time and hadn’t said anything, so you’d thought it was fine. Maybe you’d made a mistake. You gnaw at your bottom lip and creep slowly closer to the hybrid before you. Another miscalculation, another mess-up, another mile tacked on to that incalculable distance between you and Yoongi. Should you apologize again? Would taking a shower help wash their scents away?

Before you can volunteer to do any of that, Yoongi reaches forward, hooks one finger through your belt loop and drags you toward him. You feel a yelp crawling up your throat, but it’s stopped dead in its tracks by the feeling of Yoongi cradling your jaw and his lips pressed against the column of your throat. His spine is tense and his tail is ticking in the way it does when he’s irritated. “...What are you-?”

“They’ve both scented you.” He murmurs. “If I don’t, they’ll think I’m rejecting you. My job as their hyung is to put them at ease. If I can’t do that, I’m useless.” Despite his closeness, despite the way his fingers were slipping into the hair at the base of your skull, despite the little nips he’d started giving you, you could practically feel his reluctance.

You exhale and push against his shoulders. “Yoongi…” He doesn’t budge. “Hey-”

“There’s no good reason for me to not just mark you and get it over with.” There was that word again. You’d forgotten about it in the whirlwind that followed, but Jimin had joked about marking you earlier, hadn’t he? And Yoongi’d gotten upset with him. From what you were gathering, it was a lot more serious than scenting.

“I don’t want you to.” That gets his attention. The hybrid pulls away and fixes you with an odd look, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“What are you talking about? Owners always want us to mark them.” You feel that same twinge of anger again. The articles had said scenting was a sign of trust and security. It was used to mark family members. Had the people they’d been with before forced their way into their family without the hybrids consent? Without Yoongi’s? No wonder he’d been touchy about his juniors scenting you right away.

“Well, I don’t.” You give him a gentle nudge and put a few inches between the two of you. “I don’t want you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with or not ready for.” You offer him a smile you hope comes across as reassuring. “You not wanting to is a good enough reason for me. Besides,” you say, turning to head back to the living room, the original reason for your trip forgotten. “I’ve never been marked before, so it’s not like i’m missing out on anything.”

At that, something flashes in Yoongi’s eyes that you have no name for. It passes as soon as it’d come. “Come back when you’re ready!” You call over your shoulder, retreating back down the corridor before he can say something one way or another.

When you settle back on to the couch two minutes later, There’s a movie queued up and ready to be played. It’s an action movie, one you haven’t seen before. “Yoongi’ll be back in a second,” you tell the boys. “Let’s wait for him.”

Taehyung hums his ascent, leaning in to settle back in the crook of your neck- but something stops him. He hovers near your neck, takes a few short inhales and tosses a look at Jimin behind your back. You frown. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah!” Taehyung responds a bit too quickly, lacing your fingers together to distract you as Jimin gives the other side of your neck the same treatment. The leopard hybrid purrs, seemingly happy at what he’s found. His ears swivel up and a second later, Yoongi slinks back into the living room.

“Hyung…” Jimin starts, his voice taking on a teasing lilt.

“Play the movie.” His hyung orders. He does, but there’s still a little smirk on his lips.

The screen darkens and the opening credits roll as Taehyung and Jimin settle back against your side, careful to avoid your neck. Yoongi drops onto the couch, this time only a foot away from the three of you. You allow yourself a little spark of relief. The distance was starting to close.

#bts fic #bts x reader #bts x y/n #hybrid!bts #ot7 x reader #seokjin x reader #namjoon x reader #jhope x reader #yoongi x reader #taehyung x reader #jimin x reader #jungkook x reader

896 notes · View notes

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

journalofimprobablethings · 3 years ago

Text

When Martin wakes up in those slow, golden mornings at Upton House, it sometimes takes him a moment to remember where he is.

The first morning--the first real morning, not the strange, groggy awakening after their seventy-hour collapse--he thought they were back in Scotland. He thought, for a brief, heady moment, that everything that had happened since he left Jon to read that statement had been a dream--just one long, awful nightmare. That he would go downstairs to their tiny kitchen and make tea and Jon would sleepily stumble down a few minutes later and join him at the window, wrapping his arms tight around Martin's waist, and together they would watch the mist burn off over the fields of grass and heather and no horrors. That the quiet, fragile life they'd built there still existed.

It didn't last, of course. All too soon, he remembered where he was, and everything that had happened to get them there. But Martin treasures the memory of that feeling, and all the small moments of normalcy they have stolen in the last few days here. They may not be in Scotland, but they have gotten to sleep--in a bed--and he has savored every moment where he gets to wake up under soft covers, Jon's limbs sprawled across him with an abandon he only ever achieves in sleep.

This morning, when Martin wakes, Jon is on his own side of the bed for once, no arms tossed across Martin's chest or legs tangled with his--but he still holds one of Martin's hands clasped lightly on the pillows between them, fingers loosely linked. Martin lets out a deep sigh of something dangerously close to contentment, and rolls over to face Jon.

Jon's eyes are open, as always. (It had taken some getting used to, Jon sleeping with his eyes open. Martin will never tell Jon how much it unnerves him.) Now, though, Jon's eyes are alert, awake. He is looking at Martin with a sort of quiet wonder, a perfect reflection of what Martin feels whenever he rolls over and sees Jon next to him and realizes, all over again, that this is real.

"Good morning," Martin murmurs softly.

"Good morning," Jon says, and he says it like it's the most miraculous sentence in the world. In a way, with everything they’ve been through, it is.

Martin leans in to kiss Jon, soft and slow with sleep. He takes his time, because he can do that here, because just for this moment they are together and safe from monsters and they can have this.

Jon starts, just a little, when Martin's lips meet his, and when he returns Martin's kiss he is gentle and cautious, as though he is afraid he will break Martin if he moves too fast. It reminds Martin a little of how he was in those first days in Scotland, when they were both still moving so slowly, feeling out boundaries, still in awe that this was happening at all. Then he pulls away all at once, his breath slightly ragged.

"You all right?" Martin asks.

Jon nods. "Yes. I just...it's a bit..." He frowns a little, the frown he gets when he's trying to find the right way to phrase something.

Martin thinks he knows what he means. "I know, I'm still not used to it. Being in someone else's house."

Jon's frown deepens, and Martin reaches up, unthinking, to smooth his thumb over the crease between Jon's brows.

"I mean, not that I think that Annabelle or Salesa would walk in on us or anything," he says, "but--"

"Annabelle?"

Jon's voice is suddenly sharp. He leans away from Martin's hand, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at him properly.

“Annabelle Cane? She’s here?”

It's like someone has poured ice water down the back of Martin's neck.

He looks up at Jon, scrutinizing his face. His expression holds confusion and apprehension but none of the vagueness that's been creeping over him the past few days, the symptoms of being cut off from the Eye. He looks lucid, fully present.

Still, Martin has to fight to keep his voice steady as he answers.

"Ye-yeah. She let us in, remember? She's staying here, in Salesa's house. He told us about it that first day. Uninvited houseguest, and all that."

Jon shakes his head.

"Annabelle. Of course." He flops back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. "Can't get away from the Web even in my dreams. Should've known there would be something else when this wasn't a statement."

Wait.

Dreams?

A sick swoop of anxiety passes through Martin, like an electric current.

"Jon, this isn't--you know you're awake right now, right?"

Jon laughs, low and mirthless.

"No, I'm not."

You--you are, though. This is real, this isn't a dream." Martin gives a small, nervous laugh. "I--I know it feels a bit like one, after everything, but--"

"Yes, it is," Jon says, with absolute certainty. "This is a dream. It has to be."

"Why?"

Martin is so afraid of the answer, but he has to ask.

Jon looks at Martin then, with such sadness and longing in his eyes that Martin can barely stand to hold his gaze. "I wouldn't be here with you otherwise."

“What are you talking about, of course you--” Martin stops, a sudden horrible thought coming to him as he thinks again of how Jon has been the last few days, staring off into space, tailing off in the middle of sentences.

"Jon, what's the last thing you remember? Before you--before now?"

Jon's brow furrows. "I...I went to sleep in the Archives. On the cot, for once. Was too tired to avoid it any longer. I never thought--I didn't think I got to dream about good things, anymore." He looks up at Martin, that same sad and longing look. "This is a nice change."

Martin takes a deep breath, trying to tamp down the growing panic clawing at his throat.

"I miss you, Martin," Jon continues. He doesn't seem to notice Martin's quickening breath beside him. "I know you said we have to stay apart, and I trust you, I do, but--god. I miss you. There are so many things I never--things I should have realized, should have said sooner, and now..."

Jon trails off, his eyes roving Martin's face as though he's trying to memorize it. Normally, Martin would blush under that seeking gaze, soaking in Jon's keen attention. But now his mind is too busy spinning over Jon's words and their implications.

It's worse now than losing the thread of a conversation--Jon is losing time. He's forgetting. If the last thing he remembers is the Archives, is Martin falling deeper under Peter's influence, then that means--

Oh, god." Martin sits up so abruptly that his head spins. Next to him Jon's forehead creases in worry.

"Martin?"

It means Jon's forgotten the Lonely, pulling Martin out of that beach,

He's forgotten Scotland, the cottage, those three weeks of stolen peace,

He's forgotten the Change, and everything they've been through since.

"God, no. Shit."

"Martin, what's wrong?"

"We have to get you out of here."

Martin throws off the covers and makes to get out of bed, but Jon's hand shoots out and grabs his arm as he starts to get up.

“No, Martin, please. I’m sorry. If I said something wrong, I’m sorry. But please, I don’t know how long this will last. I want to stay with you. Please.”

Martin forces himself to stop, to slow, to turn and place his hand over Jon's where it's clutching at his arm.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jon. I swear, I will never leave you. But we have to get out of this house. Now.”

“Why? Is there something here?" Jon gives a sharp, bitter laugh. “Of course. That didn’t take long. Nightmare, is it?”

"No, no, it’s not like that, but--all that stuff--with Peter, and the Archives--that was months ago.” His mouth twists. “Or, well--I’m not really sure how long ago it was; time doesn’t really work anymore, but it’s been a long time and--”

He can hear the hysteria creeping into his own voice, register rising and words beginning to trip over each other as they crowd out of his mouth too quickly. He stops, closing his eyes for just a second, wishing his heart would stop its hummingbird-fast beat in his chest.

When he opens his eyes, Jon is staring at him. His hands are fisted tight in the blankets and his eyes are so wide that Martin can see the whites all around his irises.

“Martin, what are you saying?”

I’m saying that you're not dreaming, Jon. You're awake. You've just--there's something here messing with your mind, something making you forget."

“You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

Jon’s hands clutch the blankets tighter, and he frowns.

"You realize this is a very dream-like conversation."

Martin can’t help but smile a little at the hint of dry skepticism in Jon’s voice. He knows Jon well enough to know that that skepticism is a defense mechanism, a wall he puts up to protect himself against something that he’s not quite ready to admit he believes.

He reaches out and takes Jon’s hands in his, gently untangling his fingers from their tight grip on the quilt. Jon starts a little at the contact, but he doesn’t resist.

"Jon, you've been dreaming nothing but statements for months. Years, now. Why would it have suddenly changed?"

That crease reappears between Jon’s brows, and he looks down at where his fingers are entwined with Martin’s, as though the tangle of their fingers is a puzzle he can solve, if he only looks at it hard enough.

"I--yes. You're right, I...So this is...Martin?"

Martin smiles when Jon’s eyes meet his and squeezes his hand reassuringly.

"Hi."

"You're really here. This is really happening."

"Yes."

"So then how--where--" Jon's eyes widen. "The Eye, I can't--Martin, where--"

"It's alright, Jon. Just breathe."

Jon's eyes are wide and his hands clutching Martin's so tight it hurts a little, but he does as Martin says and sucks several deep breaths.

"Why can't I feel it? We didn't--did we find a way to quit? Another way?"

Martin's heart cracks open at the hope in Jon's eyes. The light at the idea that somehow, they were able to get away. What are a few memories, he can see Jon thinking, if they are free?

He wishes so badly that he could give a better answer, that he doesn't have to extinguish that light.

"No," he says quietly. No, we didn't.”

He hates the way Jon slumps in on himself at his words, the momentary electricity that had flowed through him at the idea of escape suddenly cut off.

"We're in a place the Eye can't reach us." he says gently. "Temporarily."

"Right. You--you mentioned Annabelle. And Mikaele Salesa? I thought he was dead."

Martin can't help a small laugh. "He faked his death. This is his house."

"Salesa's house? But why? Why are we here, why would the Eye not be able to--"

Jon stops. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, visibly pushing down the torrent of questions, sorting through them to find the one that matters.

"What exactly have I forgotten?”

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #upton house #tma season 5 spoilers #tma season 5 #this is the first part of a longer thing but the rest of it has been giving me grief and i like this bit #so i thought i'd post it #why not #angst #cw memory loss #scribblings

45 notes · View notes

tchallasbabymama · 4 years ago

Text

Ménage à Trois Chapter 8

Hey lovelies, here’s the next chapter of Ménage à Trois a day early! I’ll be honest, I only had 10 chapters mapped out for this originally, but I’m not really ready to let them go just yet so I’m thinking this story might end at around 13 chapters. We’ll see.

Check out my masterlist to read my other stories, and let me know if you want to be tagged in anything! Enjoy 😘

Word Count: 6594

CW: smut

T’Challa sat back in his desk chair and let out a deep sigh. It had been a rough week trying to convince the US government to continue their cooperation without Theodore, but they eventually came around and “allowed” the liaison position to replace an ambassador. It didn’t help that Theodore had been bad-mouthing Zora and the king to anyone who would listen, and unfortunately, lots of people listened. That is until some of those photos of Theodore and his mistress were mysteriously sent to Mrs. Thompson’s phone from an unknown number. That shut him up real quick. However, some of the damage had already been done. Thankfully, Zora had no interest in working in the world of politics and could care less about her reputation among that crowd.

Not only had the week been difficult because of work, but T’Challa was also missing his lady. Zora had flown back to New York to pack up her life, and she would be back in about a week, but he couldn’t wait that long. By the time three days had passed, he was already getting antsy. “Is this what it is like when I go on missions?” he wondered to himself.

He missed her loud laughter and the twinkle in her eye when she looked up at him. It just wasn’t the same seeing her in hologram form; it wasn’t anywhere close to as good as the real thing. Despite that, he looked forward to her morning calls. She would call him as she got ready for bed and tell him about her day as she detangled her hair, and T’Challa loved watching the look of determination on her face as she worked her way through every curl and kink. Some nights it was hidden under a solid layer of clay, and he’d tease her about looking like Hulk in her green mask. He didn’t get to see her like that often, but he liked it, and he wanted more of it. Something about seeing her in that relaxed state made him want to lay his head on her chest and doze off with her, but, unfortunately, as her day was winding down, his was picking up. He smiled as he thought back to their conversation earlier that day and the words that almost left his mouth when they said goodbye.

“I love you.”

He almost said it. He wasn’t sure where it came from, but it felt as natural as breathing.

“Sweet dreams, Babygirl. I...will talk to you tomorrow.” He had caught himself right before the words came tumbling out, but she didn’t notice his awkwardness thanks to a yawn that overtook her as he spoke. When she ended the call, he sat there in a stupor, unable to wrap his mind around what had just happened. It’s not that he couldn’t believe he was falling in love with Zora, that was pretty easy for him to believe, but T’Challa was surprised at how deeply he felt the words as they sat on his tongue. They were his truth that even he didn’t know until that moment. He felt a warm glow emanating from within him as he thought about his feelings for her, but it was quickly tamped out by the looming anxiety of what he knew he had to do regarding his other truth. T’Challa had no doubt in his mind that he loved Zora, but he had been lying to her the whole time about who and what he was. She had been kept in the dark about his identity because of her ties to the U.S. government, but T’Challa couldn’t hide behind that excuse anymore.

A call interrupted his thinking, and his mother’s image was projected into the air.

“Molo, mama.”

“Molo, unyana. Are you busy?”

“Not too busy for you.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Change into something you can get dirty and come down to the garden.”

Ramonda ended the call before he could protest, and he chuckled, knowing she did it on purpose. The king stood and stretched out his body after sitting for so long, and he left his office to change into something a little less royal.

“How are you today, mama?” T’Challa asked as he kissed Ramonda’s cheek, interrupting the song she was humming as she watered her hanging flowers.

“You would know if you hadn’t skipped breakfast,” she taunted with an eyebrow raised as he smiled sheepishly back at her.

“I did not skip breakfast. I just had it in my quarters.”

“Mmmhm. Talking to Zora again?”

T’Challa playfully rolled his eyes and groaned. “Mama-”

“Don’t ‘mama’ me, boy. I already know,” she knelt down on her padded mat as she watered her fire lilies. “You know, in all the weeks she has been here, I have been able to spend very little time with her. Hopefully, that will change soon.” She eyed her son, and he nodded under her piercing glare.

“Yes, ma’am. I believe you will like her.”

“Oh, I already do. Zora is a lovely girl, T’Challa. You have chosen well, but then again, you always have had good taste in women.”

“Of course I do; I learned from the best,” he smiled at her as he crouched down and started pulling weeds.

“So, how is she?”

Ramonda smiled to herself as she watched T’Challa’s face brighten at the thought of her.

“Zora is well. She is still wrapping up loose ends in New York, but she is excited about her new job when she gets back.”

“I cannot say I am surprised at her appointment. She seems perfect for the position.”

“She is, mama...she is,” he said with a far-off look on his face and a dreamy smile holding firm on his cheeks.

“I bet. Have you told her yet?”

T’Challa’s voice caught in his throat.

“No, not exactly-”

“T’Challa!”

“I know, I know,” he rubbed the back of his neck, completely forgetting about the dirt on his hands.

“They have been here how long now, three months? You need to tell that girl before you make it worse than it already is. You should have told her the moment you decided you wanted to be with her.”

“It was not that simple.”

“And why not?” she asked with a hand on her hip.

“We went into this thinking there would be an end date,” he sighed. “Zora would leave soon and go back to America, so there was no need to get serious. She had already been looking for other jobs because she hated working under Theodore, but our relationship ended up blooming into this big, beautiful thing. It became more than I expected it to be, but now it might all come crumbling down because I have been keeping a huge part of myself from her. And M’Baku had to keep my secret, too...I do not think it will go well for either of us, but myself especially.”

The king pulled the unwanted plants from the ground and roughly threw them in a large basket, taking his frustration out on the soon-to-be compost. Ramonda looked over at her son, and her eyes softened at the sad furrow in his brow. She reached out and placed her hand over his. “Unyana, the longer you wait, the worse the outcome will be.”

“I just do not know how to come out and say ‘hey Zora, I have been lying to you this entire time’ without hurting her.”

“It might be inevitable, T’Challa, but that is not to say she will not eventually come around.”

“I hope so,” he sighed, and the two of them went back to gardening in comfortable silence. After a few more minutes of the hot sun beating down on them, Ramonda spoke again.

“So you said she is still seeing M’Baku?”

“Yes, and I believe things are going well.”

“Good for her. Does he love her as you do?”

“Yes, he-” A look of horror washed over T’Challa’s face while a smirk settled on his mother’s.

“Do not look so surprised. You are always the last to know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, everyone can see how much you love that girl. Have you considered a future for your relationship?”

“So diplomatic. Is this how I sound to everybody?” T’Challa chuckled. Ramonda lightly slapped his arm, and he gave in. “Alright, alright. Yes, I have considered it.”

“But?”

“But it is complicated with M’Baku involved as well. Well, not complicated, but definitely something that requires a conversation.”

“A conversation you just now realized you need to have,” Ramonda said while slowly nodding along. “Well, your great-great-grandmother, Queen Asha, married both the River tribe and Border tribe chiefs. And I believe it was your great-great-great-great-grandfather, King Jidenna, who had seven wives.”

“That is entirely too many.”

“I agree, but what I am saying is do not worry about his relationship with her. It has no bearing on where yours can go. She would make an excellent queen and an excellent chieftess if I do say so myself.”

T’Challa smiled from ear to ear at the thought of Zora ruling beside him before looking down at his beads and noticing the time. He let out a deep sigh, having enjoyed his time spent with Ramonda but not wanting it to end so soon. His free time was over, and he had to get back to running his kingdom. He pulled the last few weeds out of the ground and carried the full basket over to the composter on the other side of the garden, dumping out the contents into the putrid container and shutting the lid tight. He waved goodbye to her as he walked back toward the palace, stuck in his head about how to tell Zora his secret.

Ramonda sat back on her heels as he walked away, and she shook her head before turning back to her flowers and sighing. “T’Chaka, your son is a handful.”

--------

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“I can’t see, T’Challa,” Zora giggled as he carefully led her out of the car and down the walkway of her new home. As part of her new job, she was given a choice between an upgraded suite at the palace or her own house. She sort of missed cooking for herself, so she chose the house. As much as she loved living in the palace, she had never lived alone before and jumped at the opportunity to get her Ari Lennox on. Besides, she could always stay with either of her boyfriends in their palaces whenever she wanted.

T’Challa grabbed her waist to still her movement and pulled her flush against him, kissing behind her ear. “Are you ready?”

“Mmm, for what?” she asked as she bit her lip and wound her hips back on him.

“Behave,” he rumbled in her ear, making her flood her panties. “Are you ready to see the house?”

“I’ve already seen it, baby; I picked it.”

“True, but you have not seen it like this.”

Zora felt his hands undo the sash, and as it fell away, her eyes slowly blinked open and focused on the vision before her. Her home was surrounded by a beautiful landscape of tropical flowers, and there was a swing to the right of the door.

T’Challa held out his hand to her, and she took it, “There is more inside.”

Zora followed him into the house, and her jaw dropped. It was already decorated and furnished, and somehow it was exactly what she wanted, right down to the art on the walls. The plush teal velvet sectional was obviously the centerpiece of the living room, and she immediately walked over and ran her fingers along the soft fibers. She wandered into the kitchen and almost drooled when she saw that T’Challa had made sure it was fully stocked with her favorites. The six-burner stovetop caught her eye, and her wheels already started turning, bringing up memories of how she used to cook huge meals for her loved ones. She made a mental note to bring that energy to Wakanda and host some get-togethers.

She continued her self-guided tour with T’Challa on her heels and slowly made her way up the stairs and to her bedroom. T’Challa opened the door for her, and when she stepped through, her eyes became misty.

“T’Challa...how did you do all of this? This is...this is perfect.” She walked to the four-poster canopy bed and sat down to test the mattress. “Yep, perfect.”

“Wait until you see the closet,” the king teased, laughing as Zora got up and ran to the closet doors.

She flung them open and gasped, “T’Challa, you didn’t!” The closet had been expanded to fit her existing wardrobe and an entirely new wardrobe T’Challa had gifted her. She walked in and excitedly started flipping through the garments one at a time with a massive grin on her face. “This is too much.”

“Then stop smiling,” he walked closer and rested his hand on her hip as she continued to flip through the clothing rack.

Zora turned around in his arms to thank him when she caught a glimpse of a full shoe rack on the other side of the closet. She damn near pushed T’Challa to the side and made her way over to the shoes in no time flat, picking up a simple pair of black stilettos and flipping them over to see the bright red soles.

“Holy shit, these are Louboutins.” She carefully placed them back as if they would break and turned to face her man. “How did you do all this? Everything is exactly what I wanted.”

“Keisha may or may not have shown me your “Home Sweet Home” Pinterest board.”

“Of course she did,” Zora laughed. When she stopped, her voice took on that smoky timbre it tended to get when she was aroused, “You know there’s one more thing I really wanted that I haven’t gotten yet.”

“And what is that?” He asked, closing the gap between them and tilting her chin up towards him.

“We need to christen it.”

“How do we do that?” T’Challa captured her lips with his, and she melted into his arms.

“I want you to fuck me in every room in this house.”

“You haven’t even seen the home office or the meditation room yet-”

“I’ll see it later,” she reached up to undo his buttons, but he stopped her by grabbing her wrists in his hand.

“Don’t forget who’s in charge here.”

“I don’t care right now. Just fuck me.”

“You don’t care, eh? Alright, we will see,” he said as he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.

“T’Challa, stop,” she giggled out.

“Nope, you said you want me to fuck you in every room. Let us go where your neighbors can watch me slut your pretty ass out,” he said with a slap to the back of her thigh.

Part of Zora wanted to protest. She didn’t need her introduction to the neighborhood to be her getting her back blown out by the king, but those feelings were overridden the moment he reminded her of her position.

He took her back downstairs and toward the back of the house to a wide-open sunroom. She could see her new neighbors relaxing in their backyard, and her heart rate picked up when he set her down. What Zora didn’t know yet was that although she could see them, they couldn’t see her through the glass thanks to Shuri’s cloaking tech, so the thrill of possibly getting caught washed over her from head to toe.

“Take off your dress.”

“You do it,” she teased.

“Zora, I will not repeat myself,” he growled as he walked her back towards the glass wall. Fear flashed in her eyes for half a second before it was replaced by lust. He had a way of doing that to her that nobody else had ever done before. His presence alone made her tremble, and her body did just that as her back hit the glass. Despite how his dominance made her body melt, she still felt like putting up a fight.

“Then I’m not doing it,” she crossed her arms and looked up at him with a smirk.

“Take off the fucking dress, Zora. Now,” he grabbed her jaw roughly and made her meet his piercing gaze. She shuddered but held firm until his hand traveled up her inner thigh and zeroed in on her clit. Zora moaned as his middle finger applied the perfect amount of pressure while moving around her clit in circles. “No panties today...I see you wanted this. Do my fingers feel good on your pussy?”

“Mhm,” she moaned out louder as her teeth lightly clamped down on her bottom lip. T’Challa’s fingers experimented with different speeds and pressures, not letting her get too used to any pattern before they dipped down and collected some of her wetness. Right as her moans grew louder and higher, he removed his fingers and stuffed them down her throat.

“What does that sweet pussy taste like today?”

“Hmm, an orange creamsicle?”

“Mmm. Too bad I won’t be tasting it.”

“What? Why not?” she whined.

“Because you are disobedient. A good little slut would have taken off her dress and sucked my dick right here when I told her to, but you chose not to be that today. You decided you’d rather push my buttons than get fucked like a good girl,” he leaned into her ear, “but now I have to fuck you like a bitch out of line. You have clearly forgotten my rules and need to be reminded who is in charge here.”

Zora’s breath caught in her chest as the king yanked her head back by her hair.

“No traffic lights tonight, just the safeword.” He bit her ear. “Say it.”

“Sunset,” she whispered.

“Take off your dress,” he murmured between bites to her neck and shoulder.

“Uh-uh,” Zora shook her head and smiled mischievously at T’Challa. He pushed her into the wall and ripped her dress down the middle. Before she could protest, his hand was covering her mouth.

“You are only making things worse for yourself. Now, get on your knees.”

Zora had one more ounce of defiance in her and shook her head again, her words muffled under his large hand. Without saying anything, T’Challa threw her over his shoulder again and crossed the room to sit in a chair by the glass wall. He set her down, throwing her over his lap while she squirmed in his grasp. He held her down with one hand and slapped both of her cheeks with the other.

Zora cried out as he rained blow after blow down on her, alternating sides and watching her ass jiggle and redden. He spoke between slaps, “What are my rules?”

“I do what- Ow! I-I do what you say when you s-say it.”

Slap.

“And?”

Slap.

“I am to call you Sir unless you give m-me permission otherwise,” she spoke as her eyes watered and he massaged her cheeks to relieve the burning.

“And what’s the last one, Babygirl?”

“Bratty behavior will get me punished.”

His hands both came down on her backside, and she yelled out his name, forgetting herself. T’Challa growled and pulled her off his lap as he stood up. “On your knees.”

She obeyed, and her legs shook as she carefully knelt down and sat on her haunches with her hands in her lap and her mouth wide open.

“Oh, now you want to be a good girl?” T’Challa laughed as he unzipped his pants and let them fall to the floor, freeing his already hard dick. He tapped it on her tongue as he teased, “Tired of being my bitch already?”

“No, Sir,” she said around the thickness of her tongue.

He grabbed her hair and tilted her head back before sticking out his tongue and allowing his spit to drip into her mouth. His tongue soon followed in a sloppy kiss.

“Good. Now suck this dick.”

His grip on her hair tightened as her mouth enveloped him. Her long tongue flickered along the underside of his shaft as he carefully thrust his dick down her throat. Zora’s head swiveled up and down his length, taking every last inch like he had trained her to do. He held her head down when her nose reached his manicured pubic hair, and when he pulled her all the way off to see her face and his dick covered with spit, he couldn’t help but plunge back inside and fuck her face.

The wet sloshing sounds coming from Zora’s mouth were all that could be heard as T’Challa’s dick made itself at home in her throat.

“Fuck, Babygirl, this throat,” T’Challa groaned, not letting up on her as involuntary tears fell from her eyes. He was used to that by now and simply ignored them as she looked up at him with her doe eyes. “You look so pretty like this, with my dick in your mouth.”

Zora moaned around him, and the vibrations made his toes curl.

“You were made to please me, and that is all you are good for. You are worthless without my dick in your mouth,” he pulled her head off his dick, marveling at the bridge of spit still connecting them. “Say it.”

“I’m worthless without your dick in my mouth,” she slurred.

“Good girl,” he chuckled darkly as his hand ran up and down his shaft while she looked up at him with hopeful eyes. “Not good enough yet, though.”

His hand sped up, and she could see his dick twitching, so she opened her mouth for him.

“Close that shit,” T’Challa seethed through his clenched teeth.

Zora shut her mouth, and shortly after, warm squirts of liquid painted her face as he grunted above her.

The next thing she knew, she was being pulled to her feet and her breasts were pushed up against the glass.

“All they have to do is look over here, and they will see you covered in my cum,” he whispered into her ear as he entered her from behind, “taking my dick like a good bitch. They can see how filthy you are.”

Her back arched as her hands pressed into the glass to steady herself. T’Challa’s hand found its way back to her curls and pulled her head back as his hips pistoned inside her. He licked a stripe from the base of her neck to her temple, tasting himself on her skin and making her shudder and clench around him. His other hand gripped her hip so tight it would probably leave a bruise as he pulled her ass back onto him. He wouldn’t even let her throw it back; he controlled every move her body made. He arched her back deeper, making her bend more at the waist.

Zora’s eyes rolled to the back of her head when the hand on her hip moved down to circle her pearl again. She nearly lost her mind as his thrusts got deeper somehow, and his hips rolled into hers, stirring her insides, before removing his hand and going right back to his punishing strokes. Her already sore ass stung as his pelvis made contact, and his balls slapped her clit. He let go of her hair and grabbed both of her hips, fucking her deep as she screamed out for the heavens. Her body tensed up and released all over him. Her contracting walls almost brought him along with her, but his self-control was out of this world. T’Challa pulled out and turned her around, wrapping her legs around his waist and pushing her back into the glass as he thrust into her.

“T’Cha- Sir!”

He chuckled and whispered in her ear. “No, say my name Babygirl. I want them to know who you belong to. Who owns this pussy?”

“M-me,” she looked him in his eye and challenged him, wanting him to go harder. And he did.

T’Challa used gravity to Zora’s disadvantage and dropped her on his dick, meeting her thrust for thrust and going as deep as he could possibly go inside her. She screamed out, unable to contain her volume any longer. Her nails dug into his back, and the cool chill of the glass against her back reminded her of her possible audience, taking her over the edge.

“T’Challa, baby, my pussy-”

“Wrong. Whose pussy?” He smiled teasingly as she looked around the room, eyes unable to focus on any one thing. “Uh-uh, look at me. There you go, good girl. Now tell me, who owns this pussy, Zora?”

“Y-you do.”

He groaned in approval. “And what’s my fucking name?”

“T’Challa!”

“Who?”

“King T’Challa!”

“Mmm, one more time Babygirl. Say it again.”

“King T’Challa! Mmmm, you’re gonna make me cum again.”

“Do it,” he slapped her thigh, “and tell me what I want to hear.”

His hips never faltered as her walls gripped him tight. Her voice was hoarse and uneven, but she was able to croak out as she came, “This is your pussy, baby.”

Hearing the words sent him over the edge right behind her, and the two of them stayed in that position, catching their breath and gazing into each others’ eyes warmly. Zora loved that about T’Challa. He could be as rough as he wanted to be, but he could turn it off with the flip of a switch and be tender with her.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice low.

“Sore.”

T’Challa nodded and carried her back into the main house and up the stairs to her bathroom as she clung to him and buried her face in his neck. He set her down on the edge of the enormous clawfoot tub and started the water before disappearing out the bathroom door and reappearing a couple of minutes later with a cup of tea. He handed it to her and grabbed some bath salts, pouring them in as she sipped and soothed her aching throat. Once the tub was almost full, he helped her in and slid in behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist as she leaned her head back against his shoulder.

“Are you ready for your first day?”

“I think so. I’m still nervous about not being qualified.”

“Theodore was unqualified, but you are simply inexperienced. There is a difference. You will find your stride and do great things. I can feel it.”

“You better, you’re the one who hired me,” she chuckled as he wrapped his arms tighter around her and kissed her neck. “Thank you, by the way. For everything. The job, the house...for being you. Thank you.”

“You are more than welcome,” he said between kisses, making her giggle.

“T’Challa, I’m still sore.”

“So I cannot kiss you?”

“That’s all you get.”

“That is all I need.”

--------

Zora had spent the whole weekend alone as she settled into her new home. T’Challa had to get back to the palace to get some work done, so he didn’t end up staying that first night with her. At first, she was upset he had to leave, but then she rejoiced in getting her place all to herself. She didn’t wear a stitch of clothing all weekend, and she spent most of her time dancing around her living room and getting in the right headspace in her meditation room.

By Monday, she actually felt ready to do her job, something she hadn’t felt up until that point. Zora smiled at herself in the mirror as she adjusted the lapel on her favorite electric blue pantsuit and checked her outfit one last time before heading out the door. Thankfully, her home wasn’t very far from the palace, but T’Challa had gifted her with a hovercar to make her commute even easier. Before he left, he gave her a quick tutorial, and she picked it right up. As she slid in the driver seat and turned the vehicle on with her kimoyo beads, Zora smiled, thinking about how much she loved the Wakandan tech. “This is so fucking cool,” she mused as she ran her fingers over the dashboard.

When she pulled up at the palace, she grinned at seeing her own parking space near the entrance. She got out of her car at the same time Akil, the River tribe elder, arrived for the council meeting.

“Molo Zora! Unjani namhlanje?” he raised his eyebrow at her, testing out her Xhosa even though he was a former wardog and spoke English fluently. Zora had always liked Akil since he was one of the few council members that were initially open to her being there.

“Ndiphilile, Akil. And you?” she sent him a knowing glance with a healthy dose of playful attitude as he stepped out of his car.

“Bast woke me up this morning, and the sun is still in the sky. I cannot complain,” the older man smiled at her as they walked into the palace. “Are you excited about your first day?”

“I was nervous, but all that went away when I pulled up.”

“Because you saw me.”

Zora playfully shoved him as he cackled.

“But seriously though, you will do well. King T’Challa would not have chosen you otherwise.”

Zora turned to smile at Akil and caught sight of M’Baku coming down the hall. Her smile widened, and he turned to see what had gotten her so happy, quickly understanding her change in demeanor when he saw the chief. Zora excused herself from Akil and made her way over to her man, giving him a chaste, work-appropriate kiss.

“This color looks beautiful on you,” he held her hand in his and made her do a spin for him.

“Thank you,” she giggled. “Want to come see my office?”

“Of course. I am sorry I could not make it down this weekend to see the house.”

“Can you make it to my housewarming tonight?”

“Of course.”

“Then don’t worry about it. You’re gonna love it.”

They got to her office, and T’Challa was already there waiting with her paperwork. She took a look around the room and noticed how different it looked from when Theodore occupied the space. The walls were a warm burnt orange, and the furniture was all hand-carved Jabari wood. There were pictures on the desk of her and her mom and some with her and Keisha. Her framed degree hung on the wall behind her desk above a full bookcase. She ran her hands over the titles from throughout the diaspora and smiled, already thinking of curling up on her couch with a few of them. The Wakandan language and history books caught her eye, and as she reached for one of the history books, T’Challa intercepted her hand.

“Before you do that, there is something I need to tell you, but now is not a good time. How about after your party tonight?”

Zora’s heart sped up, and he tried not to notice, so he pulled her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

“Everything is ok, I promise,” he said, ignoring how M’Baku narrowed his eyes.

Zora’s first day went by smoothly. She mostly just read over and signed her contract after the council meeting, where she was officially reintroduced as American Liaison. The council gave her a round of applause, and she felt a weight lift from her chest upon realizing they wouldn’t be against her appointment like she thought they would. Another weight stayed, though. One put there by T’Challa earlier that day. His words continued to echo through her mind, haunting her until it was time for her to go home.

“There is something I need to tell you,” she mocked aloud as she packed up her things. She was frustrated and nervous, and she was thankful her housewarming party would be small and hopefully not too draining.

The rest of the night ended up being a blur. She greeted her friends when they arrived and held a couple of conversations as she kept the food and drinks flowing, but everyone could tell she was in another world.

“You should not have said anything earlier,” M’Baku grumbled to T’Challa before taking a sip of his beer.

“Would you prefer her to read about it before I tell her?” T’Challa rolled his eyes. “Either way, this is not going to go well.”

“For either of us.”

“Not necessarily. It is my secret, not yours.”

“I do not think she will see it that way.”

T’Challa nodded, and his eyes trailed Zora as she went to the kitchen to pop open another bottle of wine.

Zora needed to hide from the crowd for a moment, so she disappeared to the kitchen. Bahiti and Keisha had noticed her behavior and were concerned for their friend, so they followed behind her moments later.

“Is something wrong, Zora?”

“You’re acting kinda funny, and you normally love a party in your honor. What’s going on, sis?”

Zora chuckled. She was so in her head that she was missing a fun time with her friends. Her eyes swept over the dozen or so folks in her living room who had all come to celebrate her and her new home, and she suddenly felt a wave of guilt. Zora hadn’t meant to ignore her guests, but thankfully they had kept themselves busy. T’Challa and M’Baku chatted with Dakarai as Mandisa and Asha sat on the couch giggling over who knows what with a couple of people Zora had met in the dance class she had started taking a few weeks ago. The music set a chill tone for the gathering, and Zora thought it was nice getting to see her friends mingle with each other. Her friends from the dance class melded well with her work friends and the friends she made on her adventures around the country. Even with royalty and Okoye present, the vibe was relaxed, so Zora followed suit and put on a smile for the rest of the party.

Since it was a work night, people didn’t stay too late, and at around 10:30, Zora found herself cleaning up what little mess was left behind when she felt a hand circle her waist.

“Did you enjoy yourself tonight?” T’Challa asked, nuzzling his head into her neck.

“Yes, but I would’ve enjoyed it a lot more if you hadn’t done the whole ‘we need to talk’ thing earlier,” she rolled her eyes and tried to get out of his arms, but he just turned her around to face him.

T’Challa sighed, “We do need to talk.”

“Ok, then talk.”

“My sweet, let us sit down first-”

“No, I don’t like this. Somebody talk, now.”

“Zora, please sit. Trust us. Please,” he felt a lump form in his throat at the words, knowing what followed would surely break her trust in him.

She eyed them both suspiciously before taking a seat on her couch. M’Baku sat next to her, and T’Challa started pacing as he searched for the words.

“Not this pacing shit again,” Zora thought.

“Zora,” T’Challa began, prompting M’Baku to grab Zora’s hand in his. “There is something I have not told you. Something very important. The only reason I kept it from you is because you worked for the U.S. government, and it is something I want to keep from the rest of the world for the time being, but now that you work for Wakanda, you need to know...”

Zora’s body felt like lead as she listened to his words and went over every possible worst scenario in her head. T’Challa’s deep breath unnerved her, and she braced herself for whatever came next.

“How familiar are you with the Black Panther?”

“The superhero?”

M’Baku rolled his eyes as T’Challa chuckled.

“Yes, the superhero.”

“Um, not very. He kinda just shows up, does his thing, and dips.”

“Yes, he is a very busy man.”

“You know him? Is that what this is about?” Zora rolled her eyes and sighed in relief. “You had me thinking-”

Just then, T’Challa’s suit appeared on his body, and Zora screamed, jumping back into M’Baku’s lap. Her hands were cupped over her mouth in disbelief as she stared at her boyfriend, the Black Panther, in all his suited-up glory.

“You...you’re- how?”

“It is a long story, but-”

“No, not ‘how are you the Black Panther,’ how the fuck could you lie to me all this time?”

“There it is,” T’Challa thought to himself. He knew the lie would overshadow the news.

“Zora, we went into this for just a good time. I cannot divulge this to just anybody-”

M’Baku shook his head to get the king to stop before he went too far, but he didn’t see it in time.

“Just anybody?!”

“Zora, that is not-”

“Then tell me this: if I wasn’t working for you, would you even tell me now?”

He hesitated, and Zora’s eyes blew wide open.

“So you can fuck me, but you can’t trust me unless I’m under contract?” Zora said as she climbed off of M’Baku. “And you-”

“Zora, he was acting under orders. Please do not be upset at him.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your orders, T’Challa, and I don’t care that you’re the Black Panther. I’m fucking pissed because you two lied to my face for months.” M’Baku reached for her arm, and she snatched it back.

“I had to. I could not let Theodore or the Secre-”

“I wouldn’t have told them, and you fucking know it,” she snarled. “How long were you gonna keep it up? Since I was ‘just anybody’ would you have ever told me? Would you have even spoken to me after we left?” Zora’s mind was racing, and her breathing became shallow.

“Maybe you should sit down, Babygirl.”

“Don't call me that,” she said between breaths. M’Baku tried to put his arm around her, but she pushed it off.

“Ok...ok. Zora, please come sit down.”

She listened, but not because he asked. She was getting lightheaded, and a cold sweat had started to take over her body.

“I need...you...to leave.”

“Zora, I can hear your heartbeat. We will leave, but you need to slow down your breathing. In and out, just like that,” he breathed with her for a few moments before the panic left her eyes anger filled them.

“You can hear my heart beating?”

“Y-yes, I-”

“Get out.”

“Zora,” M’Baku tried to get through to her, but it was no use.

“Get out. Both of you.”

“Babyg-”

“Get out!” she yelled, making T’Challa hang his head in shame. “Get the fuck out of my house, and if it doesn’t have to do with work, don’t talk to me. We’re through.”

“Zora,” both called to her, voices cracking with tears threatening to fall from their eyes.

“Save it,” she turned and walked up her stairs before stopping and turning back to T’Challa. “I’ll need the next week off.”

“Anything,” he pleaded, bringing tears to her eyes. She wanted to trust them, but she never could trust a liar, and that’s exactly what they were. Nothing they said felt true anymore, and she questioned everything they had ever told her. She ran up the stairs and slammed her bedroom door closed before they could see her cry, and she held it in tight until she heard her front door close behind them. Next Chapter

Taglist: @dersha89, @ljstraightnochaser, @maddeningmayhem, @theblulife, @motheroffae, @love-mesome-me, @toni9

#cecewritessometimes #black panther fic #black!oc #t'challa #m’baku #t’challa x oc x m’baku #zora #throuple

59 notes · View notes

five-rivers · 4 years ago

Text

Adoption (part 2)

A gift for @a-flower-lover! This wound up being more along the lines of vignettes... Little snapshots into Danny’s life after being adopted by Clockwork. I hope that’s ok! (PART 1)

Mr. Lancer had met Charles Worth before, albeit briefly. The man had fostered a number of Casper High students and with that responsibility came parent-teacher conferences. He had struck Mr. Lancer as being steady and reliable, if, perhaps, impersonal, despite his predilection for clocks and ominous announcements. A decent foster parent, if not... ideal.

Mr. Worth just didn't seem to connect with his fosters, although he certainly didn't neglect them. Then, too, were the persistent rumors that his home was haunted.

Alright. So, Mr. Lancer didn't think Charles Worth was really a children person. Oh, he was a good person! It took one to do well as a foster parent, but... yeah.

Which was why the scene in front of him surprised him so much. Not the who of it, but the what.

The who was Daniel Fenton and Charles Worth waiting outside the office. The what was smiling and having a conversation. True, Mr. Fenton's smile looked like it was pasted on over several layers of anxiety, but it was genuine.

"Mr. Worth, Mr. Fenton?" he said, tamping down his surprise. "Come on in."

"Hi," said Mr. Fenton, his voice hoarse.

Mr. Worth smiled and nodded, pushing him up with his cane.

But Mr. Fenton must have noticed the curious look Mr. Lancer was giving him. "I knew Cl- Uh. Mr. Worth before this." He winced and smiled widely to cover it up. "So, uh, make up work? Since I missed the past week?"

"Yes, well, circumstances being what they are," aka his parents trying to murder him in public, in broad daylight (and didn't that give Mr. Lancer a chill?), "your teachers have put together a few packets for you to look over this weekend. They should get you more or less up to speed with where your classes are. I'm also willing to stay after school, to help you with anything you've missed in my classes."

Jazz knocked on the door of the Worth house. She had been made aware, via various supernatural (she did not particularly appreciate writing suddenly appearing on her fogged-up bathroom mirror) and mundane (Danny did have her phone number) means, that the man known as Charles Worth was actually the ghost known as Clockwork.

How this had occurred was not entirely clear to her. She assumed ghost powers, specifically time travel, were involved somehow.

But, to be honest, that didn't really matter to her. It was secondary, less than.

What was important here was that she hadn't been legally allowed to see her little brother in over a month. To keep her parents from contacting him. To keep her from letting her parents near him. Because they were legally barred from seeing him.

Because they had tried to kill him.

Jazz planned on never seeing her parents again, as soon as she got all of her and Danny's things from their house.

But now that prohibition had been lifted, because Clockwork had forced through what had to be the speediest adoption in the history of adoptions, and Danny was now legally his son. In the eyes of both humans and ghosts. Which was... Well. Danny seemed to be excited about it, anyway. He'd looked up to Clockwork for a while, from what he told Jazz.

Internally, Jazz had more than a bit of trepidation. She didn't know what adoption meant to ghosts, didn't have any context for it. And ghosts, even the good ones, even Danny, tended to be... obsessive. Extreme. She wasn't sure how that would translate when it came to interpersonal relationships.

The door creaked open, ever so slowly, the squeak it made grating on her eardrums. At first, it appeared to have opened on its own, then a hand gripped the edge of the door, and Clockwork, in human guise, leaned out from behind it.

Jazz raised an eyebrow.

Clockwork raised one right back. "This house is haunted, you know," he said.

Okay, never mind. The only thing she had to worry about was the fact that her brother and his mentor both had terrible senses of humor.

"Hi, Jazz!"

Being used to having a half-ghost brother, Jazz only yelped a little bit at his unexpected appearance behind her. Then she sighed and ruffled his hair. He hugged her and then bounced over the lintel into the house.

"Come on! I want to show you my room! It's so cool!" His voice became fainter as he went farther into the house, until his last exclamation was an eerie whisper.

Jazz looked at Clockwork as she stepped inside. "Is he doing that on purpose?"

Clockwork smiled blandly. "I am very fond of the acoustics in this house."

She looked at her surroundings with a skeptical eye. "It seems... dark in here."

"We are ghosts," said Clockwork. "Daniel is very excited to show you his room, by the way."

"He's human, too, don't forget," said Jazz.

"I won't."

The house was creepy.

Really creepy.

This was coming from someone who had spent most of her life living under the same roof as two ghost-obsessed mad scientists.

But Danny seemed to enjoy it, and he was the one living here. It wasn't like there was anything wrong with the house. Or anything in the house. It was just... off.

Danny was half-ghost, however, so maybe this was something he needed. Perhaps not all of his peppiness could be attributed to being the heck away from his murderous former parents.

Even so. Jazz had a duty, both as a big sister and an aspiring psychologist.

"I already read it," said Clockwork, setting a cup of tea down in front of her.

"What?"

"The book you were about to give me. I've already read it. And a number of others. I am not the kind of person who goes into things unprepared."

Danny rolled into the kitchen on the ceiling. This was easy to ignore. After her life, an Exorcist reference made by her over-excited younger brother, was, well. Underwhelming.

(Okay, she was a little distracted, but only by his glee.)

"Well," she said. "That's good."

"I know this house is out of the way," said Clockwork, craning his neck to look up at his coworker, "but you are rather conspicuous."

"Hm. Am I?" asked Pandora, craning her neck down to look at her comparatively tiny colleague.

"Yes. At that size, humans with average eyesight will be able to see you from town."

Pandora looked out over the trees. "Interesting," she said, mildly. "Do you think the ghost hunters will come?"

"You've spoken to Daniel."

"Yes. He stopped by earlier today, on his way to visit Mattingly. Although, I suppose you knew that already."

"Indeed I did. May I ask, is it your intention to lure the ghost hunters here, fight them, defeat them, and then leave them just close enough to here to constitute a breach of their terms of bail and the restraining order against them?"

"I am not terribly well-versed in human law," said Pandora, "but, why, yes. That is exactly what I'm doing. Best to get it done while Daniel is visiting friends, isn't it?"

"Yes. If you had done this while he was here, I would be significantly more annoyed." Clockwork smiled the sanguine smile of a parental figure who would commit murder if their child was upset.

Pandora returned a matching grin, one that promised retribution against persons who had harmed said child in the past. "Please, Clockwork. You know me better than that. I wouldn't subject him to being in the presence of those fools."

"Good," said Clockwork, eyes glinting.

"Hey, Clockwork? Do you know why there were police cars driving down the- Oh. Hello?" He stopped at the sight of an unfamiliar woman sitting at the dinning room table, next to Clockwork. He blinked and tilted his head to the side. "Wait. Pandora?"

"Perceptive," said the superficially human olive-skinned woman. "You seemed so happy when you stopped by, earlier. I thought I would come check in on you."

"You didn't have to," said Danny, beaming.

"Pandora has been trying to convince me to set her up as one of my relatives," said Clockwork, rolling his eyes. "Would you care for a cup of tea, Daniel?"

"Umm," said Danny, dubiously. "I'll try one, I guess. Does that mean you'll be my aunt?"

Pandora smiled. "Why, yes, it does."

Clockwork groaned theatrically.

"Ah," said Mr. Lancer, at the next parent-teacher conference. "Are you Mr. Worth's wife?"

"No," said Pandora, grinning. "I'm his sister."

Mr. Lancer looked back and forth between the two very different-looking entities. "I... see."

"We're adopted," said Clockwork.

"Oh! Alright then. Now, about Daniel..."

It was a bit strange to see Danny with so much energy, Sam reflected. Strange, but good.

It just went to show how drained he had become over time, how much the constant ghost attacks and worry, all the lies and stress and impossible expectations had worn away at him over time. She hadn't seen her friend this happy since freshman year. If that.

On the other hand...

"Dude," said Tucker. "Your house is spooky. And this is coming from someone who's been inside a literal mad science lab."

Danny rolled his eyes. "Mad science labs are campy, not spooky. Besides, you knew coming in that this house was haunted." He draped himself over the back of the couch, rolling until he was 'sitting' upside-down. "Anyway, what kind of movie do you want to watch? We've got a bunch, because Clockwork apparently collects media from doomed timelines."

"He's got a hobby?" asked Sam.

"Yeah, three," said Danny. "Gardening- you should talk to him about that, by the way, I think he'd like it- baking, and alternate timeline movies. And some books, too, I think. He's got a huge library back in Long Now. I've read like. Two books from it."

Clockwork's voice floated in from the other room. "You've read significantly more than that, Daniel."

"I guess," said Danny, doubtfully. He flopped off the couch, picked himself up, and started prodding at a shelf of movies. "This is from a timeline where the Earth got beaned by a massive asteroid. It's, like, a romcom, but it was made when everyone knew the asteroid was coming. This one is, uh, this is actually a dramatization of real events, apparently, but their timeline split from ours in like the fifties, so the events are pretty wild." He waved the DVD at them. "It's surreal?"

"How'd they die?" asked Tucker.

"Wacky superscience. No, really. Irradiated the entire planet."

"How do you know?" asked Sam.

"Oh, Clockwork puts notes on the boxes. He thinks it's interesting. And there does seem to be some correlation between how cursed the movies are and how bad the timeline was. Which maybe shouldn't surprise me? I mean, if they were bad timelines..." He shrugged. "Oh, this is a CGI Lion King. I can tell you: very cursed. Absolutely soulless. And this is from a timeline where copyright laws weren't changed, so Mickey Mouse and a bunch of other stuff was in the public domain."

"Isn't that a good timeline?" joked Sam.

"You'd think so," agreed Danny. "But apartheid in South Africa apparently never stopped, and they got a nuclear bomb, and, well... World War Three."

"Is that like, a domino effect, or...?"

"I'm not sure... Anyway. Uh. Genre?" He clapped his hands together.

Tucker leaned forward. "I want the wildest version of the Matrix you have."

"Ooh, good choice. There are, like, six with Will Smith. I haven't watched them all yet, but I think the one where they've got another sequel and Zion is also a- Wait, I shouldn't spoil it."

"After that, can you see if there's a non-crappy version of Dracula?" asked Sam.

"Sure. I haven't seen one yet, but I will look."

"I have popcorn," said Clockwork, entering the room, "and various baked goods. No dairy."

"You're the best."

Clockwork selected a thick blanket from the chest, then teleported himself to the living room to drape it over the three teenagers passed out on the couch. Overall, he found pretending to be human oddly enjoyable, but it could be trying at times. Tedious. All the finicky little motions humans had to go through to do the simplest of things added up over the day.

So, Clockwork tended to ease off of them when no one was watching. It made life easier.

Heh. Life.

(He would say that Daniel's puns were rubbing off on him, but in truth Clockwork's sense of humor had been like that for, well. Eons.)

He put the kitchen in order with an absent wave of his hand, and double-checked the stove out of habit. It wasn't nearly as good as his actual oven, back in Long Now, but it was serviceable.

One of Daniel's friends mumbled in their sleep, and Clockwork looked in on them. Still peaceful. It was good for Daniel to have them here. Beneficial for both his human and ghost halves.

He hummed to himself and patted Daniel's head as he thought about their plans for the weekend. He had arranged for some truly aggravating evangelical missionaries to darken their doorstep. It would do Daniel good to inspire a touch of terror. In an entirely controlled and risk-free way, of course. No matter how unpleasant the people coming were, Clockwork had no intention of harming them, or suggesting anything of the sort.

But, well. They were ghosts. Being feared was soothing.

(Clockwork knew this wasn't what Jasmine meant when she suggested Clockwork engage in family bonding activities with Daniel. But what she didn't know...)

"I think my teeth are getting sharper," said Danny, pulling a face at the mirror. "Is that normal?" The last was shouted, to get Clockwork's attention. Intellectually, Danny knew he didn't need to do that, but a lifetime of habit was hard to shake.

"It is difficult to say what is normal for someone like you, but many ghosts do have fangs," said Clockwork. "Including myself."

"Hm," said Danny. "This isn't, like, a ghost puberty thing, is it? Because I already used up most of my evil puberty jokes."

"Oh, only most?" Clockwork slid behind him and started rubbing the tension out of his shoulders.

Danny shrugged. "Eh, give or take. But, seriously."

"No, it isn't a ghost puberty thing."

"Oh, good. Because dealing with one puberty is more than enough."

Clockwork was silent. Danny looked up and met troubled eyes in the mirror.

"Clockwork?"

"Daniel," started Clockwork, before giving Danny an uneasy smile. "Speaking of puberty..."

Danny blanched. "No."

"What?"

"No. Nope. Not doing the talk today, no sir. I got that at school."

"Daniel, as strange as Casper High may be at times, I highly doubt they taught you anything about immortality."

"What."

"It's why ghosts put so much forethought into relationships like this," explained Clockwork, careful not to look directly at Daniel's hiding place. "They might last forever. I certainly hope this one does."

"But I don't want to be a teenager forever!" wailed Danny. He had mastered the art of making his voice sound like it was coming from a completely different direction than it actually was.

Clockwork was older than human civilization and had been worshiped as a god by several civilizations. He did not wince at the heartbreak in his child's voice.

"Your shapeshifting abilities should come in after a few years," said Clockwork. "You'll be able to pass as older."

Daniel answered with a moan.

"I must confess, I'm not sure why you are so upset about this. I can see that you are, but could you explain why for me?"

"I don't knoooooowww..."

"I don't want everyone to die and leave me alone," admitted Danny, hunched over a carton of ice cream. "I don't want to see my- my people die." He sniffled.

"We don't have to stay in Amity Park if you don't want to," said Clockwork.

Danny shook his head. "No! That's worse," he said, hating how his voice tilted into a whine. "That's- I can't abandon them! I can't- can't miss their time. I just..." He let out a huff of air. "It's hard."

Clockwork wrapped an arm around Daniel's shoulders. "It may not help much," he said, "but people in Amity Park have a much higher chance of becoming ghosts. It's the ectoplasm in the air."

"Promise?" asked Danny.

"Promise. Although, who, exactly, becomes a ghost is outside of my control. All I can tell you is that the people here have a better chance."

Danny leaned against Clockwork. "Thanks," he mumbled. "Clockwork?"

"Yes?"

"You don't think I'm a freak, do you?"

"Of course not."

Mr. Lancer squinted down at Daniel Fenton's latest assignment with a mix of appreciation, disbelief, and shame. This was easily the best work he had ever received from Daniel. In fact, it rivaled papers he had received from Jasmine.

It made him wonder- How long had Daniel been suffering? What had Daniel been suffering? He was no expert when it came to abuse, but all teachers had some training, and he knew that abusers tended to escalate, starting with something relatively innocuous and ending with a travesty. For things to progress to attempted murder... What had it started as? When had it begun?

(Could Mr. Lancer have stopped it?)

(That question would haunt him more than any ghost.)

Well, there was a silver lining to this, Mr. Lancer supposed. He had rarely seen two people who got along as well as Daniel and Charles Worth. It was good, he thought, for the man to have someone in his life on a more permanent basis, rather than the revolving door of temporary foster children.

How rapidly the adoption went through was a little odd, but... Mr. Lancer shrugged. Undoubtedly, Mr. Worth had taken the time over his years as a foster parent to familiarize himself with the system, and with Daniel's former parents unfit to be anywhere near children...

He shrugged again and stamped Daniel's paper with an A+.

#danny phantom #gift #prize #winner #fic #phanfiction

312 notes · View notes

noona-clock · 4 years ago

Text

The Dog Walker - Part 6, Final Chapter

Genre: Dog Walker!AU

Pairing: Hanbin x You (Female!Reader)

Warnings: None

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 | Words: 2,482

A few months later...

The front door opened just as you reached in to take the baking tray out of the oven.

You heard soft, thudding footsteps coming down the hall as you closed the oven door and set the tray on top of the stove. Then the coat closet opened and shut as you reached for the spatula to begin transferring the pigs in a blanket to a serving plate.

When the footsteps finally arrived in the kitchen, you paused and glanced over your shoulder.

A smile sprang to your lips -- even though you knew it was Hanbin, you were still glad to see him. You always were.

“Hey,” you greeted as he made his way to you. And as he loped over in that casual way of his, you could tell something was different. There was something in his eyes that made it pretty obvious he was about to drop some sort of news.

“Hey,” he murmured just before he reached you.

You put the spatula down on the counter as he slid an arm around your waist and pulled you into a hello kiss.

And when he didn’t immediately ask if he could have one of the pigs in a blanket you’d just taken out of the oven, you definitely knew something was up.

Before you could even ask, though, he inhaled sharply and said, “I finished it.”

Your mouth fell open slightly because you knew exactly what he was referring to -- he hardly ever talked to you about it, but Hanbin had been working on it for the last few months, ever since you’d started dating.

“You finished your song?” you asked. Yes, you knew that’s what he’d meant, but you still felt like you needed to ask.

Hanbin nodded, tamping down a giddy smile.

After he had confessed his secret to you on your first date, you’d encouraged him to actually try making the song he’d been creating in his head. He had let you know officially when he’d begun working on it, had updated you a scant few times during the process, and now... apparently, he was finished!

A very wide, bright grin appeared on your lips, and you reached up to rest your hands on his chest. “Can I hear it?”

Unsurprisingly, Hanbin’s cheeks flushed, and he avoided your gaze as he leaned around you to steal a pig in a blanket. “Yeah, you can listen to it later,” he muttered before popping the mini sausage treat in his mouth.

You let out a playfully annoyed sigh and said, “What, you’re going to make me wait until next year?”

Hanbin froze for a moment and then rolled his eyes. “It’s literally...” He lifted up his wrist to look at his watch. “Almost seven on New Year’s Eve. Next year is five hours away.”

“Five hours is a long time!” you retorted, though it was getting more difficult to keep yourself from laughing.

“Yeah, sure, okay,” he mumbled before taking another pig in a blanket.

You swiftly turned around and swatted his hand away. “Stop eating them!”

“But if I can’t eat them, why did you make them?”

“Stop eating them now,” you corrected. “Wait until I put the whole spread on the table!”

Hanbin, who was still standing right behind you, let out a low chuckle in your ear. “It’s literally just us two.”

“Just go and pick out a movie,” you told him, gently elbowing his side and nudging him away from you.

He didn’t leave right away, and your heart jumped up a little into your throat when you felt his hands settling on your hips. “I will,” he murmured before brushing his lips over your cheek. “But I missed you.”

You leaned back against his chest, tilting your head just a little bit as he kissed your cheek again.

“I missed you, too,” you replied in a quiet voice. “I’m almost done, I’ll be in there in just a minute.”

Hanbin simply hummed against your skin before pressing one last kiss to your cheek and slowly letting go of you.

As you heard him shuffle over to your living room to find a movie to watch while the two of you waited for midnight, you hurriedly transferred the last of the pigs in a blanket to the serving tray and set the baking tray into the sink to be washed at a later time.

You then whirled around and opened the fridge, reaching for the bowl of dip you’d made earlier as well as the chocolate-covered strawberries which should now be perfectly set and chilled.

After carefully carrying the pigs in a blanket, dip, and strawberries into the living room and setting them on your coffee table, you dashed back into the kitchen to get two bags of potato chips and napkins. Before you closed the pantry door, though, you called out, “Do you want any popcorn or something for the movie?”

“No, babe,” Hanbin chuckled. “I think we have enough food for right now.”

He may have been right... but you would take out one bag of popcorn and leave it on the table. Just in case.

As soon as you went back into the living room and set the potato chips and napkins on the coffee table with the rest of the food, Hanbin, who was already sitting on the couch, reached out and gently tugged at your arm to get you to sit down next to him. You did so with a sigh, tucking one leg underneath you and leaning back against the sofa cushion.

Hanbin looked at you cautiously for a moment before asking, “Do you... want to hear it?”

Oh, right! How had you already forgotten?!

Immediately, you sat up, straightening your posture and raising your eyebrows in anticipation. “Yes, oh my god, yes!”

A smile flashed across Hanbin’s face, though it was quickly wiped away by a look of anxiety. He slid his hand into his pocket and retrieved his phone, his fingers shaking just slightly as he tapped on the screen to bring up the song.

When he pressed ‘play’ and the first notes of the song began, you held your breath.

You truly wanted to love this song and not just because it was Hanbin’s.

But after just two lines of lyrics, you recognized that... it was wonderful. Beautiful. You had gathered that Hanbin had a passion for music, but to be quite honest, you hadn’t ever thought he was a musical genius. The idea just hadn’t crossed your mind.

It only took one song -- half of a song -- to make it clear that he was. The lyrics were clever but heartfelt. The music fit the words perfectly; there wasn’t one single note out of place.

You sat next to him listening raptly, your heart fluttering -- and by the time the song ended, your stomach sank. You instantly wanted to listen to it again!

“Hanbin,” you whispered, unable to keep yourself from grinning widely. “That was... It was beautiful. I can’t -- you really did everything yourself?”

He nodded bashfully.

You reached over to take his hand, squeezing his fingers urgently. “Where are you going to post it?”

Hanbin’s bashful expression quickly changed to one of confusion. “Post it? What do you mean?”

“Post it online! YouTube or Soundcloud or something. Where are you going to post it?”

Your boyfriend frowned for a brief moment before shaking his head. “No, I’m not going to.”

Your head jerked back a little bit in surprise. “But... why not?”

“Because... it’s just for me. And for you, of course. Whatever songs I make, I always want to share them with you. But... I don’t really care if anyone else hears them,” he answered with a shrug. “It’s not about popularity or recognition. I just... love music.”

You couldn’t help but stare at Hanbin, blinking slowly in awe.

He had just created a song that was so amazing you knew it would immediately become a viral internet sensation. And he didn’t care one wit about sharing it with anyone else.

These last few months had shown you that Hanbin was absolutely the most incredible person you’d ever met... but you hadn’t yet known the true depths of his magnificence until now.

He possessed a talent that could easily make him rich and famous, and he still chose to continue on with his career in dog walking.

Some people might think him wildly stupid for doing so, but you admired him for it. You appreciated the fact that he loved and enjoyed music purely for the sake of loving and enjoying music and not because it could make him money.

While the two of you hadn’t explicitly talked about it, it was obvious that Hanbin’s definition of success had nothing to do with how big your house was or how many cars you owned or how often you traveled to faraway countries. His definition of success was just about doing what you loved. Being with people you...

Before you could think too much about it, you let out a soft sigh and squeezed Hanbin’s hand again.

“I love you,” you told him, your voice now somewhat thick with emotion and sentiment. “I love you so much, and I can’t even tell you in words how grateful I am to be ending this year and starting another one with you. I know it’s incredibly cheesy, but I just --”

Hanbin interrupted you with a kiss, a gentle and brief kiss, and when he pulled back from your lips, he said, “I love you, too.”

A squeal escaped through your lips, and you pulled your hand out of his so you could throw your arms around his neck, practically knocking him back onto the couch.

He let out a soft groan but still wound his arms around you, holding you tightly to his chest and burying his face in your neck.

“So, what you’re saying is,” he mumbled, his breath hot on your skin and sending shivers down your spine. “You’re grateful that one rowdy squirrel threw a wrench in my workday.”

“If I could find that specific squirrel, I would collect every single acorn I could find and save them just for him,” you chuckled.

When Hanbin had told you on your first date that he hadn’t really cared about when or how you’d first noticed him, you had kind of thought he’d been lying. Just a little bit.

But he really hadn’t brought it up all that much over the past few months, so... apparently, he really didn’t care that you’d watched him secretly from your window before actually meeting him in person.

He had asked you once for more details, of course, but he had seemed flattered that you’d harbored a private crush. He had also admitted that, if your positions had been reversed, he absolutely would’ve done the same thing.

After a few moments of sitting on the couch, simply embracing each other, Hanbin took a deep breath and lifted his head from your neck.

“As much as I love sitting here with you... and as much as I love you... can we eat now?”

You almost burst out laughing, but you suddenly realized that you were pretty hungry yourself.

“Of course,” you grinned, pulling away from him and turning to face the coffee table.

Hanbin, after grabbing a pig in a blanket and popping it into his mouth, reached for your television remote and navigated to play one of your favorite romantic comedies.

And as the familiar opening music began to play, you took a chocolate-covered strawberry (because it was a holiday, and you could eat whatever you wanted in whatever order you wanted), leaned back against your couch, and draped your legs over Hanbin’s lap.

...Could things be any more perfect than they were right now?

A movie you loved was playing on your television. You were eating delicious food. You were cozy and warm on the couch with the man you adored right next to you. An old year was ending, and a new one was just about to begin.

You were happy. Plain and simple.

And judging by the soft smile on Hanbin’s lips as he feasted on chips and dip and watched the movie, he was happy, too.

Then, all of a sudden, a realization hit you like a ton of bricks.

The only that could make you happier right now was...

“Hey,” you murmured, gently nudging Hanbin with your knee.

“Mm?” He raised his eyebrows and tore his gaze away from the television to look at you.

“Would you be able to add another dog to your schedule?”

Hanbin’s mouth slowly formed into a frown of confusion. “I mean... yeah? ...Why?”

“Just wondering,” you grinned. “I’ll probably be too busy to walk him -- or her -- myself, so I was hoping you would be able to.”

And he looked even more confused. “Be able to what? What are you talking about?”

“My dog!”

“But you don’t have a --”

He cut himself off when he, apparently, understood what you meant. And then he smiled -- no, not just smiled. He beamed. He beamed over at you with excited anticipation, and you were fairly sure you could never love him more than you did right at this very moment.

“You’re going to get a dog?!” he asked, resting one hand on your leg and squeezing your ankle.

“Will you go with me to the shelter tomor --”

“First thing in the morning.”

“But you hate waking up in the morning,” you laughed.

“Okay, then... first thing in the afternoon.”

And, of course, instead of paying attention to the movie, Hanbin began to talk about this future dog of yours. He helped you brainstorm names, made a list of everything you’d need to buy at the pet store, and even assured you he would get you the employee discount for training at the boutique.

If only you from a few months ago could see you now.

Well, now that you thought about it... if you had the ability to go back in time, you would travel to when you were still just watching Hanbin walk by from your window, before the squirrel fiasco. Back when you’d been determined to never tell anyone about your crush because you’d been sure you would never meet him.

Even though you knew it would be extremely difficult to convince yourself, you would want to go back to that time and tell yourself to just do it.

Just go out there and meet him.

It would’ve extended your relationship by only two months, but still. Two months was two months!

Although... you were absolutely positive that Hanbin was the person you would be spending the rest of your life with, and... what was two months compared to a lifetime?

103 notes · View notes

anonthenullifier · 3 years ago

Note

I have a quote prompt, actually it’s from the first issue of the 1985 Vision and the Scarlet Witch Comic. “The Scarlet Witch is never helpless”

I love this quote! My mind went through so many options that were all really different. Hopefully you enjoy the one I settled on!

——

The cave smells of sulphur and the air is swamp-like, her hair bunching into curls with each additional minute in the humidity. “Hey, Vizh,” Wanda keeps her voice low, as calm as possible, hoping the only attention she rouses is Vision’s and not the transdimensional lava demon clomping back and forth across the cavern. Neither of them stir so she tries again, a touch louder, “Vision.” Under normal circumstances she would reach out not only to his mind but also send a tendril of scarlet to dance along his jaw, except said demon has apparently been studying them, devising vices to limit the use of their powers. Without the freedom of her hands, she finds it hard to channel her powers with enough finesse to only alert Vision, leaving her able only to feel the outermost furling of his thoughts. This is not enough for her to determine that Vision is okay, especially in his current state, his body suspended so that it is leaning forward, arms uncomfortably hoisted behind him to eliminate the chance he can turn his head and sear away the chains with the Mindstone. It reminds her of the nightmare that was aerial battle yoga with Natasha. Wanda tries to nudge his mind while defaulting to conversation in the hope he’ll respond. “I don’t know about you, but my arms are tired.”

Without even opening his eyes, he provides an autopiloted insight to her discomfort, “That would be due to the gravitational field of this planet being almost three times that of Earth.” Two seconds is all it takes before his mind seems to catch up to his surroundings, voice trembling with realization as he raises his head to look at her, “Wanda...when did you get captured?”

Time is meaningless down here, mainly because she can’t access her handheld device to determine how long it’s truly been. “Maybe half an hour ago?” This shouldn't be the point of conversation, however, her own capture not accidental by any means, but she can’t risk alerting their captor to that. “How are you holding up?”

“Rather uncomfortably, as you can no doubt observe.” If his response were a wine, she’d be puckering. At least his spirits are still intact enough to be sardonic. “Are you unharmed?”

His swing from sarcasm to unfettered anxiety dictates she give more than a nonchalant I’m fine. Unlike him, she is in a pretty basic prisoner-in-an-evil-lair position—ankles shackled to the stone wall and shoulders screaming at being suspended by the metal glove encasing both her hands. Even if she’s been here a couple hours less than him, all blood has already drained from her hands and forearms causing pins and needles to colonize under her skin. “Other than my arms, I’m not hurt.” Relief sags his body as much as the restraints allow, maybe a millimeter, but it’s enough, along with his shaky breath out, to convey his ever present concern for her over himself. It’s why she redirects to the real concern here: him. “I assume your powers aren’t working?” The chains attached to Vision’s wrists and ankles jangle morosely as he demonstrates phasing for her. The second his body flickers it is consumed by an electrical shock that sizzles along the edges of the vibranium. She finds herself wincing just so someone acknowledges how agonizing it looks. “You could have just said yes.”

The resounding clink of metal this time is due to his attempt at a shrug, “I felt it pertinent to test the efficacy of the power destabilizer in case it had malfunctioned.”

“Looked like you were trying to win the pitiful award.”

His breathy, contained snort very briefly eradicates the twinge she’s developed in her lower back. “I presume you are either a fellow victim or,” hope enters his question with a little vocal uptick, “here to enact a daring rescue?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Good...good,” they lapse into a moment of silence, “and that plan is?”

The plan was for her to get captured, as it’s the only known way into the deepest cavern and then either wait for the others to find a way to infiltrate (not even Strange’s portals capable of getting in) or she has to identify a weakness from within. It’s not a great plan but it’s what they have to work with since she refused to go another minute not knowing if Vision was okay. “Um, still finalizing it.”

“Ah, well, looking forward to it then.” If anyone else was down here with him they would likely have overlooked the subtle undercurrent of sass, assuming he was just being anticipatory, but she knows every rise and fall of his voice, every carefully planned cadence and right now he is being an ass. A very handsome ass, but an ass nonetheless.

“But now that I’m here, it’s kind of nice,” it’s not, it’s hot, it’s muggy, it’s dripping with molten rock and peppered with vents puffing up noxious gases, “like one of those spas with the hot stone massage.”

Vision does his best to examine the hellscape, neck only able to crane so far due to the angle of his suspension and the increased gravity, not even his attempts at lowering his density are successful in alleviating either impediment, “I would temper your excitement. The attendant,” he nods towards the demon who is currently pacing in front of an iridescent oval, “informed me they are fresh out of those little cucumber slices for your eyes.”

Without thinking, Wanda allows a single syllable laugh to escape her lips, an action that causes the horned, amorphous head of their captor to turn towards her, its eyes burning like two embers hanging on for life at the end of a campfire. Wanda quickly puts on a pathetic whimper, giving her chains a few good rattles and a pitiful, “Please let us go” and then waits until the demon has returned its attention to guarding the prismatic holding container before responding. “I’m knocking a star off their rating then.”

“That seems fair.”

Having confirmed Vision is relatively fine, Wanda lets them lapse back into silence, a recommendation from Carol to not be overly loquacious in case it stirred suspiciousness towards their still forming grand rescue plan, which is usually fine, one thing she loves about Vision is how easy it is to feel comfortable in silence, the gentle thrum of his mind a soothing, harmonious white noise. Except currently she can’t get deep enough into his thoughts to find reprieve. All she can experience is the echo of evenly spaced though labored breathing, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, and the clenching of his teeth anytime he attempts to shift his density to counteract the angle of his imprisonment. Wanda tries to tamp down the rising worry of what failure would mean, instead directing all of her own attention to feeling out the options for escape.

First she has to figure out her powers. Not only are her hands bound together in the metal glove, her fingers have been forced into fists with no room to expand. It’s uncomfortable and aggravating but also a grave misunderstanding of her abilities because sometimes finesse isn’t necessary. As controlled as she can manage, Wanda collects her powers into one concentrated ball centering in her chest, holding it steady in case she needs to utilize what Vision has lovingly deemed her supernova. No matter how impressive, however, it’s a dangerous maneuver, one she can’t risk in unstable environments, like a potentially active alien volcano. Which is why she needs to channel the man next to her and be patient. Assess everything. This would be easier if her arms didn’t feel like they were about to fall off.

“Um Wanda…”

Her Yeah? shrivels into terrified nothingness the second she raises her eyes, the lumbering form of their captor oozing over towards Vision. Behind it the shining oval and prismatic container are blindingly bright. That’s never a good sign. Neither is the way it reaches a coal colored hand towards Vision. “Don’t touch him.” There’s a snort, dismissive and loud and like a million steam engines erupting all at once If Wanda had her hands free, she’d use them to cover her ears, the world around her muffled now, even her own breaths sounding distant and unconnected from her.

The demon doesn’t listen to her, a solitary finger delicately (as delicately as a monstrous entity can) touching the Mindstone. The stone lights up in response. Based on the shock spreading across Vision’s face and rippling through his body, he is not in control of it. She has made the stone betray him before, and still lives with that guilt, still remembers the way he described it to her, the suffocating realization that he lacked control over such an integral aspect of himself. She’ll be damned to allow anyone else to make him feel it again.

“Stop!” Horrified, she watches the demon ignore her, beckoning the Mindstone energy forward in a docile beam, inching it along with malicious encouragement even as Vision thrashes against his restraints. Clearly the time for planning is over. “I said stop!”

The demon's head swings towards her and she almost screams, the crackling skin of their captor close enough for her to gaze into the smoldering eyes studying her. She imagines standing in the middle of a raging forest fire would be more comforting than the depths of hell in its pupils. “Accept your fate, little witch.” The words spoken are not the ones she hears, its voice akin to the shattering of an entire hutch of china during a tornado, a tinkling of shards as they get whisked away in the howling wind, and yet she understands it, likely some form of mental translation Dr. Strange told them existed in other beings. It’s awe-inspiring while also being a complete ass.

Wanda meets its eyes and glares. “Only if you accept your fate.”

It laughs, wings expanding out across the entire cavern, shaking as if it has heard a joke for the first time in eons. “You,” it bends low, the heat of its body drawing droplets of sweat along her forehead, “are helpless here.”

“You are going to regret that.” For a man who only seconds ago was fighting for his life, Vision’s gleeful taunt enlivens in her the last bit of strength she needs.

Wanda siphons his confidence into herself, unlocking the core of her power as she sets up her daring rescue at last. “You made two mistakes today.” The transdimensional demon lacks hair and any sort of eyebrows, but that doesn’t stop the distinct feeling of it raising them in disbelief. “First,” Wanda leans forward as much as the chains allow, “you kidnapped and tortured the love of my life. And second,” scarlet begins seeping through her body, crackling along her skin as she speaks, “you assumed I was helpless,” the plan was to cause as little harm as possible, the terrain unstable, the power of this demon unknown, but that’s too soft a punishment for a being that doubts her might, that thinks it can control her, that tried to take from her and think she wouldn’t fight back. Wanda makes sure the demon is looking directly at her when she invokes its fate . “The Scarlet Witch is never helpless.”

As the last word falls from her lips, she allows her powers to erupt.

Oiled hands knead up and down Wanda’s arm, applying the perfect amount of pressure to alleviate the last of her aches. There’s a lovely waft of chamomile each time she breathes in and a soothing melody of some nondescript instrumental track. Even more peaceful is the ebb and flow of Vision’s thoughts, her powers greedily deep in his mind. It’s why she’s able to smile in anticipation of his next comment.

“I agree with you.”

Wanda stays face down, far too relaxed to even think about moving, “Obviously,” a little snort comes from her left, guiding her lips up higher into victory, “what specifically?”

“I just finished the report,” only Vision would consider mission reports a comfort read, “Dr. Strange is still perturbed with your methods.”

In her mind there was no inkling of doubt their de facto mission leader was seething, mostly due to the forty minute lecture she received on excessive use of powers, but rarely does he allow it to seep into ink for everyone to read. “I think he’s jealous.”

What she expects is an airy laugh and then a gentle rebuttal, instead she is delivered a treat, “I do believe that is part of it.” Wanda apologizes to the masseuse as she props herself up to look over at Vision, tickled at the unadulterated relaxation before her. He’s engulfed in a snowy white robe while reclined in a chair, a hot towel wrapped around his head with two little cucumber slices on his eyes that look like lifeboats in the waves of the clay mask slathered on his face. When he talks it forms little cracks in the mask, “You achieved a feat he could not, anyone would experience at least a speck of jealousy.”

“Even you?”

“If I had been in his position?” the cracks splinter in six different branches as he contemplates. “Yes, even me. But,” gingerly he reaches up and lifts a cucumber, allowing her to see the swirling gear of his iris, “given I was not in his position, I, instead, am able to appreciate how very fortunate I am to be loved by such a stunningly powerful woman.” A flirty little wink is sent her way before the cucumber drops back into place.

Wanda grins, cheeks rising high enough to hurt a little, as she settles back into the massage table. After all these years that little boyish grin and wink of his urges her heart to beat a hair faster. Maybe she lied in the cavern, overstated the level of helplessness she can experience, because no matter the circumstance, she will always be helplessly in love with Vision. A fact that doesn’t weaken her, can never tame her, one instead that challenges her to understand and harness her powers even more because the universe will never stop trying to take from her, will relentlessly pursue her happiness. This she won’t stand for anymore. Whatever comes next, no matter how intimidating or powerful, she will be ready to yet again prove that the Scarlet Witch is not so easily crossed.

#vision #wanda maximoff #wandavision #scarlet vision #ask anon #mine

21 notes · View notes

glabecurious · 3 years ago

Photo

Meanwhile, over at Kristen’s vlog...

“And that about wraps it up for this video, angels! Once again, I’d like to thank Skip’s Pool Company in Oasis Springs for building our beautiful new swimming pool, as well as my sponsors at Smogue. Use my discount code strangelyloste for free delivery on swimwear orders over §274.69!”

“And before I go, I know a few of you have been asking about the purple spores that keep showing up in my videos. It’s real sweet of you all to care so much! I’m so lucky to have such a considerate fanbase. To be honest, angels, I don’t know what they are. But they don’t seem to be doing any harm, so don’t worry! I’ll still be back next week with another video. See you later, angels, and don’t forget to subscribe!”

“That was right, wasn’t it?” Kristen asks Erin later on, as they relax besides the new pool.

“What was?”

“About the spores,” Kristen says. “They’re not dangerous, are they?”

Erin tries to tamp down on the rising anxiety in her chest. “I don’t know!” she says unsuccessfully. “Why are you asking me?”

Kristen bristles. “Jeez, I just figured you’d know, that’s all! You’re the scientist!”

“Well, I don’t know!”

“Okay! Fine!” Kristen says tersely. “I just don’t want to upset my fans, that’s all. I’d hate for them to think there was something wrong.”

Erin snorts. “Come off it. Your fans don’t give a shit; they’d say anything to get you to look at them for a hot minute. They just want someone famous to fawn over and act like you’re all best buddies!”

Kristen looks hurt. “Hey, that’s way harsh, Erin.”

“It’s true!” Erin snaps. “Face it, Kris; we live in the asshole of nowhere and a million miles from anyone who might give a damn if those spores are dangerous or not. No one watching actually cares what happens to us!” She laughs coldly. “Welcome to Strangerville! Where the plants are fucking weird and the townsfolk keeps disappearing!"

#the sims 4 #TS4 Stories #sims 4 story #strangetown #strangerville #kristen loste #erin beaker #wtsv

5 notes · View notes

panharmonium · 4 years ago

Photo

@captain-jaybird @solo-by-choice - i love you guys XD

So, the fic in question was originally a collection of ten location-based vignettes following the development of Obi-Wan and Padme’s friendship from AotC to RotS. I wrote it seven years ago and only ever showed it to my sister and @dyingsighs, so unless I fall hard back into Star Wars at some point, I probably won’t ever post it in its entirety, because I don’t think I have quite enough energy to do the kind of rewriting it would need in order for me to feel like it meets my current standards. HOWEVER - given your replies, I pulled the only two vignettes from it that I do actually still like, because I know it has been literal years since I made any Star Wars-related work for you, and I feel like this is the least I can do to thank you for your many years of fandom friendship! 😊

@all my old Star Wars peeps: Ancient fic snippets under the cut! Consider this an affectionate “hello there” from me - I hope you guys are all doing well out there! <3

-naboo-

Anakin is insistent.

“Come on, Padmé,” he cajoles her. “Just a little walk. I get to be here without breaking any rules for once and you want to just sit inside?” He flings open the embassy’s balcony doors and gestures out over the city. “Look at this day!”

Sunny skies or not, Padmé can’t quite wrench her gaze away from the festival itinerary in her hands. However many times she’s been over it, she can’t help but feel they must have missed some small detail, and in a situation as precarious as this one, the slightest slip could be deadly. “I can’t, Anakin.”

Anakin’s carefree expression starts its rapid but familiar descent into a scowl. “Why not? No one’s going to bust a Senator for showing one of her Jedi guests around. We can just walk the perimeter of the Festival platform – ”

“Anakin – ”

“You can pretend to show me the security arrangements or something – ”

“Anakin! You’re supposed to be here to prevent an assassination attempt on the Chancellor. This isn’t a social call.”

Anakin lets out his breath in a huge gust, waving a hand dismissively. “That? We’ve got that under control, Padmé. Don’t even worry about it.”

“I am worried about it.” Anakin opens his mouth as if to make another placating remark, but Padmé cuts him off. “This is serious. I can’t leave the embassy right now. I’m not going out for a stroll. I’m not doing anything until the Festival is over and done with tonight.” When Anakin’s scowl does not subside, she sighs and makes a passing attempt at smoothing things over. “I’m sorry, but the Festival of Light is enough of a headache without adding assassination threats into the mix. I’m just a little tense right now.”

Anakin comes extraordinarily close to signing his own death warrant by rolling his eyes at her, but he stops just short of an irrevocable mistake. “Yeah, you and everyone else,” he says instead, a very particular brand of irritation edging into his voice. “But whatever. Go ahead and read that thing again. I’ll just come back when everyone’s got their bad feelings under control.” He sweeps out of the room with the type of stormy bluster only he can manage.

Wrestling down a surge of irritation of her own, Padmé tosses the itinerary onto the desk. Anakin, for all his moodiness, is partially right – she has the elegant program memorized back to front, and poring over it further is only going to make her feel worse. And, come to think of it, there are a few other security measures she needs to double check with the rest of the Jedi task force.

Pushing back her chair, she sets off in search of Anakin’s derisively referenced “everyone else.”

Most of the embassy’s guests, including the recently arrived contingent of Jedi knights, appear to have vacated the premises – emulating Anakin’s shining example and enjoying the day, perhaps, or, in the case of the Jedi, probably walking the security perimeter in preparation for tonight’s festivities. After making inquiries, Padme finds a staff member who directs her to the rear of the ornately decorated building, where she discovers Everyone Else in the courtyard, boots and cloak discarded against the wall, dappled sun playing over his inner tunics.

She hesitates on the steps. It’s bad form to interrupt a Jedi in meditation, not that she has much opportunity to commit such faux pas. Anakin rarely meditates, resorting to the ancient art only when he has failed in his attempts to outrace or outright beat his troubled thoughts into submission.

But this doesn’t seem like meditation, exactly, not the kind she recognizes. Obi-Wan is performing what looks like some kind of kata with a ritual slowness, pivoting and stretching with unhurried grace, flowing smoothly out of one stance and into the next, like liquid filling a clear vessel. He holds himself suspended for an interminable count between each position, bare feet rooted on the sun-warmed flagstones, the only thing moving around him dust motes drifting through heavy beams of sunlight.

She doesn’t really mean to stay and watch, but there’s an almost hypnotic quality to the rhythmic motion – exertion of the body, sun and warmth and muscle and bone intertwined with stillness of the mind, an empty calm space, peace in the eye of the storm.

He sinks into a low stance with his back to her, head bowed, upward-facing hands loosely fisted, elbows bent and tucked in at his sides. Then, after a long, still stretch of time, the calm murmur of his voice, rippling with something like amusement. “Good morning.”

She blinks. “Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“That’s quite all right.” He seems to come back from some far place, and straightens, turning to address her. Holding her gaze for a moment, searchingly, he draws some private conclusion. “You are disturbed.”

She presses her lips together by way of response, grudgingly impressed yet cursing Jedi perception to the lowest pit of Chaos. “It’s not important,” she says. “Just the festival.” She changes the subject. “What’s that you were doing?”

Obi-Wan paces over to the courtyard wall to retrieve his footwear. “One of the alchaka forms,” he says, pulling on the soft nerfhide boots. At her blank look, he adds, “It’s...a type of moving meditation. One of the oldest known to the Order.”

“It looks relaxing,” Padmé says. Would that she could expunge her own anxieties with such artfulness.

He shrugs slightly. “In theory.” He bends down and scoops up his cloak with an easy physicality. “The intended goal is to clear one’s mind. To...release troubled thoughts.”

Something about the crease in his brow seems to belie this statement. Thinking back, she remembers suddenly what Anakin had said earlier, and, surprised, frowns. “Are you worried about the festival tonight? About the assassination attempt?”

He blinks at her for a moment, as if she had only just reminded him about the possible catastrophe. “No. No, I don’t think so. Even if the intelligence we’ve gathered is accurate, I doubt the Separatist forces will be able to achieve much when they must first go through six Jedi. And Naboo’s finest,” he adds, glancing up at the overhead balconies, where far-away security personnel stand sentinel, their uniforms smears of dark red across the golden walls.

“But you are worried about something.”

A beat. Then, “No. Merely practicing good habits.”

She laughs humorlessly and sinks down onto the steps. “Tonight could be a disaster.”

Obi-Wan thinks for a moment before responding. “If so,” he reminds her carefully, “it is one which all your worries will be completely unable to prevent.”

“I know. But when it’s my people concerned...and the Chancellor, obviously...” She ticks things off on her fingers. “Public support for Queen Neeyutnee...the well-being of the Republic...”

“Fate of the galaxy.”

“Little things.”

They exchange almost shy grins, private smiles. Padmé feels one tiny knot of tension uncoil inside her, and she breathes out an exasperated sigh, ineffectually commanding the rest of her anxieties to untangle and be gone. “I need some of that alcha-whatsit business, clearly,” she says ruefully. “I’m a mess.”

Obi-Wan takes a step back and looks her up and down. “I agree,” he says.

Excuse me? Padmé suppresses a surge of indignation.

“You will forgive me for saying so, but a senator is no good to her people preoccupied. She must keep a cool head about her at all times.”

“I beg your pardon –

“Therefore,” Obi-Wan plunges ahead, and Padmé suddenly sees the glint of humor starting in his eyes, “I feel it is my duty in this case to help you attain such calm.”

She narrows her eyes at him in mock severity, but inside, she feels her mood beginning to lighten. “By insulting my competence?”

“By exposing you to some of that alcha-whatsit business,” he says. “If you like.”

Padmé hesitates. This is Jedi business for sure, far outside her arena. But Obi-Wan just smiles reassuringly at her and extends a hand.

“Not to worry, Senator. I have it on good authority that I am a reasonably competent teacher.”

Padmé eyes his hand for another moment, then slaps her own lightly into his open palm. “Very well then,” she says. “I submit myself to your reasonably competent tutelage.”

“Obi-Wan, I don’t think this is for me.”

Padmé looks down at her bare feet, torn between luxuriating in the warmth of the sun-soaked stones and fretting over the ever-widening stance Obi-Wan is asking her to assume.

“Patience.” He sticks his own soft-booted foot against the inside of her ankle and slides one of her feet out to the left.

“Obi-Wan – ”

Still applying a gentle pressure against one foot, he pushes the other further away.

“I don’t know how to do a split, Obi-Wan,” she warns him, tamping down on a little flare of alarm.

“That’s far enough.”

Thank goodness she’d worn a relatively uncomplicated dress today. Senatorial garb was nowhere near so flexible as the Jedi’s simple tunics.

She looks up at Obi-Wan, who, by virtue of her lowered, bent-kneed stance, is now slightly above her. “What now?”

“Now,” he says placidly, sinking into the same low stance beside her, albeit with considerably more familiarity and ease, “you do as I do.”

All right, then. She waits for him to begin, but the only thing he does is close his eyes, and she can’t close hers if she’s going to follow him, so she waits, doing nothing. Her legs begin to protest the prolonged exertion in this unfamiliar position, but the trace of fire starting to bloom in her muscles doesn’t bother her. It’s...ferocious. It burns the way she does inside, sometimes.

Obi-Wan cracks an eye open and looks at her. Padmé doesn’t flinch. “What?” she challenges. “You aren’t doing anything yet.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “I am breathing,” he says.

“So am I.”

“Not yet, you aren’t,” he says, and in the span of a moment, he seems to grow in authority before her. His voice shifts into the calm certainty of a millennia of tradition, the well-worn tracks of an ancient, unbroken line of instruction. “Attend.”

He closes his eyes again, and this time she watches the slow rise and fall of his chest, the slight shift of tunic as his ribs expand. “All meditation begins with the breath. You breathe in life, I breathe in the Force; without either of those things both of us are nothing.”

What a strange thing to say. “I’m not Force-sensitive, Obi-Wan.”

“It does not matter. You are not Force sensitive, but the Force is in you nonetheless. We are all of us full of it. Your people are full of it. Your planet is full of it.” He breathes in, slow, and she attempts to follow him. In. Full. “Your breath must fill more than your lungs. Without breath, the body starves. Without the Force, life starves. Therefore you must let it suffuse you. Breath; the Force. Everywhere. Small, forgotten places. Empty places. You must allow yourself to be full. A gas expands to fill a container – your breath will expand to fill you, if you allow it.”

She does not answer. She is breathing. He falls into silence beside her, joining her rhythm. Inhale, beat, exhale, beat. She does not count the minutes. They slip by into nothing.

“Now,” he says. “With me.”

She trains her eyes on him and follows as he moves, one bright light and its smaller, slighter reflection, moving in a bumpy sort of unison. The fire in her leg muscles climbs higher, but it doesn’t faze her. She breathes it out, from everywhere, the small, forgotten places. She exults in it.

“Balance,” he says, maneuvering her hands to the proper places, the knuckles of one fist pressed flat against a vertical open palm, two hands meeting just in front of her lower abdomen. “Two opposing forces.” He sticks his foot back against the inside of her ankle, and she slides her feet apart without needing to be told, dropping back to the correct position. “Close your eyes. Breathe.”

In. Full. Small, forgotten places.

“Now,” he says, stepping back from her. “You will count.”

“How high?” she asks. Her legs are screaming with a pleasant sort of exhaustion, but she’s wobbly, and this position isn’t easy to maintain.

“One hundred,” he replies. Then – “Three times.”

Her eyes fly open. “Obi-Wan, that’s – ”

His eyes are glowing with suppressed mirth. “Three times, apprentice.”

If she starts laughing, she’s going to fall. “Obi-Wan, three times is too many – ”

“Protest again and it shall be six.”

“You know,” she grunts, wriggling down in an attempt to find a slightly more comfortable position, “I’m beginning to think I’ve done Anakin a disservice.”

He raises an eyebrow archly. “Because...?”

“All this time, he was telling the truth about you.”

Obi-Wan snorts. “Impudence. I’d have been running circuits around the Temple for that kind of insolence.”

“Somehow I doubt that ever stopped you.”

And there’s the smile – trademark Kenobi, dimples and all, subtle and half-hidden behind the close-trimmed beard. “No,” he agrees. “You are quite correct. I became an accomplished marathon runner.” Dropping down to the same low, planted stance she is struggling to maintain, he returns to the matter at hand. “Let us begin.”

“Obi-Wan.”

“Mm.” He has already closed his eyes. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already made it to twenty while she’s still dithering around trying to get her breathing in order.

“This is the silliest thing I’ve ever done with anybody.”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but the corners his mouth curl up.

“But,” she says, never one to skimp on gratitude, “I like it.” Her legs are shaking and she can’t count the number of joints she’s heard crack since they started this ridiculous exercise, but the anxious tangle in her chest is now tiny threads blowing in the wind, unwound and strewn about by breath and motion. “And I do feel better about tonight. So thank you.”

“I come to serve, Senator.”

Formal response, for someone who just moments ago had been shoving her into positions more suited to a gymnast than a senator. She smiles to herself in private amusement and closes her eyes. Reminds herself to breathe, full, everywhere.

And begins to count.

-chandrila-

Padmé has to give Obi-Wan credit. By now, she has watched him extricate himself from Senator Se’lab’s clutches three times, and while a moonlit cocktail party in a garden of this size provides the Jedi with plenty of spaces to hide, the shadow cast by a group of hulking Ithorian senators is a more creative choice than she had expected, even from him. Observing him from her position on the other side of the lush garden, she bites her lip in an attempt not to laugh at the deadly seriousness with which Obi-Wan keeps the Ithorian delegation between himself and the beverage table towards which the Bothan senator had stumbled.

She cannot pass up such a rare opportunity to tease him. Excusing herself from her group of colleagues, she sidles across the garden towards him, ensconcing herself in the shadows behind the wide backs of Ithorian senators Stonk and Bendon. “Master Kenobi,” she greets him, smoothly.

Obi-Wan’s cool voice betrays nothing. “Senator.”

Padmé fights to keep a straight face. “I see you’ve made Senator Se’lab’s acquaintance.”

“I have made his acquaintance several times,” Obi-Wan replies. “He had little memory of our first meeting at our second, and no memory of our second at our third. Forgive me, but if I can avoid a fourth such performance, I will. I grow tired of introducing myself.”

Padmé stifles a smile. It isn’t fair, that one so skilled in diplomacy to earn himself a galactic-wide nickname should hate it so much. “And did the Honorable Senator from Bothawui tire of your company?”

“Sadly, no.”

“Then how – ” She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously. “You didn’t – ”

Obi-Wan gives her an affronted look. “Senator Amidala, what sort of nefarious rogue do you take me for?” He chances a harried glance past the Ithorians, checking for any signs of his unwanted companion’s return. “Along with the memories of our previous two meetings, the good Senator appeared to have forgotten how exactly it was that he’d been able to achieve such an impressively amnesiac and befuddled state. I merely reminded him about the open bar.”

“Formidably underhanded,” she says, approvingly. “But then, that’s why they call you the Negotiator.”

Obi-Wan makes a face at the nickname. “Yes,” he says. “And if I could only negotiate myself out of this whole affair, I would perhaps believe the title to have been aptly bestowed.”

“Obi-Wan,” she chides him. “The best negotiators know when to call for assistance.”

He raises an eyebrow, just slightly, in what might be a faint feather-brush of amusement, then follows her gaze over his shoulder, to where the clearly intoxicated Bothan senator is making his weaving way through the festive crowd back towards them. Obi-Wan’s eyes widen very slightly, in definite alarm. “Indeed. Very well said. In that case, my lady, consider my distress signal activated.”

She extends an arm to him formally. “Walk with me.”

Thanks to the friendship she and Bail share with Mon Mothma, Padmé knows the Chandrilan Diplomatic Gardens better than most in attendance. She knows Obi-Wan, too, better than most, not because he opens himself to her, exactly, but – well, being in her position, one hears things, and Padmé is well-practiced at extracting trivia and truth from Anakin’s well-worn litany of complaints, worries, and fears.

She guides them serenely down a lesser-used path, the raucous festivities behind them fading into a murmur. “Here,” she points. They turn through a simple, cream-colored arch into a wider space, far-away party sounds now faint, distant enough not to grate on the nerves. All about them, only the cheerful babble of water, tumbling from multiple small falls into a network of mossy pools and rock-bordered streams.

Obi-Wan turns his head from side to side to take in the shimmering falls and eddying pools, chin rising as if in response to some sound only he can hear, features lightening. “We’ve a place very like this, in the Temple,” he says. “The Room of a Thousand Fountains.”

Padmé knows this. Knows too that it is a favorite haunt of his, though she will not tell him so. Better he think her fortuitous choice a welcome coincidence, for she knows what she knows about him from Anakin, and, strictly speaking, should not have access to such confidences.

“I’ve heard of it,” she says instead. “It’s much larger than this, though, I think.” She waves a hand at the small garden.

“Size matters not,” Obi-Wan intones, as though reciting an oft-repeated adage, and extends a hand gracefully under one of the falls’ streams. To Padmé’s surprise, the water curves around his upturned palm, bending as if repelled by an invisible barrier before continuing its swan dive into the clear pool below.

“Just a game,” Obi-Wan says, in answer to her unasked question. “And an exercise in control. One practiced by Temple younglings.”

Not any game Padmé knows. She and her sister – then later, her handmaidens – were more apt to occupy themselves with jumping straight into the water, shrieking with glee, than with avoiding its flow. “What’s the objective?”

“Just this,” he says. “Stay dry.” He curls his fingers up to his palm and then flat again in a gentle wave, the water above his hand twisting in a delighted dance before resuming its tumble around an untouched sleeve. “Even the youngest initiates, when exhibiting proper control, can easily redirect a flow of water around their forms. One stands under the falls, keeping dry, while their agemates or teachers attempt to break their focus.” He quirks a smile, one laced with equal parts memory and mischief. “One gets distracted, one gets wet.”

She smiles at him. “I take it you were good at this game?”

“I was passable,” he says with a diffident shrug. “But I did not win every time. My own clan members’ antics were at times difficult to ignore.”

“And Anakin?” she asks. She can’t help herself.

Obi-Wan pull his arm out from the falls, hand disappearing back into the long sleeve of his robe. “Terrible,” he says bluntly. “Without a doubt the worst in his class.”

Padmé refrains from making an unbecoming snort. So she will have something amusing to hold over Anakin’s head when she returns to Coruscant.

“You mustn’t misunderstand me, of course; Anakin is highly capable and could easily manipulate the water were he left to his own devices, but I’m afraid his mental discipline left much to be desired.” Obi-Wan sighs and shakes his head. “Anakin is so easily distracted – he reserved his limited ability to focus for very singular pursuits.”

“Such as...?”

Obi-Wan looks to be almost on the verge of rolling his eyes, but that would be un-Jedi, and he settles for a narrowing of them and crooking his fingers sardonically into the universal sign for quotes. “‘Fixing stuff,’ I believe he said.”

Padmé can’t help but laugh at that, and Obi-Wan indulges her merriment graciously. Looking re-energized, far more hale and hearty than he had in the reception area proper, he stretches out a hand. Ribbons of water arc away from the falls all around them, streaming through the air and coalescing into a shining globe above his palm, a miniature model of Mon Cala. The sphere’s globular surface ripples and turns slowly, casting small refractions of moonlight over the courtyard. Small-scale beauty, to be sure, but Padmé only has eyes for Obi-Wan’s face, lit with reflected light from below, a study in simple happiness.

A Jedi at play, she realizes. Most people didn’t believe there really was such a thing.

“That’s lovely,” she says, peering into the globe’s transparent yet distorted depths. Something about it...she is suddenly reminded of Anakin, in another time and place, levitating a muja fruit in much the same way, and with the same burst of simple enjoyment. “But I thought frivolous uses of the Force were discouraged.”

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows at her, accepting the friendly challenge. “Frivolous?” He turns his hand so that the palm now faces outward. Rippling with light, the globe coasts several feet away and comes to rest over a pathetically drooping momus bush, its leaves yellowed and cracked, balmgrass spiky and dry around its exposed roots. Obi-Wan twitches his fingers downward, and the globe disintegrates, water sluicing down in a joyful shower onto the parched earth, transforming the yellow dust to a rich, wet brown. He gives her a significant look. “The preservation of life is never frivolous, Senator.”

Her smile climbs its way out of her with ease. Of course. An answer for everything. “I stand corrected.”

In the distance, a chorus of laughter rises above the sound of burbling water, followed by what sounds like someone calling for a toast. Obi-Wan casts a lingering glance at the falls, then back at the arched entrance to the grotto. “We should return,” he says, and if that is reluctance in his voice she will not comment on it.

She nods in agreement. “You’re right. Typho will start to worry.”

Taking her outstretched arm, Obi-Wan frowns. “I am quite certain I gave Captain Typho my word that no harm would come to you whilst I am your escort. He must learn to trust me.”

“He does trust you. But he’s a worry-woolamander. It’s his job.” It was, after all, why she had personally selected him to replace his retired uncle as her new head of security. But, at the same time, she had grown weary of the constant trail of guards orbiting her at all times, rings of human satellites, so many she can hardly blink without catching a glimpse of security burgundy in her peripheral vision. Far preferable to have an escort of one Jedi, especially this Jedi, than that wall of armed guards.

And besides, Obi-Wan had promised. While Captain Typho may not appreciate the import of such a gesture, Padmé does – Obi-Wan Kenobi’s word is worth his weight in solid aurodium bars and more. He has nothing left to prove to anybody, on that count.

At the threshold to the main garden, wide flowering pathways thronging with diplomats and officials and lackeys alike, Obi-Wan takes in a resigned breath. “Once more into the breach,” he proclaims, with tragicomic stoicism.

She cocks her head at him in sympathy. “Straight to the dance floor,” she advises, and they set off, she steering him in the proper direction. “I doubt even a Bothan will try to cut in on a Jedi.”

Obi-Wan snorts under his breath. “Her Highness is grown very devious, in her slippery Senatorial position,” he murmurs.

“And Master Kenobi very witty, in his old age,” she shoots back.

Obi-Wan favors her with a grin, a real grin, full and shining with rarely displayed pleasure. He bows to her, ushering her onto the formal dance floor with a graceful sweep of his hand. “You had better hope your earlier supposition is correct,” he says, eyes glinting with the same clever playfulness she’d seen in him earlier. “The Bothan senators have hooves, you know.”

#pan sharing star wars fic in 2021 - no one could have predicted #anyway as i said these are seven years old #please forgive them #XD #star wars #fic

27 notes · View notes

musecharm-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Bad Influence, Pt 4 (Steve Harrington X Reader)

Summary: It’s time for the first check-in with Hopper and the date with Steve.

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV

On Friday morning, you come into work early again, and you’re pretty sure that you’re going to throw up. Today is the first “check-in” with Chief Hopper, and even though you’ve been working your tail off, you’re so worried that it won’t be enough.

Joyce must be able to tell how you’re feeling (some kind of mother’s intuition or something, you guess), because she goes suspiciously easy on you for most of the day, keeping you on the register for the most part, and when you start to get too antsy to deal with customers, she takes over for you, ushering you away to take inventory.

You get so invested in cataloguing that you almost miss the break Joyce usually gives you to eat. Luckily for you, that’s exactly when Chief Hopper shows up.

(Oh, did you think ‘luckily?’ You meant unluckily, because you still pretty much feel like your stomach is about to make an emergency ejection.)

You hear his voice as you’re stepping out of the back, and you almost want to turn around and go right back in. Before you have a chance, though, he spots you and starts your way.

“Hey, kid,” he says, taking his hat off. “How ya been?”

You smile, uncertain. “Hasn’t Ms Byers told you already?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. But maybe I wanna hear it from you, too.”

You pick at the hem of your Melvald’s vest. “It’s been… fine. I’m handling it, I guess.”

“You guess?”

You drop the hem of the vest and scrub a hand down your face. “No. No, I really am handling it. I just… Have a lot of other stuff to deal with, I guess. This is actually the one thing that’s going pretty well, believe it or not.”

Chief Hopper nods. “Well, that’s something, at least. Good to hear you’re trucking along.”

You swallow. “So… So I’m good, then?”

He nods again, putting his hat back on. “Yep. You’re good,” he pats you firmly on the shoulder a couple of times, and you feel the tension melt out of your body. As he turns to leave, he says, “See ya around, kid. Take the weekend off.”

You go back out to the front, and Joyce looks at you expectantly.

“Well? How was it?”

You sigh. “Good. It was good.”

There are six hours until the date, and Steve is definitely not freaking out.

Really, he isn’t.

...Okay, maybe just a little.

“Do you think these jeans are too tight?”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Steve--”

“Are sneakers too informal, should I wear something else?”

“Steve--” Dustin tries.

“Shit, this is a horrible idea, I should just call and cancel before it’s too late--”

“STEVE!” Robin shouts, effectively cutting off his panicked rambling. She grabs his face, squishing his cheeks gently. “It’s okay. Your jeans are fine, maybe swap those shoes for a less dirty pair, stop panicking.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. Sorry.”

“Look, you have six hours until the date,” Dustin reasons. “Even if you decide that you wanna wear something else, there’s still plenty of time -- too much time, even. You don’t have to have everything figured out yet.”

Steve sighs. “Look, Henderson, I don’t expect you to get this since Suzie lives in Utah and you only see her at camp, but when you’re going on a date you need to be prepared way in advance. It takes time to look good, dude. Besides, the first date is the most important date, I have to make a good impression.”

Dustin considers this and then shrugs. “I guess that makes sense.”

Robin shakes her head as she looks at them in disbelief. “You two have no idea how dating works, do you?” She looks at Steve. “How did you get Nancy to go out with you, again?”

“Oh yeah?” Steve put a hand on his hip. “How are things going with Tina, Ms Hypocrite?”

Robin’s cheeks reddened. “Fuck off.”

When you get home after your shift, you kick your shoes off and flop down on the couch.

You’d been so worried about the check-in with Hopper, and now, you almost feel like the build-up was all for nothing. Now, all you have to do for the rest of the weekend is relax.

It’s hours later when you start to get the feeling you’re forgetting something. You’re sure it’s nothing, though; if it was super important, you would have written a note for yourself somewhere to keep yourself from forgetting.

You have a hot shower to decompress, take a pit stop in the kitchen for some Froot Loops, and then immediately go back to the couch for some channel surfing.

At around 6:30, you realise what it was you were forgetting: your date with Steve is tonight.

And you only have half an hour until he comes to pick you up.

“FUCK!” You sit up so fast that you bang your knee against the coffee table, but you can’t feel it through the adrenaline. You dash to your room and start ripping through your closet. Eventually, you find clothes that are clean and seem date-worthy. You grab your favourite boots, and go to your dresser to dig up your lucky socks.

You finish getting ready as fast as you can. You’re about to go to the living room to wait for Steve before hesitating, eyeing the cigarettes on your desk.

You sigh. Went to the trouble of getting them. Might as well.

Grabbing the carton, you tamp the cigs, shake one loose, and tuck it into your sock, along with your Zippo.

When Steve gets to your house, he’s six minutes early -- which, he tells himself, is just way too early, and you’d probably be super annoyed if he rang the bell so soon.

Which, of course, gave him several minutes to sit in his car and overthink things.

What if this wasn’t a date? What if you just thought he was trying to apologise for being a jerk in Melvald’s? Shit, he should’ve been more obvious that he was trying to ask you out… But he was so nervous you would say no if he just asked outright. What if he told you it was meant to be a date, and you wanted to leave because you weren’t interested? He doesn’t want you to stop wanting to hang out with him just because he wants to date you.

By the time he’s come to the conclusion that he’ll just keep the date thing to himself and see what happens, it’s 6:58, and he figures he’s as ready as he’s gonna get.

He goes up to your front door and rings the bell.

You answer, and it feels like Steve’s heart is about to explode.

“Hey,” you say, a nervous-looking half smile on your face.

“Hey,” Steve replies breathlessly. After a beat of silence in which he realises he’s staring at you, he adds, “Uh, you ready to go?”

“Yeah. Where we goin’, by the way? You never said.”

Right. Steve knew he’d forgotten something. “W-- Uh, we could… We could go to the Hawk? See if there’s anything good playing? Or get dinner at Benny’s?” He feels for his wallet, pulls it out and peers inside. “...Shit. Um, we may have to stop by my house real quick first though, I don’t have my cash on me.”

You shrug. “Fine by me.”

Steve nods, a little jerkily. “Cool. Right, let’s roll.”

He walks you around to your side of the car and opens the door for you, and you smile at him, which gives him fucking heart palpitations, but it also makes him a little more confident in the whole date thing.

He decides to test his luck and does a bonnet slide, hoping you’re the kind of person who might think that looks cool.

When he gets in the car, you say, “Nice one, Harrington,” in a slightly teasing tone, and it makes his face feel warm. Score!

He turns the key in the ignition and says, “How d’you feel about rock ‘n’ roll?”

You grin.

Sitting in the passenger seat of Steve Harrington’s BMW, watching him sing along to Owner of a Lonely Heart, you feel more confused than ever.

You’d convinced yourself, sitting on your living room couch, not to think of this as a date, just in case -- because Steve never called it one, so maybe it wasn’t one. But with him opening the car door for you, and then the stupid (awesome) bonnet slide… maybe it is? You would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want it to be, anyway.

On the other hand, he hadn’t really planned what he wanted the two of you to do. Maybe he hasn’t been nervous all this time because he wants to go out with you; maybe he’s just worried you’re mad at him for the thing at Melvald’s.

Before you can work yourself up about it any more, you’re pulling into the driveway of the Harrington’s veritable estate.

For a second, you’re so dumbfounded by the pristine state of the house and yard (not to mention the size) that you forget where you are. Then, you turn to Steve and say, “Uh, should I wait in the car, or…?”

Steve turns the car off. “Hm? Oh, nah, you can… You can come in. My parents aren’t home, but just so you know, Dustin and Robin are in there, and uh… Just, please don’t let anything they say reflect poorly on me.”

“Uh,” you say. “Okay.”

When the two of you get inside, you find the curly-haired kid and Robin Buckley standing in the foyer. The curly-haired kid -- Dustin -- has his hair coated in Pomade and neatly combed, and he’s wearing a suit and a comically obvious fake moustache. Robin has her hair pinned back, and she’s wearing a string of pearls, matching earrings, and white elbow-length gloves with her regular clothes.

It’s a ridiculous sight.

“What the-- What the hell are you two doing?”

Dustin and Robin turn to him, and they both grin.

“Ah, it’s our dearest son, Steve,” Dustin says, affecting an imitation of an adult man’s voice. “Welcome home, son.”

“Why, darling!” Robin says, her voice altered to sound like that of a cultured socialite. “It seems our little boy is on a date!”

Steve’s friends are pretending to be his parents. That’s actually kind of cute. (And, best of all, it confirms that this is a date, which really helps alleviate your anxiety.)

You glance over at Steve and notice that he’s blushing like crazy.

“Will you two cut it out?” He hisses.

They don’t pay him any mind.

“Make sure you have our Stevie back home by eight o’clock,” Dustin says, reaching up to twirl the ends of his fake mustache.

“Yes, of course, Mr Harrington,” you say seriously. “And might I say, Mrs Harrington, you look just stunning this evening.”

Robin guffaws loudly, holding a gloved hand up to her cheek. “Oh, aren’t you the charmer! This one’s a keeper, Steve, dear.”

Steve sighs. He ignores his friends, and to you he says, “I’m gonna go up to my room and grab what I need and then I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nod. “Yeah, sounds great. I’ll be here.”

The moment Steve is too far to hear, Robin says, “Hey, seriously, thanks for giving our doofus a chance. I know he comes off as kind of a dunce sometimes, but he means well.”

You shrug. “I get it. I’m not perfect, myself.”

Dustin interjects with, “Steve sure seems to think so.”

You aren’t sure what to think of that, so you just laugh awkwardly.

In the next moment, Steve comes racing down the stairs. He looks up and sees the three of you standing around not saying anything and squints critically.

“What’s going on? What did they say to you?”

You shake your head, forcing a plain expression. “Nothing.”

He looks between Dustin, Robin, and you again before saying, “Okay. Let’s go.”

As you’re leaving, Robin calls after you (foregoing the impression this time), “Make sure you use protection, Stevie!”

When you’re back in the car, on the way to the diner for dinner, Steve says, “Hey, I’m really sorry about them. They’re weirdos, they can’t help it.”

You laugh. “It’s fine. I think your friends are funny.” You look down at your lap, and then turn your head to examine his face while he drives.

He’s handsome, in a soft way. You’d never really noticed it in school, for whatever reason, but now, up close, it’s practically all you can notice.

He glances over and catches you watching him, and he smiles at you nervously.

“What’s up? Somethin’ on my face?”

“No,” you say softly. “Just… Looking at you. And thinking.”

He glances at you again, but keeps his eyes on the road, even though you can tell he really wants to look at you. “About what?”

You, you want to say, but it feels too honest to share. Instead, you say, “Why we never talked in high school. I feel like we could’ve been friends, if we hadn’t been running in different circles.”

He nods. After a moment, he says, “I feel bad. I barely remember you from high school. Probably because I was so focused on being ‘King Steve,’” he finishes bitterly.

The corner of your mouth quirks up. “And look at you now. Hanging out with a band geek and a freshman.”

He laughs, and it’s one of the most beautiful sounds you’ve ever heard.

“Yeah,” he says softly, looking over at you again, “look at me now.”

The diner is one of your favourite places to eat, so Steve is winning serious points bringing you here. (Not that he was short on points to begin with.)

The two of you grab a table by one of the windows, and a waitress comes over to take your order pretty quickly. You both order burgers and fries -- most people do at Benny’s.

“Hey, so, this is probably the worst thing to ask, but Nancy and Jonathan made me promise I would ask you about it if I got the chance,” Steve begins.

You sigh. “You wanna know about when I got arrested, huh?”

Steve purses his lips and nods. “You can say you don’t wanna talk about it if you want.”

“No, I guess it’s fine,” you pick at a crack in the table. “I… was stealing from Melvald’s. It was a shitty impulse decision and I shouldn’t have done it. But I just… Okay, so, you’re allowed to judge me for this if you want, but I smoke. Cigarettes. I ran out a couple weeks ago and I felt like absolute shit. I’ve been saving allowance money from my mom to buy another pack, but I forgot to bring it with me when I left the house. I already had the carton in my hand, so I just…” You shrug and put your head in your hands. “I didn’t even think. I just did it.”

Steve looks at you with his eyebrows raised. “Wow,” he says. “That’s… really heavy. I’m sorry.”

“I hope it doesn’t make you think of me any differently.”

He shakes his head. “No! No, no. I mean, I get it. I’ve done things I’m… not necessarily proud of, too. You don’t have to let your mistakes define you, or whatever.”

It’s exactly what you needed him to say.

Before long, your food comes. The two of you spend two hours talking over food -- telling stories, laughing at each other’s jokes. It’s amazing. It’s so much fun.

You want it to last forever.

Unfortunately, at around 9:30, you remember that you forgot to make dinner for your mom. You let Steve know you need to be home soon, and he seems disappointed, but he calls the waitress over to get the bill.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, pushing back from the table. “Bathroom.”

While you’re on your way into the bathroom, you bump into Hopper, who’s on his way out.

“Oh! Hi, Hopper!” You say, surprised, but not unpleasantly so.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “What’re you doin’ out so late on a weeknight?”

You grin. “I have a date.”

He arches a brow at you. “With who?” He looks past you into the diner, maybe trying to figure out which table you came from.

“Steve Harrington.”

His eyebrows climb up toward his hairline. “Really? Huh. Kid doesn’t really seem like your type.”

You shrug, feeling your face get warm and hoping it isn’t obvious in the lowlight of the hallway. “He’s cooler than he seems, I guess.”

Hopper hums. “Right. Well, have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he pats you on the shoulder.

As he leaves, you call, “I won’t!”

When Steve pulls into your driveway, he puts the car in park and keys the car off. Then, the two of you sit in silence for a moment.

Apparently, neither of you want the night to end.

“I’ll walk you to your door?” Steve says tentatively.

You nod.

He comes around and opens your door for you, offering a hand to help you up.

You lace your fingers with his, grinning cheekily.

The two of you walk up together, hand in hand, stopping in front of your door.

“So… Guess this is it, huh?” Steve says.

You bite your lip. “Hey, Steve?”

“Ye--?”

You lean in and kiss him on the cheek. He feels a warm flush bloom outward from the spot where your lips touched.

“I had fun tonight. I wanna do it again sometime. Call me?” You say. At first glance, you seem confident, but Steve can read the hopefulness in your eyes as easily as he feels his own.

“Yeah,” he says decisively. “Yeah, I’ll call you. Tomorrow?”

You grin. “Tomorrow sounds great.”

#stranger things x reader #stranger things reader insert #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #x reader #reader insert #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #joyce byers #jim hopper #robin buckley #dustin henderson #writing #writing blog #reader insert blog #x reader blog #cigarettes #smoking #theft

33 notes · View notes

catlady5001 · 4 years ago

Text

My submission for nana’s gen contest!!! @queenangst

Ao3 link!!

Full story under the cut!!

Izuku walks through the shining halls, one hand nervously holding his backpack. The other holds a map of UA’s campus, and it’s supposed to tell Izuku where to go.

He sees the general studies classes lining the hall on either side, the business course just behind him, but where are Izuku’s classes? He nearly gives up when he overhears a girl at the far end of the path asking a hero -Snipe, Izuku’s brain exclaims- where the support course is located.

“Just down that hall and to the right,” Snipe says with a vague gesture.

The girl smiles, “Thank you!” She heads down the hall and Izuku races to follow. She walks into class 1-H just as he turns the corner.

Izuku walks in soon after and he can’t help but cringe away from the noise. A pink-haired girl has somehow caused an explosion already, and another kid is scolding her. Two similarly-dressed students are arguing about who copied who. Powerloader (Powerloader!) watches it all with a resigned air.

Izuku looks around the room, trying to find a calm spot in the chaotic storm, and eventually he sees the girl from earlier, reading at one of the corner tables. He doesn’t know if she’ll let him sit with her but it’s worth a shot, right? She doesn’t even know he’s quirkless yet!

“Can I sit here?” He asks quietly.

“Hm?” She looks up from her book. “Oh, yes!”

“...thanks,” Izuku murmurs. He can’t believe it was that easy. He slides out the chair across from her and pulls out his own notebook. She looks at him for a second longer, then turns back to her own book. They read in their quiet corner of peace until Powerloader-sensei draws their attention, and class begins.

That afternoon finds Izuku sitting against a tree, pencil in one hand and an apple in the other. He glances up when the cafeteria door creaks open. He lets out a small, relieved sigh when it’s just Yaoyorozu. Out of all of his classmates, she’s the one he’s happiest to see, especially since Hatsume stayed behind at the lab.

He waves. She smiles, closes the door with a soft click, then walks over to Izuku, bookbag in hand.

“Good afternoon, Midoriya,” she greets. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

“No, not at all!” Izuku eagerly assures her. She’s been kind to him all morning, even after the disaster that homeroom had been.

He holds his breath for a moment, anxious that she’ll bring it up.

She doesn’t, instead leaning against the tree, halfway turned to face Izuku. “So, Midoriya…”

Izuku bites his lip and takes a small sip of water as she thinks.

“You’re interested in quirks, right?”

Izuku’s eyes widen. “Yeah! I’ve loved them for as long as I can remember. They’re just so interesting!”

“I agree. Do you know what my quirk is?”

“I know the basic gist,” Izuku says. He tries to tamp down his excitement, too afraid of scaring her off, but his anticipation shines through anyways. “You can create anything, right?”

“Kind of,” Yaoyorozu says. She’s grinning though, so Izuku can’t have been too far off the mark. “Anything I know the chemical composition of, I can make..”

“That’s so cool,” Izuku breathes. Yaoyorozu’s smile widens, somehow. “Can you show me?”

“Yes, but…”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s just that… well, I haven’t eaten since this morning,” Yaoyorozu starts.

“Is that what fuels Creation?” Izuku checks.

Yaoyorozu nods and rests her chin on her hands. “I meant to grab lunch but I would’ve had to wait around with our classmates.”

Izuku shudders.

This morning had been… it was bad. Powerloader-sensei has everyone introduce themselves. Name, quirk, goal.

It goes fine, for a time. Everyone seems cool, if a little eccentric. Some people -like Yaoyorozu- have quirks that stick out more than others, but they all seem nice. Everything is fine.

And then it’s Izuku’s turn, and nearly everyone has a sudden change of heart.

Yaoyorozu doesn’t, and neither does Hatsume, another girl.

Everyone else glares.

No one is too obvious about it, what with the hero in the room. In between classes, with the teachers gone and out of sight, classmates would jeer and throw spitballs.

Izuku has years of practice ignoring this, but it still hurts.

His classmates only stop when Yaoyorozu or Hatsume step in, but even they can’t do much. Their threats to tell the teachers are met with scorn.

“Izuku?” Yaoyorozu shakes him lightly, and Izuku jerks out of his memory with a start. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Izuku says. He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Yaoyorozu notices, he can tell, but she doesn’t point it out.

Instead, she goes on to tell him all about her quirk. She even demonstrates it, once he offers her a bright green apple. Izuku is entranced by how cool it all is.

The pair stays out until someone sticks their head out the window to call them inside. Izuku doesn’t know who they are, but he sees the insignia on their uniform- they’re a member of the hero course.

Izuku turns away hastily and heads in after Yaoyorozu. He tries not to think of the hero course, to imagine what it could’ve been like if he’d been there alongside Kacchan. He doesn’t succeed.

The next three days pass quickly, blending into each other. It’s only on Thursday that anything important happens, and even then it’s scarier more than being fun or educational.

Yaoyorozu and Izuku are outside when the alarms blare. Izuku clamps his ears in a fruitless attempt to drown out the noise, but it still reaches deep into his ears and twists around his skull.

Izuku presses in tighter, and that’s when Yaoyorozu hits him with something. He looks down to see a pair of heavy-duty earmuffs on the ground, and he immediately grabs them, sliding them onto his ears. They don’t keep the sound out entirely, but they do a much better job than his hands did.

Thank you, he mouths at Yaoyorozu. She smiles slightly. After a moment, Izuku holds his arms out, a clear invitation for a hug. Yaoyorozu embraces him and together they wait for the screams to stop.

Reporters, they’re told afterwards. Something about that seems off to Izuku, but he doesn’t question it. UA knows what they’re doing, right?

In any case, that Thursday ends with a feeling of tense anticipation hanging in the air.

The next day is stormy, thunderbolts and lightning raining down. Izuku has to be driven to school, and he steps out of the car just as Yaoyorozu’s pulls up. With a quick goodbye wave, he runs up the stairs, and a moment later Yaoyorozu’s steps slosh after his.

Izuku holds the door open at the top, and Yaoyorozu dashes inside.

“Thank you,” she says. Izuku waves it off and together they head down the hall.

It’s stormy, but today will be a good day.

It is not a good day. It was worse for everyone else, Izuku is sure, but still. In the middle of class, Powerloader answers a phone call, and then he puts Yaoyorozu in charge and leaves.

Everyone is confused, clamoring, but Yaoyorozu doesn’t know what’s going on any better than they do so she tells them to stay put. They don’t really listen, of course; too curious for their own good.

Several people leave the classroom, presumably to try and see what happened, while others stare out the windows. Hatsume works on her inventions with the same gusto as always (though there’s a slight shake to her hands that betrays her anxiety).

All they can do is wait. And it is maddening.

Yaoyorozu tries to make small talk with Izuku, but he can’t concentrate and eventually she too falls silent.

It feels like hours but in reality is only about half of one. The Pro’s return to school, though it’s grim when sirens are blaring in the background, an ambulance fading into the distance.

Izuku hopes that everyone is okay, but he knows even now that it’s too much to ask.

When they return to school on Monday, Powerloader-sensei glosses over the attack. He doesn’t even mention it, really.

Instead he starts talking about the sports festival. Izuku is surprised that it’s still happening. The show must go on, he supposes.

Yaoyorozu is brave enough to actually speak up. “Sir?”

“Yes, Yaoyorozu?”

“Why are we still holding the Sports Festival?” Yaoyorozu holds herself up tall, the picture of composure from the waist up.

Her fidgeting feet are the only thing that betray her. Silently, Izuku squeezes her hand, and she shoots him a grateful glance.

Powerloader sighs and draws a hand across his chin. “The school is trying to keep up morale; trying to show that we won’t be beaten easily.”

Yaoyorozu nods, but the second Powerloader turns away, it’s as if she’s a marionette and her strings have just been cut. She practically slumps over and Izuku scoots closer and hugs her. She leans her head back to rest against his chin.

Powerloader continues teaching in the background while Izuku and Yaoyorozu hold each other tight.

The upcoming Sports Festival is certainly going to be interesting.

“Hey, Izuku?” Yaoyorozu interrupts Izuku’s thought.

“Hm?” Izuku looks up from his notebooks.

Yaoyorozu bites her lip. “What do we want to do about the Sports Festival?”

Izuku tilts his head to the side, and she elaborates, “What’s our game plan?”

Izuku’s eyes light up, and he flips to an earlier page in his notebook. He scoots closer to Yaoyorozu and tells her all about his observations and the possible ways the Sports Festival could go, based on the data of past years.

At first Yaoyorozu looks a bit overwhelmed, but she eventually settles and together they come up with a (mostly) cohesive plan.

They sit for a bit once they’re done, relaxed since they have a fair bit until lunch ends.

After a moment, Yaoyorozu admits, “I wanted to be a hero.”

Izuku starts and turns to her with wide eyes. “You too?”

Yaoyorozu nods. Hesitantly, Izuku asks, “Why didn't you get into a hero course, then? You’re definitely skilled enough to make it in.”

Yaoyorozu twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “My family’s legacy is a support company. Create-It-Enterprise.”

“I’ve heard of them!” Izuku exclaims. “They’re a really big name- oh.”

“Yeah,” Yaoyorozu sighs. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Izuku says tentatively. “I wanted to be a hero too, you know.”

“I’d kinda guessed,” Yaoyorozu says lightly.

“Am I really that obvious? Wait, don’t answer that,” Izuku says, remembering his analysis notebooks. Yaoyorozu chuckles and leans her head against Izuku’s (admittedly lower) shoulder.

“Either way,” Izuku says, “I like it here in the support course.”

“Me too. I’m really glad we’re friends.”

Izuku smiles. “Agreed. You can call me Izuku. Only if you want to, of course!”

“Izuku,” Yaoyorozu says, testing out his name. “I like it. Call me Yaomomo!”

Izuku sputters, then grins. “Gladly.”

Then the bell rings -loudly- from inside, and Izuku and Yaomomo stand up together.

Just as they reach the door, Izuku says, “One more thing.”

“Oh?”

“There’s almost always some sort of four person event, right?”

“Yes,” Yaomomo says. “We’ll have ourselves and I’m sure that Hatsume will team up with us, but what about the fourth person?”

“I’ve got that covered,” Izuku says with an uncharacteristic smirk. Yaomomo smiles and nods. Izuku revels in her trust. He won’t let her down.

It’s the final round of the Sports Festival. Izuku and Yaomomo are facing off. He takes a calming breath, then another and another until he feels ready.

He and Yaomomo planned for this of course, but Izuku had still had his doubts.

When the first round didn’t go exactly as they had expected, he was certain they were going to fail. But he and Yaomomo had forged their way past all the other obstacles, and it’s all led up to this moment.

Present Mic screaming overhead, Izuku and Yaomomo step onto the pitch.

“Are you ready?” Yaomomo calls.

“As I’ll ever be!” Izuku returns. They grin, a private acknowledgment of their shared plan, and then ready themselves when Midnight counts down.

“Three!” The crowd is chanting alongside her.

“Two!” Izuku digs his heel deeper into the ground.

“One!” Across the pitch, Yaomomo’s grin widens impossibly.

“Go!”

Yaomomo and Izuku race towards each other. The crowd calamors above them, eager for an entertaining battle. When they reach each other, the crowd gets even louder. They fall silent when Izuku and Yaomomo just. Stop.

The pair meet in the middle, clasp hands, and then walk out of the arena. At the same time, they step over the line.

They raise their hands in victory, and though the crowd is confused, they can still recognize what happened.

For the first time ever, U.A.’s Sports Festival ends in a tie.

And when each of them receives half of the first place medal? Their smiles become radiant.

#queenangst gen contest #Momo yaoyorozu #midoriya izuku #rarepair friendship #BNHA

16 notes · View notes